We were sophomores in high school when my girlfriends and I went to Paris. We had all of four days to see all of the highlights of the City of Lights and nearby landmarks, before we crossed the Channel and spent three days in London. It was the second and last time I have ever been to Paris. I don't know whether any of my photos from that week exist anymore. I haven't seen them in decades. I still have memories that will live forever in my mind's eye, but they are no more than mere flashes of moments. I remember a hat I bought in Paris. I remember the dress I wore out to dinner in London. I remember the guy from a Texas high school who was on our tour group using my shoulder to steady his camera to get a shot of a chateau. I remember getting separated from our chaperones on Montmartre, and being frustrated at our French teacher who couldn't figure out the maps of the Metro on first glance (like we teens could).
What I don't remember is going inside Notre Dame de Paris. I am sort of sure we stood outside of it. I kind of remember one of my classmates being pretty excited about it. But I truly don't remember going inside. If I had those photos, I might know better. It's possible the only cathedral we toured thoroughly was in Chartres. We were a gaggle of fifteen and sixteen year old girls. Some of us may have paid better attention to the details than the others. I, obviously, was interested in other things to carry home with me (like the memory of the Texan I flirted with for most of the trip).
The news of Notre Dame burning was as much of a gut punch for me as it was for most of the world. Even without the active memories of whether I stepped inside it or not, without being Catholic, without being French (much), the loss of that living history hurt my heart. All day I have been down, feeling like a whole branch of my family died. I may be as upset by the loss of the 900 year old timber roof as by the loss of the iconic spire or Rose windows. There is something so magical about stones and glass and beams that were cut and placed by humans who lived more than eight centuries ago. You can feel a different energy in historic places, standing where generations of ancestors stood. Even unpleasant places like historic prisons or battlefields generate that feeling of awe in me. It's really hard to imagine how much history has been lost, even if the greater structure can be rebuilt.
As I prepare for bed on this first night, I have not heard a legitimate theory on how it started. There was scaffolding all around for renovations and repair. I've heard reporting that it may have started on the scaffolding or on the roof, but with no specifics on how. All other speculation at this point is useless, and quite possibly hurtful. I have no photos of my own either from today or from the 1980s when I was last in Paris, and I'm not going to steal any from the internet for this. Instead, I borrowed this one of the redneck scaffolding that one of our not-too-distant neighbors apparently thought was appropriate to do some maintenance on their willow tree. Let's hope they don't have a catastrophe like the one in Paris.
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