The train sped past countryside and into the suburbs of Paris. Graffiti splashed across cement buildings and I thought, Some things are not so different.
I chose the fourth arrondissement as my destination. This is the location of Notre Dame. Climbing up from the Metro tunnel, I saw cathedral spires, a crystal-blue sky and then the Seine. Everything bathed in a wash of sienna October light. I leaned giddily over a stone wall and studied the river. Lovers picnicked on the cement bank, painters and booksellers sold their works from booths along the cobblestone walkway. Damn, this really was a movie.
I wandered curving alleys. I bought a paper cone stuffed with grilled meat and greasy French Fries. I joined the picnickers and dangled my feet over the riverbank edge toward the water. Don't tell me I'm not French.
After lunch, I discovered St. Julien-le-Pauvre, the oldest church in Paris. Empty, dusty, dark and medieval. As I opened the heavy doors, dust particles spun in bits of light leaking through stained glass. The wooden pews creaked and I sat all alone, wrapped in history. The ancient chancel had me wondering: How did this building survive fires, revolutions and World Wars?
I left that church for a look at the cathedral of Notre Dame. Unlike St. Julien-le-Pauvre, Notre Dame crawled with tourists. I much preferred my singular experience at the former sanctuary.
It was time to head back to the airport for a flight to Berlin to find William. I would return to Paris later in the month, and exited la cité that day with romance humming in my heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment