a crowded table

At first flying solo didn’t seem to be a problem; I sauntered down the cobbled streets of Amsterdam at my own pace, tiptoed to catch a glimpse of the Night Watch, and pretended to like beer for the benefit of a certain bartender at the Arendsnest.

Growing up with a Dutch dad, Amsterdam always had that hint of home. But Paris was different. It looked like it was ought to look, all soft-sun-setting-over-the-Seine. And I did all the things you are supposed to do, a crowded climb up the Eiffel Tower, a day lost in the Louvre, giving coins to old men who inexplicably all play La Vie En Rose on the piano accordion.

After a week I started to feel disconnected. I was happy, don’t get me wrong but I’d never been so far alone before. My last day was fast approaching and I wondered if I would feel like this the entire trip.

When I woke up I realized I couldn’t spend another day passive-aggressively slipping in front of tour groups, trying to get an iPhone-free view while simultaneously ruining everyone’s photos. Monet could wait.

I took the metro north to Montmartre. Kicking the dust from my shoes, I almost didn’t notice La Vie En Rose start up again. I smiled. When I left the station I felt at ease. Bypassing the souvenir strip, I slipped down a side street, finding myself surrounded by reams of colourful fabric. I watched as beautiful, shrewd women prodded and stroked the fabric, careful to inspect every inch.

Wandering, I found myself reunited with the touring masses, working their way up the rapidly steepening street. Before I knew it I was at the foot of Sacré-Cœur. Surprisingly, the words of my great-aunt Jean came to mind.

“I went to Sacré-Cœur you know.”

She wasn’t talking about here, rather a tiny Catholic boarding school, two days flight away in New Zealand. A crumbling chapel tucked into the hills of Island Bay.

I looked up; the soft curves of the basilica were a brilliant eggshell against the cloudless sky.

You enter in silence - no photographs. I ran my fingers along a cool stone pillar, feeling each dip and ripple. It was as if I could feel the years of the building electrifying my fingertips. I thought of Jean’s weathered hands touching where I had touched, of her school girl fingers doing the same in that tiny chapel in Island Bay. I thought of her now, in a sterile nursing home across the world. I cried.

I bought a postcard. My first one. A vintage photograph of the basilica. I scrawled on the back, “I went to Sacré-Cœur you know.”