Maybe the lesson here is that if you have the urge to go to Notre Dame on Palm Sunday, go to Notre Dame on Palm Sunday.
We didn’t make it to the cathedral before it caught on fire, even though we were in Paris for a few days. I had actually, that Monday, said to Bob, “It feels strange to be in Paris and not see Notre Dame. Maybe we can walk by it after dinner.”
Instead we heard the news as we were going to dinner: Notre Dame is burning. As we were riding the Metro, my sister in New Hampshire sent me a text: “Oh no. Notre Dame is on fire. Where are you?” We came out of the Metro at Louvre-Rivoli. White smoke was billowing up into the sky, framing the setting sun.
The view from the Right Bank.
But our friend was celebrating his birthday at Chez Denise, one of those classic Parisian bistros you either love for its hearty daube de boeuf and escargot, or you hate because of its gruff waiters, cliched checkered napkins, and jam-packed tables filled with loud tourists. We loved it.
During dinner, I started receiving more texts: one high school friend, one cousin, another high school friend, the daughter of a cousin. Are you okay, are you near Notre Dame. Yes, and yes, I answered.
We walked out into dark streets after dinner. The smell of smoke was strong in the air, and we felt pulled toward Ile de la Cite. The crowds along the Seine were quiet, a bit subdued, and police cars roared by every few minutes. Off in the distance we could make out the orange glow, like a fireplace embers but higher in the air. The police had blocked off all the bridges leading to Notre Dame.
It was getting late so we grabbed a cab and headed back to our hotel. On the cab radio, Macron was speaking. We will rebuild, he said. The worst has been avoided.
The next day we took another cab to Charles de Gaulle, so we could fly home. This time on the radio we heard the voices of those who had been nearby: an Iranian woman who had lived in France a long time, another man who lived on Ile Saint-Louis just next to Notre Dame. And the voices of Parisiennes singing hymns. A light rain misted the cab windows, a small respite from the heavens on one of mankind’s ancient monuments to Mary.
