A Moveable Feast

The first time I saw Notre Dame I was confused. From the front, it’s iconic. There are few people on the planet who would not recognize it immediately. When we walked around to the back, however, I was floored. The view from the back courtyard of the cathedral was astounding. It was the most beautiful building I had ever seen.

No one ever tells you about the back of Notre Dame. I had seen 1,000 pictures of the front straight on and never even thought, “well, what does the back look like?” The amount of detail and intricacy was incredible. You could probably look at it for hours and still notice new things to admire.

In college, a friend of mine urged me to watch Midnight in Paris and after that let me borrow a copy of A Moveable Feast. After that, all I could think about was going to Paris. Some time after that I was on a flight (Lord only knows where) and struck up a conversation with a lady next to me reading a book. I asked her about the book and as we talked I found out that she was a writer. I asked her how she keeps motivated and inspired and she told me I should start a writer’s salon. She told me how Hemingway and so many other writers and artists would meet together when they all lived in Paris. They would drink and share their work and discuss.

When I graduated from college, my sister wanted to take me on a trip to celebrate. We planned two weeks in Europe covering a few different countries. I insisted we go to Paris. I had just graduated with a degree in literature. One of the most influential authors in my life has been Hemingway. He was one of the first literary greats that I read and enjoyed and felt a connection to.

Going to Paris for the first time was a pilgrimage for me, an aspiring writer, passionate about literature, reverent of the great American authors who wandered around the world before me. After strolling around the courtyard behind Notre Dame, we walked over a bridge covered in locks put there by hopeful couples to signify the permanence of their love. Then we walked for a while just to pass by an apartment Hemingway once lived in.

I could have stayed in Paris forever. Everything about it made me happy (besides not knowing the language): drinking wine on the lawn behind the Eiffel tower, eating outside in front of cafes, sandwiches on the best bread I’ve ever had, and knowing that so many of the most influential artists of all time walked the same streets and felt the same awe as I did.

Now Paris is on fire: mass shootings, terrorism, arson. Love hurts.