Pont de la Tournelle.
Paris is a city of bridges. 37, to be exact. Pont de la Tournelle happens to be my favorite.
During my first trip to Paris, back in the fall of 2012, I must have crossed this bridge no less than two to three times a day. Making my way from the tiny, secluded island of Ile St. Louis, I’d stop, midway across, turning right, to gaze upon the Gothic posterior of Notre Dame.
Turning left, there she stood – Saint Genevieve, the Patron Saint of Paris.
With every trip back to my home-away-from-home, I make it a point to look in on Genevieve. She calms me. Forces me to listen. To put aside the anxieties and insecurities which threaten to stifle my creativity. I look forward to my visits, oftentimes going out of my way in order to call upon my Muse.
I like to visit her at night, when all the tourists have scuffled back to their hotels, and the air is a bit chilled. I start at one end, taking deep breaths as if readying myself for an epic journey. If I’m coming by way of Ile St. Louis, I stop at the corner of Quai d’ Orléans, where there is a restaurant I’ve been meaning to try. It used to be Chinese, but on my last trip back, a new Chef was set to make his mark on the world of Parisian Cuisine. Quai d’Orleans changes its name to Quai de Bethune on the opposite side of Rue des Deux Ponts, just before heading to the bridge. It is on this street where you will find the most breathtaking buildings in all of Paris. Don’t take my word for it; have a look for yourself.
If I come by way of Rue de Cardinal Lemoine, I pause before crossing at the corner of Quai de la Tournelle. Most certainly, there will be traffic, and while I grew up in Brooklyn, where drivers are known to disregard the safety of each and every pedestrian, they ain’t got nothing on Paris. I don’t mind stopping, as it gives me a chance to take in the building on the corner to my right, La Tour D’Argent. I’ve only recently learned the history behind this famed building and restaurant. That is the thing about Paris; everything is hidden right out in the open.
I rarely walk on the side where my Muse stands. Maybe I fear disturbing her. She is there to guard and watch over those in need of protection, in need of hope, in need of guidance. She’s quite intimidating. Although there is no sign preventing me from touching her, I keep my hands to myself at all times. I give her the space she needs to work her magic.
Instead, I walk on the side closest to the keeper of perpetual prayers. I am not religious. I have a distrust for things cloaked in contradictions. Of course, that would include just about every living thing on this Earth. But there is something about Notre Dame, the back side, to be exact, which keeps calling out to me, demanding my full attention. It is not a quick pause or glance. I don’t snap a photo and walk away. I stop, feet planted firmly to the ground. Fully at rest. Perhaps, peace. I don’t offer a prayer I never learned. I don’t ask it to take away a pain, or fill a gaping hole. I don’t look for it to provide answers to riddled questions. I just stand and be. The only place in the world, so far, that has allowed me to do so.
Unlike my bridge, many of the other bridges in Paris are filled with tourists, their eyes locked on tiny screens, hoping to bring into focus missed moments. I want to scream out to them. “Put away those damn phones and cameras! Stop pointing! Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was rude?” But, then, I, too, fumble around in my purse, removing my trusty visual diary, hoping to freeze, not just a moment, but an emotion that can never be pixelated into being.
Or maybe it can.
My three favorite people in all the world, standing on my favorite spot in all the world.