|
Articles
- - - - - - - - - -
- -
Armchair Travel
- - - - - - - - - - - -
From the Editors
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Directory
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Submissions
- - - - - - - - - - - -
About
- - - - - - - - - - - -
Contact
- - - - - - - - - - - -
|
The Heart of Paris, The
Center of the World
by Lori Brister
Paris is brimming with contradictions—she is at once modern chic
and subtle, classic sophistication. She’s a city of finance and
high-rises, and yet beggars live on the same streets adorned by
apartments of the world’s most glamorous. The City of Lights is
cultured and bohemian, flamboyant and reserved. Around every
corner one will find bookstores—antiquarian bookstores, gardener’s
bookstores, artistic bookstores—a bibliophile’s paradise.
Everything about Paris leads one to believe that it is the Mecca
of all who seek knowledge and culture, from the world’s most
famous museums to the most prestigious universities. Yet, one only
needs to visit the fashionable Les Halles shopping complex on the
Right Bank to realize something else—the most popular reads in
Paris are comic books. At any given time, fifty Parisian men will
be standing in the comic-book section of the enormous FNAC,
reading the latest edition to hit the stands. Meanwhile, outside,
a young school-girl walks blindly down the street, oblivious to
all of Paris, lost within the world of Jane Austen’s Regency
England concealed by a plain, white paperback. Oh yes, this is The
City of Contradictions—straight through to its very heart.
 In
the centre of Paris, surrounded by the rush of the Seine, lie two
very different islands—Ile St. Louis and Ile de la Cité. These two
islands stand together in the river, like sisters: so alike, yet
so very different. Together they represent all of the
contradictions that make up Paris. The largest of the islands—l’Ile
de la Cité—is quite literally the centre of France. It is here
that you find the brass marker designating Point Zéro, the exact
point from which all distances in France are measured.
Befittingly, the geographic centre of France lies just in front of
the centre of French culture, history, and imagination—Notre-Dame
de Paris. The Eiffel Tower may be the most recognizable symbol of
Paris the world over since it was constructed in 1889, but the
stone façade of “Our Lady” has loomed over the psyche of Paris
since it was began in 1163. The beauty and majesty of its
architecture is still breathtaking today in spite of—perhaps
because of—the post-modern, characterless steel blocks dominating
the modern skyline. But in the Age of the Cathedrals there would
have been no limit to the impression of power ingrained within the
minds and hearts of the French.
When I walk beneath the foreboding, glaring eyes of gargoyles and
Judean kings, my imagination is swept away, visualizing the lives
lived and lost in this parvis—the square in front of the
cathedral—knights in chain-mail, kings in crowns, priests in full
regalia, humble monks in brown wool. Mostly, I see crouching,
beaten serfs deformed by the strain of daily life. They all came
here—slurring confessions from toothless mouths, giving their own
two mites to pay the soul a recent plague victim out of the
torture of purgatory. The hurried noise awakens me from dreaming,
replacing crusading knights by tour guides, donkey-carts by
motor-coaches, and penitent peasants by snap-happy tourists. Just
to the right of the door stands one who time has forgotten. Like
Quasimodo, she too is hunchbacked; her face is weathered, creased,
and browned. Her lips are shriveled, revealing one or two
blackened teeth. Reaching out with crooked, skeletal fingers, she
lisps a quiet gypsy blessing for every centime dropped into her
palm. They still come here seeking sanctuary.
Somehow, Notre-Dame always looks larger from the inside. Gazing up
to the rib and groin vaulted ceiling, I feel like Jonah overcome
by the awesome power of the ribs of the whale. I watch tourists
ticking another site off their lists, walking briskly down the
nave, aisles, and transept, pausing to take a picture of whatever
artifact their guidebooks tell them is important. I often sense
their irreverence, for this is not just a monument, it is a
working church. Closer to the alter, people gather in solemn
prayer. They finger rosary beads and sit in silent contemplation.
Then they stand, kneel momentarily as if to curtsy, crossing
themselves before turning and shuffling their way back towards
sunlight. I watch them curiously as, one by one, they complete
these actions. I’m not Catholic, but I respect their devotion to a
faith so different from my own, just as I respect the sanctity of
this place. And though, to me, it doesn’t feel like a church, I
always whisper a silent prayer.
Underneath Notre-Dame, time spans back for two thousand years or
more. This is where Paris began, with the primitive Gallic tribe
known as the Parisii. They settled on the islands to provide a
natural barrier against invading forces. Alas, in 52 AD, they were
defeated by the Romans who made the island into a popular city.
Much of what they built can still be seen, at least in part, in
the Crypt Archéologique, located at the opposite end of the parvis.
These are the remnants of the oldest part of the Paris, the very
foundations for the magical city above.
 Aside
from Notre-Dame de Paris, l’Ile de la Cité possesses another
medieval architectural gem. While Notre-Dame is a fortress of
stone, Ste.-Chapelle is a jewelry-box of glass and light. King
Louis IX commissioned the building of this church in 1245-1248 as
a private chapel and treasury to house his recently acquired holy
relics—among them, the reputed Crown of Thorns. Because it was a
royal chapel, it was located on the second floor of Ste.-Chapelle
and accessed by a small winding staircase. The small, unadorned
lower level was a place for servants to worship. It is always
interesting to watch the faces of visitors who walk into the lower
chapel expecting to find a grandiose cathedral. There are always
the looks of defeat as they assume that their steep entry fee was
for this little room. At the other end of the spectrum from that
expression of disappointment is the gasps of wonder when they
emerge, mouths agape, from that dark staircase into the glow of
the true Ste.-Chapelle.
As the royal treasury for such important relics, Louis IX wanted
Ste.-Chapelle to look like a beautifully adorned chest of jewels.
Around the room, giant windows tell biblical stories in shaped
pieces of ruby, emerald, and diamond tinted glass—the oldest
surviving glass from the Gothic period. The sunlight seeps through
those windows from all angles, creating a wonderland of
brilliance. Across the floor, jagged patterns of color and shadow
fall onto the stone. Glowing beams illuminate the upturned faces
of visitors. As they walk across the chapel, the light appears to
dance, moving over their bodies before falling, spilling back onto
the floor. There is something about this little chapel that sets
it apart from all other grand gothic cathedrals. Here your
imagination is grasped not into the darkness of the past but into
some unspoken fantasy that the whole world and every day life
could be covered in the color and light of this day in Ste.-Chapelle.
On l’Ile de la Cité, centuries of stone and glass are the focal
point for tourists from all over the world, and this fact does
much to shape the character of the island. The streets are lined
with tacky shops selling cheesy souvenirs and cheap snack stands
selling equally cheesy croque-monsieurs from refrigerated cases
and $4 Coca-Colas in seemingly heated cans. I don’t mean to give
the impression that I dislike l’Ile de la Cité. On the contrary,
it is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon being
inspired by the beauty and ingenuity of Notre-Dame. But whenever
someone speaks of l’Ile de la Cité, a comparison is automatically
made with l’Ile St Louis, and then there is no debating which one
wins.
As home to Paris’s elite, St Louis lacks much of her sister
island’s flash, having instead the feel of a quiet, exclusive
neighborhood. Instead of tacky tourist shops, however much fun
they might be, l’Ile St Louis is home to quirky specialty shops
filled with novelty hand-painted toasters or elegant casual wear.
Instead of snackbars, l’Ile St Louis has some of the best
restaurants and épiceries in France. Instead of yesterday’s
grilled ham and cheese, head for something that is meant to be
served that cold—Bertillon’s famous ice cream.
Whenever in Paris, I spend hours walking the streets, browsing the
stores, reading its delectable menus, imagining what it would be
like to live behind those huge doors which separate us from the
exclusive apartments inside. L’Ile St Louis has all the charm and
elegance of the Rive Gauche, yet there is something different
about St. Louis as well, something quiet and secretive, like a
tiny French village in the heart of Paris, the center of the
world.
© Lori Brister 2003
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
About the Author
Lori Brister is an editor of Destination Elsewhere and
can be contacted at lori[AT]destination
elsewhere.com.
Photos by Anna Gibson. |
|
|
|
|
|
Read More
Articles From Around the World
|
|
|
|
