 |
I wonder how many storms, much worse than this one -- this building has weathered. During the radical upheaval of the French Revolution in 1793, its walls were assaulted by common Parisians determined to tear down religious and political hierarchies. And yet it survived and was rebuilt in the years that followed.
As the rain continues, I see water exiting from the stone mouth of a hideous gargoyle, as though it is vomiting anything sent from the heavens above.
I feel sorry for Eric, standing to my side who is the only one in our group without an umbrella. A jacket and baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes, is his only protection from the drenching rain. Even Jacqueline and Colin seem tickled that they have umbrellas, but dad does not. Elsewhere, multi-colored umbrellas -- muted by the morning's grey skies -- dot the long line of people waiting to enter the cathedral's massive wooden doors. Many of them are waiting for Sunday Mass -- the rest of us will have to settle for the rain to wash away our sins.
For the first time since our arrival, I look down. My feet are standing in a puddle of water, soaking my shoes and socks -- but I barely notice. Standing before the entrance to this eight hundred-year-old architectural marvel known as the Cathedrale Notre-Dame De Paris, I am reminded of how small and insignificant my time on this planet has been.
It will not be the last time I feel that way.
We are in Paris, France for a week, joining Liz's brother and family from Chicago. Just saying something like that -- in Paris, France -- takes some getting used to. Adjusting to a different time zone, foreign language and new surroundings will take more time than we will have on vacation. But that doesn't mean we won't try.
Our arrival at the Charles De Gaulle Airport is uneventful, but without a cell phone to call Eric or Sharon we are left wondering how we are going to find them among Europe's second most busy -- and the world's seventh most busy -- airport. Fortunately, we are able to find the correct terminal and arrival gate after dashing through a sea of foreign speaking travelers.
How utterly confused I feel as we rush from one screen to another searching for an incoming flight from Chicago. The gentle chimes of the airport's overhead speaker system is doing little to settle our nerves. We discover that the Ogden flight will be delayed by a couple of hours, so we need to find our taxi ride to the apartment on our own. Fortunately, Liz has a packet of information and a phone number to call. With the assistance of help from the informations su l'aeroport, we are soon face to face with our smiling escort, holding a sign that reads OGDEN.
Ten minutes later -- exhausted from our overnight (and sleepless) flight -- I am left speechless as our taxi zips between speeding cars, buses, motorcycles and fearless pedestrians. I still can't believe we are in Paris! While Liz and Enzo talk about family and his growing taxi business, I look out the van's dirty window at a world that is as foreign to me as the language being used by our taxi driver. A quick look at the speedometer tells me we are maneuvering through traffic at speeds of 130 kph (80 miles an hour). As we approach a four lane, traffic junction, we slow, then suddenly stop waiting for traffic from the right to merge. Enzo beeps his horn at the car ahead and -- muttering something insulting in French -- we're off again.
Three bouchons (traffic jams) and forty-five breathless minutes later, we are on the Ile Saint Louis, standing before our temporary home away from home -- Bour 55, 5 Quai de Bourbon -- Paris.
Ile Saint Louis is one of two natural islands in the middle of historic Paris. It is a small island connected to the rest of Paris by four bridges to both banks of the River Seine. While much of Paris has modernized over the years, Ile Saint Louis remains romantically frozen in the 17th century when Ernest Hemingway rented a room here. I can tell immediately that it will provide an oasis of calm in an otherwise busy part of the city. As we look out of the large open windows onto the gentle flow of the river, I am already forgetting our ride from the airport.
Our townhouse is typical of the beautiful 4- and 5-storied French architecture that is common through out the island. Dwellings are oriented towards the outside, rather than towards an inner courtyard, with large open windows and balconies looking out to river views. As I would find out later, we are surrounded by narrow one-way streets with several restaurants, markets, bakeries, fromageries, toy shops (puppets!), cafes and ice cream parlors at street level, as well as one large church. It will not take us long to visit Berthillon, with its primary ice cream store on the island. Within two blocks are three or four additional shops, each with their own unique flavors of ice cream. We all agree -- it's some of the best in Paris!
 |
The charm of the old building can be found in its unique characteristics and solid construction. But these steps are a killer! In addition, we have three large suitcases that need to be brought up. Our Parisian "greeter" invites us to use a small (Liz will tell you very small) elevator on the second floor. It's big enough for one person and a suitcase. You slide the door open, step into its cramped space, shut the grill, push the up button, and ... pray. Miraculously, a few minutes later it opens on the fourth floor just like he said.
Despite the steep stairs, we use the elevator only to bring the suitcases up on the first day, and down on the last.
Much to our surprise, we are told that there a no bugs to worry about ("too cold!"), so we throw open four large windows to let the sounds of Ile Saint Louis wash over the apartment. With no screens on the windows, we can look straight down to the narrow street below and the River Seine, which is flowing right to left. It is a beautiful view -- either sitting in a chair or perched on the ledge -- and one that we will cherish in the days and nights ahead as we are reminded that Paris in the summer is always a good idea.
To be continued,
No comments:
Post a Comment