Memory: Our Lady of Paris

When I first got to Paris, it was twilight on a warm Saturday in July. A delayed flight, a missed connection and the detritus of a cold had left me drained. All I wanted was a shower and a bed. But as RER B swept from Charles de Gaulle airport to Gare du Nord, it was impossible to miss the Eiffel Tower, suffused in blue and gold, in the distance though my weary mind didn’t quite process it then. 

The next morning, as we exited the Metro onto Quai Saint-Michel, there was Notre-Dame de Paris across the Seine. My first proper sight of Paris or, to be pedantic, a Parisian landmark. This, perhaps, is why for me Notre-Dame immediately spells Paris; as much as the Eiffel or the Arc deTriomphe or the Centre Pompidou does.  

Crossing the road and the Pont des Coeurs we were soon part of the jostling line of visitors entering the cathedral. And on that Sunday, even as we walked in and looked around, we were reminded by the soaring voices of a choir celebrating Mass that we were in a living, breathing place of worship. A place of beauty, but also one that offered tantalising whiffs of timelessness; the sort of timelessness I sometimes felt in the sanctum sanctorum of Trivandrum’s Padmanabhaswamy temple in the quiet, un-crowded hours before dawn. 

Since that first visit, we’ve been back a few times, browsing the artists’ and booksellers’ stalls along the Quai Saint-Michel and the Quai de Montebello, scanning the racks at Shakespeare and Company on Rue de la Bucherie or just watching the world go by along the banks of the Seine, and Notre-Dame was always a reassuring presence, exuding grace.
 And that’s a presence we’ve carried with us. For Our Lady of Paris watches over us from the walls of our home, even as her gargoyles crouch on another wall, keeping an eagle-eye on me as I write this.