Going back

I have found the devil, and she is a short, plump woman hobbling through the alleyways of Montmartre on a wooden cane. She sits across from you at dinnertime and eats all of your rice. She offers you buttered crackers and orthopedic shoes, but she charges you to stay.

Oh, Paris, how I love thee. You reek of unwashed accordion players and one-legged gypsies, but I love you still.

There is something about Notre Dame that makes you want to be Catholic again. I’m not sure what it is. I mean, there are hundreds of cathedrals throughout France and the rest of Europe, thousands of flying buttresses and stained glass windows, but Notre Dame, she’s special. Of course, you must prepare yourself; you must ready yourself for the amateurs, the backpackers, the armies of hand-held digital cameras, the old men with WWII patches, the afternoon field-trippers and, of course, the honeymooners. You must prepare yourself, but it is well worth it.

It is astonishingly dark inside Notre Dame, even under the noonday sun. Those gigantic stone walls seem to emit darkness, seem to reach out into the pews and gather up the light coming through the windows. And in that darkness, you lose yourself. Though you can feel the pushes and shoves of impatient picture-takers, you lose yourself for just a moment. No matter how many times you’ve visited, you’ll catch yourself staring blankly into the vastness of the ceiling, sucking in centuries of incense and rain. A child with sharp elbows brings you back into reality.

I visited one of my favorite bars, but it had closed down. I really didn’t like the place too much, but it was our place for a few months. Every Thursday night, after dinner I would head over to Bastille, walk past our favorite crêpe place and a church, take a right and head to Charlie’s. Every Thursday, I would watch Bambi and Khaki shoot pool for tiny T-shirts and yellow sunglasses. Inevitably, I would make a joke that should not have been made, and that meant the last Metro would be coming soon.

French children under the age of five are perhaps the most beautiful children in the entire world. In the very least, they are the best dressed. If you have ever seen Miracle on 34th Street (the new one), that’s what I’m talking about. I don’t understand it; these kids are dressed to the nines. One of my favorite pastimes is to sit next to the fountain in the Luxemburg Gardens, Sarde sandwich in hand, and watch all the little Burberry and Dior-clad toddlers try and make it onto the forbidden grass.

But the devil, she is mean, and she is ruthless. Most of all, she’s hungry. She will steal your pot-stickers, and she will suck the Beaujolais right out of the bottle if you don’t watch out. She’s small, but she’s feisty. She washes your clothes in the bathtub and takes the money right out of your pocket. She’s sneaky alright, as sneaky as they come. You gotta watch out. You never know what cute trick she’ll play next. Stay in a hotel next time, it’s cheaper.