As today I was feeling significantly better (I can actually swallow again!), I went on the group daytrip to Chartres. It's a small town to the west and slightly south of Paris. By bus, it took us an hour and fifteen minutes to get there (two hours to get back—hooray traffic! Nice to know some things are universal), and though the weather was rainy, cold, and generally lousy, the trip was worthwhile. I won't say it was fun, because I spent a good hour wandering around the freezing rain by myself in Chartres. Worthwhile.
But we started off with a tour of the cathedral. It's the fifth one to be built on the site, and most of the current cathedral was built in the 12th century. The tourist guidebook will tell you it's one of the best preserved of the Medieval cathedrals anywhere in Europe, and it's probably true, although hard to tell what with all the scaffolding. Every face of the outside had scaffolding up somewhere, and inside a whole panel of stained glass windows had been removed for cleaning (they needed it). The rose windows were all beautiful, but unless you're a total nutso about these things, the cathedrals kind of look alike when you're looking up. Vaulted ceilings, colorful stained glass, ribbed columns, etc. And nothing wrong with that: it's always spectacular. Our tour guide also took the time to explain that in the stained glass, at the bottom, you can usually tell who donated the money for the particular window because they're images representing them. For instance, a noble family donated the money for a window, and their coat of arms is in the lower corners. Another window was paid for by a guild or brotherhood of cobblers, and in the bottom of their window were several scenes of people either cutting leather, trying on shoes, or sizing them. It's nifty to think that these people were real, they lived a completely different life from what we're used to, they'd never seen skyscrapers or photographs, and they donated money to building a church that's still around to this day, with their mark on it. This is why I love history.
You've got to think about what it was like back in the 12th century. No paved roads or cars, no New York city skylines or skyscrapers, and out of the trees and few short buildings rises this enormous towering structure jutting into the sky. It would've been visible for miles on a clear day. The fact that people spent a lifetime building these things, that they involved so much effort and money and time, but people did it anyway. To walk through a single doorway (and there are three main entrances), you pass under at least 100 or more meticulously carved statues of saints and symbols that would've been painted into vivid life. (Where they've gone in and cleaned the outside of the cathedral, you can see the underpaint they used that's still on the statures, and little splotches of actual color paint remain.) Inside are the stained glass windows from every direction, bringing in light and setting stories aglow. Each paneled square is 4 feet long and there are more than 20 panels in each window. They're bright, literally like looking at the inside of a kaleidoscope, and the colors aren't random. Every picture in every panel has a specific, intentional meaning. For instance, the cross is portrayed in the color green because it's believed to be made out of the Tree of Life, and living tree wood is green.
The problem with stained glass windows is that they're a royal pain to take pictures of. They turn out either way too blurry or with the rest of the photo in complete darkness. So what I have to show doesn't give detail, merely demostrates the colors present and intricacy of each panel. I'm also not a photographer; that's my dad's job. I may have a fancy camera, but really all I know how to do is point and click.
Ignore the people in the foreground of that first one; unfortunately, they exist over here too (I kid, I kid—partially). Look at those sculptures, the windows, and try to imagine how much work went into making these things. It's really incredible.
And now onward.
The biggest disappointment was the utter lack of spirituality to the place. For a Medieval cathedral, I had higher hopes. Alas, there were wooden school chairs set up everywhere and tour guides with huge groups filling them. On the floor of the cathedral, one of the things it's most famous for, is the labyrinth. But people were treating it like a game—no respect whatsoever to the fact that some people might be there for an actual spiritual journey (that's what walking the labyrinth represents). I tried walking it, seriously, and groups of tourists kept walking in my way or doubling back and giggling in groups as if there was something to figure out. There isn't. It's not a maze, which has choices and doesn't necessarily get you to an end. With a labyrinth, it's a single path that winds around a center point that is inevitably reached if the path is followed. It was mildly annoying. And while I've been to other cathedrals that were tourist stops, I could still find a quiet place to sit, light a candle, and feel like there was something there beyond me and the immediate world. From a spiritual standpoint, Chartres cathedral was somewhat of a let-down. If I were there during mass, I'm hoping it would be different.
Anyway, I was determined to stick to at least a few kids in our group while in Chartres, and I failed rather miserably (suited the weather nicely). When the tour of the cathedral was over, I turn around and everyone has disappeared. I explored (in the rain, in the cold) some of the city streets, shivering and munching on an apple, before finally heading back toward the bus and finding the majority of the kids sitting in a small deli-sort of place just around the corner from the bus. They were warm and sipping hot tea or coffee, and I'm a soaking popsicle.
Ah, well. On the way back, I decided to butt my way into a conversation and asked what a couple girls were doing for tomorrow night, October 4th. You see, in Paris, this night is something called "Nuit Blanche" or White Night. During this night, there are special activities all over Paris and lots of things stay open all night. The city is, in some parts, all lit up. And while I excel at the outcast, loner type, I don't really want to spend my entire year abroad alone. Social Anxiety Disorder? Pssssssh. I'll just ask if I can come along.
So I did ask. So I will be coming along. Progress, methinks. Mehopes.
Well, we drove back into Paris, and I came to the realisation that I have a fixation with the Effiel Tower. It's not exceptionally beautifully (I wouldn't, say, decorate my house with it), nor is it the most complicated structure around, nor is it the largest. The sight of it, the shape, is so familiar the world over you'd think we'd be used to it, right? Yet every time I come around a corner, and there it is, towering on the horizon or the top peeking over a building, it takes my breath away. I'm not sure I can tell you why, but I can't take my eyes off it when it's in view. And pictures? They don't come close to capturing it. It's like the structure itself has charisma, and more of it than Obama. I could honestly spend hours, days just looking at it. If only I could see it from my window.
If only it weren't so cold outside. Today, the weather was mid-winter-in-Charlotte-or-Columbia cold. I am very glad my heavy coats are about to be in transit. No wonder Dante thought Hell was frozen over.
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