Don't Pity the Hunchback...

Dusk atop the Notre Dame bell tower and the river Seine makes her presence known. On the horizon she beings the charge, a silver glimmer ducking around towers and teapot domes, hidden at one curve, brazenly obvious around another. From this vantage point, the river’s importance is obvious. It has been Paris' greatest soldier and liberating cleanser. It has been a demarcation line between left and right, Bourgeoise and Bohemian and a friendly landmark for many a wandering visitor. Its current is near impossible to judge, ebbing and flowing in modern times with tourism barges and Gendarmerie police boats. The river seems the source of the City of Light. All walks of life gather near it, over it, on it and all Parisian monuments sit back at a respectable distance.

Its proletariat power is unmatched in the city limits.

And yet, I can’t help but notice the Seine – as it charges toward me filled to the banks with history – splits in deference to the island that houses Paris’ most enigmatic creation. The gargoyle hanging out next to me has a permanent, toothy smirk and I can’t help but wonder if he’s laughing at how great his view is or perhaps that the river Seine has to bow to him and his brethren, a bunch of water-gurgling stone monkeys.

Either way, Quasimodo and his immobile buddies had it good (despite the handicap). In every destination exists a place, a person, an experience that leaves you in awe, for whatever reason. Notre Dame left me speechless, branded, bitten by a gargoyle if you will. Our first day here we went inside (see a few posts back) but today Danielle and I spent the 30 minutes in line to trek the 300 stairs to the bell tower. Atop we made a few new friends, albeit very quiet ones, and when the camera battery ran out, all we could do was enjoy. Victor Hugo might have wanted us to pity his humble hunchback, but me, I envy him. Not just because of the view, but because he’ll forever be in the pages of Paris and me, well, I’m leaving here in six hours on a high speed train on my way to Switzerland, where I’m sure there are just as awe inspiring sights, perhaps more. And yet, it won’t be Paris. The Eiffel Tower, The Louvre (a whole other blog post, talk about awe-inspiring), Arc du Triomph, the list goes one. This city has taught me what 'ornate' 'grandeur' and 'opulent' really mean. And everything means something. That's what I love about Paris, each stone or statue has a significance I could never truly appreciate. And I'm fine with that, because I've heard the squawking paparazzi around the Mona Lisa, I've smelled the baguettes fresh-baked and I've seen a gargoyle smile at the setting sun. That's good enough for me.

Au Revoir, Paris! Merci!
Stupid Tourists: 3 – From atop the bell tower you can see a little shop on the Left Bank called the Shakespeare & Company. It is an old bookstore graced by the likes of Walt Whitman and countless other writers over the years. There’s even a small bed, desk, sink and typewrite upstairs free for any upstart/struggling writer to utilize. Danielle made sure we paid it a visit and I’m glad she did. For two reasons: one, because I purchased a copy of Shakepeare’s Othello & Cymbeline from the year 1900 – very nice addition for my bookshelf; two because Danielle was able to catch a woman with her fanny pack and loud voice, say this to her companion: “Oh, Shakespeare – I should get something for my son. He loves that guy. He likes the one that starts with an “O” I think. What’s it called? <pause> O, O, O Oh I don’t know, O well.” Othello was on the shelf in front of her. Stupid Tourist.