We were waiting in line to go to an evening concert in Sainte-Chapelle (the jewel box of a chapel built by Louis IX of France on an island in the Seine in Paris as a reliquary for the Crown of Thorns). When we had walked up we had been a bit uncertain where the queue was, but had inquired of the guards at the gate who told us it was the same spot as the daytime line. We got behind the half-dozen people already there.
The first person in line was an American woman, casually dressed, and loudly telling anyone who drifted near the line, whether or not they seemed poised to join it, "This probably isn't the line. I asked the security guards [ed.: the guards are standing not three feet away] and they told me with a smirk this is where to wait. They were dismissive and rude. I am sure this is the wrong place."
In between the shrill warnings we learned she had arrived in Paris just today, all by herself it seemed, and had already walked miles. She was from North Dakota. Her husband had had a stroke. People grew uneasy as her monologues drifted further away from the concert and she paced restlessly at the front of the queue. No one engaged.
"If this isn't the right place," the woman ahead of me finally essayed, "where do you suppose we should be?" "Well, there is a sign for the company who sold the tickets down the block." I wondered why, if she was so sure that we were being mocked and misled by the security guards, she had not gone and asked at the office. The woman in front of me exchanged glances with her partner and strode off. She returned shortly to announce that yes, the ticket office had confirmed we were in the correct spot. Regardless, our midwest siren continued to sound a warn-away.
Eventually we were let inside to go through security screening. So yes, we were in the right spot. Our bags were scanned and we walked through metal detectors, and the line got scrambled. Now we are directly behind our miserable midwesterner. Why are we waiting here? Why isn't there an elevator? She has a heart problem, she could just keel over. [Ed.: she has walked past the elevator, which staff had indicated to us.] People shift away. She tries to move someone at the front of the line by physically touching her, the young woman shakes her off. People are getting tense. A performer walks by, her violin case slung across her back. Well, it seems call times are pretty late here in Paris. We wait some more. The staff has less than an hour to set the chapel up for a concert after the last tour of the day. Is that group special? I once keeled over in the supermarket parking lot. "I am sorry," I say, "Let's hope nothing happens here." North Dakota farm wives have to do everything the hard way.
Finally we are in and Math Man and I fly to our seats, breathing a sigh of relief that she is sitting elsewhere.
At dinner I told Math Man that while it was tempting to think uncharitable thoughts about this loudly critical midwesterner, I would rather imagine her as courageous. To come alone to Paris, to be out and about all day, to have found out about the concert and gotten a ticket. Was she a widow? Or had she had to arrange care for a disabled husband? And her chickens? What would happen if she keeled over in Paris?
And what would she think if she knew I was writing about her?
Photo is of Sainte-Chapelle. The concert was a brilliant hack by Math Man to get us into the chapel. You have to book months ahead, which we didn't realize.
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