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.

I was eleven when I wrote my first book, which was on Christian Symbols.  It was not mass produced, but I was one of the very few in the state of Texas to become published at that age.  I have always loved church and I have many happy memories of attending each week with my parents.  My mother said when I was an infant she would turn me toward the huge quatrefoil stained glass windows in our old Methodist church, which is now an historic landmark, and I would stare at them through the entire service.  Embedded in my mind from that time are two distinct images:  one of Christ praying in the Garden of Gethsemane the night before He was crucified, and another of Christ knocking at the door (which I believe represents the entry to our hearts.)  I have always loved Christian iconography in particular and have enjoyed learning the Latin behind some of the Church’s oldest symbols.  So, despite the fact that I am not Catholic, I absolutely treasure any time I enter an old church.  (For the record, I am Episcopalian, or “Whiskeypalian,” as I often like to joke.  In the United States and Canada “Episcopal” is a term used for the Anglican Church, or the Church of England.)  On this day I requested a guide from someone well-versed in Christian symbology who could take our family of three along tours of two churches I had always wanted to visit.  The first was Saint-Séverin, located in the Latin Quarter.  It continues as an active place of worship and is one of the oldest churches along the Left Bank.  Its bells include the oldest remaining in Paris, cast in 1412.  Built during the 11th century, it was reconstructed two hundred years later to accommodate the ever-growing population.  A 13th century Chapel of the Virgin Mary escaped later destruction and stands to the right of the vestry.  The Gothic stained glass windows of the chancel are intact and apparently date from the 15th century.  We visited early in the morning, and I felt right at home with all the the multi-cultural people and the vast array of bright colors … only no one looked upon us with smiles as we entered the church.  Honestly I was hurt by the underlying hostility we perceived amidst one of the oldest churches in Paris.  I would have loved to shop in the tents stationed in front of the church but we did not really seem welcome.  It was as if it were a private section only for Muslim immigrants.  The Juxtaposition was not lost on me and I left feeling saddened.  Next, we would journey to Chartres, a city in north-central France, southwest of Paris, known for its massive Cathédrale Notre-Dame; a Gothic cathedral completed in 1220 featuring two towering spires.  It contains flying buttresses, Romanesque scuptures, a pavement labyrinth, and elaborate rose windows.  However it is the interior’s blue-tinted stained glass which makes it distinctive.  Situated atop the center of the town high upon a hill, we found ourselves looking up in awe at the massive cathedral.  I can only imagine what it must have inspired in centuries past.  Our guide even managed to engage our five-year-old, and I was so thankful for his kindness.  She had been sort of overlooked in all this and he knelt, turning all his attention upon her, asking what SHE thought and pointing out various things he believed might hold her interest — never once talking down to her.  This was a special day for me, and I was grateful to both our Muslim driver and our Christian docent.  The American journalist Diane Sawyer said, “Follow what you are genuinely passionate about and let that guide you to your destination.”  On this day I knew I had followed my passion, and I fervently hoped my husband and child could feel what I felt … a destination with the divine.

The American satirist Tom Lehrer once crassly quipped, “Life is like a sewer:  what you get out of it depends on what you put into it.”  The history of water supply and sanitation has been a logistical challenge since the beginning of time.  Where water resources, infrastructure, and sanitation systems were insufficient diseases spread, wiping out millions of people like wildfire.  Previously my interest in water was pretty much confined to nature and how prior civilizations managed to get it fresh and running to their cities.  The Ancient Greeks of Crete were the first to use underground clay pipes.  Their capital had a well-organized water system for both bringing in clean water and taking out waste water.  The Romans constructed aqueducts — beautiful above ground arches — which moved clean water through gravity alone along a slight overall downward gradient.  They supplied public baths, latrines, and private households.  Pompeii has always held my fascination, and the horrid erruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 A.D. left behind a freeze-frame of high-style living, thanks in part to the plumberium.  Pompeiian homes featured atriums with an open-roof design, underneath which tanks collected the rainwater that ran down the roof tiles.  In Santa Fe I have admired the old Spanish acequias (canals) that were engineered to carry snow runoff from the mountains to distant fields.  And the fountains of Versailles are an absolute marvel to me!  A hydraulic system still supplies water to the gardens and housing water on the roof of Marie Antionette’s grotto I find as incredible as it was ingenious.  In medieval European cities they had small, natural waterways for carrying off sewage and open drains, or gutters that ran along the center of some streets.  In Paris they were sometimes known as “split streets,” as the waste water running along the middle physically divided the roads into two halves.  The first closed sewer was constructed in Paris as far back as 1370 on Monmartre Street and was almost 985 feet long.  The original purpose of designing and constructing a closed sewer was less for waste management as it was to hold back the stench coming from the odorous waste water, according to George Commair’s book, “The Waste Water Network:  an underground view of Paris.”  The Paris cholera epidemic of 1832 sharpened public awareness of the necessity for some sort of drainage system to deal with sewage in a better and healthier manner.  I had heard on an earlier trip to Paris that people used to explore the city’s vast sewers in row boats but was told they put an end to that sometime in the 1970’s.  My husband and I decided years ago we wished to explore Paris’ underground.  We wanted to tour the sewers as well as the catacombs.  However with our five-and-a-half year old in tow, we weren’t sure if she’d be freaked out.  Despite her insistence to the contrary, I decided skeletal remains might be too much for the time being and so we decided to just try the Museé des Égouts de Paris; the Paris Sewer Museum.  We figured if she didn’t like it we could visit in shifts.  All I can say is were we ever surprised!  Clearly she is our child:  she freaked out alright — but in a good way.  She was absolutely FASCINATED and not a bit afraid at all!  We found our descent into the bowels of Paris to be (no pun intended) rather sanitized.  It was well lit and almost sterile with marked passageways and dark, aged areas cordoned off.  Display cases held many an interesting artifact from various points in time, ranging from a fascinating array of swords to a lady’s sequined slipper.  Our little one enthusiastically led the way and “explained” to us the mechanics behind it all … despite the fact that she could not read well.  She was extremely adept at studying the pictorial explanations, though, and quite a few tourists stop to listen, trying to hide their grins.  There was a gift shop and our sweet girl got a souvenir plush rat whom we named Gaspar.  Ironically, we completed our visit in time for Burk to use the facilities; luckily he did not have far to go.  Perhaps it was indeed what we put into it, but we all took something away from our time in the sewer.