So props if you are still checking in to see if I've changed my ways (Aubrey, this means you). I just thought since I was done with my essays that I'd post a few.
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"Each face, each stone of this venerable monument is not only a page of
the history of the country, but also of the history of knowledge and art....
Time is the architect, the people are the builder."
— Victor Hugo, Notre-Dame de Paris.
The visit began like any of our other visits to monuments in Paris: lines, waiting, and anticipation. Lines are expected at any attraction, be it in Paris, Disneyland, or your local swimming pool. Though long, the line seemed to pass quickly, due to good company. Before we knew it, we began our ascent to the top of the Notre Dame.
This of course was no easy feat. Reminiscent of practically everything else in Paris, it required climbing many windy, twisty stairs. Three hundred and eighty six, to be exact. As I climbed, my head hung, not in shame, but in concentration and lack of visual stimulation. Though the building is beautiful, the staircase lacked the majesty of the rest of it. Inside the staircase, there were no stained glass or sculptures reminding the onlooker of the holiness of the building, simply off white stone as far as the eye could see.
As my eyes followed the slow plodding of my feet, I began to notice how worn the stairs were. The steps were not flat, but rounded and almost bowl like. As a chronic over thinker, my mind started buzzing. Could this even be safe? What if all these stairs came falling down all at once? If they aren't flat, I could fall on my face so easily. But soon, my mind drifted to why the stairs were so worn.
Built more than seven hundred years ago, Notre Dame de Paris has more history than one could fathom. It isn't the age, though, that weathered the stairs; it is the millions of feet that have stepped where mine do now. My patent leather flats kept up their slow pace, but my mind began racing.
It must have begun with a simple stone mason; just at another day on the job. Could he have imagined the impact his project would have on so many generations? Did he know that several decades later, people from around the world would line up around the block, just to climb the steps that he made? I don't think he could have comprehended the countless feet that would scale the simple stones he carved. He was probably a peasant, and this one staircase his life's work.
I tried to imagine who would've used these stairs before it was opened up to tourism. Maybe a bell boy, sent to ring the bells after evening mass. It would have been quiet then, with no laughing friends and crying children. Could he have dreamed of the tourists that would come and take their token picture of his home? He would've known a Notre Dame like very few have the opportunity to. In his spare time, I'm sure he would've explored every square inch, and found the best places to hide things.
Our little group reached the halfway point and had the opportunity to wander around the middle section, known as the parapet. There is so much to see, but I was entranced by the gargoyles. They are so close, one can reach out and touch them. They are just like I have seen in the movies, but even more than I expected. They are incredibly well done, I half expected them to turn their heads and talk to me. My staring contest with a gargoyle was broken by the toll of the bells, those famous bells of Notre Dame. They were exactly behind me, singing for the enjoyment of all that can hear them. They are like messengers from God, coming from high above the world, reminding us that there is still beauty and goodness.
This must have been how the author Victor Hugo felt. He saw the life that the Notre Dame held, even when others only saw a dilapidated old cathedral. In the face of talks of demolition, Hugo stepped up and brought romanticism to the landmark once again. I'm sure he spent many hours here, just soaking up the atmosphere and imagining his characters. With the toll of the bells, he envisioned a disfigured Quasimodo, shut out from the rest of the world, but still capable of love. Thanks to his writing, millions fell in love with the cathedral once again and they chose beautification and renovation instead of demolition.
After my exploration, we continued onward and upward. My legs were burning by now, I'm still not used to having to climb this amount of stairs. I started to think of how in shape the priests would have been. Who needs a Stairmaster, I thought, when you could climb these every day? Then when you are done, instead of being in the same smelly workout room, you would be rewarded with an amazing view of Paris! I think of how the priest must have loved to scale these stairs and take a break on top of the world. This would be an enviable escape from the dirt and disease of medieval Paris. In an age with no high rise buildings or airplanes, he must have felt so close to God. Here, I'm sure, many a prayer was offered. Though below held a holy sanctuary for all, above was a private place of worship for the people who dwelt inside.
As I looked over the streets of Paris, I felt inspired. Maybe a Crusader stood right where I am now. As his group met here before they left to conquer the Holy Land, I'm sure one would have slipped away for a private moment. Up here, the air is clear, which in turn helps to clear your mind. He must have been reminded of the reason he was leaving, and why it was important to him. This was his town, his God, his life.
Soon, the tour is over. It was time to leave the lofty haven and descend the stairs. My feet move a little more quickly going back, as I'm not longer fighting gravity. Going down the stairs, I felt as if I am escorted by those who have gone before me. They were my spiritual tour guides, giving me insight to another Notre Dame, their Notre Dame. As they walk me downstairs, I don't want the tour to be over. I don't want to leave, I beg. Their presence answers the question I didn't ask. If you love the Notre Dame, you leave a piece of yourself here, and in exchange, the cathedral never leaves you. I stepped into the summer sun and left them at the door, waiting for another to notice them.
