Paris was my first real trip. 

Growing up with a flight attendant mom, my family had been able to travel all over the world. Which meant, I had always taken exotic trips for granted, even breaking into a temper tantrum over going to the Virgin Islands instead of Panama City Beach. Especially as a kid, you only know the world you have lived, so traveling became a baseline – going to another country was normal….

…Until I saw “Moulin Rouge”

I don’t know if I ever wanted anything before or since with the passion I had for visiting Paris after walking out of my third viewing of “Moulin Rouge” in one weekend. As Baz Luhrmann clearly said to me though song and dance, the city of lights was the pinnacle of all the things I have ever wanted in my life – love, art, music, eccentric/interesting people, and a stage.

I was in love, and ready to elope. 

I knew my family could travel, but the week following engagement to “Moulin Rouge” I had to ask a more serious question, “Would my family travel where I wanted to go?” I had never wanted to go anywhere besides PCB and Gatlinburg, both of which didn’t require flying and so were off the table. I didn’t know if I could successfully ask to fly somewhere.

Without very much prodding or begging, my Mom promised to take me to Paris for my eighteenth birthday. A short weekend trip, just me and her.

I belive dreams are the only things with the power to make the mundane magical. I had seen so many bucket list sights throughout my childhood, but never anticipated them, fantasized about them, let my mind buff them into a brilliant shine – until Paris. As I wandered through this city was the first time, everything was bigger than life, had more gravity than was natural, sparked with possibility. This was my Narnia – I had crawled through a hidden passage and walked into a fantastic realm.

I tried to remember everything and the things I couldn’t stand to loose – I photographed. This was back in the time of disposable-cameras, I filled up half a roll with Winged Victory, but I filled an entire camera with Notre Dame.

Before “Moulin Rouge”, the only two things I knew about Paris were the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, the later the much more surreal. While the tower was a show piece, a prop, the cathedral was a character, had a life of its own.

My Mom and I stood in the street and stared, walked the endless stone steps of the towers, and spent hours touring the church. Even over fifteen years later, when the phrase Notre Dame enters conversation, I can see the view down to the street from the tower – standing just to the side of a gargoyle, the buttressed back – seeming somehow more alive with its exposed skeleton, and, of course, the most enduring image –  the massive circular stained glass window above the entrance.

I think first about the stained glass window, gazing up from in the inside, between rows of pews. It’s darkly blue, pushing the looming shadows away only slightly. Staring, I get the same feeling as when I revisit Grimm’s Fairy Tales as an adult and find them more graphic, dangerous, deadly than the light versions I was told as a kid. The window isn’t a decoration, it’s the result of hard, sweaty work – meant not as an accent decoration but a statement. Hundreds of years later it craftsmanship and intent refuse to let the window soften. As I look, I can almost hear the forge fires roar and the unless pounding of hammers…

…of course there’s the moon rock too. I’ll never forget re-examining my photos back at home, trying to point out the bit of space dust to my friends.

I’m thinking of this trip today. Specifically, this time with my mom spent wandering inside what felt like a dream come to life. I belive Notre Dame will survive the fire – it’s not like there hasn’t been any work done on it since the 1300’s. I also know, it has to survive – it’s not just a church of stone, mortal, and steel – its a place of dreams and star stuff.