While walking through the State Rooms at Windsor Castle today, seeing room after room: Queen’s Closet, King’s Dining Room, Queen’s Sitting Room, Queen’s Foyer, King’s Toilette, Queen’s Salon, Formal Ballroom, State Ballroom . . . I caught my own reflection in a gilded mirror: argyle sweater, jeans, hiking shoes, hair somewhat disheveled.
This reflected against textured paisley wallpaper, golden candlesticks, ornamented ceilings, commissioned oil paintings, mahogany sideboards, crystal chandeliers, servants’ bells, handmade carpets, bespoke dining tables, hand-painted china.
Out the 20-foot tall windows I could glimpse views of a perfectly manicured English garden that I was allowed to neither visit nor photograph.
In one of the several dining rooms, a video was playing of a Royal Banquet, and just a quick shot of one of the guests, a young and beautiful Princess of Somewhere, showed that she had always been royalty, that she never feels a little silly when her courtiers place the crown on her head, that castles are her commonplace.
While it is amazing that places like this exist—places that so many look to as the pinnacles of civilization (obvious in the hushed, respectful tones of each visitor inside)—the disconnect between myself and Their Royal Highnesses feels a bit like a personal slap in the face. I can understand why, for centuries, peasants have felt compelled to revolt.
Thanks for the new blog post. I was missing my daily dose of Blogadilly Circus from my reader. Sounds like you are enjoying your travels.
ReplyDeleteWe went to a concert last night in Dallas, and I have to say, that I felt a bit like your blog post described.
Those Dallas girls are HOOCHIES!