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Abstract

s of randomly finding an old friend? Had we gotten to that street corner five minutes earlier or later we would have missed each other. Yes, we would have survived — the ten-minute walk turning into an hour or more of exasperation and bickering.</p><p id="e3c7">Seeing the glory of Notre Dame for the first time has become inextricably linked to being saved by a friend who I have only seen a handful of times since. Certainly there must be a patron saint who answers un-asked prayers of 20-something travelers who don’t know any better.</p><p id="5a99"><a href="http://I stood on the corner with my boyfriend. We were exhausted from 24 hours of travel from Alaska, our backs ached under our packs, and we were hungry. We were squabbling, holding our clutch of MapQuest printouts trying to divine how to find our lodging. It was midmorning, but we were ready for bed. My high school French was failing us, and no one seemed ready to help a couple of 20-something Americans who should have been more prepared. There were no smartphones or GPS devices ready to guide us to our beds. We were familiar with mountains and oceans and dirt roads: we understood raw, rugged beauty that demanded common sense and diligence. Navigating the underground in another language was its own accomplishment, but when we emerged in daylight and wandered to the street corner, we stood in awe: there was the Seine quietly meandering, cobblestone everywhere, life pruned, stacked and sculpted perfectly. Before us were spires and gargoyles and stone, and the most amazing thing we had ever seen: Notre Dame Cathedral. Around us the city moved as cities do. For a handful of seconds, it seemed possible for the world to hold multiple worlds, and that we hadn’t gotten on a plane, but instead had traveled through a worm hole. Back home, the city of Anchorage was -10 and full of concrete and rectangles, not entirely removed from the wilds of broader Alaska. It is a small, practical city built in a flash to meet the needs of Alaska: people drive and fly into Anchorage to stock up on groceries, go to doctor appointments, get car parts fixed—they tend to needs that are either impossible or very expensive in rural Alaska. In the early 2000s we were going to the University of Alaska, Anchorage and when America decided to hate France, my heart lit up: plane tickets to Paris would be cheap. The exact price of our airfare is fuzzy now, but my heart settles on $200 round trip. Even back then, flying to Seattle, WA (the nearest city outside of Alaska), cost about as much. So we stood there on the street corner. Dressed for Alaska, maps of Paris in hand, with no idea where to turn next. Standing there straddling a kind of space-time continunum, I heard a familiar yell. I turned, and heard it again “Merrrrrsaydissss!” the voice called. My name. Someone running toward me, crossing a street. “I knew it was you!” my friend glowed. It was a childhood friend from my small town. I hadn’t seen her since we graduated high school. She was glowing, and behind her, her entire family was struggling to catch up. Her mother, dad, and brothers were all there. “What are you doing here?” I stammered. “What are you doing here? I’m studying here this semester and my family came to visit.” “We just got here and we have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing.” She took my map with the address of our hotel, smiled and said, “I know where that is, come on it’s only a few blocks away.” And just like that, we ballooned to a contigent of seven Alaskans hustling through the streets, crossing a bridge over the Seine, and she rattled off the layout for us, so for that the rest of the trip we never again felt so disoriented. When we got to our street, she pointed and said it’s a few buildings down on the left. We hugged and parted ways. In a city of over two millio

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n people what were the odds of randomly finding an old friend? Had we gotten to that street corner five minutes earlier or later we would have missed each other. Yes, we would have survived—the ten-minute walk turning into an hour or more of exasperation and bickering. Seeing the glory of Notre Dame for the first time has becom inextricably linked to being saved by a friend who I have only seen a handful of times since. Certainly there must be a patron saint for who answer un-asked prayers of 20-something travelers who don’t know any better. * In the intervening years, my boyfriend I married. Built a house. Had babies. Got jobs. Went on more adventures snorkeling, biking, kayaking, skiing. But still that moment stands out and when I asked my husband why, when we say “Do you remember Notre Dame?” we don’t mean just the cathedral, he said “Because we had never been to Europe before. We had never seen architecture like that. We didn’t know a place like that could exist.” Before then, we had never really considered a place could be old or that glossy magazines could make things less beautiful than reality. I cried when Notre Dame caught fire. Over the years I have often thought of the hundreds of years it took to build, the countless lives">I cried when Notre Dame caught fire</a>. Over the years I have often thought of the more than a century of sweat and bodies that built and suffered for that building. Sometimes I’ve wondered if their suffering was worth it.</p><p id="50f7">I have also considered the configurations of beauty itself, and how our senses light up by the new, strange, and unfamiliar.</p><p id="d5f8">That wouldn’t be the first time we ran into friends from our hometown while traveling. It would become a kind of running joke. Years later, we were on our honeymoon in Italy and I ran into another dear friend in the middle of Florence.</p><p id="cd6b">But Notre Dame was the first time that the grandiosity and the smallness of the world knocked us off our senses — and it has been something we’ve carried with us ever since.</p><p id="bca5"><i>Want to get an email from me every time I publish? Join my email list by clicking <a href="https://medium.com/subscribe/@mercedesoleary">here</a>.</i></p><p id="13e3"><i>Writing and reading on Medium is fun. It’s like being part of a world-wide community of writers. If you want to give it a try, use my referral <a href="https://medium.com/@mercedesoleary/membership">link</a>.</i></p><p id="7e66"><i>Thanks for reading! Here are some links to some more of my stories about life in Alaska:</i></p><div id="03b9" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/the-most-beautiful-dump-in-the-world-5f08df5afb49"> <div> <div> <h2>The Most Beautiful Dump In the World</h2> <div><h3>It’s all about perspective: notes from Homer, Alaska</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*bMLeiK4iK8nIf3_suEnJTA.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="a280" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/you-probably-wont-die-11-lessons-from-learning-to-downhill-ski-at-40-15b0a85156fd"> <div> <div> <h2>You Probably Won’t Die: 11 Lessons from Learning to Downhill Ski at 40</h2> <div><h3>The humility of learning something new.</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*_FIwfechlJ7tOzUBeWVMpg.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

Lost and Found in Paris: My Wildest Travel Story

Synchronicity when it was needed most

I stood on the corner with my boyfriend. We were exhausted from 24 hours of travel from Alaska, our backs ached under our packs, and we were hungry.

We were squabbling, holding our clutch of MapQuest printouts trying to divine how to find our lodging. It was mid-morning, but we were ready for bed. My high school French was failing us, and no one wanted to help a couple of 20-something Americans who should have been more prepared.

There were no smartphones or GPS devices ready to guide us to our beds.

We were familiar with mountains and oceans and dirt roads: we understood raw, rugged beauty that demanded common sense and diligence.

Navigating the underground in another language was its own accomplishment, but when we emerged in daylight and wandered to the street corner, we stood in awe: there was the Seine quietly meandering, cobblestone everywhere, life pruned, stacked and sculpted perfectly. Before us were spires and gargoyles and stone, and the most amazing thing we had ever seen: Notre Dame Cathedral.

Around us the city moved as cities do. For a handful of seconds, it seemed possible for the world to hold multiple worlds, and that we hadn’t gotten on a plane, but instead had traveled through a worm hole. Back home, the city of Anchorage was -10 and full of concrete and rectangles, not entirely removed from the wilds of broader Alaska.

There are no spires in Anchorage.

In the early 2000s we were going to the University of Alaska, Anchorage and when America decided to hate France, my heart lit up: plane tickets to Paris would be cheap. The exact price of our airfare is fuzzy now, but my heart settles on $200 round trip. Even back then, flying to Seattle, WA (the nearest city outside of Alaska), cost about as much.

So we stood there on the street corner. Dressed for Alaska, maps of Paris in hand, with no idea where to turn next.

Standing there straddling a kind of space-time continuum, I heard a familiar yell. I turned, and heard it again “Merrrrrsaydissss!” the voice called. My name.

Someone running toward me, crossing a street.

“I knew it was you!” my friend glowed.

It was a childhood friend from my small town. I hadn’t seen her since we graduated high school. She was glowing, and behind her, her entire family was struggling to catch up. Her mother, dad, and brothers were all there.

“What are you doing here?” I stammered.

“What are you doing here? I’m studying here this semester and my family came to visit.”

“We just got here. We have no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing.”

She took my map with the address of our hotel, smiled and said, “I know where that is. Come on, it’s only a few blocks away.” And just like that, we ballooned to a contingent of seven Alaskans hustling through the streets, crossing a bridge over the Seine, while she rattled off the layout for us, so that for the rest of the trip we never again felt so disoriented.

When we got to our street, she pointed and said it’s a few buildings down on the left. We hugged and parted ways.

In a city of over two million people, what were the odds of randomly finding an old friend? Had we gotten to that street corner five minutes earlier or later we would have missed each other. Yes, we would have survived — the ten-minute walk turning into an hour or more of exasperation and bickering.

Seeing the glory of Notre Dame for the first time has become inextricably linked to being saved by a friend who I have only seen a handful of times since. Certainly there must be a patron saint who answers un-asked prayers of 20-something travelers who don’t know any better.

I cried when Notre Dame caught fire. Over the years I have often thought of the more than a century of sweat and bodies that built and suffered for that building. Sometimes I’ve wondered if their suffering was worth it.

I have also considered the configurations of beauty itself, and how our senses light up by the new, strange, and unfamiliar.

That wouldn’t be the first time we ran into friends from our hometown while traveling. It would become a kind of running joke. Years later, we were on our honeymoon in Italy and I ran into another dear friend in the middle of Florence.

But Notre Dame was the first time that the grandiosity and the smallness of the world knocked us off our senses — and it has been something we’ve carried with us ever since.

Want to get an email from me every time I publish? Join my email list by clicking here.

Writing and reading on Medium is fun. It’s like being part of a world-wide community of writers. If you want to give it a try, use my referral link.

Thanks for reading! Here are some links to some more of my stories about life in Alaska: