Cathedral

I walked alone with my travel group on some Parisian street – my friends lost long ago in the tapestry room of the Louvre. I had abandoned them all and wandered alone through the museum, aimlessly past more and more paintings from movements that at fifteen I couldn’t even name, until I stumbled upon the few Impressionist paintings. I sat down in the empty room in front of a Monet and studied it for as long as I thought was proper before moving on to the next one.

Now I was in front of the Notre Dame, filing inside single file with the rest of my group. Now I was behind Jack, who was three years older; mysterious; beyond my comprehension. He walked slowly through the dim light of the church stopping to observe each statue, each religious relic, with what seemed to be genuine interest. I imitated his movements, faking absorption. He stopped to take a picture of one statue and I waited. His face wrinkled with frustration as he tried to take the photo a few times with shaky results. “Will you do me a favor?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said unsteadily.

“Okay, stand right here.” He pointed to a spot in front of where he was standing and I quickly moved.

“Stand still,” he said as he balanced the camera on my head. I held my breath and became a makeshift tripod. A second later – “Thanks, Sophie,” and we walk on.

At the front of the cathedral stood a Jesus statue hanging from a cross and everyone pushed softly and politely to get a better look. Jack and I made our way to a pew and sat down. When he stood up abruptly and left, I stayed seated. Around me everyone was quiet; some were praying and some were emotional. Everyone seemed to be feeling something. I sat in fake reverence for some time, trying to force something inside me to connect to this ancient building I knew nothing about. Then I left too.

Outside the sunlight blinded my eyes that had quickly grown accustomed to the stained-glass window light of just another cathedral. I saw my friends sitting on a bench and rejoined them, watching Jack from afar.
What I remember most clearly about Paris is the view from our room of other people’s windows. I remember their hanging laundry, warm light, and foreign voices. I remember the ornate subways and running to catch the last train after the Eiffel Tower. I remember the merchants on the street selling tin signs and postcards. I remember the heat and the cigarettes smoked in our underwear. I remember the Seine and the dead cat floating in its currents. I remember a van covered in graffiti. And I remember trying to catch up with Jack on some Parisian street, the dash of gray in the hair on the back of his head, and the feeling of being lost.