Paris’s Sacred Heart

As I reached the 299th step, my first thought was that I may never take a full breath again. My second, however, was that I had never in my entire life seen this exact shade of lavender. The sky stretched out across the horizon; a gentle blanket of gray woven with the warmest purple. Below us, Paris spread herself as far as I could see, rooftops and rush hour traffic bathed in the last glimmers of sun and the glow of streetlights. This vista felt removed from the chaos of the city, the faint horns of rush hour only audible in the lulls of the wind, the catcalls of passerby and the elbows of tourists a faint memory. Here, at the top of Sacré-Cœur, I completely understood how this massive cathedral got its name.

It was one of our last full days in Paris, and finding ourselves with a free afternoon, Margot and I decided to venture to Sacré-Cœur. The basilica was an afterthought—a question mark and then an asterisk on our meticulously planned itinerary which we had created the moment we booked our flights to Paris, giddy as we realized that the trip we had been planning since we were fifteen was finally becoming a reality. We filled our first several days with the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame, the Louvre, doing the touristy activities we had heard about for so long. After long afternoons in museums and constantly being jostled and bumped by over-eager tourists, I was more than happy to pay the extra metro fare to make the journey to a slightly less popular destination. Sure, I had enjoyed seeing the Mona Lisa and drinking €4 bottles of red wine each night, but in all honesty, I felt like I hadn’t experienced the magic of Paris, the romance and glamour that attracts so many to the city of love.

I have never been so thankful for Google maps and that asterisk. The second we emerged from the metro station in Montmartre, I knew that this was the Paris I had envisioned us in when I was in high school. Here were the quiet, cobblestone streets and small patisseries. Here were the rose bushes peeking over stone and brick walls, the soft afternoon light of late winter. Here was the faint scent of cigarette smoke, and there was the beret-wearing smoker. We wandered uphill, silently taking in the ivy-covered white stucco houses, the manicured hedges and budding flowers, the tempting smell of fresh bread wafting from the open doors of boulangeries, window cases lined with endless macarons, éclairs, and pain au chocolat. Eyeing the tips of white pillars that towered just visible over the tree line, we headed down the winding streets, promising ourselves a post-visit croissant.

As the domes and spires of the cathedral came into fuller view, the thought of pastries completely left my mind. Sacré-Cœur looked like a medieval castle, with five stone towers reaching high into the clouds and green-rusted statues of important men on horses guarding the entrance. Curved windows and balconies were carved into the walls of each tower, and a cross marked the tallest one. Stunned by the immense size and beauty of the exterior, we headed inside, noting the signs urging tourists to be respectful and to refrain from taking photographs.

As we pushed open the doors of the basilica, the air was suddenly different—heavier somehow, and the fragrant smoke of incense filled my nose. Taken by this shift, we stopped to let our eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, blinking several times. Before us was a massive sanctuary lined with wooden pews and flanked on all sides with flickering candles. Pale pillars loomed several stories high, supporting the domed ceiling that reached high overhead. Each pillar hosted its own unique population of disfigured gargoyles and angelic statues carved into the travertine, watching over the congregation below.

Margot and I slipped into a pew near the back, leaning back on the smooth, cool wood as we faced the front of the room. We both were reduced to silence as we gazed at the grandeur around us, at the pipe organ encircling the ornate altar and the intricately detailed mural of Jesus Christ painted on the dome above. The larger than life painting depicted Jesus clothed in white, standing with outstretched arms and upward facing palms as smaller figures surround his glowing body. The mural seemed illuminated from within, blue and gold plated details reflecting the light from below.

Under the mural, the white, painted altar took center stage, the podium flanked by symmetrical bouquets of yellow flowers and an open bible on its surface. Twelve women stood facing the wooden cross in the middle of the altar, wearing the white robes and habits of Catholic nuns. The women each held an open book in their lifted arms, although their eyes were completely closed. As we sat, they began to sing, swaying slightly as their voices swelled together in a harmony that echoed throughout the entire room. The hymn vibrated through each pew smattered with worshippers, sitting solemn with bowed heads. The entire cathedral seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something indescribable. Something sacred.

I am not a particularly religious person, but as a religious studies major, I have always been taken by the draw of these spiritual spaces, of the power of devotion and faith so present in places of worship. Sitting in the wooden pew in Sacré-Cœur and letting the swell of the choir fill my head, I found myself thinking of the scholars I have studied for the past three years who have each attempted to explain this feeling. According to Emile Durkheim, the sacred is that which is set apart and forbidden, removed from the ordinary profanity of everyday life. In the classroom, I could never quite make sense of this definition, but here, listening to the otherworldly beauty of the choir and gazing at the mosaic above the altar, I understood it completely. Sacré-Cœur is a perfect example of Durkheim’s ideas, of the sacred manifest in its distinction. Gazing around me, I was incredibly aware of the bowed head and rocking shoulders of the man to my left, of the closed eyes and fervent whispering of the woman two rows in front of me, crossing herself over and over as she prayed.

After nearly an hour, we silently stepped out of the basilica, letting the doors sweep closed behind us with one last rush of warm, sweet air. Heads quiet and full, we headed back down the stairs of the cathedral.

The profane world seemed to hit all at once as we reached the bottom step. At the foot of the hill stood a line of vendors selling selfie sticks and Eiffel Tower figurines, and a group of young boys yelled excitedly as they played a pickup game of football, weaving in between tourists and vendors with no hesitation. As Margot paused to check her phone, two men suddenly approached us, demanding to know where we were from. Taken aback, I stuttered a response, and one of the men grabbed my arm while the other turned his focus to Margot, repeating “Beautiful lady, where you from? Where you from?” as she tried to reiterate that we weren’t interested. The man in front of me began to tie a colorful bracelet around my wrist while smiling away my polite “no thank you,” and it was only after both of us raised our voices in protest and walked away that they backed off. We headed to the metro, both of us slightly shaken. We were used to this, the in-your-face sales pitches of the street vendors, but this particular encounter was more aggressive than most and made all the more unsettling in contrast to the sacred space we had just left. It was painfully obvious that we were no longer in Sacré-Cœur, in the peace and still air of the basilica. Steeling ourselves, Margot and I headed to the metro, back into the noise and profanity of the city.

The next morning, we visited the Musee d’Orsay, and on the fifth floor, I found myself wandering towards the floor to ceiling windows facing the river. From here, the spires of Sacré-Cœur rise above the noise of downtown Paris. The church’s white dome glows vibrant in the afternoon sun. Even from the other side of the Seine it commands attention, quietly drawing focus to the horizon. From here, it is as much a part of the skyline as it is removed from it. It is only upon closer look, after smelling the incense and feeling the heaviness of the air inside the chapel, after sitting for a while and letting the harmonies of the choir swell inside your chest, that you truly appreciate this special part of Paris; the sacred heart of the city of love.