Podcast
The Land of Desire: French History and Culture
Hosted by Diana Stegall · EN
Weird, wacky and wonderful stories from French history
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71. Marie Bonaparte, Part I
Oct 28, 202100:40:02Tap to summarize“I liked murderers. I thought them interesting. Had not my grandfather been one when he killed the journalist? And my great-granduncle Napoleon, what a monumental murderer he was!” – Marie Bonaparte Welcome back! After a long break to buy new soundproofing equipment – which may or may not have been successful – we’re back with a new miniseries. I’m excited, as I think we’re covering one of the most interesting subjects this show has ever covered: the heiress, philanthropist and pioneering psychoanalyst Marie Bonaparte. Naturally, if we’re going to discuss a pioneering child psychologist we have to go back to the beginning and tell the story of her family – and oh, what a family! Episode 71: “Marie, The Last Bonaparte” Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to The Land of Desire. I’m your host, Diana, and each month I provide a glimpse into French history and culture. As I’ve settled into my new apartment, it took a little longer than I’d hoped to set up a new recording studio, and I had to order some new equipment. It was a blessing in disguise, as this delay gave me time to really luxuriate in the research of this month’s subject, someone who might be one of my favorite characters ever featured on this show. Marie Bonaparte is what I like to call a fascinating woman, the kind of woman who spends her life being unconventional, pioneering, wildly interesting and getting away with it all by being very rich. Her life story is outrageous, shocking, and almost too on the nose metaphorically: she’s the descendant of the man who swept away the Ancien Regime, and used her inheritance to drag Europe into the modern age. Marie Bonaparte was blessed and cursed with a larger-than-life family, and this obsession with family brought her into contact with the ultimate expert on the subject: Sigmund Freud. From a line of tyrants, murderers and emperors, Marie’s own enduring legacy is that of an advocate for the refugee, the child, and the visionary. While her ancestors traded on their power, their money and their name to acquire more of the same, Marie Bonaparte used her influence to push for newer worlds, broader minds and safer harbors. She experimented with her sexuality, she launched an illustrious career, and she saved the life of one of the greatest minds of the 20th century. Marie Bonaparte’s life is far too interesting to fit into a single episode. To begin – and with Freud, where else could you begin? – we’ll focus on Marie Bonaparte’s family. Perhaps you’ve heard of them. Along the way, we’ll encounter royal refugees, lions, murderers, Hitler, a seriously weird uncle, Edgar Allen Poe, Queen Elizabeth, Leonardo da Vinci, and more. This month, settle in for the fascinating story of Her Royal Highness, Princess Marie of Greece and Denmark, the last Bonaparte. “I do not believe that any man in the world is more unfortunate in his family than I am.” So wrote Napoleon Bonaparte in 1810, after facing another disappointment from his sprawling, fractious family. To give a little credit to the family in question, Bonaparte was as tyrannical over the dinner table as he was over the continent. In the first year of his empire, Napoleon wrote to one of his lieutenants that he expected absolute loyalty, subservience and obedience from his family if they wanted to share in his glory and power. “I recognize only those who serve me as relations. My fortune is not attached to the name of Bonaparte, but to that of Napoleon…those who do not rise with me shall no longer form part of my family.” Ruling over an enormous band of jumped-up Corsicans was like herding cats, and even General Bonaparte himself could barely manage the task. The easiest cat in the bag was Napoleon’s older brother, Joseph, with whom he had always been close. Joseph was the perfect family ally: smart, obedience, and less ambitious than Napoleon. Sometimes he was too unambitious. On the rare occasion that the brothers clashed, it was almost always because Napoleon was asking Joseph to do something besides sit around in the backyard watering tomato plants. In 1806, Napoleon ordered Joseph to go be king of Spain, which was absolutely the last thing Joseph wanted to do, and Napoleon fired back with that warning: cross me and I’ll scratch your name off the family tree. While Joseph eventually gave in, Napoleon faced stiffer resistance from his younger brother, Lucien. Only sixteen during the French Revolution, in many ways Lucien was the “true believer” of the Bonaparte family. From the beginning, Lucien Bonaparte represented the radical branch of the family, an ominous position which would echo over multiple generations. A self-declared Jacobin, the dramatic teenager vowed to “die with a dagger in his hand” and as long as his older brother represented a threat to the Ancien Regime, Lucien would do anything to support his cause. In 1799, Lucien was elected president of the Council of Five Hundred, and his flair for drama played a pivotal role in securing Napoleon’s rise. On the infamous 18th Brumaire, when Napoleon attempted a coup d’etat, Lucien slipped out of the council room and told the guards that the Council of Five Hundred were being harassed by a bunch of terrorists. Then, in a supremely goth 20-something move, Lucien pointed his sword at Napoleon’s heart, and swore to plunge it through his brother’s chest if he ever betrayed the country. At that moment, Lucien ordered the guards to expel anyone who resisted Napoleon’s coup d’etat. The guards marched in, the opposition marched out, Napoleon became the First Consul, and the French Revolution came to an end. Without Lucien, Napoleon might never have come to power – but the moment he did, Lucien began to wonder whether he had not created a tyrant. Napoleon and Lucien clashed over Napoleon’s iron-fisted rule over Europe – but they exploded when Napoleon extended his rule over Lucien’s private life. Before the French Revolution, the teenaged Lucien disobeyed his parents and married the illiterate daughter of an innkeeper. After bearing him two children, Lucien’s first wife died, and the Bonapartes couldn’t wait to marry their third son off to someone more suitable. Unfortunately for Napoleon and his parents, Lucien already had a new wife in mind: a scandalous young widow named Alexandrine Jouberthon. She was completely unsuitable. Despite the objections of his family, Lucien married Alexandrine, and launched another tradition which would continue down his branch of the Bonaparte family for generations...
Transcribe →70. Fifth Anniversary! Listener Q&A
Jul 15, 202100:15:25Tap to summarizeWhat if it succeeds? Aloha from Hawaii! Your host is celebrating a lot of things right now: Bastille Day, the ability to travel responsibly, the birthday of a certain overworked and abused producer-intern, and oh yeah, the fifth anniversary of The Land of Desire!!! I’m celebrating by answering some excellent questions from you, dear listeners. Merci beaucoup. Episode 70: “Fifth Anniversary! Listener Q&A” Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to the Land of Desire. I’m your host, Diana, and this month, The Land of Desire turns five! I can’t believe it! I wanted to celebrate by reaching out to all of you to answer your questions and say thank you! Thank you so much to everyone who wrote in over the past few weeks, whether you had a question, an episode suggestion, or just said hello. I won’t be able to answer every question I received, but here are a few of my favorites! I’ll start with this question from Matt, which is by far the most popular question I received: What topics do you have coming up? How do you decide what to discuss? When I first started The Land of Desire, I planned out all these epic miniseries. In a testament to my ability to scope projects appropriately, I originally intended to launch this show with a ten – yes, that’s right, ten – part series about the history of the Louvre. Needless to say, don’t expect that series any time soon. The problem with a big miniseries is that it’s easier to burn out – or worse, realize that your audience doesn’t actually care about this subject when you still have four more episodes to go! So I try to force myself to scale back and do more one-off episodes because they’re simply more sustainable. I mean, look at “Women at War” – that miniseries began in September 2019, and by the time it finished, I’d changed jobs, nursed my sister back from a car accident, begun sheltering in place and witnessed at least two waves of a global pandemic. These days, if I get any bright ideas like “Time for a deep dive of the entire Hundred Years War!” I shake my head, take a deep breath, and say, “No, let’s talk about the potato.” Often when I’m beginning the process of brainstorming a new subject, I’ll take a look at my own personal life for inspiration. What am I reading lately? How have I been spending my time? What’s already got my attention these days? It’s a much better jumping off point for me than forcing myself to go back to a subject I selected for myself months ago. Take last month’s episode, for example – by the time this episode goes up, my boyfriend and I will be taking a very exciting vacation to Hawaii. Obviously in June I wanted an excuse to daydream about tropical islands some more, which led me down the path of studying the cultivation of vanilla. Since I’m in vacation mode, I’m trying my best not to think about next month’s episode topic. Empty head, no thoughts. It’ll be as much a surprise to you as it will to me. Rhian then asks, : how long does the research process usually take? For a single standalone episode, it’s about two to three weeks of research, while a miniseries of course can be much more research spread out over the course of months. My production schedule is always the same: aim to be done with research by Sunday night, aim to finish the script by Monday night, aim to finish recording and editing the vocals by Tuesday night, then on Wednesday mix in music, write the blog post and draft the social media updates. God knows it almost never works out that way. My research always starts in the same place: my enemy and my friend, JSTOR. The absolutely amazing San Francisco Public Library system offers me free access, and I take full advantage of it. I read 8 billion papers about a particular topic until I’m able to figure out what kind of slant or focus I want to take, and supplement with books and other scholarly works once I have a better idea of where I’m headed. Steven asks How do you prioritize topics for the podcast ? (And how do we influence that process!) Haha, you don’t! Sorry, everyone! It’s interesting to me that there’s one question nobody ever asks: how do I stay motivated to keep doing the show month after month? This podcast has now been my constant companion for nearly one sixth of my life! It’s a heck of a commitment! And one of the most important ways that I stay connected to the show is by creating a show for myself, and sharing it with others. Capitalism is a hungry beast which wants to monetize everything – anyone listening who has any kind of hobby is probably familiar with this feeling. Are you planning to do it full time? Is it like a side hustle? And so on. The Land of Desire is first and foremost a passion project, and the way that I stay passionate about it is by not feeling obligated to deliver episodes on topics I might not be feelin’ at the moment, or subjects that I don’t personally care about. Sorry everyone, it will always be a whimsical endeavor! Steven had another really good question: What topic did you think was the most interesting of the topics you have covered? Oh man, it’s so hard to choose! I absolutely loved learning about the history of the catacombs, it had everything I love: secret societies, hidden passageways, urban p...
Transcribe →69. The Boy Who Solved Vanilla
Jun 24, 202100:35:00Tap to summarize“Here Albius fertilized vanilla.” – Tribute to Edmond Albius, Saint Suzanne, Réunion. We’re back! After a big move, which required the dismantling and relocation of the trusty recording studio (a.k.a. Diana’s closet), I’m excited to record in my new space! Next month is the show’s sixth anniversary – I know, right?!! – and I’m asking YOU to submit questions for a special listener Q&A episode. You can contact me right here. Otherwise, send me a question on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter! After my last episode about potatoes, I figured I’d follow up with a little dessert. Today, let’s learn about one of the most valuable and mysterious plants on earth, the dizzying journey it made from its native homeland to its most famous outpost, and the unlikely character who unlocked its secrets. This plant’s intoxicating flavor is so widely enjoyed, and so universally incorporated into dishes around the world, that its name has become a byword for the everyday and boring. This is extremely unfair, since we’re talking about one of the world’s most labor-intensive and delicate plants, the only edible orchid on earth. That’s right: this week, we’ll learn about the sultry secrets of vanilla. Episode 69: “The Boy Who Solved Vanilla” Edmond Albius, the boy who unlocked vanilla Watch “Edmond’s gesture” in action in this video of vanilla hand-pollination, still used for the production of essentially all commercial vanilla in the world. See the humble melipona bee, which naturally fertilizes vanilla plants in Mexico. Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to the Land of Desire. I’m your host, Diana, and this is the show’s first episode ever recorded outside of a closet! Just in time for the podcast’s fifth anniversary next month, I’m finally settled into my new apartment, and I’m working out the kinks of recording in a new space. I’ll be ordering some more recording equipment to really set up the space, so I beg your patience if this month’s sound quality is below average. It sounded nicer when I was essentially recording an episode underneath a pile of coats, but it’s a little easier on your host to sit in a chair, you know? Before I jump into today’s episode, a quick announcement: next month is the fifth anniversary of this podcast! I know, right? I’m going to celebrate with a big of a mixup – it’s been a few years since I did a Q and A episode, and there are a LOT more listeners nowadays. Between now and the end of the month, please send me your questions – these can be questions about subjects discussed in previous episodes, questions about the podcast’s production, or even just questions about me. You can send me questions through Facebook or Instagram or Twitter, or use the contact form on the show’s website, thelandofdesire.com. I look forward to answering my favorites in next month’s episode! Okay. On with the show. Perhaps I love a theme, perhaps I’m just hungry, but this month I’m continuing the theme of curious French food history, but we’re moving as far away from the damp, gloomy soil of l’Hexagone and traveling all the way to the balmy shores of the Indian Ocean. We’ll learn about one of the most valuable and mysterious plants on earth, the dizzying journey it made from its native homeland to its most famous outpost, and the unlikely character who unlocked its secrets. This plant’s intoxicating flavor is so widely enjoyed, and so universally incorporated into dishes around the world, that its name has become a byword for boring. This is extremely unfair, since we’re talking about one of the world’s most labor-intensive and delicate plants, the only edible orchid on earth. That’s right: this week, we’ll learn about the sultry secrets of vanilla. In 1519, the Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes reached the shores of Mexico. After an arduous journey into the interior, that November, Cortes and his straggling band of 250 Spanish soldiers reached the splendor of Tenochtitlan, (Ti-NOSHE-titlan) the glorious capital of the Aztec Empire. A city of gardens, floating out of a great lake, it must have appeared like something out of a dream. The emperor Montezuma allowed these pathetic strays inside his paradise, and walled them in near his zoos and gardens. For nine months, the Spanish fleet were simply another curiosity in the emperor’s collection. Invited to court, one of the Spanish soldiers observed another one of those curiosities: “a drink made from the cocoa plant, in cups of pure gold” which was “frothed up…and served with great reverence.” The xocoatl or “bitter water” was an extraordinary colonial triumph, a testament to the extent of Montezuma’s rule. Throughout the Aztec empire, territories paid tribute in the form of local produce. Xocoatl (SHO-coe-ah-ttle) was a mixture of these tributes: maize, honey, chili peppers, the cacao beans of course, and one ingredient which brought the whole dish together, a tribute from the Totonac people which they called xa’nat (CHA-nat) an orchid which grew wild in their forest-covered mountains. The Aztecs accepted the mysterious orchids and their beans, and used them in great quantities for their special xocoatl, but they had no idea how the Totonac people grew or harvested the plant. Once the Aztec empire fell, and Spain began its long age of colonial exploitation, they continued Montezuma’s practice of simply demanding vanilla beans, without ever acquiring the knowledge of their cultivation. Before long, vanilla made its way to Europe as part of the so-called Columbian exchange and became a favorite of the ...
Transcribe →68. Antoine Parmentier & The History of the Potato
Apr 29, 202100:49:12Tap to summarize“The vegetable of the shack and the château.” – Le marquis de Cussy April showers bring May flowers – unless they bring floods, famine, and fear. This month, I’m looking at the moment in French history when farmers turned their nose up at the foods of the New World – until they realized what the potato had to offer. Antoine Parmentier, one of the great hype men of food history, features in this month’s episode all about the tastiest of tubers! Episode 68: “Antoine Parmentier & The History of the Potato” Antoine Parmentier, “the apostle of the potato” Portrait of Antoine Parmentier holding wheat and potato blossoms that moment when u run into the king and it’s potato blossom season Transcript “Le légume de la cabane et du château.” – Le marquis de Cussy Bienvenue and welcome back to The Land of Desire! I’m your host, Diana, and most of this script was written over the course of a gloomy, rainy weekend here in San Francisco. As always, the arrival of rain in the Bay Area has only one appropriate response: “Ah, but we need the rain” – and it’s true, California is always in a fluctuating state of drought, and this year is particularly bad. I say this to explain that I have climate shifts on the brain right now, and my recent reading all focuses on the relationships between humans, cities, and weather. This month, as we wait to see whether April showers really do turn into May flowers, I’d like to do a prequel episode, if you will. If you’ve been a listener from the start – or if you’ve taken a dig through the archives – you’ll remember that the debut episode of this podcast centers around the volcanic explosion which kicked off a series of bread riots in France, acting as kindling for the French Revolution. Today, let’s ask this question: why didn’t that volcano trigger riots in Britain, or other countries in Europe? Or to put it another way, we associate the French Revolution with an uprising of millions of French peasants. It was the 1780s, why on earth did France still have so many peasants? Today, we’re taking a closer look at a dreadful century when France was – horror of horrors – out of date, behind the times, and out of fashion. As the rest of the West underwent an agricultural revolution, the French kept her ancient farming practices – no matter what the cost. One of the greatest revolutions in French history didn’t take place in Paris, or even Versailles, but out in the sticks, where wheat – the so-called staff of life – gave way to new crops, and a whole new way of life. In this episode, let us appreciate one of the great changemakers of French history: the potato. Subsistence farming/the old ways “And six years thou shalt sow thy land, and shalt gather in the fruits thereof: but the seventh year thou shalt let it rest and lie still; that the poor of thy people may eat: and what they leave the beasts of the field shall eat.” This passage from the book of Exodus perfectly captures the shmita, or the Sabbath year of the ancient world, in which farmers would spend an entire year letting their fields sit, fallow, as the soil rested and recovered. Though they wouldn’t have known why at the time, the chemistry checks out. Cereal grains, like wheat and rye, are “scavenger” plants – their roots dig down, down, down into the soil, gobbling up nutrients and incorporating them into the the stems and leaves, thus producing a nutritious crop with enough vitamins and minerals to sustain, oh, the human race. But scavenging the soil comes at a cost: planting cereal grains like wheat and barley in the same dirt year after year eventually leeches those nutrients, especially nitrogen, out of the soil. Things stop growing. Giving the farm a break – a sabbatical, if you will, eh eh – let those biblical farms recover and kept the soil from eroding. There was just one problem: what do you do during, you know, the year without a harvest? <span class=" author-d-iz88z86z86za0dz67zz78zz78zz74zz68z...
Transcribe →67. Marcel & Celeste, Part II
Mar 25, 202100:25:22Tap to summarize“Proust n’a aime que deux personnes, sa mere et Celeste.” – Prince Antoine Bibesco What better way to “celebrate” a year of sheltering in place than a closer look at France’s most famous social distancer? This week, I’m looking at the curious relationship between the eccentric, reclusive writer, Marcel Proust, and his beloved housekeeper-confidant, Céleste Albaret. Together, the two hunkered down into a mostly nocturnal life of writing, collaborating, and remembering while the world outside became incomprehensible. It’s the ultimate experiment in working from home – if your Uber Eats came from the Hotel Ritz, that is! Here’s the conclusion of our two part history of Marcel & Céleste. (Listen to part one here: 66. Marcel & Celeste, Part I.) Episode 67: “Marcel & Celeste, Part II” Transcript In 1916, Marcel received a surprising letter: a sixteen year old soldier who had snuck his way to the front line wrote him from the trenches to admire his work. Entering into a discussion of friendship, Proust confessed, “I am myself only when alone, and I profit from others only to the extent that they enable me to make discoveries within myself, either by making me suffer…or by their absurdities, which..help me to understand human character.” While Proust continued making sorties outside his apartment, it’s unclear whether they were out of genuine loneliness or a colder, more ambitious sort of reconnaissance. In his all-encompassing dedication to In Search of Lost Time, Marcel’s own life seemed less and less important – in many ways, it seemed, his life was already over. His real life – that of dazzling society soirees and elegant salons, was an anachronism, murdered by the war. He now existed for reconnaissance work: categorizing the beauty and elegance he had known, trying to capture its essence in full. One night, he knocked on the door of a quartet leader, asking to hear a particular work of music as soon as possible. The two of them shared a cab around Paris, picking up the other musicians, and ferrying them back to 102 boulevard Haussman at one in the morning. Another time, he interviewed his housekeeper Celeste’s young niece to accurately capture the writing of a high school girl. He spent his money recklessly – what use was money if not in service of his work, and what use was money if he was going to die young? Of this he was convinced, the only question was whether he would finish his great work first. “I am a very old man, Celeste,” he once told his beloved housekeeper and friend. “I shan’t live long…and that is why I am so anxious to finish.” In 1917, as World War One ground up a generation of Europeans, Marcel Proust began attending regular dinners at the Hotel Ritz. There, he dined with other refugees of the old world: princesses on the run from empires which no longer existed, sophisticated artists and intellectuals, aging dandies and more. Relying on his personal charm and the gossip of the Ritz staff, Proust learned everything he’d ever wanted to know about the ruling classes of the aristocracy. Spending the dwindling reserves of his fortune on lobster and champagne while the war approached its climax, Proust was an eyewitness to the changing of the guard. On July 27th, 1917, attending a dinner party in the Ritz hotel room of a Greek princess, Proust heard the air raid siren go off. Standing on the balcony, Proust replayed that fateful night from three years earlier, “watching this wonderful Apocalypse in which the airplanes climbing and swooping seemed to complement and eclipse the constellations.” A few months later, Proust stepped out onto the sidewalk and encountered two soldiers: Americans. It was the end of the war, and the end of Proust’s world. In the years to come, Paris would fill up with this new, young, “Lost Generation”, and the world of Bizet, Zola, and Anatole France was giving way to Hemingway, Stein, and Fitzgerald. On November 11th, Germany signed the armistice. “What a marvelous allegro presto is this finale,” he wrote, “after the infinite slow movements of the beginning and all that followed.” Marcel’s brother, Robert, returned home unharmed, but 1,384,000 men did not. Even then, Marcel knew, it was the beginning of the end. Just as the second volume of In Search of Lost Time appeared in stores, Marcel received a blow: he was being evicted from his apartment. For a moment, he allowed himself to dream: would he live in Venice? Would he finish his life’s work in Florence? But reality intruded – he was broke, and, his doctor reminded him, he would not survive the trip. “For an asthmatic,” he wrote, “moving to new quarters is usually fatal” but he was determined to finish his work. For months, Céleste ran ragged, making arrangements for Marcel, packing up his belongings, selling his possessions, and to the eternal chagrin of Proust scholars everywhere, burning Proust’s old notebooks in the stove. After taking one last look around his beloved home, Marcel exited 102 boulevard Haussman and with it, his connection with the outside world. As Céleste recalled, “Death began for him with our leaving Boulevard Haussman.” At once, Marcel set to work recreating his beloved isolation chamber. In went the carpets, the servants’ bell, ...
Transcribe →66. Marcel & Celeste, Part I
Mar 25, 202100:32:46Tap to summarize“Proust n’a aime que deux personnes, sa mere et Celeste.” – Prince Antoine Bibesco What better way to “celebrate” a year of sheltering in place than a closer look at France’s most famous social distancer? This week, I’m looking at the curious relationship between the eccentric, reclusive writer, Marcel Proust, and his beloved housekeeper-confidant, Céleste Albaret. Together, the two hunkered down into a mostly nocturnal life of writing, collaborating, and remembering while the world outside became incomprehensible. It’s the ultimate experiment in working from home – if your Uber Eats came from the Hotel Ritz, that is! Episode 66: “Marcel & Celeste, Part I” Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to the Land of Desire! I’m your host, Diana, and before I get started, I’d like to give a big welcome to new listeners! For those who don’t already know, this week I was able to live out one of my childhood dreams. Growing up, my favorite section of the newspaper was always the advice columns. What can I say -I love telling people what to do! My friend, Danny Lavery, is better known as Dear Prudence over on Slate, and this week they invited me to be their guest host! For my longtime listeners, if you’ve ever thought, “Hmm, I really love Diana’s weird anecdotes about French history, could she tell me how to raise my children?” then it’s a banner day for you. You can listen to the episode at slate.com/podcasts/dear-prudence, and I’ll put the link in this episode’s show notes. Meanwhile, if you’re a Dear Prudence listener tuning in for the first time, thank you and welcome! With that happy announcement out of the way, let’s turn to today’s episode. Listeners, we have come to the end of a very, very long year. I’m cranky, I’m bored, I’m really really really good at baking now and I miss my friends terribly. One of the only ways I’ve gotten through 2020 with my sanity arguably intact is by experiencing it side-by-side with my loving boyfriend, Daniel, or as he prefers to be known, the much-abused unpaid intern and occasional producer of this show. He has been the bright spot of my year, and I wanted to pay him back by giving him a little Christmas gift: an episode all about his favorite person in the world, and perhaps the person best suited to comment on this strange period of history, the great French writer, Marcel Proust. 2020 was a year of seclusion and confinement, and it was also a year of transition. We speak of the Before Times, and a world, a whole way of life, which feels like it’s slipping out of our reach. At the same time, we hunker down, sheltering ourselves against an invisible enemy, staying within the safe confines of home and wiping down the groceries. Who could better understand the story of this year than a man conceived during a siege, who spent the last third of his life as a recluse, terrified of infection, dreaming of a lost world and mourning the impossibility of return? But there is one aspect of Marcel Proust’s life which feels especially relevant to us today, a part of his story which is often skipped over. While Proust famously loved and adored his sainted mother, his later years are inextricably linked to Proust’s father: the world-famous epidemiologist, Adrien Proust, pioneer of the modern cordon sanitaire. Today, we will navigate between the inner world and the outer, between safety and exposure, between past and present, between reality and memory, between sickness and health, between the glittering world of fin-de-siècle Paris and the dark chamber in which our story is set. The chamber in question was a refuge, it was a nest, and in many ways, it was a cage. This is the story of Proust’s bedroom. I. Open with impending siege (so he thinks) of Paris in September 1914, culminating in the flight to Cabourg II. Flashback to 1870 and the Siege of Paris III. Proust’s childhood illnesses (what is dad doing during this time?) IV. November 1913 – Swann’s Way is published. IV. Says goodbye to the Paris that he knew and leaves for Cabourg. But the hotel is no escape (soldiers etc) and so he must return home. Coughing fit on the way home resigns him to the idea that he doesn’t have much longer – and so he must devote his remaining time to finishing his great work. Begins life as a recluse. One evening in September 1914, Marcel Proust woke in the middle of the night and took a last look at Paris. It was the opening salvo of World War One, and Paris, everyone assumed, was doomed. With Kaiser Wilhelm’s troops on the march, it would only be a matter of time before glittering fin-de-siècle Paris found herself ground under German boots. It should have been a joyous time for Proust. Six years previously, he’d begun working on what he believed would be his masterpiece: a sprawling multivolume meditation on time and memory. After a string of rejections, he published the first volume, Swann’s Way, in November 1913, to wild acclaim. But he had little time to savor the victory – only a few months later, France found herself preparing for war. On August 2nd, just before Germany issued a formal declaration of war, Proust wrote a letter to a friend. “My pett...
Transcribe →65. A Trip to the Spa
Feb 25, 202100:45:11Tap to summarize“The waters of Vichy…gave me back my strength.” – Madame de Sévigné The darkest days of winter are here, and I think it’s time we all indulged in a little self-care, non? My own quarantine hobby, skincare, set me down a particular path. Why was I spraying my face with thermal spa water from France? What is thermal spa water? Why do we drink thermal spa water? Does any of it really do anything? France loves her thermal spas, no matter what form they take: rustic watering hole, glamorous resort, or rigorous medical establishment. Episode 65: “A Trip to the Spa” The history of French thermal spas: 19th century postcard from Evian-les-bain, one of the premiere thermal spas of France Classic Belle Epoque poster for a thermal spa – note the scantily clad ladies in their alluring gowns, oh la la. The rudimentary mud pits of Versailles courtiers’ favorite thermal spas at Bourbon L’Archimbault. We need a baigneuse on duty – there’s some funny business.. Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to The Land of Desire! I’m your host, Diana, and here’s a little quiz to see whether any of you have spent the last oh-my-god year of the pandemic with the same hobby I have. Can you guess what this list has in common? Vichy. La Roche-Posay. Uriage. Avène. Caudalie. I can already feel a lot of you nodding along because you’ve already guessed the answer. Yeah, I wear sweatpants all day every day and I haven’t worn makeup since March 2020, but my skin? My skincare is glaaaaamorous, darlings, I am absolutely babying it. I just listed off a bunch of the most well-respected – and widely distributed – skincare brands in France. But that’s not all. If you’re very clever, you may also notice that all of the names I listed have something else in common. Every single one of those brands traces its origins back to a natural water source – whether it’s a world-famous spa town frequented by royalty, or a very picturesque babbling brook on some mythical farmland. All of these brands boast about their very special eau thermales, all of which are supposed to have very special and distinct healing properties. A few nights ago, while I was halfway through my night routine, I found myself wondering about those spa towns. The French really go crazy for hot springs – I personally associate hot springs with, like, a bunch of outdoor hot tubs, maybe a weekend getaway with the girls. For thousands of years, natural springs have provided the French with relief from major and minor physical ailments, tons of society gossip, a respite from the bustle of city life, and maybe, just maybe, a miracle or two. So this week, maybe it’s time to fill up the tub and enjoy this episode during a nice, warm soak in some hot water, because we’re taking a trip through the history of the spa. Take a stroll down the Boulevard Saint-Germain today, and you’ll pass any number of high-end pharmacies and drugstores, advertising a dazzling assortment of creams, lotions and potions to cure what ails you, whether it’s eczema, acne, indigestion, athlete’s foot or simply the inexorable march of time. Starting at Les Deux Magots, you could walk past the Pharmacie de Saint-Germain de Pres, the Pharmacie Beauté, Pharmacie Saint-Sulpice, and the Pharmacie Odeon within the space of a few blocks. But continue on a few more feet and you’ll encounter a different sort of dispensary altogether: the most ancient source of medicine in the city of Paris. Here on the corner of the Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Boulevard Saint-Michel is the famous Musée de Cluny, home of the city’s most ancient Roman baths. Built approximately 2200 years ago, the baths were enormous in their day, stretching over 6,000 square meters of valuable real estate. Back then, the ancient Roman outpost called Lutetia required constant guarding, and this part of town held a host of administrative buildings – and military outposts. In Ancient Rome, wherever troops traveled, public baths followed, for rather obvious reasons. While rich Romans might build private baths in their homes, the general public was welcome and encouraged to take part in a public dip, where they could scrub themselves clean, exchange gossip, maybe broker a few deals, and even get a little workout in. Men and women both enjoyed use of the public baths, and free admission meant there was a genuine cross-section of society present in the pools. The ruins at Cluny are pretty typical Roman bath architecture: the complex was divided into three sections, in which water was available at different temperatures. First, you’d enjoy the piping hot water straight outta the ground in the calderia, sweating out your impurities. Then, you’d move into the tepidarium, where the naturally hot water had been allowed to cool off a bit. Here, you might get a massage with some essential oils. Finally, you’d step into the frigidarium, which is exactly what you think – a nippy environment to close the pores and finish off your day before going into the locker rooms to pick up your clothes. Even today, visitors to Cluny can see the sophisticated pipes which carried water around to the different chambers, and step inside the enormous frigidarium which remains in great condition for a 2000 year old YMCA. The golden age o...
Transcribe →64. Louis Pasteur and The History of the Vaccine
Jan 21, 202100:43:49Tap to summarize“I think my hand will tremble,“ – Louis Pasteur Happy New Year! The Land of Desire is BACK with an exciting – and hopeful – story to set us off on the right track in 2021. Your happy host gets to indulge her love of epidemiology a little bit without leaving you depressed in the middle of a pandemic (she swears). This week, we’re taking a look at one of the greatest French inventions of all time. Along the way, we’ll encounter Catholic masses for dogs, the worst cruise you’ve ever heard of, and a man who came a bit too close to becoming a true mad scientist, Louis Pasteur. We’re at a turning point in medical science, so what better time to look back at how far we’ve come? This week, join me for a closer look at the history of the vaccine. Episode 64: “Louis Pasteur and the History of the Vaccine” Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to The Land of Desire! I’m your host Diana, and I’d like to start by wishing all of you a very, very happy New Year! I know it’s been a tough winter, but there are better days ahead of us. As many of you know, I’ve always been a huge epidemiology nerd, and I’ve struggled to restrain myself in the past because I know that most of my audience really doesn’t want to hear about diseases even when we aren’t going through a major pandemic. Fair enough. So I’m excited for an excuse to turn back to my favorite subject, but I promise, in a happy, optimistic way. If 2020 was the story of a disease, 2021 is looking like the story of its cure. This week, we’re taking a look at one of the greatest French inventions of all time. Along the way, we’ll encounter Catholic masses for dogs, the worst cruise you’ve ever heard of, and a man who came a bit too close to becoming a true mad scientist, Louis Pasteur. We’re at a turning point in medical science, so what better time to look back at how far we’ve come? This week, join me for a closer look at the history of the vaccine. On July 4, 1885, a nine year old boy named Joseph Meister was attacked by a dog near his home in the city of Alsace. As he cowered and shielded his face with his tiny hands, the dog lunged at him again and again, biting him. A nearby bricklayer heard the screams and managed to beat the dog back with a pair of crowbars, but not until Joseph sustained fourteen bites on his thighs, legs and his hand. Joseph’s mother rushed him to the local doctor, who applied carbolic acid to the wounds, but the two adults looked at one another with a terrible fear. Joseph was at risk for one of humanity’s deadliest diseases, a disease scary enough to inspire not one but two terrifying mythical monsters, a disease with a nearly 100% fatality rate, a disease which guaranteed the worst of all 19th century fates: an ugly death. Joseph was at risk for rabies. Joseph’s mother, beside herself with worry, asked the doctor what else could be done. The doctor must have known Joseph was in dire straits, because he made a radical suggestion: take the boy to Paris, he said. There’s a scientist there, a famous scientist, who thinks he may have a solution. Joseph, still in unbearable pain, accompanied his mother to the train station at once, and within 48 hours of the attack, they found themselves in one of the strangest buildings they’d ever stepped inside: this was the laboratory of the great Louis Pasteur, and it was filled with rabid dogs. In the long, strange cultural history of humans and diseases, rabies has always held a unique space in our minds – more specifically, in our amygdala, which controls fear. We’ve had rabies for just about as long as we’ve had domesticated dogs, and just about every ancient set of laws we can find has some sort of rule about how to handle wild dogs, rabid dogs, dogs who bite, and people who are bitten by dogs. The first known victim of rabies appears in a cuneiform tablet from ancient Mesopotamia, written about four thousand years ago. The ancient Greeks referred to lyssa, or a wild violence, while the Romans spoke of rabere – or “rage” from which we may get the word “rabies”. Over the centuries, across civilizations, the same disease appears again and again, and one thing in particular stands out: humans have always, it seems, known exactly where rabies comes from. Take a moment to appreciate that. Even during periods of time when diseases were the whims of god, justice for your sins, or the mysterious and unknowable slights of fate, rabies alone had a clear cause and effect. We didn’t have germ theory, we didn’t have microscopes, but there was one infection pathway that humans have pretty much always understood: mad dog bites man. Man goes mad. Mad dog and mad man die. The end. As it turns out, that wasn’t the entire story – it looks like rabies first made its way into bats, and then the bats found their way to the dogs, but again, in a world where you got smallpox because Zeus was in a bad mood or you lusted after your neighbor’s wife, let’s give the ancients credit where it’s due. Over the centuries, the preventative measures and treatments for rabies grew accordingly sophisticated and complex. In ancient times, a bit of fur from the dog in question would be laid on top of the bite wound – remember that next time you fix yourself a mimosa because you need a little “hair of the dog” to cure what ails ya. By the middle ages, an apothecary would put together a salve of salt, vinegar, garlic, nettles, leeks, chives, and olive oil. It was utterly useless but I bet it tasted spectacular. But as always, when you want something to be done in an unnecessarily elaborate way, nobody can do a better job than the kings of France. Obsessed with la chasse, or ‘the hunt’, French kings and aristocrats spared no expense when it came to their game animals – and the dogs they used to track them. Each year, aristocrats would have their new hunting dogs shipped to the Church of St. Menier les moret, where the very confused canines would find themselves surrounded by monks chanting prayers, singing masses, and lighting candles in hopes that the dogs would be protected from <span class=" author-d-iz88z86z86za0dz67zz78zz78zz74zz68zjz8...
Transcribe →63. Jeanne de Clisson and the Black Fleet
Oct 29, 202000:42:09Tap to summarize“If I don’t kill a man every now and then, they forget who I am.” – Blackbeard, 18th century English pirate BOO! It’s spooky season, so I’m bringing you a chilling tale of piracy, treachery, and blood-soaked revenge. This week, we’re digging into the very beginning of the Hundred Years’ War, when a bunch of scheming men had their plans ruined by scheming women. We’ll learn about the War of Breton Succession, a.k.a. a teensy conflict that managed to explode into an international proxy war. Despite the strictures of medieval society, Breton women were claiming thrones, leading armies into battle, and taking to the high seas. Jeanne de Clisson, furious widow, turned her rage into a lifelong search for vengeance, and we are definitely going to dig into the gory details. Episode 63: “Jeanne de Clisson and the Black Fleet” Jeanne de Clisson, lady pirate: Medieval portrait of Jeanne de Clisson See the organizational splendor of the Hundred Years War. Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to the Land of Desire. I’m your host, Diana, and I have to make a confession: I am a scared little baby. Whenever Halloween comes back around, I remember how much I hate scary movies, scary stories, and generally anything that causes anxiety in any way. My most sacred October ritual is watching Practical Magic while giving myself an autumnal manicure. If you’re the kind of person watching movies like The Exorcist, Get Out, or Night of the Living Dead, I salute you, I respect you, but I do not understand you! But this year, I’m going outside my comfort zone to bring you some genuinely spooky content, starring one of the wildest ladies in the French history books. I don’t know about you, but I could do with a little angry vengeance right now, a little hellraising. So today, change out of your day pajamas and into a black veil, light a pillar candle and sharpen your swords. Piracy is our only option. In 1328, the French King Charles IV did a very inconsiderate thing: to the great inconvenience of everyone in Western Europe, he died without leaving a male heir. No sons, no brothers, not even any useful old uncles. It’s never a good idea for a king to die without a line of succession, but Charles really couldn’t have chosen a worse time. He’d spent his entire reign squabbling with his mortal enemies, the English, and now they’d be making a play for his throne. The fight for Charles’s crown would waste everyone’s time, money, and lives for the next five generations, with everyone picking sides, double-crossing one another, then picking the other side, and then double crossing one another again. The fight was so epic, so complicated, and ultimately so, so stupid that George R.R. Martin would use it as the inspiration for Game of Thrones. And just like Game of Thrones, it has a sad trombone sound of an ending. The Hundred Years’ War eventually became something like white noise: a constant clash going on in the background, all while Europe lurched its way through the Middle Ages, wrestling with big questions about God, death, and what it means to be human. One of the most important questions Europe tackled during this time had grave implications for the war itself: what to do about women? Can’t live with ‘em, can’t make heirs if you send ‘em all to a nunnery. Throughout the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, rascally women kept scuppering the plans of powerful men. They were claiming thrones, leading armies into battle, sleeping with the enemy, dying in childbirth when men needed them to live, surviving the bubonic plague when men needed them to die, and in at least one extremely memorable occasion, taking to the high seas for a blood soaked reign of terror. This week, join me for an extra-spooky examination of the life of the lady pirate, Jeanne de Clisson, the Lioness of Brittany. In the year 1322, Charles IV inherited his older brother’s crown and his older brother’s nemesis. In the 14th century, the area we know as “France” was a motley assortment of territories, some of them more obedient to the crown than others. Ever since Guillaume, duc de Normandie, sailed across the Channel to conquer England in 1066, the kings of England had laid claim to various duchies and land holdings too close to Paris for comfort. For example, the beautiful, profitable duchy of Aquitaine used to belong to the French crown, until Eleanor of Aquitaine divorced the king of France and married the king of England. But the English kings were getting uppity. As the duke of Aquitaine, the King of England was supposed to bend the knee to the King of France, or so the King of France said, conveniently enough. In 1291, the English king, Edward I, stopped paying tribute to Charles’s father, Philip. Philip insisted on treating Edward like a duke, not a fellow king. If you can believe it, this caused offense. After a bunch of fighting, it was agreed: King Philip would allow Edward I to marry Philip’s sister, Margaret, in exchange for Edward returning the territory of Gascony to France for a little while, as a show of obedience. After a while, the king of France would return Gascony, and all would be well. But it was a trick! Edward handed Gascony over to Philip, and Philip refused to hand it back. As you can imagine, Edward I didn’t take it well, and England began sharpening her swords against the F...
Transcribe →62. Surya Bonaly
Sep 24, 202000:50:40Tap to summarize“Please, try to be fair.” – Surya Bonaly, 1994 World Championships At long last, I get to combine two of my great passions: French history and 1990s women’s figure skating! Let’s face it, France hasn’t produced that many great female skaters over the decades. Male skaters like Alain Calmat and Pierre Péra made their way to the champion’s podium, but as the end of the 20th century approached, French women had yet to clinch a single individual medal. At the beginning of the 1990s, however, a once-in-a-generation talent arrived, giving France its first shot at a women’s medal in 40 years. You’d think France would be thrilled, right? But Surya Bonaly was not the skating talent they’d expected: eccentric, defiant, athletic – and black. In the age of “ice princesses”, Surya was an anomaly, and the figure skating world feared the kind of future she represented. Frustrated at every turn, she faced disappointment after disappointment until at last, with the whole world watching, Surya decided to make figure skating history – on her own terms. Episode 62: “Surya Bonaly” Surya Bonaly at the Olympics: 1992 Albertville Olympics: 1994 Lillehammer Olympics: 1998 Nagano Olympics: Transcript Bienvenue and welcome back to The Land of Desire. I’m your host, Diana, and I’m really excited about this month’s episode, because I get to combine two of my biggest passions: French history, and women’s figure skating of the 1990s. Like so many other Millennial babies, I grew up watching the sport at what was maybe its peak: Kristi Yamaguchi, Oksana Baiul, Tara Lipinski, Michelle Kwan, Nancy Kerrigan, and more. It was a golden age and the whole world was watching – especially at the Winter Olympics. Every four years, everyone dropped what they were doing to watch the so-called “ice princesses” take to the rink with their axels, toe loops, and spins that seemed to go on forever. But there’s one skater whose talent was a bit harder to measure. Those who watched her skate at the time still remember what she accomplished, but she isn’t often included in the highlight reels, and the jury is still out on her career’s narrative arc. Was she a fierce innovator who focused on athleticism over grace? Or was she simply a poor skater with an attitude problem? Was she the victim of institutional racism, or just ahead of her time? This week, we’re reexamining the unusual and uncertain legacy of one of France’s greatest female figure skaters ever, Surya Bonaly. “She lacks artistic refinement. She’s a sore loser. History will forget her unless she wins the worlds or Olympics. She and her omnipresent mother flub the big things, and they evince godawful taste in hairstyling, costumes, music and choreography. Plus, they don’t play the game by kowtowing to judges and skating officials.” So wrote Sports Illustrated, and if you asked 100 people to identify the figure skater in question, I think 99 of them would give the same answer: Tonya Harding. But they would be wrong: the skater in question was Surya Bonaly, then a 22 year old skater and France’s greatest hope for an Olympic figure skating medal in over 40 years. Surya and Tonya had a lot in common, it’s true: they both came from lower income, eccentric families, they were famous for their powerful moves – and awkward landings, and they were definitely cultural outsiders in the rich, white world of women’s figure skating. Tonya Harding’s career has received a lot of attention in the last few years, leading other 90s figure skating fans asking, “Where’s the story of Surya?” But when Sports Illustrated wrote those words in 1995, nobody knew how Surya’s story would end. “Depending on the beholder,” the article went, “Surya Bonaly is the most gifted and athletic figure skater in the world today, or she is a unique but squandered talent whose career seems destined to stall at also-ran status if she fails.” Nobody knew if Surya was destined for greatness – or obscurity. In 1985, a small crowd gathered on the ice of the Jean-Bouin ice rink in Nice. Didier Gaihauguet surveyed the men and women in front of him as he began preparing drills and exercises for the day. While the skaters may have impressed and awed local spectators with their smooth warmup laps around the rink, Didier was frustrated. This was the French national team, gearing up for another year on the European championship circuit, and once again, it looked to be a disappointing bunch. While France boasted a number of champion ice dancers and pairs skaters, women’s figure skating was not exactly a source of national pride. Worldwide interest in women’s figure skating seemed to get bigger every year, but attention always focused on the biggest and best competitors: the United States, Japan, and of course, the Soviet Union. The team assembled in front of him had grace and talent, but they lacked spirit. He struggled to push them beyond their limits. While he might see a few medals from the European Championships, maybe a few competitors at Worlds, Didier had few hopes for the next Winter Olympics, three years in the future. While he put his skaters through their paces, a young girl carefully stepped onto the ice. This little girl was about ten years old, with dark black skin and lively eyes. As the girl made her way onto the ice, a woman from the stands motioned to Didier. Suzanne Bonaly, she introduced herself. My daughter wants to practice, but your group is taking up every space on the ice. Could she have an hour on the ice this afternoon? Amused, Didier watched the girl skate around the ice. Faster and faster, the young girl lapped the ice rink, while Suzanne told Didier her daughter’s story. In 1974, Suzanne and Georges Bonaly adopted an eight month old girl from an orphanage here in Nice. Suzanne, a PE teacher, and Georges, a draftsman, were eccentric, bohemian types who’d spent the past few years road tripping all the way from Europe to India. They named their daughter “Surya” – Sanskrit for “the<span class=" author-d-iz88z86...
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