Jour Trois: Loud Bells and Bright Lights

If I have to write the title in French to get Mr. Ellison to read this, I will submit!

So on my first Sabbath in Europe, I put on black pants and a sweater for church. I think it was probably the first time in my entire life. This is not just church; this is Notre Dame.

Instead of getting on the train right outside of our dorm, we walked... somewhere. It's pretty much the equivalent of walking to get to 59th-Lexington when the 53rd-Lex is across the street. Annoying.

Besides the random decision of global warming to take a vacation to some other planet, the walk was comfortable. The Metro is basically what we all expected- a train station. Except for the fact that the train stops for a maximum of 4 seconds before heedlessly closing the doors on your limbs or friends that are still on the platform. As I was one of the group trying to squeeze myself through the door that doubles as a guillotine, I noticed there were a cluster of seats all empty, yet all Parisians stand. Is that a joke? New Yorkers strike empty seats like it's free first class. No, Parisians would rather aching high-heeled feet and destruction of personal space.

You never know! These could have been
human sacrifices for aesthetic value.

We made it though, to (say it with me...) Notre Dame. You don't realize until you're up close and personal with it that the detail is absolutely astonishing. It's like corpses are paper mâchéd and molded onto the building. Every arch, every brick, every pillar had such attention paid to it that I don't know how the sculptors ever had time to attend church on their own time. And that's just the outside!

Walking in, I expected to feel much like I have when entering St. Patrick's: at peace and appreciative of the aesthetics. Oh My Godsh was I wrong...

The organ didn't sound like it was being played by angels but more like it was being played by the damned. It was loud and ominous. Imagine the music the Phantom plays in Phantom of the Opera... played by Wednesday Addams on Halloween to raise her dead relatives. That's kind of how it sounded.

Instead of feeling at ease and at peace to be with Our Father, I felt immediately that I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness for everything I've ever done just so I could be worthy of being there and hope to go to Heaven. Michael Corleone would feel guilty in this place (pre-Fredo.) It was super intense. And mass hadn't even begun.

When it did, I knew because amid the foggy incense emerging from a deep corner of the cathedral were ghost-like alter servers and priests in long blue robes walking in a routine military march. I guess it wouldn't have been so intimidating if the entire church didn't have an air of desolation. But since I felt like I was going to be struck down, it was creepy.

Being in such a gothic church, I assumed the mass would be said in Latin. Nah, it was French.

Can you feel the chills tonight?

Since I couldn't understand a word of it, except of course "Samuel" which was repeated a hundred times in the Liturgy (Cool story, bro), I was left with a lot of time to examine the church on the inside. It matched the creepiness of the music; the chandeliers haven't been dusted in centuries, there was no place to genuflect, nor pews! We sat in wooden chairs that strategically connected to one another. I feel like there may have been pews at one point, but so many [insert profane adjective] people attend it now that they need to max out the occupancy. You know Catholics...

Truly though, the place was beautiful. And I promise to God, since he doesn't want me to swear, that I'll try my very best to go church every weekend. I don't want to end up an alter server in the after life.

So anyway, it was a normal mass. In French. When we left the cathedral to the music that warned me to never commit a sin again, I was so thankful to see the sunlight. The cold, not so much.

School paid for us to get crêpes (Thanks St. John's!). A group of us went to some fancy schmancy restaurant to get 9 euro crêpes... and french fries. They definitely knew we were American. They made us feel quite at home by sticking a flag in a burger.

We got back on the "metro" to get home, made plans all together to go the Eiffel Tower... naturally me and Korrie slept through our planned departure time. Surprise...

So we took it upon ourselves to not waste another day without seeing it. We bundled up for a decently far walk. Oh, and took no directions. HOO RAH. We just let the oscillating spotlights guide us, and tried as hard as we could to find streets that actually just went straight...not an easy feat in Paris.

We followed Boulevard Invalides until Av de Villars. Easy enough. I figured we could just walk straight up until the tower, and when we hit that street going back we'd know to turn. So I got so excited and started zig-zagging any which way just to get to the light. By the time we were close enough to take a straight shot, it was 8'oclock on the dot; it sparkles every hour on the hour.

Look closely at the top right
and you can see the beckoning spot light.

The thing is massive. You don't even feel like an ant under it, you feel like a grain of rice. Huge! But seriously, so pretty. Especially with its lights and periodic glittering.

Oh, and lots of English speakers all around.

Not even realizing it was right next to la Seine, we took a stroll down by the water before heading back.

Or... not heading back.

We headed somewhere, hoping that it was back. In reality, we were completely lost. Thanks to our metropolitan home campus, we had acquired enough street smarts to find our way.

I was even mistaken for a Parisian, imagine that! In the words of STJ alumnus J. Cole "I run the town when I ain't even from there." BONSOIR, BITCHES.

But let me no get too confident. Because not all cities are the same. You see, the city I'm used to had trained me to ignore anyone who shouts at you on the street, especially in a different language. I applied these rules to an incoming bum and instead of him getting the hint and moving on he straight checked me (For my readers over the age of 30, that means pummeled into.) I experienced the scariest moment of my life in Paris! YAY!

Boy, I really hope Nicole got tired of reading before getting to this part...

You know when something happens and you have a split second to make a decision? Well I was torn between A. running, B. screaming for the girl at the nearby ATM to call the Police, or C. fighting this man off.

I guess I pretty much picked C, but didn't really have to throw any fists. I kind of just juked him out (definition, in context: pretending to move one direction before very quickly turning the other). I then planned on running until I noticed he had forgotten I existed. So then I just laughed my fleeting moment of anxiety off. And got more lost.

Someone really needs to tell me why the streets
were modeled after the Big Dipper.

However! Considering I just described this whole ordeal means that I did not get stabbed and butchered in the sewers of Paris and that we did safely find our way back to Rue De Sevrés!

All is well that ends well. In Paris.