Paris 1970

In the late summer of 1970, my brother and I , who were 12 and 13, spent a week in Paris courtesy of the same generous friends who had taken us to London with them the year before. Most people think of Paris and images of the Champs Elysees  and the Eiffel tower, Monmartre, Notre Dame cathedral, L'Opera, L'arc de Triomphe, come to mind. My experience included all that and it was wonderful, but when I think of Paris, I think of the Catacombs and the Paris Mosque as the highlights of my week there. It is what comes to mind when I remember Paris. To this day I have the postcards from the Catacombs and to this day, the scent of mint,which now grows in our backyard and whose perfume greets me each spring and summer morning with its enchantment, reminds me of drinking hot sweetened mint tea at the Paris Mosque. I still remember how fascinated I was with the beautiful mosaics and their bright turquoise colours, and to this day that shade of bright blue remains one of my most favorite. The experience at the Mosque opened up my mind at a young age to the marvel of other perspectives in aesthetics, music, culture. I was fascinated by the sounds, the clothes, the timbre of the voices mixing French and Arabic. It woke up a subdued nostalgia for foreign lands, exotic adventures. I remember many years later, listening to the magnificent voice of the Egyptian singer Fairuz, and how her songs of love and country would transport and mesmerize me, even though I did not speak a word of Arabic, other than understanding that "shukran" meant "thank you" and "habibi" meant "I love you".
The Catacombs were a very intimate experience. You would not think that artistically arranged skulls and bones from an original overflow of mass municipal graves going back centuries would be a recipe for beauty and contemplation, but to me it was. The catacombs were opened to the public in 1874 and people have been going to see them ever since. Some 6 million bones in underground tunnels that are well lit and have spacious walkways, are on display in seemingly endless walls. To me there was nothing creepy about it. It was a spiritual experience, very solemn, very quiet, as people around you whisper respectfully. It is right in the heart of Paris, too. So one minute you are walking around the streets of Paris, the next you are going down this spiral staircase that descends to this cellar that leads into the Catacomb tunnels. I still remember coming back up to the streets. By then the light of day was fading, and the street lamps were lit. It was surreal to walk around, surrounded by all these people that were, well, alive, after seeing the bones and skulls of so many, many dead people.
I have very fond memories of Paris, thanks to the Catacombs, and thanks to the Paris Mosque.