Notre Dame the Hard Way

I have just rung the bell of the Notre Dame. It's probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

Notre Dame towers: view from the spire. Photo by Steve Duncan

It’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done because I haven’t paid an admission fee and queued up to get to the bell. You can’t – this isn’t the part of the building they let tourists into. I’m not a historian, or preservationist, or bell tuner invited up by the Cathedral. I’m not a priest, or docent, or security guard with keys and curiosity.

No, what I have done is met a strange Frenchman at a bar, gotten dead drunk, and proceeded to use a combination of gargoyles, flying buttresses, and a makeshift ladder to scale the outside of the Cathedral in the middle of the night. In the rain. For no particular reason other than the spire is up there, and we’re down here, and this seems to be the best way to get there. And after finally making it up, I just can’t resist the urge to play Quasimodo. Now I’m hearing “Bon soir?” from one story down below. I take a moment to assess the situation. I'm about to get arrested. In a foreign country. On top of the most famous Cathedral in the world. Drunk. How did I end up here?

Notre Dame Terrace. Photo by Steve Duncan

When Steve and I first meet Nico at the bar, we were fairly unimpressed. He looked like a preppy, not a badass urban adventurer, and was drinking a glass of Red Wine to boot. But I guess in France even badass urban adventurers dress like Zack Morris and drink Merlot before attempting a death-defying climb up a world landmark. We chat for a bit, and then decided to head out to see what we can find. We’ve got to warm up a little first.

After we meet Nico we start the boozing. It’s still kind of early, so Nico suggests we hit an underground canal near the Bastille stop. Steve and I know it well – it’s one of the first places we went during our first trip to Paris. The problem is that while last time there was a broken padlock that let us bypass the gate, tonight the lock’s been repaired. Nico explains that this is no problem – he climbs up the gate, grabs a tiny ledge, maneuvers around a corner and goes hand over hand by his fingertips 15 feet above the canal before swinging around the other side. Not a move your average preppy could do. Steve and I follow, and we’re in.

Canal St. Martin. Photo by Steve Duncan

The canal St. Martin is not all that interesting, but it gets us started. We find a connection to the sewers, somehow manage to pop a 200 pound manhole to get back to the street, and discuss the next stop. "There's a church I've been looking at where I think we can do a climb" Nico says in his Parisian accent. "Let's walk this way." Cool - we head south, nipping generously at the flask of whiskey we've been carrying. It isn't until we hop the short fence into the yard a half-hour later that I realize the "church" Nico's talking about is the Notre-fucking-Dame. By time I get to having second thoughts, we're already up on the second terrace. As I struggle up the last few gargoyles to the spire, I even start to let myself think that this was actually a good idea.

Obligatory vanity picture - in the spire of the Notre Dame. Photo by Steve Duncan

Surely giving the bell a little chime would be an appropriate celebration of our accomplishment, no? Unfortunately, the combination of being both heavily drunk and a totally inexperienced bell ringer lead my intended "little chime" to probably be heard at Sacre Coeur 2 miles north, not to mention wherever the security guards happened to be hanging out. Steve stares at me in a mixture of disbelief and disgust as a few minutes later we see flashlights coming up the ladder below us. I remember to never again let myself think stuff like this is a good idea.

It all ends up being very civil. While back in the U.S. I’d be ready for a “get down on the ground, motherfucker!” over in France law enforcement seems to take a much less antagonistic view of curious urbanists. The whole thing has the vibe of a necessary, if slightly unpleasant, interaction between two reasonable parties. They take away my pocketknife and Steve’s Leatherman, but don't even handcuff us as they lead us out. It’s almost as cool as going up – we’re in the attic of the Notre Dame. The supports of the huge lead roof are made out of wood, and I wonder how old it is, and if it has to be replaced. I notice it looks pretty much like the attic of a regular old wood-frame house, except on a much grander scale. Nico even tries to snap a picture of us as we’re walking through it, but it doesn’t come out. The cops don’t seem to mind. We’re put in a wagon, and taken over to the nearest station. It’s right across the street. No wonder we got caught.

We sit on a bench as they try to figure out what to do with us. I'm counting on Nico to tell us what’s going on, but all he can gather is that they’re out making sure we didn’t graffiti up the place. After a little while they have us take a breathalyzer test. Despite the amount of time since we’ve been boozing, and the sobering effects of exercise, adrenaline, and police encounters, I still feel pretty drunk. Not tipsy, not buzzed, drunk. I score a .14 on the test. Steve scores a .32. Nico scores a .68.“I was born in Russia” he shrugs.

We sweat it out for a bit until the chief finally gets thereWith cops, timing is a lot of it. It appears to be shift-change time. This means one of two things – either the cops just want to get out of there and go home, or they want to keep us there, so that they have to stay and get overtime. I’m praying that the legendary laziness of French civil servants that I’ve heard about is true.

The chief comes back. He’s wearing slacks and a casual button-down shirt, and appears not to have shaved for three or four days. First he takes Steve into a room with him. It’s about 10 minutes. Then he comes back for me. I try to figure out how I’m going to sublet my place back home from a French jail cell.

He takes me in the room and we sit down. “So,” he asks in barely accented English “did you get good pictures?” I contemplate my answer. I have no idea if this is friendly banter or the beginning of a dastardly interrogation. “I’m not a photographer” I answer. He takes my name, address, and a few other pieces of information. Then he pulls out a piece of paper.

“OK, so you are tourists, you’re taking pictures, you don’t know you can’t climb the Cathedral, you’re very sorry, and you won’t do it again. The report will stay here, you can go.Sign this.” I can’t believe it. I look at the paper and use a combination of common sense and a general knowledge of Romance languages to determine that I’m pretty sure it says exactly what he just said. In just about every other country on Earth you’d have to be crazy to sign a statement some cop puts in front of you that you can’t even read. But everything I’ve learned says that France is just different. I sign the paper, and sit out in the lobby while they talk to Nico. After another ten minutes Nico comes out. He's followed by the chief, who says “voila,” tosses the pen over his shoulder, and lackadaisically strolls into the other room. It is the most French thing I have ever seen.

Steve is waiting down the street. “They even let me keep the pictures” he says with amazement. "The chief said he wanted us to have a nice memory of our vacation here.” I’m sure if we were Algerian kids from the Banlieues the situation would have been much different, but for the moment I think France is the greatest country on earth.

So how do you celebrate after something like this? You go climb another church of course.

South tower of St. Ambroise. Photo by Steve Duncan

The triumphant trio takes a victory lap.