What a strange and wonderful thing modern travel has become. Wake up to an email on Friday, find yourself in Paris on a Sunday morning. Tailwinds over the cold, immeasurable bulk of the Atlantic meant that I arrived at Gare de Lyon over an hour early than expected.
It was with some hesitation that I floated along the Seine, half in a daze, to see Notre Dame. One of a thousand pilgrims, but for reasons other than religion.
Had I my choice, I would have had a day to spend, to wander, and to explore, but a few moments was all I could spare. It felt like a terrible tease and a crime, this being one of the prime examples of my very favorite form of architecture, and me with but 20 minutes or so to spend. Another time, soon I think.