Paris: It's the small things

When I travel, I can't help thinking about the first question I'll face when I come home. "How was it?" is such a well-meaning, innocuous bit of small talk, and usually I'll reply in kind. It's enough to say that it was great, that it was cold, and that one only wishes for more time there. But some people want to know, and have the time to listen. And it's frustrating, knowing how hard it is to answer truly, to describe a period of 96 hours in only a few minutes? And what about the things I forget, little moments that add up to make a whole? 

I have a solution, albeit a ramshackle and not entirely successful one: take pictures and remember little things. Of course the big things, like monuments and legends and icons, are wonderful. But I try to take more pictures and write more about the other things, the small things, close-ups of details that those at home would never get the chance to see otherwise. I could take photos of Winged Victory at the Louvre- or I could simply admire her, and anyone curious could google image her later. But google image will not turn up these moments, I hope. Well, perhaps now they would. But probably not. 

When I was here a decade ago, I remember a young boy being a young ass with his equally silly young friend, horsing around in the nave of Notre Dame. His coat sleeve dangled dangerously close to the many flames of the votive candles. My mother grabbed his arm, and, almost forgetting her semesters of French in the flurry of the moment, managed to say, "Attention!" He gave her a sideways glance and scarpered; then we lit a candle for my grandmother. Now here by myself, I guiltily put in slightly less than the suggested minimum 2 euro donation and take a candle. I love lighting it; although it doesn't have the same meaning for me as it does for the devotional, I still feel that it has meaning. 

A strangely modern nativity diorama at Notre Dame  /       The glorious giddy opulance of the Opera House

In front of Notre Dame, the birds are greedy, plump, and accustomed to being fed. The obese pigeons seemed already satiated. 

Wandering around Montmartre, we came upon a quiet chapel (is that the right word? I'm such a heathan. Perhaps it was simply a church) set back from the main street, hidden by a snowy courtyard.  There were only a few other visitors besides ourselves, and the only source of light was the wintry sun that managed to pierce the dim, darkly stained glass windows. 

This fellow stands above the huge gothic doors of the cathedral (this time I'm sure that's the right word) of Notre Dame. I believe he may be Saint Denis, since he's featured in other locations nearby; also, how many saints are known for their lack of head atop the shoulders, but rather, cradled in their own arms? As soon as I noticed Denis, I also began noticing how very many carvings there are all over the cathedral, hiding in nooks and alcoves, or standing atop ledges, surveying the cityscape. Because of the snow, the Notre Dame towers were closed (yet another addition to our gallery of disappointment that included the Cemetary of Pere Lachaisse, the Eiffel Tower, and the Pantheon). I realized how much even I couldn't see, all of those things I had to miss because of closures or lack of binoculars; I must have missed so many things similar to Denis, everywhere, little things that I would love to notice but simply did not. But I try.