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Adjacent to the Louvre is the majestic Jardin des Tuileries, a name I cannot pronounce properly. My daughter laughs at me. It is the “U” sound I have a problem with. I say something like “Tweeleries” when in fact the “U” must be tighter like saying “eww” with a British accent and pursing your lips. It shows that I am not yet fully French, my accent belying the fact that I have lived here for thirty years, that I even have a French passport. But I can’t escape my origins. I am fluent, but the fact is, as my grammar improves, my accent is getting worse. I can just open my mouth with one word and a French person will speak English to me, thinking me a foreigner! Perhaps it’s because I am more relaxed with the language now, and my natural way of talking takes precedence when speaking French.

Anyway--originally, the Tuileries was the name of the palace built in 1564 by none other than Catherine de Medecis after the death of her husband Henri II. As an aside, Henri II died in 1559 after a jousting match in the Place des Vosges; his eye wounded by a splintered lance, causing a fatal infection. In 1664, landscape artist André Le Notre was hired to design a luxurious garden in order to enhance the palace, which would become the residence of sixteen French kings, from Henri IV to Napoleon III. Le Notre’s landscaping masterpiece has remained unchanged since the 17th century and is what we now call the Jardin des Tuileries, and which became the city’s first public park in 1667. Even the white chestnut trees, though replanted, are identical to those planted by Le Notre 300 years ago. 

In 1871, the palace was destroyed by the Paris Commune, opening up the gardens from the Louvre all the way to Place de la Concorde. The geometric paths, the perfectly trimmed trees, the ponds, the straight open views and the spectacular arrangements of pastel colored flowers are, to me, a metaphor for French culture and its quest for aesthetic perfection. It’s a park that inspires art. It is like walking through a painting by Impressionist painters Pissarro or Monet. You, as a guest to the garden, become part of the painting with the impeccably-dressed people strolling arm-in-arm beside you. There are no straggly bushes. Nothing is out of place. It is simply perfect. I’ll never be truly French, will probably never be able to pronounce my “u” properly, but I do admire France’s undying quest for beauty that appears in every park, on every street, on every person.

October 2017

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