Someone once said, don’t ask me who, that no one who goes to Paris remains unchanged.
I can attest to that.
On my way to Amsterdam and the Van Gogh museum, my train arrived at the the Gare de Lyon in Paris, from Marseilles, where my ship had been visiting, rather late in the afternoon.
I strode confidently, tourist map in hand, towards the Boulevard Henry IV which connected my two planned sightseeing destinations for the evening.
I found a cheap hostel or hotel in the neighborhood before I got to the boulevard, checked in and dropped off my backpack. I then walked northwest up Henry IV to the Bastille where I paid my respects and took some photos since lost to time.
I then went back down the Boulevard and crossed the Île Saint-Louis on the Pont de Sully and then over to the Left Bank.
It was late spring in 1977 and the weather was fine.
The Quai de La Tournelle was bustling.
It was now early evening and I was a bit peckish so I stopped at a cafe for a sandwich and a half carafe.
By the time I got to the cathedral it was dusk, and, as near as I can remember the photo above approximates my view.
Impressive to be sure, but The Acropolis bathed in Grecian sunshine is more to my taste for awesomeness.
I was tired from the trip, so I headed back down to the bridge to return to my room. I had one more day and night in Paris and a Van Gogh exhibit, the Eiffel Tower, Gertrude Stein’s House and the Mona Lisa were on the itinerary for the morrow, so some rest was in order.
Crossing the Île Saint-Louis again, I encountered a french woman walking a little white Pomeranian.
I nodded politely and pressed on.
Later as I was sleeping, I dreamt I was crossing the bridge again, encountering the woman again and her white dog.
Odd.
But in my dream as I approached the dog began snarling and straining at its leash and growing larger and more menacing and darker in color and it was now a Rottweiler and leaping at my throat, and, oh shit, oh shit, this is just a dream... wake up, wake up!
I woke in my room, a beam of light from the window slightly illuminating the transient’s tableau and I saw the bureau across the way, and, scoping left, the door, a chair with my clothes draped across, and...to my left beside the bed...the Rott, growling.
My knees shot to my chest automatically to protect my vital organs - and there I froze in fear.
I could hear devil dog growling more fiercely as someone or thing began rattling my door, trying to get in.
I then levitated towards the ceiling as the Rott howled and the door banged, and when my face was an inch from the plaster I turned and floated towards the window…
Then I awoke again.
It was four thirty AM but I was paid up.
I got dressed grabbed my pack and headed the hell out of there.
One day I will tell you about Amsterdam, the Milky Way Bar and the Van Gogh Museum, which has some lovely pencil and pen and ink works.
But that’s my Notre Dame story.
Damn those gargoyles.