Love in Paris

“I just do not think I will ever love you.”

And with that, I was alone in Paris. I closed my laptop, stunned. It was only day three, and I had five weeks left in a land I had only ever known from movies and books. As I hugged my knees to my chest in my now spacious twin bed, trying to decipher if the last ten minutes were truly my reality, I began to cry. I was broken-hearted in the city of love. I called my sister and my mother, who both were as equally as stunned as I was. I was consoled with you deserve better’s and he is just scared of being away from you’s. I knew all of these were true, and as fast as they had started, my tears had stopped.

I was in Paris, dammit.

I thanked those who comforted me thousands of miles away, and I finally closed my eyes. Tomorrow, I decided, I would wake up and soak up every sun drop, every morsel of magic that the city presented. I knew that even though he said he did not love me, I was in the city of love. Though I might never see him again, I was in Paris… I was in Love. I let out one last chuckle as his expense. The best place to be released from love is where love is all around.

I woke up the next morning not feeling sad, but feeling an odd pang of energy in my gut. It can only be described as a kind of energy that demand I propel forward, refusing to slip into depression for even a second. I was the child who hopped down the sidewalk, careful not to land on any cracks.

Around noon, I stepped on the crowded Metro towards Notre-Dame cathedral. There are few places in the world I have been where I truly and unquestionably feel safe. Notre-Dame is one of them. I am not a particularly religious person. I simply believe that people should pursue their lives and beliefs in whatever way makes them better and happy. However, as I approached Notre-Dame, I felt a welcoming that can be compared no other. I walked up to the enormous structure and gazed at the eyes that looked down into my soul. In one glance, I knew the building was conscious of what I was fighting, and the massive wooden doors welcomed me with open arms. Walking into Notre-Dame is like walking into safety. The stone walls rise up, up, up to the groin vaulted ceiling, and offers itself as your armor from the outside world. It promised that nothing could hurt you. The entire area was silent, and the only echo throughout the aisles were the footsteps of those who also shared this fortress of sanctuary.

I spent about a half an hour sitting before the enormous glass stained windows, emitting streams of light down to my feet, illuminating the way to brighter days in an otherwise dimly lit world. I looked at the various groups of people sitting around me. One elderly man and his wife sat hand in hand, with the wife’s head resting peacefully on his shoulder. Every once in a while they would whisper something to each other in a language I did not understand, but I did not need a language to communicate that they also found protection and serenity from Notre Dame’s walls.

There was one other man as well, who sat four chairs to my left. His hands were clasped in his lap, and his head was tilted towards the stone sky. He had not opened his eyes for several minutes, but his eyebrows furrowed in such a way that I knew he was waiting for whatever pain he was experiencing to be lifted out of him. He was static in his position for many more minutes, and finally he opened his eyes and offered a weak smile to the Savior rows before him. He got up, and silently stepped out through the doors, ready to return the trials that had brought him here in the first place. I spent a few more minutes in my chair, gazing at the altarpiece before me. I realized that Notre-Dame was the only place I have ever been that felt as if it could not be constructed by man. It was the only place I had ever been that truly felt… holy.

I gathered my belongings and rose up out of my chair. I nodded my head to the pillars, the paintings, the groin vaults, and the stained glass masterpieces in thanks. Notre-Dame had given me the protection I needed, and promised to be here should I need it again. I greeted it in desperation, and in a matter of hours left it as an old friend. I exited through the same wooden doors that had beckoned me in, and turned to look up at the gargoyles that seemed to be dreaming of the day they would explore the grounds below them. They begged me to enjoy what they could not, and I promised them I would. I walked away towards the Metro, and turned back to wave goodbye to Notre Dame one final time. The hearts of the saints and the gargoyles that adorned the walls and rooftops of Notre-Dame may have been made of stone, but mine was not. He may not have loved me, but I was in Paris, and I was in Love.