“The Plague” never became a real concept for me until we went to Venice for the second part of our honeymoon.  We kept seeing bird masked people everywhere, as pictured above.  I learned that they were stationed as warnings for people to turn back, because the town had been struck by the Bubonic plague.  Being part Native American, I was always more than aware of the fact that disease was what really wiped out the majority of North American Indians, way before Europeans could even reach their settlements.  Serious airborne disease has always been frightening to me.  In an episode of “Downton Abbey” the Dowager Duchess recounted hearing of a “mask” in Paris where half of the attendants dropped dead before it was over.  I believe she was referring to the cholera outbreak of 1832.  This was of course before the “Spanish Influenza” of 1918 broke out.  Growing up I cannot say I had really heard of a terrible epidemic, with the exception of polio.  My father was born in in 1932 and contracted it just three days after he was born.  My folks were big believers in vaccines, and growing up I never thought too much of it.  As an adult I became aware of an “anti-vaxxer” movement where some “celebrity” claimed their child became autistic from “too many shots.”  I know that spooked a lot of people who then became fearful of vaccines.  When COVID struck, I had two immediate family members to worry over — my husband and our little girl.  After a year into this virus, I met a girl who had lost her husband to COVID.  Everyone was wearing masks, separated by plastic “shields,” but it did not matter.  I became fearful to allow my child to attend school (despite all the safety measures in place) and yet I was also afraid of leaving her at home in front of a screen all day.  I kept thinking of how recess was a highlight in my day as a kid.  I could sing, play tetherball, jump rope, and swing with my closest friends freely on the blacktop.  My husband and I both received two doses of Moderna (as that was what was available to us at the time) and our ten year old has received a full vaccine as well.  My husband and I have also received one booster.  Dutifully, I had “proper” masks for our little family when we flew again on an airplane, and only after we had all been vaccinated.  When the pandemic initailly hit over two years ago, our little one referred to hand sanitizer as “hanitizer,” which I truly wish I’d trademarked.  Admittedly I have let my travel section here fall short, although I would say our family has been hyper-viligant about travel safety.  Our beach trips, which I have yet to write about, up until this year have been road trips.  We have yet to resume traveling abroad.  At the depth of the Great Depression, Franklin D. Roosevelt, helped the American people regain faith in themselves by saying in his Inaugural Address, “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”  I have truly lived in fear of catching COVID, and I have been in even greater fear of my family somehow contracting it.  Recently our return flight from Tampa to Dallas got canceled, and we had a twelve hour wait at the airport.  It was pizza oven hot — even for Native Texans such as ourselves.  I confess I was stressed and got lax, allowing myself and my family to drop their masks both in the airport and on the airplane.  And now we have all had Covid; heaven only knows what variant.  Fortunately it was like having a cold.  Of course I am well aware we have all been admonished to avoid this disease like “the Plague.”  We live in dangerous times all around our world.  A powerful Persian King, who called his wisemen sages, once asked for the one quote that would be accurate at all times and in all situations.  King Solomon was so impressed by the quote he had it inscribed into a ring.  The phrase was, “this too shall pass.”  Dear readers take heart:  this too shall pass.

I have this thing about making my travel section chronological, and I yet I am woefully behind.  To write my articles I go back and look through hundreds of pictures to refresh my memory.  I’m not sure why I’ve avoided that, although I can say with the only worldwide pandemic most of us have ever gone through, I just haven’t wanted to post knowing the majority of us could not visit one another abroad.  This is the second year my little family has embarked upon a road trip through the South.  We had airline tickets for each annual beach trip but our little one is still not vaccinated, and I have been hesitant.  Last summer one of the delights about driving came to us in the form of a darling little hermit crab named “Hermington.”  He hails from Orange Beach, Alabama, as that is where we acquired him.  I told my little one I highly doubted they would have let us bring him home on a plane.  This year we drove from Dallas to Baton Rouge and then on to Destin.  I joked with my husband we were “Destined for Destin” (also what I shoe polished on the back of our car) because the deposit we’d made on our resort before COVID hit said I’d missed their deadline to cancel by days … so it was captured money.  The only trips I ever got to take with my parents were road trips.  Even then, it was when I was an adult.  I cherish those vacations to San Antonio and Santa Fe because the three of us were all together.  I can remember riding in the back without a care in the world!  So I completely understand why my little one loves road trips.  Instead of the sterility of the airport, we were able to stop at local “stands” and there was not a soul there who was not kind.  By that I mean MY kind of kind … the looking you in the eyes; smiling; asking where you’re “from” kind.  Black, white, brown, whatever:  a Southerner always knows a fellow Southerner.  I’m sure the “y’all” gives it away.  Now that I have had the good fortune to travel abroad since marrying, I can tell you:  there are NO local women on the streets of Algiers.  Everyone on beaches in Spain, in my experience, may as well have been entirely naked … and some were.  The Brits are rather stiff when compared to Americans, in that you just don’t see people hugging.  I have always found the French to be LOVELY; but perhaps that is because I speak the language and sincerely try to engage with them.  This applies to French Muslims, French Africans, and “Native” French alike who are living there.  I have never found arrogance to be appealing and I disagree with the stereotype that Parisians are.  I believe the most earnest people I have ever encountered were in Guatemala.  Maybe it was the kinship I felt with Native American people, even though their customs were more heavily Catholic and much unknown to me.  If you check my travel section, I believe I have written a blog entitled, “The Eyes Have It.”  Alaska is still pretty darn remote, and I have been literally knocked down by big groups from other countries in New York, London, and Paris.  Generally I have very little personal space because I’m touchy … but being block-checked mercilessly, ruthlessly, and repetitively offends not only my person but my soul as well.  I understand cultural norms vary across the globe, but I wasn’t kidding last year when I said I’d finally found “my people.”  In the South folks actually take the time to TALK to you, and I gravitate toward their interest like a flower seeking the warmth of the sun.  Knowing we were driving again, our little girl wanted Hermington to have a companion.  I selected a somewhat plain-shelled little guy and didn’t tell her, but I got the STUFFING pinched out of me from some of the other hermit crabs.  This little critter though was just so affectionate.  My clever child immediately named him “Claude.”  He, like all other hermit crabs, has one prominent claw.  Hermit crabs have adapted to occupy empty mollusk shells to protect their fragile exoskeletons.  They grow; they evolve.  And then it struck me:  I had been judging a proverbial book by its cover; searching for one with just a perfect shell worthy of the ultimate, detailed Fibonacci sequence.  But it’s what’s inside that counts.  The American Romantic poet, critic, editor, and diplomat James Russell Lowell once said, “The mind can weave itself warmly in the cocoon of its own thoughts, and dwell a hermit anywhere.”  I was trying to be happy about this trip but I was still shocked that we’d gone all that way and I wound up with absolutely no seashells (uninhabited of course) and not even an ounce of sand.  Coming home I found myself tired, disappointed, and uncharacteristically unhappy.  While my husband was standing in line for “boudin balls” somewhere in Louisiana, I made friends with a woman there whose husband needed to drive to Dallas for cancer treatments every week.  That immediately humbled me.  I had forgotten the lessons my father always strived to instill in me:  to bloom where you’re planted and to always be thankful.  After speaking with her I resolved to be more like our newest little family member.  I need to think more about others, and, perhaps, to learn from Claude the value in coming out of my shell.

I have been meaning to catch up on my travel section for quite some time.  I am categorizing this under travel for incredible reasons.  Growing up our annual family vacation was a trip to Six Flags over Texas.  It was the highlight of my summer.  My family could not really afford to travel until I was in college.  San Antonio and Santa Fe were our favorite places.  Mama and Daddy honeymooned in New Orleans and when I finally went there with my husband for a wedding anniversary I understood why they loved it so.  As a little kid I always wanted a View-Master.  For those too young to remember, it was a specially formatted stereoscope that had 3-D color images you could rotate and one could “visit” beautiful places.  In the sixth grade my father helped me sell the most chocolate in my school so I could win the grand prize: an original Atari I think the year it came out.  There was no way we could have afforded it, but Daddy made time every night after work and my school to drive me all around so I could sell candy.  I remember some folks looking relieved when they peered out of their doors and found him standing very protectively to the side of me.  I could not possibly have won without all of my father’s hard work.  I remember some of the first games like Pong (which was sort of like tennis or ping pong) and it was so primitive one could literally walk away from the controller and still be playing.  I recall playing Space Invaders a lot.  As a teenager during the height of video arcades I would not date a boy again who only wanted me to watch HIM play.  Fast forward to when I was in college and I fell in love with the Sony Playstation.  Tomb Raider’s Lara Croft was my idol, and like a true video game geek I would plant myself in front of the TV whenever I had a day off from work and play for hours.  I prided myself on never using “cheats” and I loved solving the complex puzzles in exotic locations like the ruins in Egypt and Cambodia.  I will never forget the triumph I felt (after playing for hours and hours and dying and dying and dying) when I discovered the invisible bridge to reach the end of the first Tomb Raider episode.  It was literally a leap of blind faith and I remember the drop off the cliff into nothing giving me slight vertigo.  Now I am a wife and mother and my sweet husband let me turn our two car garage into a “barcade.”  It has a glow in the dark blue floor, blue lights with a disco ball on the ceiling, and wolf bar mirrors covering every wall.  My mother’s 118 year old baby grand is mounted on the wall behind the bar (so we have a “piano” bar.)  I have a custom 60 in 1 old school standup arcade (with classics like Centepede, Frogger, Galaga, all the Pac-Man versions, etc.)  We also have a blue light air hockey table and blue light Skeeball machine.  I have an original Arkanoid cocktail version (sit down) I got in the ’90’s and, thanks to our little girl I discovered magnetic darts.  Also thanks to our little one we have a “Cruis’n World” driving game which we all love!  You can drive over the London Bridge, by the Eiffel Tower, under the ocean in Hawaii and more.  Truthfully I have never been a workout fanatic and I am NOT a group class taker.  I prefer to walk, jog, or play tennis.  The loner in me decided to try a Virtual Reality machine to be inspired to exercise at home.  This thing instantly transports you anywhere:  from Easter Island, to the Great Wall of China, and even the surface of Mars!  The competetive gamer in me NEEDS to hit every target (so I get my heart rate up.)  Thankfully they have different intensity levels since I have let myself get out of shape.  Add to that every conceivable type of music:  from 70’s disco funk to 80’s rock and punk, plus classical, Latin, hip hop; you name it.  I am so hooked!  The American technologist Ramez Naam said, “In a VR setting, you tilt your head up, and you really have the vertigo and the sense that it goes up to infinity, and it’s like you’re in New York City or Dubai, and you’re looking up at a giant skyscraper.  You have a sense of awe.”  That is exactly how I feel when I put on that headset, pick up the controllers, and get ready to embark upon my next adventure … a sense of awe with my eyes through the window.

Our little girl is in third grade and I was more excited than anyone to discover she would be doing The Flat Stanley Project in social studies this year.  Based on the character of a children’s book entitled “Flat Stanley,” an educational project was started in 1995 by a third grade schoolteacher in Canada.  Designed to facilitate the reading and writing skills of elementary students, it also promoted interest in learning about other people and places.  This is the part I particularly love.  Each student created their own Flat Stanley at the beginning of this school year and the idea is he gets mailed around (yes, actual mail!) the city, state, country and (hopefully) world during his annual quest.  I think this is magical and I look forward to receiving notifications from where he has been.  So far this is my favorite pic of him, at my aunt-in-law’s house in Connecticut.  We learned that tree behind him and to the right is a Connecticut Champion Chinese Rain Tree; the largest in the state!  As a child who was unable to travel growing up, Flat Stanley would have been a dream come true for me — a way to see the world.  So far our Flat Stanley has checked out Chicago, gone hiking in Austin, visited Santa Fe, and has taken Manhattan.  Despite Covid he has still been allowed to travel.  It has also been very telling in where people have chosen to take him.  He has been to the library, sports stadiums, and the Brooklyn Bridge.  Jeff Brown, the author of Flat Stanley, said this:

You are here, now, because you have been loved forward.  If not by fellow humans, then surely by Grace itself.  That we are here means we are wanted here.  It means we belong here.  It is our life’s work to uncover why.  At the heart of this book is the belief that every individual came into this life with a sacred purpose at the core of their birth.  We are not random concentrations of stardust, nor are we accidental tourists.  We are divinely inspired, purposeful, and essential to this wondrous human tapestry.

How delightful that Flat Stanley can go anywhere and do anything!  It doesn’t mater how far or how great:  I think we should all aspire to be a little more inquisitive; a little more adventurous; a little more welcomed; a little more like Flat Stanley.

This was our last day in Paris.  Once before we had stumbled inside the little church that sits underneath the great shadow of Sacré-Cœur.  It is the Church of Saint Peter of Montmartre; one of the oldest surviving churches in Paris.  According to traditional history, it was founded by Saint Denis in the third century.  One of my favorite sacred composers, Charpentier, later wrote devotional music to be performed there.  However the church, like so many other Christian sites, was destroyed during the French Revolution.  Yet it still remains full of history, and there are a few Roman columns which managed to survive used in the nave.  The first time we accidentally wandered in was on our honeymoon and, to my delight, I discovered a brightly colored poster of St. Francis with a wolf next to him that read, “Choisir La Paix,” or “Choose Peace.”  I took it home and framed it.  On this trip I wanted to revisit the church again with our little one and study it more closely.  Instead of a throng of tourists and the shuffling of feet on the floors of Sacré-Cœur, we were greeted instead with an instant hush of holy silence.  I could hear the murmurs of a young woman on her knees fervently praying the rosary.  She knelt on the hard flloor discreetly out of the way but still very close to the this picture I unobtrusively took of the Virgin Mary.  Very much a working parish and clearly a praying church, they still allowed the respectful taking of photographs, for which I was eminently grateful.  The lights were dimmed inside the cool interior and the big, thick double doors managed to block out the cacophony beyond its sacred walls.  A respite from the chaos of the world, my soul settled as I allowed myself to soak in my surroundings.  According to the literature I’d just read, the church celebrated its 870th anniversary just two months prior; astounding!  There was an elegant simplicity about it, with a white crocheted linen draped gracefully over the rough-hewn stone altar.  The simple wooden pews were polished to a high sheen.  I had left my little one with my husband as I silently walked through the church and I was stunned to discover them both quietly knelt in prayer.  Afterward, we emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and decided to sit at a small café where our little one had ice cream and we enjoyed my favorite beer, 1664, as we watched people traversing up the 300 steep steps to Paris’ highest point — Montmartre.  Once we descended to the bottom, we rode the old carousel there that is astonishingly free.  It was rife with an old magic that cannot be adequately put into words, but for me it was palpable.  Watching Paris pass us by I was transported back to my first visit ten years ago.  It was on my honeymoon and I remember watching my handsome new husband smiling at me as our horses rose up and down.  This time I looked at the impossibly striking man I’d married and, next to him, I gazed with wonder upon our miracle from God — our precious only child.  Her auburn curls slightly lifted with the breeze and I saw a perfect mix of the two of us in her, complete with my mother’s features and my father’s jet black, impossibly long eyelashes.  From her father I believe she inherited her thick, wavy locks as well as her unfathomably dark eyes.  My heart was so full of love and gratitude at that moment words cannot fully describe it.  And yet I felt a great sense of melancholy knowing we were leaving the next day.  The American author M. J. Rose said:

“I think Paris smells not just sweet but melancholy and curious, sometimes sad but always enticing and seductive.  She’s a city for the all senses, for artists and writers and musicians and dreamers, for fantasies, for long walks and wine and lovers and, yes, for mysteries.”

I took in the sights and smells of the city I love and prayed we could return soon.  Leaving Paris was truly like leaving home.  It gave me great consolation that my little girl and husband did not want to leave either.  I realized with joy that she had seeped into my husband and my little one’s heart as well — Paris, mon coeur.

It was our third visit to Versailles.  This time, instead of broiling inside the main palace along with all the other tourists pressed together without air conditioning, we chose to focus outside on the gardens, the fountains, and the Petit Trianon.  Marie Antionette’s hamlet was under renovation and I was so excited I could hardly stand it!  I never thought they would open it!  The past two times I had gazed up with admiration at the wooden outdoor curved staircase and balcony, whose boards had intermittently rotted like aged piano keys long ago.  All we had ever been able to do was peek through the glass on the lower levels and stare in awe at the floor to ceiling marble.  Outside there were giant clusters of huge calla lilies, one of my favorite flowers.  The wheel of a mill stood eerily quiet close to a curved bridge over a pond with ducks swimming languidly.  And, sadly, there were vacant places where buildings once stood before the Revolution.  This was her retreat from the rigors of the Royal Court, where she was forced to give birth in front of an audience, people fought over the privilege of dressing her daily, and she was stared at as she ate.  Here she pretended to be a shepherdess to escape the confines of the chateau and all the vicious gossip, plotting, and backstabbing that accompanied it.  I went through all my pictures and I could not find one that even came close to doing any part of Versailles justice.  As the world’s largest royal domain, the grounds cover over 2,000 acres, with 230 of them being devoted to the gardens.  Water features of all kinds are an important part of French gardens and at Versailles they include waterfalls in groves, spurts of water from fountains, and the calm surface of water reflecting the sky and sun in the Grand Canal, formed in the shape of a Latin cross.  Venetian gondolas were once housed on the grounds and even today row boats are available for rent to traverse the great waterway.  My favorite is Apollo’s fountain but, since I posted that from our honeymoon, the picture I ultimately chose was my quick shot of Latona’s Fountain, commissioned by the Sun King.  The first stage of construction lasted twenty years and resulted in the installation of pipes under the basin to supply the water, while twenty jets were placed, in the year 1666.  It was a feat nothing short of amazing.  Having previously been under renovation and seeing it working now in all of its gilt splendor was absolutely spectacular.  Our guide this visit said that at one time there were liveried, royal servants wearing whistles stationed at all the fountains.  As the king approached, they would sound a whistle and it would turn the water’s massive hydraulic system to that particular fountain.  So, as the king walked, majestic fountains rose with his footsteps.  Royal musicians were stationed in the groves to accompany the grand spectacle.  Incredible!  At the tender age of four, Louis XIV began his reign as the King of France from 1643 until his death in 1715, making the Sun King the longest recorded monarch of a sovereign country in European history.  Aside from Paris herself, this place alone endlessly fascinates me.  From the holy grandeur of the Royal Chapel to the Hall of Mirrors and to all of her grounds, Versailles speaks to me like no other site.  It cannot possibly be seen in one day.  The Italian polymath of the Renaissance, Leonardo da Vinci, said, “For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.”  On our first visit we toured the palace itself; the second we tried to see both the chateau as well as the grounds; and on this trip we barely set foot inside the main palace since we tried to concentrate on the vast gardens.  A decade ago I tasted flight with my first footstep upon the cobblestones.  Since then I have ascended exquisite marble stairways and walked over incredibly intricate wooden parquet floors.  My feet have crossed into her formal parterres as well as her lush, shadowed alleys.  With each step I find myself looking skywards, and it is there I long to return:  to the incomparable Versailles.

I remember sitting in French class on a hot Texas day in June just after I was graduated from high school.  I wanted to start college right away and I had  enrolled in an excellent junior college by our apartment.  (All my life I’d loved the French language, but I’d never dreamt I would one day have the pleasure and the privilege of visiting France ever — much less multiple times.)  We were learning about Paris’ “bateaux mouches.”  The boats are popular tourist attractions, as they allow visitors to view the city from along the Seine.  The name is trademarked, but all the excursion vessels are generically referred to as “bateaux mouches,” whether they are open-air boat tours or glassed-in cruisers serving meals.  I adore viewing Paris from the river; every time we have gone we have taken some sort of water guide.  This time our little girl was old enough to eat with us and we could enjoy dinner while crossing underneath the famous bridges of Paris.  We do not eschew touristy things and I had always thought a sunset dinner winding through the Left and Right Banks of Paris would be lovely.  The boat was clear on all sides, which afforded excellent views from all angles.  Tables were set with red napkins on red table cloths, and an excellent bottle of red wine was waiting at our window seat upon our arrival.  I adore Bordeaux and I liked the bottle’s name so much I wound up taking it home to put in our “bottle tree.”  All the chairs were red as well as the water glasses, so I was particularly pleased with the outfit I’d chosen for our little one.  She was dressed in red shorts with a red and white striped top that read “Cherie” and, at one point, when the late afternoon turned into dusk, she wound up wrapping her napkin around her because she was cold.  Seated across from her, I was reminded of the fabled Little Red Riding Hood.  There is an anonymous quote which says, “The tiger and the lion may be more powerful … but the wolf does not perform in the circus.”  With that I realized I did not want to change her, or “tame” her, and I knew she carried the strong, independent spirit of her ancestors.  My child literally lives with wolves and there is no gruesome ending.  Never underestimate the power of the wolf … or of Little Red Riding Hood.

It was June 16, our tenth wedding anniversary, and one of those perfect days as we were in Paris.  I was with our beloved little girl and the most handsome man I have ever met — my husband and our child’s father.  I have always been acutely aware of how much his love and fidelity means.  He proposed to me in Dallas on top of Reunion Tower back when the restaurant was still Antares.  We loved it because it retained the original swanky ’70’s feel and it was fun to dine while the floor slowly rotated us around the city skyline.  I remember after he proposed they brought out a three dimensional dessert which was an impressive replica of the tower.  My favorite landmark in the world is the Eiffel Tower and, thanks to my husband, this was my fourth time viewing it.  We have never been afraid to be tourists and we also never tire of revisiting places we love.  The Eiffel Tower was the first place he took me on our honeymoon.  On our second trip we noticed scaffolding and assumed it was maintenance.  Then, to our great surprise, on our third visit we inadvertently stumbled upon opening night of the new addition of the first floor!  It was the 125th anniversary of Gustave’s tower, created for the Universal Exposition in 1889.  I did not realize the floor was made of glass until I noticed tourists hugging the walls and shuffling awkwardly.  On our fourth visit we decided to celebrate by having our tenth wedding anniversary dinner in the restaurant 58 Tour Eiffel, named for its 58 meters above the ground.  We were greeted by a hostess in black tie, who promptly escorted us up a wide, sweeping curved staircase.  The views were breathtaking, with wall-to-wall glass, offering excellent perspectives of Paris and the tower itself.  I requested a window table overlooking the Trocadéro, and it was the best view in the house.  We looked out over the long, open expanse of lawn, flanked by great fountains on all sides, spraying in symmetrical perfection.  By now, as this was our vacation, every time I ordered a drink our little one would also request an apple juice.  I figured if I was cutting loose with French fermented grapes she should be able to enjoy extra fruit juice as well.  On our honeymoon I was so proud because the French asked what a Frenchwoman was doing married to a Texan.  I received the bulk of my French from a community college and to repeatedly be mistaken as French made me feel incredible.  Now they were asking what WE (my daughter and I) were doing with a Texan!  And, by the way, they all adored my husband Burk — and they loved Texas!  Our five-year-old’s “au revoir” now sounded better than mine!  Even the woman working in one of the gift shops stopped to tell me she dressed exactly like our little girl when she was that age.  With my baby doll’s dark, Gallic eyes and her auburn hair she simply looked French.  I had dressed her in pink and white Toile for the occasion, complete with a Renoir inspired bow which was set jauntily off to one side.  Our server that night was so smitten he inquired if he could get his picture with our child.  I asked her if it was OK and she agreed.  Then I informed him that if she did not order in French she was not to have anymore juice.  The handsome man looked at me as if I were horrible, and neither my husband nor our little one knew what I’d said to him.  When she was ready for another juice I told her “en Français.”  She buried her curls into my arm and said she could not do it.  I replied she could and to repeat what I said.  At first she mumbled so faintly I would not allow the server to accept it.  Finally pulling the sentence out of her, she beamed up at him proudly.  And then I think he understood.  For the rest of our meal he was careful to speak slowly and only in French.  I almost chose to post the picture of him with our child in his arms for this post.  My husband had never looked more handsome, wearing the French cuffed shirt I’d bought him along with a pair of silver Eiffel Tower cufflinks.  A young girl came by asking if she could take our picture.  She got three memorable shots of us:  one was with all of us smiling; the second was just our girl who looked stunning; and the third was my favorite, although it was somewhat staged.  She’d asked Burk to kiss my hand.  But the unexpected joy in the picture was watching our little one next to me.  She had her hands clasped together over her heart.  Smiling broadly, her head was turned to the side with glee.  I knew then she would be a hopeless romantic like me.  Next dessert came and I was reminded of another tower and another dessert which was special to me.  The French novelist Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin — best known for her nom de plume as George Sand, once wrote, “There is only one happiness in this life, to love and to be loved.”  Feeling so blessed, I knew I had found with certainty true happiness on this our tenth wedding anniversary.

The next day we decided to revisit la Cathédral de Notre-Dame in Paris.  It is the most famous of the Gothic cathedrals of the Middle Ages and is distinguished for its size, antiquity, and architectural interest.  Dedicated to the Ever Blessed Virgin Mother Mary, her doors are open to over thirteen million people annually.  As my feet trod upon the shadowed stone floors I reflected upon my first visit to this magnificent cathedral; it was on our honeymoon in 2007 and I remembered how very dark it was.  Blackened by soot from countless years of incense, it was enshrouded in a sort of somber holiness.  Hundreds of candles large and small were lit in prayer, flickering everywhere, which at once both helped to dispel the gloom and yet also contributed to it.  My second trip was with our Marian child where she took her first ever independent steps, and I was surprised to see the ashy columns and ceilings had been cleaned for the cathedral’s 400 year anniversary.  The entirety revealed a startling, soft white facade and I could not resist the urge to run my fingers along the smooth marble walls.  The famous sculptures of the Blessed Mother were gleaming and the cathedral’s contrast — both internal and external — was as vivid as night and day.  This was my fourth visit but we had yet to ascend the outside flights to the bell tower.  The first time they closed before we discovered it.  The second time the line was several hours long.  The third time we could not take a stroller in the narrow stairway.  This time we deemed our five-year-old was still too little to make the 387 steps up and then back down again without copious amounts of whining.  Out of sheer frustration I hollered, “SANCTUARY!” in attempt at literary humor.  I was referring of course to Victor Hugo’s 1831 French novel “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” set in Paris during the reign of Louis XI in 1482.  Hugo began writing it largely to make his contemporaries more aware of the value of Gothic architecture, which was being neglected and often destroyed.  A few years prior he had already published a paper entitled “War to the Demolishers,” specifically aimed at saving the city’s medieval architecture.  Not knowing when we might return, I found myself standing on the cobblestones looking up with longing.  “SANCTUARY!” I shouted again, as every tourist around me pretended not to notice.  The word “sanctuary” is defined as being a place of refuge or safety; Merriam-Webster refers to it as a consecrated place.  Religious buildings were commonly used as sanctuary and it was against the law to prevent someone from seeking asylum in a sanctuary.  The hunchback of Notre-Dame was named Quasimodo and has become synonymous with “a courageous heart beneath a grotesque exterior.”  It was he who called for sanctuary.  Once again we left without ascending the cathedral’s towers.  It is said they afford one of the best views of Paris.  In addition there is an up-close look at the twelve apostles, the cathedral’s spire, and many of the gargoyles and chimera statues.  The gargoyles were designed to funnel water away from the cathedral, while the chimeras are the gothic statues whose purpose is to protect the church from evil spirits.  Then of course there is the infamous bell tower in which the fictional Quasimodo worked.  Walking behind the famous church, we crossed the Seine to the Île Saint-Louis for some of France’s famous Berthillon ice cream.  Afterward, as we made our way back across the bridge I noticed to our left there was a modern-day organ grinder.  Instead of a monkey he was exploiting a little Chihuahua in a wicker basket.  The man sported a beret and cranked out old French tunes from under the cover of a large blue and white umbrella.  Then, almost directly across the street I discovered a man sitting upon a scant piece of cardboard, barely shielded from the sun by the shade of a parked car.  He had partially removed his shirt and I was shocked to discover he had a true hunchback.  His legs also appeared severely deformed and I believe he was unable to walk.  As if in slow motion, I stood and watched people gravitate toward the organ grinder, giving him money while conspicuously avoiding the hunchback who was devoid of everything except a solitary paper cup.  Stopping a way short of the man, whose back was to us, I asked our little girl if she would go hand him money and say, “Pour vous, monsieur.”  Looking over my shoulder I found the organ grinder glaring maliciously, realizing we would not be giving him any Euros.  He seemed to have amassed quite a bit of bills in the short time we had been walking.  With horror I noticed as we approached the hunchbacked man he had only a single twenty cent piece at the bottom of his small cup.  Here he was, in the shadow of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, and yet everyone was literally passing him over.  It was incredibly sad.  The man did not push himself on anyone; rather he sat with a quiet dignity I found admirable.  Before I knew it our little girl had approached him and, with great joy, said in perfect French, “For you, sir.”  I will never forget the stark look of shock on the man’s face.  He did not dare touch her (as if he carried some kind of contagious disease) and instead craned his head to look up at my husband.  In incredulous disbelief, the curved man asked if my husband wanted his little girl to be near him.  Not understanding the language, he had no idea as to what he was being asked.  I interjected that our little girl wanted him to have the money.  Still unsure, he looked back at our child, who was looking dejected because he had not readily taken her offering.  The immediate sense of compassion this man had for her was humbling, and he asked her very gently if that was for him.  I translated and she suddenly straightened.  With a beaming smile — and with no hesitation or revulsion whatsoever — she bent to him to give him the money.  I will be forever struck that he still took extreme care not to touch her.  He smiled at her and she was so proud!  Immediately I found myself ashamed; wishing we had given more.  Looking up at my husband once again with astonishment, the man drew himself up to the best of his ability and thanked him in a surprisingly deep, strong voice.  After we left I felt we all were profoundly blessed.  This man had given so much more to us than we could have possibly given to him.  As I held our little girl’s hand, I noticed she was looking back, smiling and waving good-bye to the crippled man on the street.  Victor Hugo once wrote, “Adversity makes men, and prosperity makes monsters.”  I would argue instead that it is avarice which makes monsters of men.  Prosperity is a blessing and I believe those who have it are called to use it to help others.  But in this case I can tell you the man cloaked with carousel-like music was the monster, while the “monster” was a lovely man who was in fact the real hunchback of Notre-Dame.

As I have tried to convey many times before, Paris — from the start — has inexplicably moved me.  I have a Catholic friend who vehemently insisted that on our next trip we MUST visit Rue de Bac.  I found myself wondering what could possibly be so important at that address.  She assured me it was special.  It is known as the site where the Miraculous Medal of the Virgin Mary originated and was designed following the nun Catherine Labouré’s apparitions of the Ever Blessed Virgin Mary.  Catherine Larbouré stated that on July 19, 1830 she woke up after hearing the voice of a child calling her to the chapel.  She then heard the Virgin Mary say to her, “God wishes to charge you with a mission.  You will be contradicted, but do not fear; you will have the grace to do what is necessary.  Tell your spiritual director all that passes within you.  Times are evil in France and in the world.”  On November 27 of that same year Labouré reported that the Blessed Mother returned during evening meditations.  She displayed herself inside an oval frame standing upon a globe and she wore rings set with gems that were shining rays of light upon the globe.  Around the margin of the frame appeared the words Ô Marie, conçue sans péché, priez pour nous qui avons recours à vous.  (“Oh Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us who have recourse to thee”.)  As she watched, the frame seemed to rotate, revealing a circle of twelve stars, a large letter “M” surmounted by a cross, the stylized Sacred Heart of Jesus crowned with thorns, and the Immaculate Heart of Mary pierced with a sword.  When Labouré asked why some of the gems did not shed light, Mary reportedly replied, “Those are the graces for which people forget to ask.”  She was then instructed by the Virgin Mother to take these images to her father confessor, telling him that they should be put on medallions, saying, “All who wear them will receive great graces.”  Sister Catherine did so and, after two years of investigation and observation of her ordinary daily behavior, the priest took the information to his archbishop without revealing Catherine’s identity.  The request was approved.  The chapel in which Saint Catherine Labouré experienced her visions is located at the mother house of the Daughters of Charity — on Rue de Bac.  Now the incorrupt body of Saint Catherine Labouré is interred in the chapel in a glass coffin for all to see.  She appears to be sleeping with a slight smile and with all of her earthly flesh unchanged by death.  This shrine continues to be a pilgrimage for Marian believers from all over the world.  It is no secret that my favorite color is dark blue and I practically always wear it, but I also chose to dress our daughter in it as well for this day.  Not familiar with the 7th arrondissement, I tell you the absolute truth that when our cab turned down a random street both my husband and I immediately commented upon how holy it felt … the entire street.  There was a distinct presence like nothing I had ever experienced before and the powerful pull within our hearts was undeniable.  Asking our driver if we were close, I discovered we had just turned onto Rue de Bac.  Entering into a small courtyard I found myself looking directly at a nun and, as I requested directions in French to the chapel, I was surprised to discover tears were streaming down my face.  I vividly remember she took my hand and grasped it, looking at me from beneath her dark blue habit with a sage smile that said she had seen this a thousand times before, and she told us the way.  It turned out masses are held constantly, and apparently we had unwittingly stumbled upon the perfect time … not realizing one was about to start.  My husband, who loves the paranormal, went to get a good view of Saint Laburé in her glass coffin.  Our little one clearly seemed to be moved by the presence and feeling in the chapel and I found many a nun’s watchful eye smiling beatifically upon her as she knelt in her dark blue dress.  Her little hands were fervently clasped together, and her head full of auburn curls was reverently bowed in prayer.  I was surprised this visit was such a soul-moving trip for us all.  Admittedly I was the Marian devotee but I also found my husband uncharacteristically moved, near tears.  It was the French Roman Catholic priest Saint Louis de Montfort, known for his particular devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary as well as the practice of praying the Rosary, who once said:

We never give more honor to Jesus than when we honor his Mother, and we honor her simply and solely to honor him all the more perfectly.  We go to her only as a way leading to the goal we seek — Jesus, her Son.”

The only human being upon whom God chose to bestow His greatest honor was a woman — the Ever Blessed Virgin Mary.  She bore to us a Savior, who is Lord of all.  Of all the places I have been fortunate enough to see, to stand in the little chapel where Mary appeared has been my greatest blessing.  She is the Queen of Heaven; Our Lady of Graces.