Susan took a deep breath and left her mouth open. She was in ecstasy.

“Look, Claire,” she said to her daughter. “It’s beautiful. So beautiful. What do you think Claire? Notre-Dame!”

“I think it’s ugly,” said Claire.

“Don’t say that,” said Susan. “It’s magnificent. It’s Notre-Dame.”

“Well I think it’s ugly.” Claire was 14. Her thick, brown hair fell untamed over her shoulders.

Susan gave me the wink of an accomplice. I was their guide. I turned to the cathedral and pretended to be in deep thought.

“Gary’s going to tell us about it and you’ll see that it’s beautiful,” said Susan. “First, can you take our picture, Gary?”

She handed me her phone. An American offered to take a picture of the three of us and I thanked him, no. Susan put her arm around Claire’s shoulder. She wore a studied expression of joy while Claire gave a cheesy get-this-over-with smile. I took a vertical shot, a horizontal shot, then another shot while crouching down.

I handed Susan her phone. She checked the pictures to see if she looked alright. She was well and simply put together. Her fine brown hair was pulled into a loose pony tail.

“Now tell us why Notre-Dame is so beautiful,” said Susan.

I’d liked Susan from the start. She was easy-going and enthusiastic though so concerned that Claire enjoy herself on this mother-daughter trip that Claire had no choice but to show that she wasn’t.

“I never said it was beautiful,” I said.

“See,” said Claire.

“He’s kidding,” said Susan. “Tell us about Notre-Dame.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “I’ll agree with whichever one of you gives me the best argument for her point of view. Susan, you tell me why it’s beautiful and Claire you’ll tell me why it’s ugly. Susan, you go first.”

“OK,” said Susan. “I’m game.” She took a deep breath, thought, opened her arms to Our Lady, then spoke. “Well just look at it… This fabulous view across the square – in the middle of Paris. It’s magnificent. It’s so old. It’s famous. All that stone work. The two perfect towers. It’s so … symmetrical. It’s Notre-Dame. It’s beautiful.” She beams and winked at me again as though she’d pushed all the right buttons.

“Claire? Your turn.”

Lucky for me Claire played the contrarian teen without entirely fitting the role. She may have contradicted her mother at every turn but she had the intellect to back up her contradictions.

“Ugly,” she stated. “It’s just standing there. Or sitting there. Too much going on. A blob of stone. Maybe not a blob but too… messy. Looks like a drawing by a kid who’s trying to fill in every inch of the page. OK, a kid drawing with a ruler, I’ll give you that. But then all this stuff going on everywhere. Is that big circle a window?”

“Yeh.”

“It’s black. Looks like a fat cyclops sitting on the toilet with his hands in the air. Ugly.”

“Oh, Claire,” said her mother.

“Why would he be sitting on the toilet with his hands in the air?” I asked.

“That’s what cyclopses did back them,” answered Claire.

They both looked at me.

“Good reasoning,” I said. “I’m throwing my vote with Claire.”

Claire beamed at her mother.

“He’s joking,” said Susan.

“Are we going inside?” asked Claire.

“If you want?”

“I thought that’s why we were here.”

“Well, if it’s that ugly we don’t have to go in.”

“It’s not that ugly. It’s just ugly. Interesting ugly,” she said. “Definitely not beautiful.”

As we approached the cathedral I explained that when Notre-Dame was built this huge, empty square and wide view didn’t exist. There was just a road – you can see where it was from the cobblestones – leading to a small square in front of the church, otherwise there were other buildings, mostly apartment buildings separated by alleyways, filling the square. I explained that the cathedral we were looking at was only the latest of a succession of religious buildings on or near this site, dating back at least to a temple to the Roman god Jupiter built during the Roman development of a city that they called Lutetia 2000 years ago. That temple would later be rebuilt as a Christian basilica, right about where we were then standing as we got closer. It also served as the cathedral, meaning the seat of the bishop, of Paris. That cathedral, Saint Stephen, was rebuilt and evolved over time until a certain Bishop Sully decided in the year 1163 that Paris as the capital of a powerful Christian kingdom and he the bishop in an increasingly dense, vital, rich and intellectually active city, needed a new, larger, more impressive cathedral built with the latest technology, a technology and an artistic area that came to be called Gothic. And so began the construction of what was now standing, or sitting, before us began.

“And walà,” said Susan, “more impressive and more beautiful.”

“Is this the main church of France?” asked Claire.

“No, a cathedral is the main church in a city or region. It’s the church or seat of a bishop. There are over a hundred Catholic cathedrals in France, each with a bishop. But the true cathedral, rather, temple of France, of the French Republic, is something called the Pantheon. We’re going there next.”

“Is it just as ugly?” she said, elbowing her mother.

“No, different ugly. I think you’ll like it. You’ll both like it. But let’s focus on Notre-Dame first. It wasn’t built overnight. It took generations, nearly 200 years, to more or less complete and still continued to evolve over the centuries. The Notre-Dame that you see today isn’t a building of 1163. Far from it. It’s the fruit and the background of 850 years of construction and of political and religious and economic evolution. During that time newer architectural technologies and styles came and went elsewhere, and the church had to deal with weather damage and constant repair and then human damage during the French Revolution. It was still here though, at the center of a growing city, still impressive but battered, and in the early 1800s it was certainly less fashionable, certainly old, and some would even call it ugly, as Claire did. Even more than that, many saw it as a monument to the dangers of a dominant religion from a time when you could probably be arrested for saying it was ugly.”

“Arrested?”

“Or worse if you didn’t treat Christianity with proper respect.”

“Like what?”

“Like not taking your hat off or kneeling down when a procession passed.”

“What could they do to you?”

“Does Claire have a religious background?” I asked Susan.

“Episcopalian. I mean, we don’t go to church. But my parents were Episcopalian. Claire’s father was brought up Catholic. Christmas, Easter. Not the religious stuff.”

“Execute you,” I said. “But don’t worry. Blasphemy isn’t a crime anymore. You can disagree with someone’s notion of holiness and godliness, or beauty for that matter, without being arrested. In fact, this building doesn’t even belong to the Catholic Church anymore. It belongs to the French State, the government, the people. We should respect that some come here to pray while the people praying should respect us as curious people visiting a historical monument. That doesn’t mean that you can say bad things about a person or a group because of their religion. That’s against the law. Well, you can say them, just not too publicly.”

“You mean inside the church?” asked Claire.

“I mean anywhere, when talking about any religion.”

“See that statue there, the guy with his head in his hands? That’s Saint Denis. He came here to convert the Roman-era Parisians to Christianity in the year 250 and was executed.”

“Why?”

“Because the Romans wanted everyone to go to the temple just as the Christians later on wanted everyone to go to church.”

“How about the Muslims?” asked Susan.

“Muslims—Islam—didn’t exist at the time of the Romans and there were few if any who came to Paris before the French Revolution.”

“Can they visit Notre-Dame?”

“Anyone who wants to can. Anyway, as I was saying, Denis was executed, his head chopped off, then he picked it up and kept on preaching until he finally lay down to down and died about 4 miles north of there.”

“He did not,” said Claire.

“That’s what they say. Do you believe that?”

She looked at her mother. Her mother shook her head. “No,” said the girl.

“Neither do I,” I said. “I not sure even think the bishop of Saint Denis Basilica-Cathedral, where Denis is said to be buried, believes it.”

“How do you know?” said Susan.

“I met him once. A friendly man. I asked him if Catholics are really expected to believe that Denis picked up his head after it’d been chopped off and he said those who want to believe it can believe it but more importantly it shows that it wasn’t the Romans who decided when Denis should die but Denis, as a martyr, himself. Do you think that sculpture’s beautiful?” I asked. “Susan?”

“I like the angels to either side,” she said.

“Claire?”

“I don’t know. Do I have to say?”

“No. But now you know why it’s there. It’s a story. These are all stories,” I said as we got in line to walk inside the cathedral, “like pages of a book.” It was a slow day, only 10 minutes to get it. I pointed out Jesus in judgment, saints, apostles and sinners, visions of Hell, the Church and the Synagogue, Anne and Joachim, Jesus and Mary. “Lots of this was restored, even created, in the middle of the 1800s, some of it during time of our Civil War.”

“Did slaves build it?” asked Claire.

“No. Most people involved in building it were poor but they weren’t slaves as we once had in the U.S.; they weren’t owned as property. When I mentioned the Civil War I wanted to say that those portions from the middle of the 1800s aren’t really so old in Paris terms. The steeple you saw before, when were at the back of the square, was added then. There was a steeple long before but what’s there now wasn’t designed at Notre-Dame’s inception. The steeple is a part of Notre-Dame’s history but it’s relatively recent if you think back to 1163 when the project was started. It’s part of Notre-Dame’s evolution.”

“Some kids in my class say they don’t believe in evolution.”

“They’re the same kids who would stone you for calling their church ugly,” I said.

“He’s exaggerating,” Susan told Claire. “Don’t scare her,” she said with something less than a smile.

“Are you scared, Claire?”

“There was a school shooting in our state,” she said.

“Now that’s scary.” I said.

“Let’s change the subject,” said Susan.

“We were talking about evolution. How things evolve, how they develop, how they change. One day the original timbers holding up the roof may burn up, or the steeple will topple over, or a bomb will destroy part of the cathedral. What do you think they should do then? What would you want? Rebuild it the way it was or add some modern touches, make the portion that was destroyed different?”

We were near the front of the security line then. I said, “Tell me what you think when we get out.”

There was mass going on, incense in the air, arches meeting keystones overhead. There were chapels, stained glass windows, tombs, rose windows, a model of Notre-Dame built and a model of Notre-Dame under construction, lots of people, an organ, a Peruvian painting, a Chinese painting, restored and unrestored colors.

We exited by Saint Denis holding his head, with an angel to either side.

“So if Notre-Dame were to burn down tomorrow do you think the French should rebuilt it the way you see it today?”

“I’d hope so,” said Susan.

“Claire?”

“I don’t know. It’s interesting the way it is. I like that it’s old. But maybe they can do something exciting with it. Liven it up a little bit.”

“You still think it’s ugly?“

“Ugly enough,” she said.

“Fair enough,” I said. “Still beautiful, Susan?”

“More beautiful now that I’ve been here with my favorite and only daughter.”

“Claire, is there anything you see that you’d call beautiful around here?” I asked.

Claire looked around as Susan and I waited for her eye to latch onto something.

“My mother,” she finally said with such gloopy adolescent irony that you knew she meant it.

© 2019, Gary Lee Kraut

Also see Still Life in Paris, Inspired by Notre-Dame, Our Glorious Ladies of Gothic Architecture, and the author’s site for tours, events and advice.

The post Judgment Day at Notre-Dame de Paris appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

You’re sitting at your desk 24 hours after the outset of the fire at Notre-Dame after being up much of the previous night, first having dinner with a friend, then standing in silence on Ile Saint Louis watching the blaze peter out, then speaking and texting with family and friends six time zones away, then having a Skype interview with NBC 10 Philadelphia during which you’re asked to describe how you feel, and you’re thinking you should stay in for the evening to work up a text on the subject of the monumental blaze for your website when you remember that you have an invitation stating that Prince Robert of Luxembourg, owner of Château Haut-Brion, would be pleased to have you attend that evening at a secret location in Paris the celebration of the new vintage and branding of Clarendelle wines, and you think WTF, you’re in Paris, you have the rest of your life to describe your relation to a monument that you’ve been inside a thousand times and seen 10,000 times from a distance, where you’ve taken hundreds of visitors of all ages and where twice you lit a candle, furthermore you’ve already posted a picture on Facebook and gotten dozens of likes, loves and teary-faces, and Notre-Dame is going to be alright.

So you take a shower and get dressed and put on your father’s old cap and take the metro a few stations then walk toward the secret location that was announced on the second invitation (the first invitation having said that Prince Robert de Luxembourg’s people will give you the address of the secret location if you accept that first invitation to receive the second), 13 rue de Sévigné, in the Marais.

Inspired by Belmondo

Passing the National Archives along Rue des Francs Bourgeois you sense that someone is walking beside but you but don’t pay attention because an important thought whips through your head about Notre-Dame and you stop to set it down in your notebook. Walking again you’re aware that a man is moving alongside you at the same pace and he may or may not be the person who was walking beside you before but you don’t look over because another brilliant thought about Notre-Dame is now whispering in your ear, so you stop to write it down.

Walking again you glance over to see the man, a young man, is now alongside you again and you turn a second time to look at him curiously in the eye and he looks at you boldly in the eye and says that he likes your look, a lot, and that it reminds him of Belmondo in some Belmondo movie that you’ve never seen, and his smile invites you to slow down to absorb this as an enormous compliment, and since you’re 60 and he’s, what?, 25?, and really just looks like a sturdy good-looking kid, perhaps with some Asian blood, who happens to be a fan of Belmondo in that Belmondo movie, you say, both of your still walking, Thank you, I’ve never heard that before, it must be the cap. Really, I mean it, sincerely, that’s a great look, he says, so relaxed in his offering complimentary gift, so pleasantly, naturally, confidently, flatteringly present there alongside you that you can only think to thank him again as you walk abreast.

He now asks if you’re a journalist, which is such a surprisingly specific question that you stop and tell him the truth: Sort of, you say, sometimes. How did you know? Because you kept stopping to write something down, he says with clarity and ease and you ask if he’s a journalist too and he replies No, I’m a poor student. You pretend to not pick up on the word “poor” and ask if he’s studying journalism, to which he replies No, applied mathematics and social sciences, and you’re incredulous that neither the gods, nor the prophets nor the saints speak with such bright-brown-eyed, round-shouldered assurance as this young man with dense jet black hair who now says, again, that he really likes your look with that cap. You reply that you need it so that your bald head won’t get cold whereas he certainly doesn’t have to wear anything to get by, and in saying so you resist reaching out to touch his perfectly healthy, vibrant black hair because this isn’t just any student, this is a poor student, and the secret location that you’re going to is in the Marais.

You continue to walk together, you asking about applied mathematics (Is that as difficult as it sounds? In fact I’m not starting until September. Easy then.), he asking about journalism (What are you writing about? Notre-Dame. I could have guessed.), until he says he’s turning right on Rue Vieille du Temple and, slowing down, you bid each other a good evening, after which you’re nearly disappointed that he didn’t actually show you his gigolo card so that you don’t have to wonder as you walk on, resisting the urge to look back, if you’ve just missed out on the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Inspired by Terror

Nevertheless, you feel flattered, and happy – how often does someone compliment you out of the Paris sunset blue like that – and spring is definitely in the air – and Notre-Dame, Notre-fucking-Dame, well, it’s not like after the November 2015 terrorist attack where 24 hours later you could still hear the echo of gunshot at the end of your street and had to deal with fear. Everything’s going to be alright here – everything is alright. Not only that, but the fire will be a blessing for tourism, money is already being promised by obscene millions, the French Catholic Church is bathing in a new identity as a survivor, French firemen are being praised in terms normally reserved for describing their pectorals and buttocks when their annual semi-nude calendar comes out, and everyone knows that Notre-Dame was in need of a structural makeover anyway.

You remember when in the wake of the terrorist attack NBC then MSNBC called for an interview, but you didn’t get much airtime because you didn’t respond on cue with the sought-after soundbites of tears, despair, defiance and hope. You were simply there, nearby, thinking, looking forward to dinner with friends. And the Catholic publication that called some time later because they wanted to know how someone like you, living in a martyred neighborhood, felt about the neighborhood after the attack, and what you felt by then was that everything was going to be alright, really, now that same publication has called again this afternoon to ask how you felt when you heard that Notre-Dame wouldn’t collapse from the fire and you may have again missed the mark because you told the journalist that you never believed that it was going to fall, that yes you were concerned that the rose windows might come crashing, which would have been the sad indeed, but that you never doubted that the structure would stand because there it stood, growing in international stature as you watched its crown of fire diminish in the night.

Inspired by Rejection

And here you are walking with your pseudo Belmondo look along Rue des Francs Bourgeois without imagining terrorists with semi-automatics rounding the corner, and what a lovely evening it is, the light of the setting sky playing with the stone of the Carnavalet Museum to the left and the Paris Historical Library to the right, Place des Vosges in the distance, with the promise of a wine launch party at a no-longer secret location on Rue de Sévigné, where you’ve arranged to meet an acquaintance who asked you last week to be her plus one – though you told her that you couldn’t be her plus one because you received your own invitation (which specifically denied the possibility of you bringing a plus one) and will have your own name on the guest list.

Except that once you’ve nodded your way past the bouncer with a nonchalant “I was invited,” the model-tall young woman at the guest-list desk asks for your first name and you mistakenly give her your last name because the last time you were at a party with a list alphabetized by first names was in the third grade, but your last name isn’t there so you redirect her finger by giving her your first name (realizing that it’s only natural that a Prince Robert of Luxembourg event would alphabetize by first names since he probably shuns any soirée where his name might be listed under L) and you find that neither your first name nor your last name, nor, just to case, your middle name, is on the list, leading the stylish guardian of said list to ask Who invited you? The PR rep from New York, you reply, after which she raises the bar and asks for his name, which you don’t remember because you’d never heard of him until he sent you the first invitation to suss out your interest in attending the soirée at the secret location that was then revealed in the second invitation accompanied by the joyful note That’s wonderful news that you will be able to join.

You now understand why there was no “us” at the end of that phrase, because when you ask to speak with the PR rep from New York you discover that he’s not there express directly how he feels about your not yet being able to join anyone. You look on your phone to retrieve his name from one of his messages but can’t find any, so you tell the tall guardian of the list that you’re here for Prince Robert of Luxembourg’s wine launch party, to which she replies from a height undoubtedly accentuated by heels that you’ll understand that this is an exclusive, private party and she can only let in those who are on the list.

Actually, you’re inside the party already and can see nearly the full scope of the place, and while she’s checking the name of someone who’s arrived behind you, you examine the loose group of about 50 people standing in pairs or threesomes, wine glasses in hand, talking and drinking with no apparent interest, and you sense that whatever list these people are on it is neither an A nor even a B list, but how could they be since you were invited?, that with the exception of a 4- or 5-piece band playing a worldwide hit from the 80s, meaning some effort was put into planning this event, the soirée doesn’t feel the least bit exclusive, and that the location isn’t so much secret as rented, meaning that all that’s left of the point guard’s original description is “private,” which isn’t a very enticing adjective in and of itself since it could just as easily be attached to “toilette” or “Idaho” as it could “soirée.” So you politely wait until she looks down at you again then say that you were invited as an American journalist by the PR rep in New York whose name you don’t remember but it’s really not that important so if she’d like you to leave you will, at which point she says Just a moment and goes to get someone from the sparse crowd because she knows as well as you do that the only person who would want to crash this party is an alcoholic and she really just wants you to produce a name and get on with it.

Inspired by Acceptance

The woman who now approaches you is a midsize brunette with glasses and a non-smile, meaning that she can only be the Paris PR rep. You expect her to ask your name but instead she asks who invited you, to which you reply Prince Robert of Luxembourg through his NY PR rep whose name you can’t remember, which leads her to say that she can’t let you in without knowing that person’s name because you must understand that this is a private party. At least she’s dropped the pretense of it being “exclusive.”

You have three choices: you can pull an Oprah (listed under O?) after she’s been told that a Hermès handbag wouldn’t go with her skin color and let your (79) followers know that you’ve been judged by the way you look (apparently not enough like Belmondo in that Belmondo movie), which would likely lead to you losing several of your followers who would accuse you of being insensitive to racism or, worse, of comparing your feelings to Oprah’s; you can leave with your ego intact because you never bring your ego to such events and really don’t care whether or not you’re allowed in other than the fact that you came all this way, which would lead to several sub-choices as to what to do if you do leave—walk over to view of the carcass of Notre-Dame, go to a bar, seek out the math student?; or you can search through your email on your phone again to find the PR guy’s name, which you do because, what the hell, it’s in there somewhere and you’re just one name-drop away from a glass of wine and some canapés.

Eventually you find it, you show the guy’s email signature to the beautiful giant who goes to retrieve the Paris PR chick, who mildly apologizes in a mildly annoying way by saying You understand we just needed a name because this is a private party, which lets you know that she’s not the boss at the agency because any boss would at that point consider the matter closed and lead you graciously to the bar instead of immediately disappearing into the crowd – or trying to but the crowd is too thin to disappear into – and as she walks away you think you would have had an easier time getting admitted to a press conference about the stability of Notre-Dame.

Inspired by Haut-Brion

You see another sort-of journalist you sometime run into at events involving wine and food and go over to say hello, followed by a handshake and an exchange of ça-vas, and you tell him that you see from his recent articles that he’s all over the place, in a good way, which he accepts as a compliment without offering in return anything but a look that tells you either that you never really knew each other so no need getting too chummy now or that he’s been hitting on the girl standing next to him and you’re clouding his image, probably both, so you go to the bar and ask for a glass of one of the six Clarendelle wines “inspired by Haut-Brion” on tap that evening, the merlot.

Prince Robert of Luxembourg is nowhere to be seen, not that you’d recognize him, but if he were here you’d surely notice someone fawning over him, yet no one appears to be fawning over anyone, let alone the wine. Everyone has a glass in hand, but no one is explaining it or examining it or discussing it, as the band now plays something hummable from the 90s that sounds no different from their take on the 80s. You stand among the others like extras on the set waiting for the stars to arrive, but it’s clear that they won’t be arriving because this is the party. The event is a reflection of the merlot itself: well-groomed, pleasant enough, needing something more than flower-topped canapés, sans plus, but here you are, not disappointed just hoping to catch someone’s eye so as to share a moment.

You reach for a canapé on a table beside a women standing alone and ask which wine she’s tasting. She looks at her glass as though surprised that she has one, says The bordeaux, then gazes off into the distance though the room is too small to have much distance to gaze off at, and you realize that your Belmondo look from that Belmondo movie is not having the same effect on her as it did on the young man on the street. Or would Belmondo try harder? If you had the nerve you’d ask if she’s a journalist then tell her that you’re a poor student in applied mathematics and social sciences, and you laugh at your own spinelessly unspoken humor, which makes her walk away.

Inspired by Mourning

You carry your glass to a room that you couldn’t see earlier from the guest-list desk and a woman sitting on the couch in there waves at you. It’s the acquaintance who’d asked you to be her plus one, whom you’d forgotten about and whose name you should have dropped from the get-go. You didn’t see me when you came in a while ago, she says, as you faites la bise, and you tell her about the trouble you had getting into the exclusive private party at the secret location. You mean here? she says, that’s strange, but it’s good that they know you now, you’ll want to be on their good side. Contemplating that you reach toward the plate of flower-topped canapés that’s just been placed on the coffee table before you but a young woman stops you with a shark’s smile so that she can take a picture before you destroy the plate’s symmetry, leading you to conclude that you’ve either just taken your first steps into being initiated among the Illuminati or this is a primer event for influencers with under a thousand followers.

You and your non-plus-one talk a bit about Notre-Dame, and she tells you that she couldn’t bear to look at it burning and that she doesn’t want to drop a bombshell on you but her father died the other day, but it’s okay, I mean it’s not okay, but he died, I’m here, he was 87, it’s alright, I’m glad I came out. You sympathize and let her know that you know it’s tough and that it’s good she came out this evening, you’re glad to see her, to have a drink together. You’re engaging without being intimate, and she understands that her sadness is her sadness, not yours, and you’re cool with letting her talk about it if she wants or not talk about it if she doesn’t want, and when she says that she visited Notre-Dame just the other day after learning that her father had died because he was Catholic, you almost put your arm around her but instead say It’s good you did that. A pause follows, and after a moment you ask which wine she’s been drinking and she looks at her nearly empty glass and says the Saint Emilion, it’s quite good, and you say you’re going to try some and would she want anything while you’re at the bar and she says she’d like to try the rosé, would you mind getting her a glass.

Inspired by More Wine

In the short line at the bar you try to have two conversations about the wine but neither the man ahead of you nor the woman behind seems interested. You wonder who these people are but the answer is clear: they’re people just like you who showed up because they were invited, and you further wonder if maybe more beautiful people were due to show up but thought it inappropriate to go to a wine tasting while Notre-Dame smolders, but still, why is no one interested in communication even if they don’t pick up on your Belmondo look?

You return to the mourner and hand her the glass of rosé, for which she thanks you, and the two of you have an insightful conversation about the wine and food and journalism/influencer business—yours, hers, theirs. The two of you have a good laugh—well, you laugh, she’s not really in the mood—about the tagline “inspired by Haut-Brion” on each of the Clarendelle wines because it’s such a ballsy way of saying “the producer of this wine owns Haut-Brion, one of the world’s most prestigious wine châteaux, so consider yourself lucky to get this close to the real thing,” but what the hell, it’ll surely work in wine marketing among a certain set, and the Saint Emilion really is quite decent, nearly elegant, just trying too hard to be something it’s not – Haut-Brion, for example. But what do you know? The rosé is quite nice, she remarks, she who has had Haut-Brion before.

Eventually you both get up to go to the bar to try the sweet “amberwine,” grabbing canapés along the way, and, new glass in hand, your drinking companion is thoughtful enough to introduce you to a friendly member of the Paris PR team who says how pleased she is that you could come, asks for your card and, unaware that you’ve already met her less welcoming colleague, re-introduces you to the midsize brunette who still thinks that it’s a good idea to half-apologize for not letting you in immediately because it’s a private party. The amberwine is pleasingly sweet and smooth, something to enjoy with friends rather than the PR team, so you and your soirée companion return to the other room and take a seat. Dessert canapés are promptly set before you.

You talk some more about Notre-Dame, and you tell her about your interviews with NBC 10 Philadelphia and the Catholic publication and remark that if you’d only learn to express sadness, fear, anger, despair or hope on cue you might get more airtime and print space, and she says, Well, men aren’t very good with emotion, and you say, No, that’s not it, they all want you to say how you feel but never how you relate, who are you with respect to this?, what is this with respect to you?, isn’t that the question? Besides, we live in Paris, where everything’s going to be alright, and you both take a final sip of your smooth amberwine.

As you’re leaving, the friendly half of the PR team practically dances over to tell you both how glad she is that you could come—if there were more people here with her enthusiasm it might have felt more like a party—and gives you “a little gift” which is actually quite generous: a box of three bottles of Clarendelle wine inspired by Haut-Brion. It feels like a first key to a series of locks that will eventually lead you to drinking Haut-Brion (inspired by itself) from a holy grail saved from the fire at Notre-Dame.

Once outside you say good-bye to your acquaintance-cum-friend, adding a final word of sympathy and expressing hope to see each other again soon, with a bise.

Inspired by Nudity

Alone on Rue de Sévigné you consider the various paths home. If you weren’t carrying a box of wine you’d go over to see Notre-Dame, a 10-minute walk from there, but heavy gift in hand you elect to return the same way you came, along Rue des Francs Bourgeois toward the Rambuteau metro, and when you arrive at the corner of the Carnavalet Museum and the Paris Historical Library, one of the most expressive corners of the Marais, you notice coming in the opposite direction, an old acquaintance whom you haven’t seen in years.

Hey, it’s been a while, you tell each other, and you faites la bise and ask each other what you’ve been up to this evening, and you tell him that that you’ve just come from private party at a secret location nearby and he says that he’s just had dinner with one of his nude models, because it turns out that he no longer runs an art gallery but is a photographer particularly inspired by nudity and it turns out that you are too, just not as a photographer.

You were introduced a long time ago by a mutual friend because he’s American, you’re American, he runs an art gallery, you work in tourism, but you’ve probably only met four or five times, when he invited you to an opening at the gallery or, as here, by accident in the street, so you never really knew each other, yet you find yourselves chatting away like old friends catching up after many years. For 45 minutes you swap stories at the corner when he suddenly says, You look great in that light, can I take your picture?, don’t move, and you don’t move, except to follow his instructions to face that way, now turn your eyes to me, now hold it, hold it, I’m waiting for the rabbi to get closer, he looks like you, don’t turn to him, hold it, stay with me, hold it, great!

You ask him to send you the picture so that you can see if you look more like Belmondo in that Belmondo movie or like a rabbi in this Marais street, and you talk some more under the Paris light at the picture-perfect corner of Rue Pavée and Rue des Francs Bourgeois, eventually exchanging phone numbers and promises to get together soon, maybe do a photo shoot, ending with a bise.

Inspired by Home

As you reach Rue des Archives you see coming up the street the number 75 bus which can carry you home, so you hail it down at the stop and hop on, say bonsoir to the bus driver, ding your Navigo, slide into a seat by the window and reach for your phone to check the feed but don’t take it out because what more do you need from the world right now?, and WTF, you live in Paris, you’ve been told you look like Belmondo, you’ve been told you look like a rabbi, you’ve been given three bottles of Clarendelle wine, you might someday pose in the nude (again), you aren’t in mourning, Notre-Dame is going to be alright, you’re headed home, and if someone were to ask how you feel right now you’d say Inspired.

© 2019, Gary Lee Kraut

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The cusp of spring is prime time for skytrees, and the images below, taken in the third weeks of March, are prime examples of skytrees in Paris: Arc de Triomphe, Notre-Dame, Saint Sulpice and Montmartre/Sacré Coeur by nightfall.

My favorite early spring skytrees were noticed during a recent evening while wandering around Montmartre before meeting friends for dinner.

Dinner too was a treat. We dined at Le Grand 8, a highly recommendable moderately-priced restaurant just downhill from Sacré Coeur on its lesser visited eastern side. There, Kamel Tabti and Stéphane Tomeï and their staff amiably serve simply and well-prepared dishes and natural/organic wines. It’s at once urbane, rustic and homey.

Le Grand 8. 8 rue Lamarck, 18th arrondissement. Tel. 01 42 55 04 55. Metro Anvers. Open for lunch Sat. and Sun. noon-3pm, for dinner Wed-Sun. 7-11:30pm. Reservations are advisable. www.legrand8.fr

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