“Do you have a knife” he asked in broken English. “A knife?” I repeated, slightly incredulously.
As we sat there watching the circulation, the great organ began to breathe. An enormous beast belched out sub bass notes that caused the entire building to vibrate. 4 choristers (male and female) pierced the bass notes – their voices circulating toward the roof. A half an hour of choral music began.
The alarm went off at 7am. Sunday mass on Notre Dame for 8am. I wasn’t in bed until well after 1am, typing and noodling and watching bits of La Vuelta. Cycling is unique in that no-one pays to watch. It’s impossible to charge people to stand on the side of the road. So it’s hard to police. Pro-Palestine residents have been lining the route for almost 2 weeks now with flags hung from houses, trees and waved above the riders’ head as they pass. They’re determined to send the Israel team home. The Israel team haven't been welcome in the Basque Country. In an era of mass sports-washing, it’s left to cycling to do the heavy lifting.
We eventually pulled ourselves out of bed and blasted two bowls of porridge in the microwave. We walked out through the apartment complex at about 7.40am – opened the metal gate with the key fob and crossed the road to the side of the small art cinema on Ave Jean Lolive and the Velib station to the left.
I still had the Velib app still on my phone from last year but had totally forgotten how the system worked. After a few minutes of faffing about, I sat on the stone steps beside the Velib station, fished my glasses out of my bag and re-read the instructions. We bought two 24 hour passes. Enough to get us in and out of town – but we were running well late for 8.00am mass.
Sunday morning in Paris was quiet, just a few cars passed us as we went under the peripherique and into the cycle network that now saturates the city. A left took us along the Canal Saint Martin. Police redirected traffic to the left-hand side of the canal. Crossing the bridge, we could see a group of cops down at the quay-side below surrounding a tent – presumably belonging to a homeless person. Were they being woken to be arrested? Were they dead? We pedalled on through the quiet streets and into the 10th with canal on the right collecting the morning heat and air conditioning the surrounding area.
We re-docked the bikes in Place de la République – as the sat nav was no longer cooperating. Cyclists darted from all the surrounding streets criss-crossing the main square. 8.00am mass was long gone by this stage but we were still determined to make it to Notre Dame.
We arrived there about 9.00am. The public space in front was already black with people. We joined the queue as it snaked off though the crowd barriers like an airport check-in. On reaching the front door a security guard pulled me to the side and asked me to check my bag.
“Do you have a knife” he asked in broken English.
“A knife?” I repeated, slightly incredulously.
“Yes, a knife” he repeated.
“No” I said, opening my bag and pulling out some swimming goggles.
We went through the door to Notre Dame into an enormous space. The anatomy is similar to Armagh in Ireland (as all cathedrals are) – side isles/ambulatory, nave, transept, choir etc, but the scale is off the charts. Slightly exhausted from the late night and the cycle into town, we take seats in the nave toward the centre. Looking up, the interior looked pristine after the refurbishments. Pews have been replaced by rather sleek, stylish wooden chairs that interlock. Thousands of tourists circle around the inner walls, down the aisles, around the back of the cathedral and back out the front door. An endless procession of iPhones raised to the heavens. The congregation in the nave were there for the main event.
As we sat there watching the circulation, the great organ began to breathe. An enormous beast belched out sub bass notes that caused the entire building to vibrate. 4 choristers (male and female) pierced the bass notes – their voices rising toward the roof. A half an hour of choral music began.
At 10am mass began with a procession from the right transept. Incense swung on the the chain – the building filled with music and smoke and a timeless atmosphere as the ancient theatre came to life. For an hour and half the performance played to a full house – call and response – each line known by heart even if we didn’t know French. Even as a lapsed catholic, there was no denying the power of the mass. A piece of theatre that reaches back for over 2000 years – honed and tweaked to deliver the maximum impact. The cardinal blessed the congregation “Father, Son and Holy Ghost” - it was clear to see the interlopers, using a left hand to bless themselves or getting the “holy ghost“ motion the wrong way around. Maybe they'll convert? Regardless, it was without question the best piece of theatre in Paris.
Slightly shell-shocked from the mass, we quietly made our way out of Notre Dame, blinking into the sunlight. We sat on the benches outside recovering from the morning’s exploits. We gathered ourselves and went on the hunt for a few books. Shakespeare and Company bookshop had the inevitable queue so we went a few streets further to The Abbey Bookshop on Rue de la Parcheminerie. It was shut but was due to open in an our at 1pm so we killed the hour with a coffee and lunch in the beautiful herb garden at the Musée de Cluny.
We crossed the road and made our way back to the bookshop. We picked up copies of Dorian Gray and The Road and headed up the hill to the Jardin du Luxembourg. A military procession with horn players mounted on horses passed the front gate, thousands lined the streets to watch and listen. We lucked out and grabbed a few loungers in the park and sat in the shade listening to a brass band on the band stand run. Nodding off in the heat I was jolted awake by a bird shitting on my trousers and splattering onto the book. I looked up. There was nothing there. We took it as an incredible sign of good luck – direct from the heavens – that we hope to cash in later.
We left the park once the band finished and walked back to the centre in search of Piscine Pontoise – a 10 minute walk away. A beautiful building with changing on 2 galleries above the pool. No codes or keys or money. Simply change in the cubicles, leave all there, put your finger in the small hole in the wooden door and pull it shut. 33 metres this time. Old school. Easier for laps, but each lane crammed full.
Unlocking 2 bikes we pedalled back - retracing our route toward the peripherique, stopping of outisde the Paris Philharmonic for a large beer before cycling the last 10 minutes home. Exhausted.
An easier day tomorrow. A swim and a stroll.