A piece of Nôtre Dame

It was approaching the summer of 1994, the first time I had visited Paris, France. I was young and naive. I didn’t know a thing about traveling overseas, I barely knew about leaving the borders of Michigan. It was exciting, my first plane ride- and to Europe to boot! I knew nothing about Paris besides the three years of language lessons peppered by informative sessions of art and history. But I was taught by a French enthusiast, and I also knew it all. I knew how special this place was, the City of Lights; the City of Love; the people, the culture, the history, and I was ready to drink it in. I had a newly purchased cheap camera (in retrospect I should have saved for better). I had a ridiculously heavy suit case. I knew I looked like a tourist (the buses would have given it away anyway), but I was determined to not be a stereotyped American. I would try my best to speak the language, and courteously take it all in. I didn’t want to miss a thing. One of my traveling roommates journaled our experience, and I can’t tell you how many times over the years I’ve thought to contact her and ask for a copy. It was a whirlwind of invaluable memories. My less-than-amateur pictures will never do that trip justice. There were names of places I never thought I would forget, that I would give almost anything to remember.

But what I did not forget, what I could not forget, was Nôtre Dame. It was surrounded by the Seine with river boats, and artists with easels, just like I imagined it would be. There were people coming and going every which way along its’ seemingly endless stone-paved entrance way. It was under construction the year we were there. That’s the kind of thing a French Club field trip can’t plan around. But it didn’t matter. I was looking at an architectural masterpiece. It was stone, magnificent, gothic, religious, cold, warm, and striking. There were carvings of saints and gargoyles, twisted towers, and flying buttresses. I climbed stone stairs as far as permitted, the very same that people had been climbing for centuries… and I looked through three famous rose stained-glass windows. I fell in love with La Vitrine Rose.

It was the stained glass that I appreciated more than anything at Nôtre Dame. The carvings and architecture were marvels in their own right. But the warmth that came from those beautiful windows was a sight to behold. It was a colorful display of grandeur in an otherwise very monochromatic setting. The ceilings were unfathomably tall, but equally as hard to comprehend, was this artistry built right into the stone wall, nearly as high as the ceiling. The details were amazing, depicting various stories from the Bible. It was the windows, I imagined most, as the daylight poured their hues in, that I shared in delight with so many who came before me. And since all of my pictures of this came back black, I am thankful I purchased a small replica of La Vitrine Rose for my godmother, to hang in her window, next to her Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired stained glass art. It was because of this wonderfully detailed souvenir that I could show my family a glimpse of the beauty beheld in the famous cathedral of Nôtre Dame.

Almost a decade later, I made a second trip to Paris. This time with a group of girlfriends and my sister. Would you believe, the cathedral of Nôtre Dame was under construction again? Looking at my (slightly improved) pictures made me laugh, because the only way I can picture the cathedral is the way I see it in other people’s pictures. Perfect. We made the best of it, taking snapshots from the best (unconstructed) angles, and the side where we would actually take a boat ride down the Seine. A vantage point where I could capture an exterior view of one of those rose stained-glass windows.

After my godmother passed away, we collected a few personal keepsakes from her home in remembrance of her. When a woman in charge of her caregiving asked if we minded if she kept a small circular window-hanging that reminded her of my godmother, my first instinct was to say “sure”. Honestly, it was strangely uncharacteristic for me to retract my permission- it surprises me to this day. In reflection, I’m almost offended by her asking, although she had no way of knowing how special it was to me; or how over 20 years ago, I had purchased it for my godmother, or how proud I was that she hung it in her window; and how I was reminded of it all, the trip to Paris, Nôtre Dame, the beauty of the replicated piece, and the pride I had in my godmother loving it, on every visit…

Yesterday it was shocking to hear about the fire. The fire heard around the world. It’s one of those things you’ll feel like you’ll remember forever; like when people talk about where they were when Kennedy was shot, or the morning that unfolded the events of 9/11. It feels almost embarrassing to think I found out about it so impersonally on Facebook. It feels surreal to think about how much damage could be done in an afternoon, after centuries of preservation. It’s disturbing to simultaneously understand the devastation, and to have derived a place in my mind of almost un-shockable in the reality of a world full of destruction.

All of this. And yet this morning, while angry with myself for not being more organized to find pictures of my trips to Paris; while feeling gut-wrenched for a world of so many unwelcome changes outside of my control; while melancholy on a very grey and rainy day, I took comfort in the ease of locating my Vitrine Rose, and great solace in reading that the rose stained-glass windows of Nôtre Dame, although early in assessment, seem to be intact and minimally damaged. Hope endures.