[A Gargoyle contemplates Paris from Notre Dame Cathedral. Charles Laughton, in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, 1939, says to the figure: “Why am I not made of stone like this statue?” Source: Google Search]

“Paris…is loath to surrender itself to people who are in a hurry; it belongs to the dreamers…”

~~Julian Green

“We’ll always have Paris.”

~~Rick Blaine (Spoken by Humphrey Bogart)

Mariam and I were sitting at a cafe on the Rue de Rennes when it began to rain, pouring really. Then the drops turned into hail. The BB sized ice hit the Vespas, the bicycles, the tops of umbrellas. And they fell into the wine in the glasses of the unprepared customers who were too slow to shift to an inner table. We were safe. Dry. Happy.

I began to think of other visits here. My first time was forty-nine years ago. I was so young and so full of exuberance, it was almost like that trip was made by someone else, a stranger. It was really me, though. But in a sense, it wasn’t. I am not that young man. I am someone totally different. Different ideas, needs, interests and beliefs. A young man walked with a spring in his step along the Champ-Elysees. An old man with a leg prone to cramps walks the nave of the Pantheon.

It’s me and it isn’t me.

But Paris, different in the new storefronts and restaurants, never seems to change its true nature. The low buildings, the wide boulevards, the cathedrals and the museums remain as I saw them a half century ago.

We leave our hotel on Rue de l’Abbe Gregoire and begin the walk to the Latin Quarter. Perhaps even ending up at Shakespeare & Co. bookstore, located just across the Seine from Notre Dame.

But, I have a few stops along the way.

In my favorite park, Jardin du Luxembourg, one can rent a small wooden sail boat for € 6 for a half an hour. I was tempted. But I had another place I needed to visit. We walked around the pool and climbed a few steps. My quiet place, brimming with classical beauty. The Medici Fountain.

The Medici Fountain. Built around 1630, it was sculptured by Auguste Ottin and commissioned by Marie de Medici, the widow of King Henry IV of France. Video is mine.

[Within steps of the sailboats, the flowers line the lawns and fill the large urns. Photo is mine.]

Exiting the jardin at one of the eastern gates, we are confronted by the classical lines of the Pantheon. The history of the building reads like a novel. In 507, King Clovis founded a basilica which was to be the final resting place of his wife, Clotilde. Later, in 512, Genevieve, who fought against the invading barbarians, was buried on this site. Saint Genevieve just happens to be the patron saint of Paris, no insignificant woman was she. Large murals of Clovis and Genevieve adorn the interior. The Pantheon went through numerous permutations during the following centuries. In the end, it is a museum, a monument and a resting place for illustrious French. In the crypts below, down the spiral staircase, one finds the tombs of Voltaire, Emile Zola, Alexander Dumas, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Marie and Pierre Curie and Josephine Baker, an American dancer and performer (who danced naked on the Paris stage) among others.

[The tomb of Josephine Baker. Her story is worth a read. Shunned by many in America, she became a legend in Paris. Photo is mine.]

Back up the winding stairs, where the transept meets the nave, is Foucault’s Pendulum. A ball is suspended from a very long cable and swings slowly, as pendulums do. This simple device proves and displays the fact that the earth rotates. Nothing new to us, but in 1851, it was quite revolutionary.

A day passed while we rested, giving me an opportunity to make a deal with the Demon of Old Men’s Afflictions. We skipped any talk about blue pills and went straight to a dialogue about my L4 & L5 fusion. Enough, I said. Give me relief and I will return the favor, Okay, he said. You have to not go too deep into Pilates. It’s a strange world in there. I said I had no problem with that. I felt better. I needed to because I had a destination that was waiting for me.

Mariam and I spent 37 euros for two all-day passes on the Metro. I knew the route. I knew where I was going. I had serious business in what could arguably be one of the most famous cemeteries in the world. Say it with me: Pere Lachaise.

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Now we are at the end. The time in Paris is drawing to a close. Seventy-two hours will find Mariam and me in a new continent, a new city and facing new experiences. Very new indeed. Instead of gardens, grass and cathedrals there will be sand dunes, orange trees and Mosques. The weather will not be cool and rainy (no hail storms) but dry and warm in the day. And, at night, the Moroccan sky will fill with stars the numbers of which will be unlike anything you can see from the banks of the Hudson River.

We’ll need company on the next segment of our journey. Interested? I will be meeting you at the Marrakesh souk, behind the lemon tree, near the snake charmer and close to the vats of spices. I’ll be wearing my red fez. I will be tanned from the Saharan sun. I will have a smile on my face and I will have a story or three to tell.

See you below the 75th parallel.