“Wherever my travels may lead, paradise is where I am.”
--Attributed to Voltaire (in an email received today)
I adore this idea, even if Voltaire didn’t say it that way.
The actual quote, which is the last line of Le Mondain (1736), reads: "Le paradis terrestre est ou je suis," or “Earthly paradise is where I am.” No allusion to travel, alas. The poem celebrates worldly pleasures: “luxury,” “softness,” “taste,” “ornament,” “all the arts,” the “gold of the earth” and “the treasures of the waves.” Paradise is right here on earth, said Voltaire, not in some far off afterlife awarded to pious abstainers.
Cheers, Voltaire. I approve: Let’s enjoy life in all its divine abundance.
At the moment, my own worldly paradise can be found right outside the French doors, where a tropical jungle is erupting from a collection of pots, some huge, some not, that crowd the deck. Sublimely perfumed angel trumpets tower over a Chinese water pot filled with tadpoles and papyrus. The passion flower vine extends its wicked, vise-like tendrils in all directions, redeemed by crimson flowers, but not, alas by the luscious fruit I was expecting. There are spices growing here: piper nigrum, the pepper vine, is heavy with aromatic green peppercorns. and around the corner, edible ginger sprouting pointy leaves. Only the hickory nuts that bounce off the roof and the brown squirrels chasing through the luxuriant sweet potato vines remind us that we’re not in Bali—and that fall is in the air.
But at the moment, it’s still hot and the tropical deck is glorious. Just last week, I unfurled a gold-crested Balinese parasol over the green chaise. The umbrella’s checkered black and white poleng pattern is found on sacred objects all over Bali: I once saw it on a sarong draped over a huge stone frog by the lily pond at the Amandari in Ubud. The dark and light pattern represents dualism, the dynamic tension between creation and destruction which holds the universe together. It is a reminder that without one, there can be no other: no woman without man, no day without night, no good without evil. (All this is written about in B.’s weekly letter, “The Lost Art of Luxury,” on The Global Province.)
And, of course, there is no summer without winter. Even on these sweltering days, the mornings are distinctly cooler. In the ate afternoon, I love to lounge on the tropical deck, with a drink in hand and a seductive book, like Carlos Eire’s Cuban memoir, Waiting for Snow in Havana, on my lap. If I’m lucky, I may glimpse a hummingbird whirring over the elegant apricot blossoms of the canna lily. Or maybe just listen, eyes closed, to water trickling from the bamboo fountain. As darkness falls, magic unfolds when the Moroccan lantern is lit.
The drinks served here in the tropical zone are inspired by the garden: a vodka martini enlivened by a pickled green tomato and a few drops of the spicy pickle juice, a classic mojito packed with fresh mint leaves and lime, and a refreshing pomegranate-green tea cooler also spiked with lots and lots of mint. (Recipes coming soon.)
Here’s to le paradis terrestre, Voltaire. My version, anyway.
For a tropical plant list with sources, please go here.