Chapter 1

1: Abroad

When told I was going to Europe on vacation, I was pressed by my friends with suggestions of what—and in one or two cases, whom—I should visit while I was there. I was twenty-one, having just finished my third year in the Architectural Program and eager to experience the culture and see the architectural masterpieces of the Old World. To aid this, I had been working on improving my French and even trying to learn some Italian.

One of my friends, who saw me off at the airport, after we’d hugged good-bye, put an envelope into my hand. I looked at it. It was unsealed, but there was a name and address on the front.

“Someone you should see, a friend of mine—if he’s still alive. You really must visit him. Just say ‘hello.’ My greeting is in there. It’s also a letter of introduction—feel free to read it. I think he will make an impression on you. He’s—kind of a magus.”

My friend grinned at my startled look, but then grabbed my arm. “Look,” he said. “It’s just a suggestion. But I strongly recommend it. You won’t regret it, I promise you.”

I shrugged and nodded and, with these puzzling but fateful-sounding words in my ear, put the envelope into the inside pocket of my jacket and went to the security gate of the boarding area

* * * *

My flight landed in London, at Heathrow Airport, and I remember, as we were descending, how, when looking out the window I was struck by how greeneverything looked. I was staying with a friend of a friend in a flat in central London. What struck me was that, although it was mid-May, the weather was cool and damp—unusually cool for that time of year, I was told. The sky was an interminable shroud of continuous clouds the color of an old bruise. And, what seemed to go perfectly with this, was the dinginess of the buildings. There were dark stains on much of the stone and brick of which London was built, though I told myself that the impression of deep drabness might be in part because of the gray light.

I did the usual things: visiting the Tate and National Galleries, took day trips up to Cambridge (beautiful) and Oxford (somewhat less so), and went to several stage productions in the West End.

My most moving experience in England was my visit to the King’s College Chapel in Cambridge. I remember standing there in that vast and vertical space, my gaze drawn up the enormous stained-glass windows to the magnificent fan vaulting of the ceiling. Intellectually, I knew it was “the world’s largest fan vault,” but it was the feelingthat struck me: the ego-shattering experience of true wonder that stayed with me, a feeling that was almost painful.

There were other magnificent structures in England—Westminster Chapel, for example, the Houses of Parliament—but none that quite had the same effect on me. After a while, I found that the gray and damp of England was becoming quite oppressive. I decided to alter my timetable and head to the continent, in search of sunlight and warmth, as well as other examples of Old World architectural magnificence.

This was just before the opening of the Chunnel, so I took the Channel passage in a hovercraft ferry that was pleasant enough. Landing on the continent, I imagined I felt a distinct change—which, of course, I told myself was imaginary. But whatever it was, when I boarded the train in Calais and we began to head south through the fields of Normandy, I definitely felt my mood begin to improve. The countryside outside the train windows seemed more benign. Even the weather improved, the sun making more and more appearances. It was like I had passed through a curtain, and by the time I arrived in Paris, I was feeling quite rejuvenated in spirits, and eager to experience and explore. I had heard about Paris being a jewel among cities, but even so, I was unprepared for its truly ravishing beauty. From my chambre d’h?tenot far from the city center I went out on excursions, and sat outside in the sidewalk cafés—an unapologetic tourist devouring the quintessential French ambience.

As I explored the features of the city in a state of sustained wonderment, I gradually formed a decided preference. Of the major structures, the Eiffel Tower was impressive in a graceful yet industrial way. The Palace of Versailles, too, was impressive, though perhaps in a slightly oppressive way (especially where the baroque style gave way to rococo indulgence). And there was a modern structure called La Défense, a truly massive, geometric arch, whose simple majesty reminded me—incongruously, I thought at first—of the exquisite fan vaulting of King’s College Chapel.