Radiohead in Senlis
Driving north of Paris through thrity-two verdant miles ofFrench countryside, life seemed pretty belle, all right. Itwasn’t just the gently rolling terrain, or the clear opennessthat was so refreshing after the intimacy of Frenchurbana—no, this was something else.
The sun was emanating autumnal good nature in an effortlesslyFrenchy way, and jostling along en route toSenlis—quintessential provincial town, first home of Frenchroyalty, and medieval city extraordinaire—I too was feelingfairly autumnal and Frenchy. After all, what’s Frenchier thanbeautiful surroundings and delicious anticipation of the unknown(aside of course from moulins, fishnets, and cheapchardonnay) ?
Upon arrival, our tour group was immediately greeted by athoroughly pink-clad high-heeled tour guide who looked as thoughshe doubtless blended into Senlis’s creme-de-la-cremeishsocial milieu. (Most of the tiny population of about 14,500 residein old chateaux, grande maisons, and charming crannies ofapartments carved out in the Middle Ages, making for a strikinglyelite residential atmosphere.) The denizens seemed to be of alively sort, as the narrow stone streets were filled with movementand language and color.
Our first stop brought us to a cloisterlike patch of velvetygreen walled in by three medieval side walls and by what Iimmediately deigned The Wall, yup capitalized and all, Berlin andPink Floyd aside and not even thought of in the presence of thisprodigious forbidding expanse of grayness built circa 200 A.D.
Its immense height and four-meter thickness seemed almostsurreal, quasi-religious, and it occured to me that, assuming amonotheistic concept of God, this Wall was what it would look likeif She said NO. (In fact, the Wall had been built by the Romans tofortify the town, which was then dubbed Augustomagnus.)
Twenty-eight towers still intervalically dot the massivestructure in the typical fashion of Roman architectural defense.Madame Pink pointed out several horizontal lines of logs justbarely visible in the slate expanse at perfect three-meterintervals.
I tried to imagine how they got there, how much time it took,how frustrating it must have been to carry single loads of logs andsilt and stone and then drudgingly paste and scrape and sculpt. Ifelt as though they were never getting anywhere except deeperinside their own boulder-solid limitations, trying to keep fromrunning out of steam by convincing themselves that hey, onlyanother few years of this to go and everything will be allright.
No, I’m not talking about the rigors of an undergraduateeducation here. After all, the Romans finished their ramparts andthat was that, but we’ll triumph over the undergraduate walland stumble right into the moat of debt.
The tour guide soon beckoned us churchward toward the nearbycathedral Notre Dame—no, not the Notre Dame à Paris,but a sort of Gothic munchkin, begun in 1153 and inspiration to thebuilders of the better known Chartres, Reims, and Paris. Thetoothed jaws of legions of gargoyles arch over the outrageouslyflamboyant exterior (thanks to a restoration undertaken in themid-1500s). And nearby, the cubishly pert little castle that housedthe first King of the Franks, Hughes Capet, and thereby birthed theCapetian dynasty nests unassumingly dilapidated betweenrosebushes.
A bit later, strolling the narrow, cool stone byways andbrushing past dense medieval structures drenched in history, itseemed odd to find a little bar sandwiched in beween two convergentstreets. Even odder to order, was to sit among a polyester-clad,breathing, smoking proletriat.
Strangest yet most appropriate of all, though, was thescene’s musical accompaniment : Radiohead’s KarmaPolice. The weight of the centuries seemed to settle in our lungsand on our minds as we sat there, and I contemplated one of thelast driblets of history Madame Pink had fed us : in 1914,Senlis was occupied by violent fin-de-guerre Germans. Regularexecutions were held, with the mayor of Senlis among thevictims : this is what you get.
I sat quietly in the French afternoon and sipped a drink andthought about the joyful consumerist youthfulness of the teenagersroaming the shops, the methodical pleasure of the older adultstaking it all in, the church that withstood ornamentation, thesilent endurance of the roads, the crumbled castle and the insanelylinear chronology all piled up like so many bodies right in frontof my eyes.
Yes, I admit, sitting there amongst all that past life andliving, for a minute there, I lost myself.
Sarah Wyatt is studying abroad in Paris for the fall semester ofher junior year. Her opinions on France do not reflect the ideas,values and beliefs of all SMU study abroad students (thank god).Sarah Wyatt is not responsible for any unforseen repercussions ofreading her commentary. Wyatt’s intent is not to incite exileto France for her fellow students (no Roman Polanski-wannabesallowed), but to remind you how thrilling her semester is in yourabsence.
