Notre Dame Cathedral

Sunday, August 2, 2009

I know I’m way behind here. I’ll try to catch up today because there are no “nothings happening” days. So, on to. . . Sunday in Paris.

After storing our bags and checking out of the hotel, be buy hot chocolate and croissants and walk to the tour bus, stopping at a park bench along the avenue to eat our breakfast.

In contrast to yesterday, we’re off the bus at the first stop, Notre Dame. Once inside I light a candle for our precious Jacob and spend a few moments in silent prayer.

The service is just beginning. We find seats and an usher gives us a bulletin, I recognize the Lord’s Prayer and see that the Scriptures are translated into English: Exodus, Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, and John.

The sermon is in French, of course, but we have the Scriptures to ponder. The female soloist’s voice fills the cathedral, pure, clear and beautiful. The organ swells, and its as if we are all lifted up; we raise our eyes toward heaven.

At the end of the service we walk through the 700-year-old cathedral, watching the sun pour through the rose windows, hearing history’s whispers. Though we cannot grasp eternity, it’s as if we have almost touched the edge of its garment.

Outside, we walk to the back of the cathedral for a closer look at the flying buttresses, but we are running out of time, so its back on the tour bus. At our stop we hail a taxi to our hotel, load our bags in and head to Montparnasse station.

We’re leaving Paris for now, passing Versailles, then Chartres.

We marvel at the comfort and ease of our journey. We need trains like this in the U.S.

Joan and Bill are on the platform at La Ferte Bernard. They recognize us from our photos. We’ve exchanged so much information in our e-mails that Joan and I already feel as if we are friends and we fall into easy conversation.

Soon we are driving down increasingly narrow roads through picture-book villages of stone cottages and tiled roofs, and flowers everywhere.

St. Vincent Des Pres is a tiny village of about 600 people. We pull into the courtyard of Joan and Bill’s 150-year-old farmhouse. The stone walls have been covered with creamy pale yellow stucco. Pots of flowers line the entire length of the house. In the back is the garden, filled now with raspberries, tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, parsnips and one large garlic plant.

Inside, skylights fill the house with light., while the two-foot thick walls keep the heat out. The beam in the living room holding the house up is an entire tree. To transform the second floor from granary to bedrooms and bath, the builder had to smooth and level the beam and rafters to lay the floor. The custom-built staircase is suspended, as it could not be fastened to the uneven wall that curves at the front of the house.

I especially like the kitchen, bright and filled with light.

The cats troop in for food and I try to remember their names.

Tomorrow we’ll go to Mamers. Monday is market day, and the stalls will be set up in the square. We’ll also meet some of Joan and Bills friends, English expats who’ve come here for the slower pace, and often for medical care under the excellent French system.

Tonight, though, we sleep, in a comfortable bed in the absolute quiet of the French countryside.