Its a cold, damp, grey Paris morning and as I make my way back up to Gare Saint-Lazare station, this time to catch a bus, I’ve come out without a hat and scarf.
You idiot. Obviously my hotel air-con is set too high and I was too blasé to check the weather before stepping out.
I’m heading to Our Lady of Paris – Notre Dame Cathedral and a fossick around these two islands in the Seine. When I was here two years ago with my mother, we spent a couple of hours exploring the cathedral, me obsessed with capturing the stain glass rose windows and Mum soaking in the iconography and storytelling etched into every crypt, nave, and transept. So while I intended to enter Notre Dame today, it was not as a tourist. Each Sunday morning they hold a number of Mass services, and I plan to attend the 11.30 am International Mass.
The number 21 bus takes me through Opera and Haussmann, past the back of the Lourve, and across the Seine. It’s so quick that I miss my stop at Palais de Justice and scramble to get off at St-Michel instead. Despite the cold weather there are plenty of people heading to this iconic building in the centre of Paris, her double spires towering over the tourists taking selfies in her sand and cobbled courtyard below.
Seeing under her skirts
It’s only 10.30 am. Hmm, what to do?
To the left I notice signposted steps down to the Crypte Archéologique du Parvis Notre-Dame – Paris. Having time and being curious, at the bottom of the stairs I discover that my Paris Museum Pass gets me in for free. After a bag check and nod to the receptionist, I spend 30 minutes wandering around the underground dig site.
Along the walls I find cabinets housing many smaller artifacts – and you know how much I’m fascinated by tiny things! Amongst the collection are minted gold and silver coins and several fibula (brooch or pin for fastening garments) left behind from Roman times. Apparently a phallus-shaped fibula (see below) was likely worn by a centurion, intended to give him specially potent military abilities.
It’s worth a look if you’re curious about such things. However, that seventh sense that’s unique to Christchurch residents, did make me stop and look around when I thought I felt the floor moving occasionally. It’s possible that the concrete pathways are not completely sitting on the old ruins and what I felt was the vibrations from the traffic above. Or it was just jet lag and my overactive imagination. Snarf!
When the voices of angels sing “Hallelujah”
About 30 minutes later, I filed past Notre Dame’s security, collected a service sheet, and found a seat at the back of the preceding service. This gave me time to quietly take a few snaps and videos on my phone before my Mass service started.
Half an hour later, I found a seat five rows from the front and waited for the International Mass to start. The procession includes a small male and female choir, three young male attendants, and three other priests to assist the Cardinal. At first the thurible is tossed about several times, filling the cathedral’s high ceiling with white smokey incense.
The service sheet is in French and Latin, but provides an English translation of the service’s three Bible verses. All chants and songs are either in Latin or French, so I quietly sing the French chant d’entree and hum along to the rest.
The rest of service is all in French, except for the traditional Latin parts and the reading from Paul’s letter to Romans (1:1-7). The 20-minute homily, or sermon to us Presbys, is in French, the priest’s animated hands and face my only clues.
When it comes time, I take communion, something my daughter growls at me about later. “Only Catholics are allowed to take communion during a Catholic service, Mum!” I reassure her that the service sheet says:
The bread distributed during mass has a high significance for Christians. It is the body of Christ, their Lord and God. If you do not share our faith in the living presence of Christ in the Eucharistic bread, we ask you not to join your neighbours at communion time.
Well, I was baptised at 16 and call myself Christian, I tell her. And I had my hand shaken by Monsignor Patrick Chambers, the Rector-Archpriest of the Cathedral, before the service. And I received my wafer from Cardinal André Vingt-Trois himself. Seen as I didn’t burst into holy flames on either occasion, I’m guessing God wasn’t as bothered. Besides, while I was at it, I said a prayer for her soul. So she can just shush. Haha.
In need of warmth and sustenance
After the hour-long service I ride a wave of people out into the plaza again, to find it colder, damper, and greyer than before. Ugh. I’m now really kicking myself for not bringing a hat and scarf. I need to find some cheap ones among the many, many, MANY souvenir shops that line the streets surrounding the cathedral. I pick up a brown, felt, tartan scarf and a cream-coloured beanie for 11 euro. They both go with my light brown polar fleece.
Hey, don’t laugh. This is Paris. Accessorising matters!
My stomach was rumbling through the latter part of Mass, so the next priority is lunch. I find a little bistro that advertises free wifi and bilingual menus listing hearty burgers. I’m quickly seated and order escargot as a starter and the chicken burger as my main. The snails were delicious. However, I feel like I’m going to do a Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman with those awkward tongs! The chicken burger was homely and filling, and that’s all I can say about that.
Exploring the Islands
Other than Notre Dame, I hadn’t really planned anything else to see. I thought I’d wing it. Yes, I know that’s not like me. But during lunch, I’d read a brief description of a monument located at the western end of the island, so I headed in that direction. Along the way I picked up a delicious hot chocolate from a street vendor, a opportune reprieve for my gloveless hands.
Above: Love locks, behind Notre Dame
The board at the entrance to the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation, tells you that it honours the 200,000 people deported from Vichy France. It also warns you that the memorial is deliberately designed to evoke certain characteristics of the concentration camps: imprisonment, oppression and impossible escape, the long process of attrition, the desire for extermination and abasement. And they’re not wrong.
It’s confronting immediately, with it’s brutal concrete blocks and sharp cast iron sculpture:
The whole memorial is shaped like a ship’s prow. The crypt leads to a hexagonal rotunda that includes two chapels containing earth and bones from concentration camps.
Inside the door, is the tomb of an unknown deportee who was killed at the camp in Neustadt. Jut beyond is a dimly lit chamber, it’s the narrow walls covered in 200,000 lit glass crystals, to symbolise each of the deportees who died in the concentration camp. At the end of the tunnel is a single bright light.
Further in and up the stairs, you’ll find place names, maps, and numbers painted on the walls in black and blood red, a stark reminder of the scale of the atrocities.
Further on, along darken corridors you can read descriptions of what the victims of the Nazi concentration camps endured. Many are shocking in their blunt telling. But the whole place is unapologetic in its jarring, brutal bluntness. Both deliberating disturbing and very moving. A very French memorial.
Oh, heavenly transcendence
Back outside again, I head towards the other end of the island to find Saint-Chapelle. I’ve read nothing about this church, but I’m determined not to waste the day. I want to see one more thing before I head back to my hotel.
Located at the back of Paris’ old Justice precinct, I learn that Saint-Chapelle was built in the 1200s by Saint Louis who later became France’s King. The lower ground floor is a brightly painted Medieval chamber, with parts of it restored. At the far end is a statue of the young Saint/King, surrounded by walls of rich red and blue imprinted with the fleur de lis symbol of the French Kings and gorgeous stain glass windows.
It’s at this point that you can be forgiven for thinking, “Is that it?” The guidebook said, “…allow an hour to see it all”. Really? Then I spot people slipping through a side door adjacent to the entrance. It leads to a winding, stone stair case, room only for one.
As I trudge upwards, I’m thinking, “Ugh. My feet are really sore, I’m chilled, and I can’t wait to get back to my warm hotel room. Let’s just get this done.” So it was not surprising that, when I stepped out of the uppermost doorway and looked up, I gasped and swore. Loudly. And then promptly sat down on a ledge just out of the way, my mouth gaping.
It’s just stunning. My photos really don’t do the experience justice.
You can watch a short bilingual film about how they’re cleaning and restoring parts of each enormous panels, removing Paris soot and grime from the outside and eight centuries of visitor funk (what other word is there for it? LOL!) from the inside.
Perchance to sleep… to dream
At around 5 pm, me and my weary feet took the number 27 bus back to the hotel. In the morning on the other days, I’ve usually made a dinner reservation at a local restaurant. Tonight, unsure of what’s open on a Sunday, I thought I’d wing it. Bad idea. However, at this stage I’m more tired than hungry. And after a chat with my daughter and an unsuccessful attempt to find a place on The Fork website, I decide a short nap might help.
Wrong. I woke up at 10.30 pm. Fortunately, I’m still not hungry.
sidalscapes 