After I’d made my way past Notre-Dame again, I crossed a bridge to the Île Saint-Louis, a second island in the middle of the Seine, next to the Île de la Cité, which was almost entirely occupied by Notre-Dame and the plaza and gardens that surrounded it. This second island had one main street down the middle, with shops and restaurants on the ground floor of apartment buildings that I was certain had beautiful views of the river.
I passed Berthillon Glacerie, looking away and trying not to remember the scoop I’d shared with Josh when my heart was still full, and soon, I’d crossed another bridge to leave the island and continue walking down one street after another, vaguely heading in the direction of the Père Lachaise Cemetery, where Balzac and Jim Morrison shared space in the quiet expanse of headstones and grassy walkways. It was like an enchanted forest of moss-covered trees and gravestones the size of small stone houses. Some were ten feet high and elaborately carved. Others looked like buildings with painted doors or weathered bronze statues, busts, and figurines posed over rooftops that contained mausoleums or remains.
I never thought I’d use beautiful to describe a cemetery, but there was no other word for it. I walked down tiny lanes lined with stone structures, all placed in their own quiet quarters under tall trees.
After I left the cemetery, I continued through the eleventh arrondissement to L’Atelier des Lumières, a museum I’d read about on the plane. By then, the sun was high in the noon sky, and I was dripping with sweat from being outside.
I had no idea what to expect from the museum, so I just bought my ticket and went inside.
The first thing to hit my senses was the cool air in the cavernous space. The next thing I noticed was the music, operatic and lilting to accompany an unusual display. Art was being projected on the entirety of the indoor space, like a kaleidoscope of paintings being brought to life because they were moving up the black-painted walls and around the room.
In colors like stained glass, the works of Van Gogh came to life, choreographed to the music. Starry skies and haystacks crawled up the sides in glowing, swirling relief, climbing to the ceilings and reflecting over everyone in the museum. I walked up some stairs in a corner of the room and looked down on the display of light, marveling at that view of people milling around the gallery, looking like walking pieces of Van Gogh paintings.
After a few more minutes, I walked back down and took a seat on the floor with many of the other patrons, who sat and watched, the projected art reflecting on their faces and bodies and making them look like part of the exhibit.
I sat in that cool room for over an hour, until the series of filmed paintings had run all the way through and I began to see repeats of images I’d already seen. The coolness in the room and the opera that accompanied the images made me forget about everything else.
When I walked back outside into the bright sun, my day had been transformed.