Readers have spoken — long posts. We’ll see. Maybe not every day. And I have a big backlog of photos to post too. At some point. It’s WORK, this blogging business! But it’s companionship for me, too; you are all keeping me company.
Except for this morning, today was doing errands, the shopping I needed to do here, so not as interesting probably.
Woke at six and could not get back to sleep. Went online and discovered almost all museums are closed Monday. Logged into the Notre Dame website and amazingly, after days of trying, snagged a ticket for 10 a.m. — this morning! A twenty minute walk along the river to the cathedral. Another stunning day – chilly and fresh at first although with full sun. Chic cyclists streaming by. Crazy traffic still, though.
Our Lady was beyond packed, people pouring in. Very difficult to feel a spiritual connection to this sacred place when jostled on all sides by hordes of people with their busy cellphone cameras. But better too many people to view this masterpiece than too few. Our lady is now bright sparkling clean, what a difference from the smudged gloom of before. Merci, Macron!
The building is a complete miracle — how did they build something so complex and magnificent — and huge! — starting in 1163? It boggles the mind. And that it survived many hundreds of years, revolutions, two world wars … The only good thing to say about Hitler is that he spared Paris. Even a depraved monster succumbed to this city. I think our current monsters would not give a damn about saving Paris.
I sat in a central sanctuary “for prayer only, no photos,” and, of course, because me, wept. Once again, for such beauty, for the miracle of human creativity. Each of the many little side chapels is a miracle unto itself, all with a large painting and other art. But one, near the entrance, is special, with two tapestries by Matisse and a baptismal font from the 1600s featuring a tiny bronze John the Baptist with his hairy loincloth.
I brought my children to France in 1994 and of course, with just a few other tourists, we visited Notre Dame. Anna was entranced by the rose window. “If I ever decide to believe in God,” she said, “it’d be because of this place.” I sent her a picture of her window and lit a candle, as she’d requested, for all those we know who are suffering.
And then, because shallow, off on the bus to another sacred place: Galeries Lafayette, a sparkly cathedral not of faith but of consumption. Did a bit of shopping and went up to the roof for the first time, to look at the view — just me and hundreds of others and their cellphones. Endless endless cellphones. Endless slate grey roofs, the immense Opera building right in front, and the Tour Eiffel, naturally, in the distance.
These people have always cherished their history and its buildings. We tear ours down. Old? We need new!
Looked for a bus home but ended up walking, past the Opera, down to the Louvre – very long lineups waiting outside the pyramid – and the river, across and home for lunch and a quick nap. Can’t imagine standing in line in the sun for a few hours and then trying to take in the overwhelming immensity of the Louvre.
Another task: I needed a few things from a big Monoprix, walked half an hour to the Gare Montparnasse because I’d been to the one there. Got lost but found it, got what I needed after much deliberation — it’s a fantastic store. But then — how to get back? I got completely lost, but completely. Google Maps out every step of the way, trying to figure out in the rabbit warren of streets if I was even heading in the right direction. Every bus stop I came to, I checked if one was going my way, but they never were. Finally, thirsty, legs aching, I stopped at the perfect café, sat outside in a shady seat facing a quiet, elegant square, and had a cold Belgian beer and the fat green olives that came with it. The quintessential Paris experience — when in need, sit at a café and figure things out.
It was nearly six, and all the beautifully dressed kids were getting out of school, mothers and nannies shepherding them home. I state with satisfaction: there are brats in France, too, I witnessed not a few tantrums. There’s a myth French children are far better behaved than North Americans. Maybe. Maybe not.
Despite my rhapsodizing yesterday, there is quite a lot of garbage in the street, let’s face it, and some busses are slow to arrive. Many here smoke or vape, and everyone, everyone has an opinion on everything and expresses it loudly. But the joy in lovely public spaces, the appreciation for beauty and art — everywhere.
At last I stumbled on the rue du Bac — close to my street, still far from home, but at least I knew exactly where I was. Stopped at a bakery called Du Pain et des Gateaux – Bread and Cakes — for a small quiche and a tiramisu, and at a Picard, with its marvellous assortment of frozen food, for a delicious looking shrimp dish. Had the quiche and the sublime dessert with wine. It’s 8.30 and I’m ready for bed.
PS. It’s now 11.30. I’ve been figuring out my schedule, which is getting pretty packed. Tried to buy a ticket for the Louvre for Friday evening, my last night — it would be a shame to be right across from it and not go, and evenings are the best time. The website is picky and difficult, they didn’t like this, didn’t like that; finally got through to paying, and my Visa was refused. That’s not a good sign. I’ll try again tomorrow.
So, Paris Day 2, your faithful correspondent and her aching legs — just checked, 19,107 steps — over and out. (My average, it says, is 3,064 steps. Of course, I don’t walk at home, I bike. No wonder my legs are aching!
