Air is all you need

September 18, 2020
Today would have marked eleven days of hazardous air. On Friday, day four, our son in Chicago texted around 8 a.m. to ask how we were doing. I remember saying something like “I wonder what happens when there’s no oxygen left.” To me it didn’t sound too dramatic, but he called within a few minutes. He’d found some empty flights from our Pacific Northwest home to Chicago. We could leave tomorrow, stay with his family for a week, and return when this was all over. We love Chicago and long to see our family there. But, we thought: COVID. Airports. Undependable fellow travelers. Car rental hubbub at O’Hare. We could be exposed, asymptomatic, inadvertently importing the virus to them. So we stayed put amidst the toxins. After eleven days, today it rained. Sir John Lennon, you may prescribe love, but all you really need is air.

That Monday before, Labor Day, September 7th, our day at the coast was so glorious we hesitated to leave. We took off around 5 p.m., when light glinted and sparked from horizon to lacy shoreline, but we cast a cold eye onward.

By the time our car had climbed up the first mountain pass back to the valley, my cell phone began to blare: LEVEL 1 ALERT! Wildfires! Within seconds the car tipped to the downward side where smoke crawled over the landscape below.

We soon learned that Level 1 meant “get ready” Level 2, by the time we were home, was “get set,” and Level 3, a few hours later “go now!”

As it turned out, we were not and would not be in any evacuation area, but we discovered the next day that as we were driving, twenty-foot flames had been leaping and careening around our friends’ homes up river. Before the GO Now! alert sounded, they were out, heading to their kids’ home in town, not knowing whether they would see their own again. They were among the fortunate.

We valley-dwellers were thrust into the nebula of wildfire-land. Tuesday first light was at 8 a.m., a bright marigold. The hazy sun soon faded to a dull yam shade. We read the news and checked the Air Quality Index (AQI). Hazardous.

The AQI scores grade air quality from 0 to 500. 0 to 50 is green, or good. One point over 50 and you’re no longer good, you’re moderate. Politically speaking, moderate, to me at least, is good, but moderate in air quality and you’re on your way to unhealthy. You can be unhealthy for sensitive groups before you’re just plain unhealthy. Before you get to hazardous, you’re very unhealthy and experiencing “health effects” like headache, cough, damaged lungs, and even cardiac issues. Hazardous, beginning at 300, is beyond that. Our air quality as of Tuesday night was in the 400s. When I went to bed Thursday night, we were at 525, even though the AQI doesn’t go up to 525. A friend’s post on Facebook said she glanced at the AQI around midnight Thursday night; it was 758. True, officially 758 doesn’t exist. We had reached air quality Never-Neverland.

We already had done the obvious. We closed the windows first thing. We have an air conditioner that brings in outside air. Not going there. We began running it on recycled air. But we were two humans in shared space taking in used air. We know trees give off oxygen, but our windows were closed to the 40 trees on our property. These were my thoughts when I wondered to my son what happens when you run out of oxygen. I started drinking water by the gallon, a cup an hour, figuring the O in H2O provides some form of new oxygen. Showers, steaming pots on the stove—we kept breathing.

By day five I grew testy with the expert warnings and cavalier advice flowing full force from local and national media. Masks don’t work. The fine particulate matter that ruins your lungs slips through a COVID face covering. Scarves and bandanas, even wet, are useless. Get an N95 respirator. Make sure you find someone who has been trained to help you select the right size, test the seal, and teach you how to use it. If you can do that, it “may offer some protection if used correctly.” Don’t use up all the N95 masks, because front line health care workers need those masks to care for victims of the pandemic concurrent with your puny wildfire.

About your air conditioner, it had better have a high efficiency particulate (HEPA) air filter or better yet, an electro-static precipitator (ESP). I went for the filter. I needed a MERV13 grade air filter and found one—the wrong size, not suitable for the air conditioner, but all that was left. We bungee-corded it to a box fan. If all else fails, they told us, seek shelter elsewhere. Thanks for that. There was nowhere within the 100,00 square miles of our state we could go. The fire and smoke ensnared all means of escape from us outward.

We were daily reminded that when smoke is heavy over a prolonged period of time, fine particles build up indoors even though we cannot see them. Turning on bathroom fans and stove venting systems will suck in more of the toxic air outside. Forget using anything that burns, such as wood fireplaces, gas logs, gas stoves, and candles. Don’t vacuum because that agitates the particles already inside.

As the week wore on, news seeped in, as did the stray particles that stirred each time you cracked open a door. Bad air, they said, increases your anxiety level. That seemed consistent with my state of mind. What can you do for it? You can’t exercise because that consumes what little oxygen you have. Yoga, meditation: these are your best bet. Not my forté. You can drink. And eat. Although it sounds grim, we found solace in organizing our vital records.

Another Monday arrived, a full one week into suffocating windless conditions. The fire nearest us remained zero percent contained. Meteorologists now were firmly predicting three days of solid rain, arriving Wednesday. By Tuesday they were back-pedaling. Maybe by the end of the week . . . .

We noticed that the coast was experiencing some air breaks. We had a place to stay. A little over an hour’s drive, and we could be taking deep breaths, maybe even picking up some clam chowder take-out. We made a break for it.

Checking the AQI on our arrival, we found we were now at only very unhealthy. Whoopee, but no deep breathing. A window had been left open a sliver during the fires, so our respite kicked off with masks on (we had graduated to KN95 masks) for a thorough cleaning of ash from every ash-coated surface. Fortunately we had brought along our bungee-corded box fan with it’s MERV13 filter. We could still smell smoke, but after vacuuming furniture (hang the prohibition—the vacuum cleaner there had a HEPA filter), we felt we could sit down inside with a glass of wine and leftover chili, catching a faded facsimile of a sunset over the eerily glassy sea.

The next morning our AQI numbers had flipped. The valley was now just under unhealthy whereas we had tipped beyond hazardous. More holing in. We’d stick it out. Rain would doubtless come first to the coast. And it did that evening with a two-minute shower at dusk. Thursday it returned with a vengeance. Our toxic air quality plunged to an innocuous moderate. I donned my rubber boots, stepped outside with an umbrella, and trudged down to the beach, where raindrops steadily plopped and pattered into rivulets along the shore.

Register-Guard

Back in the valley it rained and rained that day. The rain would drop relief onto our local fire, our twenty-something state fires. Our firefighters, those from here and those from everywhere else—Utah, Colorado, the National Guard, farmers with ‘dozers, volunteers with shovels—would pause for a moment and take a pure breath. And they would forge on.

September 26, 2020
Now, nearly three weeks after the fire jolted our world, its 173,000+ of the million acres statewide, are just 45% contained. An inch of rain has helped to quell further spread beyond its perimeter. Firefighters “mop up,” subduing hot spots. Displaced homeowners are able to consult maps to determine the status of their homes. More than 60% (that is more than 700) of the structures hit are a total loss. There are gradations of shaken; I realize I have not encountered the half of it. Still we all are breathing plentiful fresh air this fair afternoon while bright cumulus banks blow across a cerulean backdrop.

What is in a Home?

This week a dear high school friend messaged me to say she had driven past the home of my childhood, down the street from her lifelong home. The new owner (only the second owner) was putting the finishing touches on a Little Free Library in the lot’s corner. The library matched our mid-century modern house architecturally: pristine white trim on redwood, echoes of Frank Lloyd Wright‘s prairie style. We were pleased in 2015 that this second owner was from Oak Park (Illinois—Wright’s suburban Chicagoland home) and even had volunteered with Wright’s foundation in Madison, Wisconsin. It appeared she along with her husband and elderly mother, did not scoop up the home in order to make it over, but to appreciate it’s light, space, and warm earthy materials and design.

The house was built in 1953 by my Uncle Bill, an accomplished architect, after my paternal grandfather had died. My dad and he had put their heads together to find a suitable lot for a spacious home where our family of five (later six) could live with our grandmother, only 55 at the time.

Nana with her boys; my dad on the right, next to Uncle Bill
4th of July with Nana (wearing the string or pearls), aunts, and cousins, Dad outside the porch behind

The result was an L-shaped two-story, three bedroom home for us attached to a single story, one bedroom home for Nana, with it’s own kitchen, bathroom, dining and living areas. (Nana liked to entertain her friends for lunch and bridge.) We had a roomy screened porch, where we mostly lived in the summer; Nana had her own patio alongside the roses, under a dark green awning. We shared dual laundry areas in the full basement, a two car garage, a wrap-around perennial garden, and the shade of seven enormous elm trees lining the intersection. The back garden separated us from a pair of neighbors who built after us but remained in place for 60+ of the years we occupied “303,” as our home affectionately came to be known.

Almost all of our family lived within 50 miles, most within ten. The house was well filled for holidays, summer reunions, cousin sleepovers, for scout meetings, and for relatives and friends who would “call.” My mother came to say in her later years what she missed most about the past was people calling on one another, meaning they would stop by on a Sunday afternoon, stop over for cocktails early Saturday evening, neighbors popping onto the porch anytime to visit, never mind phoning ahead. We loved the evening barbecues especially, when parents and grandparents played bridge on the porch while we ran around in the dark like “wild Indians” (a regrettable expression) playing “Yoller-yoller, hear I come so holler!”—our version of hide and seek—and catching lightning bugs in jars.

We lived a half mile from our grade school, a little over a mile from the junior high, and a mile from the high school. We walked back and forth to school through most weather. When the thermometer dipped below ten degrees Fahrenheit, my mom consented to drive us and pick us up. No arguments about that. If we wanted a ride, my mom would say, “Check the thermometer.” Throughout our studies at the university “downstate,” we’d be back for Thanksgivings, Memorial Days, semester breaks, any time we didn’t have class, picking up waitress hours at the local BigBoy restaurant.

My sisters and I all moved out of the area after college and eventually started families in other cities, other homes. Interestingly we have all been in our current homes for decades, though they all resettled within a 3-hour drive of 303. We stayed out west, a place where they call my homeland “back east.” As Mom and Dad aged, they remained at home. Caregivers came in, my sisters rotated weekends there, while my flights and longer stays became more and more frequent. As our parents became more incapacitated and we installed accessibility equipment, the house gave up some of its sleekness, but it retained its nurturing magic.

Dad passed away (after Mom) six years ago this month, suddenly, but not so suddenly, at the age of 91. We flew back over the 4th of July and in August, when we had a musical hoohah with my brother-in-law (who plays like George Harrison on acoustic), my son, and oldest grandson on guitars. We came back again in October and again at Christmas, sleeping there the weekend of my older sister and brother-in-law’s annual Christmas party a few miles north. We made breakfast for the family at 303 the next day. The house was at its best, looking chic with its large rooms, classic fixtures, and now-trendy mid-century modern furnishings. By June it was stripped back nearly to its native state, as Mom and Dad had entered it in 1953, and by September, our new owners had made their offer.

The little library woman told my friend I could come by and walk through the house when I’m back; she’d love to visit. I suspect she’s a woman after my mom’s heart, salt of the earth. I had heard she welcomed all the neighbors for a housewarming the Spring after they took possession. A new neighborhood has been established. It warms me, but with a pang. Today when my daughter called to FaceTime with our new granddaughter, I choked up telling her all of this.

It has always struck me how the French have no word for the English home. They can say chez moi or à la maison, but not our home, with its connotations of coziness, of “where I belong,” a place of the heart. No. They name their out-in-the-country family homes Le Moulin and such. Maybe that does the trick. Or maybe what makes a house a home is when you choke up realizing you could lose or have lost it. When you think about it, is your home where you live?

My Last Day in Paris

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Last October I achieved the unenviable milestone of passing a full year without spending time in Paris. By now, my withdrawal symptoms should be subsiding, but no, they surge uncontrollably at the slightest provocation. To soothe my malaise, I drop in for a perfectly brown and crusty croissant at the one downtown patisserie in our West Coast, USA, university town that is capable of producing a convincing facsimile. It’s a great croissant. I squint hard and sniff for a whiff of diesel to evoke an early morning café in the City of Lights, but I’m not there.

My table, Café du Centre

Honestly I prefer not to talk about it. To the random American, it sounds effete. The phenomenon of Francophilia is not particular to me. What can I say? “Paris feels like a second home?” This is ludicrous, like the faithful servant granted a night alone in the palace. Home? I wish. Or I pretend. Desperate to maintain the language, I peruse Le Monde, the French daily, for news of the latest strikes. I engage conversation and even hazard a recently acquired French idiom on a French-speaking guy on the bus. Pleased with the attention, he thinks, under his ironic grin, “Pathetic.”

No, at this stage of my displacement, I’m hooked on a more satisfactory accommodation: Oliver Gee’s “The Earful Tower” podcasts. An Aussie, in Paris for nearly five years, he engages savvy guests and compelling topics on all things French and Parisian: the Seine, the best fromagerie (cheese shop), the Mona Lisa, critical pronunciations, great walks, best streets. On those mornings I awake with my familiar yearning, I turn over in bed to indulge myself in Oliver’s most recent podcast. I’m immediately swept into his ardent enthusiasm for his subject matter. Is it difficult for him to sustain this pitch over time? Does he weary of cranking up for each episode? Does your love for a place intensify only when you know that one day you will lose it? Just so, Oliver often closes by asking his guest some version of “If it were your last day in Paris, how would you spend it? Where would you go, and what would you do?”

The question has inspired a new daily occupation. In quiet winter moments, on meditative walks or sitting by the fire, I’m dreaming up ways to spend my last day in Paris. If it has not occurred already, it has to come sometime, right? Best be ready.

How would I do this; that is, how would I say goodbye? Having lived in the 2e arrondissement (2nd district) as my home base for a period some years past, I imagine I herald my last day exiting through a large dark green door onto rue de Richelieu, for a short jaunt to Notre-Dame des Victoires (at Place des Petits Pères, in case you’re curious) for early mass in this parish that possesses an authentic, diverse, and devout congregation, unabashedly at prayer and meditation as a natural way to greet the day. Hence, in silence I gather my wits and brace myself for the hours that will tick away today’s time.

Looking out on the Palais du Fruit

Fortified, I jut across Place des Victoires to the best morning street I know—OK, thousands of people’s special place—rue Montorgueil. Having snagged a newspaper from a tabac down the street, I light on the terrace at Café du Centre, for my café crème and croissant. There, across from the colorful fruit market, I intermittently read the paper, watch the world go by, and plot my route for the better part of an hour.

What have I determined as my meandering begins? My goal is not to preoccupy myself with anything grand. I want to pass my time as flâneur (an idle wanderer—masculine), or as Lauren Elkin feminizes it: flâneuse. More aptly, I want to stroll in that dolce far niente, or sweetness of doing nothing, perfected around the Mediterranean basin.

I aim myself toward the smaller island in the Seine, Île Saint-Louis, walking along Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville up to Pont Sully, a bridge leading me to the peaceful little park at the island’s eastern tip. From there I turn onto the street straight down the middle of the island: rue Saint-Louis en Île. I take my time along the less populated park-end of the street, frequently criss-crossing the ten to fifteen paces from one side to the other among the more sober, less kitschy establishments. Halfway along, the lately traffic-restricted street is choked with tourists drawn by ice cream. Hypocritically, I, a tourist, have the urge to bolt past the crowds jamming these perpetually inventive shops but find it hard to cast a cold eye. When I succumb and press my way inside, I fall upon beguiling soaps, scarves, hats, and art prints. Yet I firmly weigh any purchase as to whether it will impede my freedom of movement as the day progresses. In the end, I buy nothing.

Square of Pope John XXIII

I’ve reached the cafés at the end of the little island only to confront my first important decision. Feeling peckish, should I stop for a bite? I could grab a Berthillon sorbet, or even a ham/gruyère baguette sandwich and Orangina to nosh in the garden of Pope John XXIII behind Notre-Dame, just a hop over the bridge to the larger island, Île de la Cité.

I had tucked in my bag a little edition of a Willa Cather novel, The Professor’s House. The main character, Godfrey St. Peter, reflects on his early days in Paris. I can rest, read, and summon perspective in the sunshine of a garden bench, before my next foray across the river to Place Maubert, on the Left Bank. I’m struck with the realization that this must be a Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday, so that I’m able to scope out the market! Yes, it’s Thursday. Yet I find today I’m not so much drawn to the linens,cutlery, and cheese. I pass through guiltless. I had put off lunch, after all. I figure from here, down rue des Écoles, past Montaigne’s statue, it’s only fifteen more minutes to a café that has previously proved its worth—Le Rostand, facing the Luxembourg gardens.

Café Le Rostand

Have ingrained images from my first meal there on a Sunday morning decades earlier distorted today’s reality? Young parents crossing the intersection and through the Luxembourg gates with children in tow. Dark red and green curved-back woven chairs. Blue and white Villeroy and Boch china. Soft, moist omelettes with herbs, served with a little crystal pitcher of fresh lemon juice and a tiny Dijon mustard pot. Along came a basket of sliced baguette, of course. I even recall salient details of the blue and white tiled toilettes.

Villeroy & Boch

It is now half past midi (noon). I can dine at leisure on the warm terrace. First, I thoughtfully scrutinize the menu, and after five studious minutes, order an omelette anyway. Since the day is bright and temperate, I add a request for their smallest carafe of white wine, a Chablis, well chilled. I note ruefully that the china has been replaced and there is no fresh lemon juice today. The service is more tepid than warm, but the omelette and other details are true to form. I have decided to text a friend to meet me here. She arrives expeditiously, and we remain for a couple of hours, extending our meal with another carafe and an espresso to fuel the remainder of the afternoon through the gardens.

Jardin de Luxembourg

The Luxembourg gardens! How many writers have depicted trysts, espionage, or breakdowns under the protection of those green borders and in the anonymity of its diverted crowds? There is no such thing as rushing through; one strolls at a full-leisured pace, looking outward at the park’s many enchantments, whether the Medici fountain, the marionnettes, a carousel, a game of chess, brilliant French and English garden beds, potted palms, or pond sailboats. One luxuriates in rotating observation.

Following a short ramble, we don sunglasses and pull two chairs close to the pond, propping our feet on its ledge, so to gaze hypnotically on the children’s slow drifting sailboats while we dissect the engrossing interpersonal interplay, expansive gestures, and understated French style on display. We converse as the spirit moves, although an amiable silence better befits the drowsy tenor of this moment.

Place Saint-Sulpice
Pont des Arts

On towards evening, it’s time to stretch our legs. We slip around the western edge of the park, past the fountain at Saint-Sulpice. Here, convinced we are French after all, we exchange the affectation of farewell bisous (little cheek kisses). When would we meet again? Probably pretty soon back home, truth be told. Shaking off the languorous afternoon, my pace quickens, as I am to meet my husband at Le Fumoir, one of our go-to restaurants, at the Place du Louvre, for happy hour and dinner.

As I cross back to the Right Bank over the Pont des Arts, I realize I’m quite late. There can be no dawdling, though on such a fine evening, la vie en rose is on full display. Sunset’s pink and coral cloud fingers reach across from left to right bank. The bridge is uncharacteristically empty. Its unsightly padlocks have been stripped away for an unimpeded view west to the Tour Eiffel.

Le Fumoir

I find my husband looking self-satisfied and comfortably settled at an outdoor table with a Heineken, soaking up the sunset, now punctuated by glowing lamplight. I order a cool rosé to match the evening sky. They bring us tiny trays of nuts and olives.

Dark descends quickly, but our table inside is ready, in the cozy library room at the rear. We saunter back past familiar servers. They greet us cordially, while we suppress the sense that they are “friends” only in this moment, there to earn a living.

Once settled in a quiet corner, a bottle of Burgundy uncorked, we trade stories of our respective last adventures. He has been to his favorite haunts as well—to a pub between Place Saint-Michel and the innumerable Gibert Joseph bookstores of the Latin Quarter, to the bouquinistes (book and tchotchke sellers along the Seine), to see once more Poussin’s paintings at the Louvre, exiting toward the Tuileries.

As M.F.K. Fisher has written, everyone has their own mental map, highlighting what matters in a place they love. My husband and I each have our very own map. I think: where is this more likely than in Paris? I think: I will draw my map; I will mount it in my kitchen back home and take it down for revisions, plotting my next adventure as memories surge and fade. But wait: this is my last day. Do I want to lock in my map of a fixed time, conceived in vibrancy, too soon a dingy scrap of what has forever passed? Not likely.

Avenue de l’Opéra

After small bowls of savory lentil soup, we order our entrées, cod and lamb, and lift our glasses, pretentiously I fear, to the inoubliables (unforgettable): the people, places, and moments secure within our selves. Two hours along, we’ve failed to finish the bottle, but we push off, arms linked, to traipse up rue de Rivoli to Avenue de l’Opéra to rue St. Anne and back to Richelieu. What a day this has been; what a rare mood we’re in.


Berthillon

Back in our apartment, I grab some water from the fridge, drop my bag, fall on the couch, and hit “replay.” The only images that surface reveal what I have omitted: rue du Bac, Bois de Boulogne, Montmartre, the Arts et Métiers and Saint-Paul quarters. What was I thinking? I really have not left the center. Why, after all, must I avoid the métro or my favorite bus route, line 68? My day has been unintentionally but decidedly touristy. Unimaginative. I’ve botched it. If I had been strategic, I would have scheduled this day in the off-season. Is there an off-season? I would have stretched myself further in each direction.

We fly out tomorrow at 10:25 a.m. Next stop, Dulles, then points west. Tomorrow evening, my real home will feel comforting and easy, so why not let go? I know of no optimistic tradition in Paris, like the Fountain of Trevi in Rome, where you can toss a coin over your shoulder and into a basin to guarantee your return. As the years roll by, we lose confidence in such assurances. Is to be in Paris a consequence of chance or determination? Is it wise to force oneself to return everlastingly? Onward we advance, whether across an ocean or into the breach. The only comfort we possess is that as we forge our lives, at home or away, we become a composite of who we are based on where we’ve been.

On losing a place

Monday evening in Paris is mid-morning in my West Coast home. It was a chilly first day of Holy Week, the week before Easter, and as I wrote and drank coffee beside the fireplace, a message from my daughter in Paris popped up on my screen: this photo.

It was the gut punch felt round the world. The roof of Notre Dame in Paris was disappearing in flames. A second message, from a friend in Bretagne, provided a French TV link, so we watched. And watched.

We grimly viewed feeble water spouts shot from the street; they seemed only to fuel the nightmare. We saw smoke pour through a stained glass window. We witnessed the 19th-century spire’s collapse and an aerial view of Our Lady’s interior engulfed in flames.


I knew the Crown of Thorns was cherished as most valued relic of the treasures inside. I remembered waiting in line one Good Friday to venerate this relic, now encased in an acrylic sheath. I knew it would be on display this Friday for veneration by the faithful and inspection by the curious. The Easter Vigil would be slotted for six days hence, Saturday at 8:00 p.m.—à vingt heures—with the caveat: Would Notre Dame survive?

More than a decade earlier, two of my high school kids and I had spent Holy Week in France, wandering from Paris to Poitiers to Tours and back to Paris—and Notre Dame. I now relived every detail of that week, beginning with Palm Sunday, when church bells across the city rang incessantly from ten in the morning til after noon. We were staying on the rue des Écoles on the Left Bank at the time, a five minute walk to the Seine and Point Zéro, the marker in front of Notre Dame from which all distances in France are measured.


That Palm Sunday we saw families strolling home from mass with their armloads of branches. At home in the U.S., we pinch a couple of scrawny palm leaves between thumb and forefinger as we enter the church on Palm Sunday. At home there are no palm branches. In France the faithful embrace arms full of boxwood boughs to round out lavish white rose and lily bouquets for Easter Sunday’s afternoon feast.

The following weekend we joined the Saturday vigil. Imagining the cathedral would be packed, we arrived an hour early and selected seats halfway back from the altar. The great space was lit only by fading daylight. Each woven chair held a small white candle. A cupped paper fleur-de-lis encircling the candle would capture wax drippings as mass proceeded. (Some would catch on fire, their owners blowing frantically mid-mass to put them out.)

Daylight continued to dim. I stared into the vault, studying ribbed arches, the exquisite, now darkened, candelabra strung along the ambulatory. I imagined the hunchback gazing down from the choir far overhead. The crowd silenced in the blackened space as Cardinal Lustiger, himself a converted Jew, lit the paschal fire, soon blazing alongside the altar, flames leaping, casting wavering shadows and a vista of Notre Dame’s architectural bones.

Gradually, lit from the paschal fire, an unwieldy five-foot Easter baptismal candle flame would spread to each of our tapers until the flickering sanctuary reflected each face radiant with surprised, expectant joy.

The rest is as you might envision. This Feast of Feasts ended with the pipe organ pulling out all stops, dissonant chords echoing off the ancient stones. As we departed, close to midnight that vigil of Easter, the bells of Notre Dame burst forth again, and a group of Nigerians re-lit their candles and sang and danced on the parvis under the bell towers. We stopped along Île St. Louis for un cornet, a cone, of Berthillon sorbet, meandered “home” to our quartier across the Seine, and tucked in feeling filled up, complete. We slept with our windows open to the street sounds and smells of Paris at Easter.

Now we have the same iconic photo images of “our” Notre Dame as in anyone’s personal scrapbook: the cathedral from across the quai from St. Julien-le-Pauvre, or from beyond the flying buttresses to the garden of Pope St. John XXIII, where we would gnaw ham and gruyère baguette sandwiches and drink Orangina.

Yes, we took her for granted. We have lived in her and around her; we have loved her. Now she is lost to the future, even as we tenderly hold her, a piece of our life, our own place, our owned memory.