Notre Dame

In an age that has seen it all, it is remarkable that every day thousands flock to Notre-Dame de Paris. We don’t view it with the eyes of our predecessors: we don’t look for God, and we have seen bigger buildings. But today the square in front of the cathedral was full of tourists, street performers, hawkers and beggars, and the fat pigeons approached them boldly, showing that this was not an unusual day.

Some go there to tick another sight off the list. Others go because of its mythologies, real and imagined. I am one of those; as we approached from the Petit Pont, I could see the crowds storming the cathedral in search of the hunchback, and inside I could see where Napoleon I (they don’t call him Bonaparte here) grabbed the crown and made himself Emperor.

It’s a lot like the Musée d’Orsay or the Louvre, using culture and history to turn a quid. The cathedral shop sells books and cds, jewellery and rosaries. If you put 2€ in a machine you can get a (very good) little book in any of nine languages describing the cathedral. If you put 2€ in another machine you can get a souvenir medal. Across the road, one side of the Rue d’Arcole is lined with souvenir shops, and within a couple of blocks you can find Le Quasimodo brasserie, the Hotel Esmeralda, and the Café Notre Dame (which serves great crepes).

But among the profane the sacred continues. The clerics get on with the business of God, holding mass for the faithful while the tourists shuffle around, gawking at the roof and the stained-glass windows. The priest reads the homily and prays, the communicants respond to the formulas, and the great organ rings through the nave. For those who have eyes to see and ears to hear, it is a window into the numinous, something beyond the stone and glass. Somehow it is quiet.