A Notre Dame Moment

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

It was very hot. There were crowds everywhere, milling around in umpteen different languages. Eating, chatting, looking at their phones. The occasional person looking up.

My 15-year-old grandson and I were in front of the newly restored Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. We wanted to go in, but there was a very long queue.

I got my courage up, took my grandson by the figurative hand and walked up to the front of the queue. I smiled politely at the guard and said (in French), I am 83 years old and unable to wait for a long time. A pause, a glance. Allez, madame, he muttered with no particular grace—and made a motion for us to pass through.

And in we went.

You walk in as part of a very long parade of people. Young, old, tired, bored, hot. They carry on talking. There was a service going on, and you could hear the priest intoning. We were asked to be quiet, but no one was.

There was no opportunity to choose where you walked. You simply had to go forward with the crowd, making a slow tour clockwise around the Cathedral. It’s a big place. The people shuffled. The group was collectively too bulky to overtake anywhere. It would mean at least an hour to go the distance.

My grandson spent the first five minutes or so telling me how guilty he felt. Yes, it was OK that I skipped the queue because I am old and get tired. But there was no excuse for him, except that he was with me.

He’s good at guilt—he gets it from me.

I realized I needed to distract him. The service had ended. I saw that if you popped under some ropes, it was possible to sit down in a middle section with loads of chairs. It wasn’t disturbing anyone. “Follow me,” I said.

And soon we were both sitting comfortably in the middle of one of the most wonderful spaces in the world. Look up, I said, look at those arches. And the arches behind. And the windows.

I didn’t need to say anything more. He was captured. Nay, captivated. Nay, transfixed.

I had no idea that it would happen, but you can always hope. He suddenly felt the awe of the moment. It was very special to me, too. Partly because it is a magnificent sight. And partly because I was giving him an experience that he would remember forever.

He said later that he tried to imagine all the crowds away (and because they were contained in the aisles around the sides of the church, they didn’t impinge if you were in the middle).

He said he also tried to imagine what it was like building the place, year after slow year from the 1100s to the 1300s, passing the work on from one workman to another.

He took masses of photos, but he didn’t move. He just sat quietly. I asked from time to time if he would like to move to a different seat to get a different perspective. Not now, granny. Not now.

Of course, I looked up too – and around – and it is the most wonderful restoration. I have been to Notre Dame several times in the past and it was always very dark and gloomy. Not a pleasing place at all.

And suddenly here it was bright and luminous. The sun through the stained glass windows coloured the pillars on the opposite side. I waited patiently. And took some photos, too.

He turned to me. “How can there be wars, especially religious wars,” he asked, “when they can create something so beautiful?” I had no answer. Not then. Not now.

We sat for just under an hour. Towards the end, we did move to get a different view. He took more photos. And then we finally took our place in the long line of people on their way out.

And then we were out into the sunlight, and the heat, and the crowds.