Travel

A Lifetime of Love for Paris

For nearly fifty years, I’ve carried a love of Paris. For a long time, I thought it was an inheritance—a gift from teachers, photographers, French cousins, and friends. But only recently have I realized that Paris now belongs to me.

The seeds were planted early by my very first French teacher, Mrs. Stewart in Pittsburgh, who always made me feel valued and welcome. She made French not just a subject but a joy—something expansive, a new world opening before me. Later, a college professor urged me to take my first trip to France—a visit that included meeting my French cousins, who graciously introduced me to the City of Light and its culture, followed by a month at the University of Aix-en-Provence.

Beneath the tricolor, history lingers: sorrow and triumph etched in stone.

In Paris, seeing the Eiffel Tower and the Champs-Élysées for the first time was overwhelming. I didn’t just see grandeur; I felt the weight of history that has transpired there. Standing on the Champs-Élysées, I was struck by the horror of Nazi Germany marching down it in victory on June 14, 1940, and the profound relief and pride of the American and French armies liberating Paris on August 25, 1944. The German occupation lasted just over four years, and the liberation, led by French and U.S. forces, was met by jubilant Parisians in the streets. That same day, Charles de Gaulle entered the city to proclaim, “Paris! Paris outraged! Paris broken! Paris martyred! But Paris liberated!” The following day, he marched triumphantly down the Champs-Élysées, embodying the spirit of France restored. The weight of those moments in history made me appreciate even more the resilience and beauty of the city I was discovering. I think of those events every time I see the Champs-Élysées.

Yet Paris was only the beginning of my French journey. In Aix, I met a teacher from the Flemish-speaking part of Belgium who shared my love of the country and its language. And I met Marica from Mexico, who was simply fun to be with. One day we rented a paddle boat on a lake in the south of France. We lost track of time, missed our bus back to Aix, and ended up laughing as a kind stranger gave us a ride to the train station so we could make our way home. It’s a small story, but one I treasure—a reminder of youth, friendship, and the kindness of strangers.

Dawn at Trocadéro. The city still asleep, the Eiffel Tower keeping silent watch over Paris.

That same summer, I discovered the music of Véronique Sanson. I loved her then and still do now. I remember listening to her voice while visiting the calanques of Cassis, marveling at their sharp white cliffs and turquoise but icy water. Somehow, the beauty of those landscapes fused in my mind with the beauty of her songs. Even now, hearing her music carries me back to that summer.

After moving to Washington in 1979, I kept up my French. At Georgetown University and the Alliance Française de Washington, I found kind and influential teachers who nourished my love of France and its language and culture. Through them, Paris stayed alive for me, even when I was far away.

I wish I had photographs from my first trip to France. I’ve since learned that even imperfect photos are worth keeping because they hold memories words can’t always capture. Photography, for me, is a way to preserve what matters most.

The Seine carries the last light of day as the Eiffel Tower rises, a beacon above the city of memory and dreams.

It was my father who made these experiences possible, investing in my education and my first trips abroad, shaping me in lasting ways. My teachers opened doors, and friends gave me stories to carry.

Now, with my camera, I carry them all forward. Every photograph I take in Paris is a way of honoring those who helped me get to know the city. Paris is a presence that has grown inside me over a lifetime, stitched together by people, music, landscapes, and light. Just as I once linked Véronique Sanson’s songs to the calanques of Cassis, I now link my own photographs to the Paris I love. Paris lives in my memory, my images, and my heart.

Centre Pompidou — A Place I Came to Love

I first visited the Centre Georges Pompidou in 1977, the year it opened. The building felt shocking in its modernity. I had never seen anything like it — exposed pipes and bold colors, right in the heart of Paris. How could this belong in the same city as the Louvre or the Assemblée Nationale?

The Centre Pompidou illuminated at night — a bold icon of modern Paris, 2022.

The idea for the Centre took shape in the late 1960s, when Paris was still unsettled by the protests and strikes of May 1968. President Georges Pompidou, who loved modern art, wanted to create a cultural center that would feel open, democratic, and alive. His vision was to combine a public library, a museum of modern art, and spaces for music and performance under one roof — a place where tradition and the avant-garde could meet.

In 1971, an international competition was launched, drawing more than 600 entries. The jury, chaired by French architect Jean Prouvé, chose the radical proposal of two young architects: Renzo Piano, born in Genoa in 1937, and Richard Rogers, born in Florence in 1933 to a British family. Their design turned architecture inside out. By pushing structure, escalators, and utilities to the exterior, they left the interior wide open and flexible. Prouvé admired their daring — it was exactly the step into a new era that Pompidou had hoped for.

Over the years, as I returned to the Pompidou, I grew to love it. The plaza in front of the museum always recharged me. Young people sprawled on the ground, laughing, playing music, filling the courtyard with life. That sense of openness was not an accident — Piano and Rogers wanted the Centre to be a crossroads of art and community.

The lively plaza in front of the Pompidou, where art and play mingle, 2015.

I also remember riding the exterior escalator, climbing above the rooftops of Paris. From there, the city unfolded — Sacré-Cœur glowing on the horizon. It reminded me of Piano’s later projects, like the Shard in London and The New York Times Building in Manhattan, always searching for lightness and views. Rogers, for his part, went on to shape landmarks such as Lloyd’s of London and the Millennium Dome. Both would eventually win the Pritzker Prize — Piano in 1998, Rogers in 2007 — but here in Paris, their collaboration was at its boldest.

From the Pompidou rooftop, Paris stretches to Montmartre, with Sacré-Cœur glowing on the horizon, 2012.

Now, the Pompidou is closed for renovations, with reopening planned for 2030. I don’t know when I will see it again. What I do know is that I will miss it.

The Pompidou began as something I thought was too modern, almost jarring, and became a place I adore. It carries with it the daring of its architects — one Italian, one British — and the conviction of a president and jury who believed Paris could take a step into a new era. For me, it became just that: a space of art, of community, of Paris itself, bold and alive.

Signs in the Pompidou windows announce its closure for renovation — farewell for five years, 2025.

The Tomb of William the Conqueror

In the heart of Normandy stands a monument to one of Europe’s most consequential rulers. Inside the Abbaye aux Hommes—the Men’s Abbey, also known as Saint-Étienne Abbey—in Caen, France, lies a simple marble tomb marking the final resting place of William the Conqueror.

William the Conqueror’s tomb inside the Abbaye aux Hommes in Caen, France.

Born around 1028, William rose from Duke of Normandy to become a formidable force in European history. His decisive victory at the Battle of Hastings in 1066 brought England under Norman rule, setting in motion sweeping changes to the kingdom’s language, law, and social order. He was the first Norman King of England, and his reign reshaped the destiny of a nation.

William founded the abbey as an act of penance, after marrying his cousin Matilda of Flanders against Church law. When he died in 1087, his body was brought here to rest within the walls of the church he had endowed. Yet his remains would not know peace. Over the centuries, his tomb was desecrated multiple times—most violently during the French Revolution. Today, only a single bone, believed to be a femur, is thought to remain.

The tomb we see now, adorned with flowers and lit by candles, is at once modest and monumental. It speaks to the paradox of William’s legacy: a man who conquered kingdoms and changed history, yet whose earthly remains were reduced almost to nothing. The stone slab is a reminder of ambition’s reach and mortality’s certainty—a place of quiet reflection on how even the most powerful lives can end in fragility.

Notre-Dame Reborn

When I stepped inside the restored Notre-Dame de Paris on my recent trip, my jaw dropped. I had braced myself to see scars from the 2019 fire — blackened stone, lingering smoke, a cathedral permanently marked by disaster. Instead, I found a space so clean and luminous it felt renewed. The air was clear, the stone brighter than I remembered, and nothing betrayed the night when flames nearly brought this monument down.

The restored nave of Notre-Dame, luminous and whole, five years after the fire.

That fire broke out on April 15, 2019. It destroyed the spire and much of the roof, and left the world watching in disbelief as one of the most recognizable buildings in Europe seemed on the verge of collapse. In the days that followed, President Emmanuel Macron promised the French people that Notre-Dame would be rebuilt “within five years.” At the time, it sounded impossibly ambitious.

And yet, in December 2024 — just over five years later — the cathedral reopened to the public. The restoration was a massive undertaking. Carpenters and stonemasons worked with traditional tools and materials, rebuilding the roof frame in oak and covering it again in lead. Specialists cleaned centuries of soot from the interior stone, leaving the walls brighter than I ever remember seeing them. The cost was staggering, estimated at around €700 million, but more than €840 million was pledged, much of it from private donors, corporations, and foundations, with the French state overseeing the effort.

Investigators never determined a single definitive cause for the blaze. Arson was ruled out. The most likely explanations point to either faulty electrical wiring or a cigarette left smoldering on the scaffolding that surrounded the roof. Whatever the origin, the fire became a national trauma — and the restoration a matter of pride.

One of the most striking aspects of the restoration is what cannot be seen: the measures put in place to protect the cathedral from another disaster. Notre-Dame is now equipped with advanced fire detection sensors, a sprinkler system designed to protect the attic timbers, and strict new safety protocols for any construction or maintenance work. Dedicated fire safety teams are trained specifically for the building, and regular inspections are built into its ongoing care. The new oak roof frame may look medieval, but it is now guarded by twenty-first century vigilance.

Now, walking through the nave and looking up at the soaring vaults, you would not guess at the near loss of this building. The absence of smoke stains, the brightness of the walls, even the feeling of clarity inside the space all speak to what was achieved. Notre-Dame does not look like a survivor so much as a rebirth — a reminder of how cultural treasures can be both fragile and resilient.

For me, the experience was moving not only because of what I saw, but because of what I didn’t. I saw no evidence of catastrophe. Instead, I saw continuity — a cathedral that, having nearly perished, now feels more present and alive than ever.

You can get a sense of the magnitude of the destruction and the effort involved in the reconstruction in this video:

Maison Européenne de la Photographie: A Home for Photography

In the heart of the Marais in Paris lies the Maison Européenne de la Photographie (MEP). It isn’t a grand, imposing museum like the Louvre or the Musée d’Orsay. Instead, it feels intimate, almost hidden — a place where you can stand quietly before a single photograph, letting it work on you without distraction.

Encountering Marie-Laure de Decker

The exhibition that stopped me in my tracks was devoted to Marie-Laure de Decker. Before this visit, I knew nothing about her. Yet her black-and-white images held me still: the grain of film, the intensity of her subjects’ eyes, the strange balance of fragility and strength.

Her story is as remarkable as her photographs. De Decker began as a striking fashion model in Paris. She saved enough money to buy her first Leica and soon turned the camera on the world’s conflicts. Her photographs from Vietnam and Chad carry a rare humanity — not just war and suffering, but dignity, presence, and survival.

Two of her cameras, a well-worn Leica M3 and M4, are on display at the MEP. Ordinary tools, scratched and aged, yet heavy with history and courage.

More Than a Museum

The MEP is not just a gallery of images. It feels like a home for photography itself, where established masters share the stage with emerging voices. Its bookstore is a temptation all its own — shelves lined with rare catalogues, monographs, and books that open like personal invitations into other lives.

And when you step back outside, you’re in the Marais: narrow old streets, bustling cafés, a Paris scaled to human rhythm.

Marie-Laure de Decker – on display at the MEP

What Matters

Standing in front of de Decker’s work, I felt something I sometimes forget: the latest gear matters very little. What endures is the eye, the courage to see, and the willingness to be present.

The MEP reminded me why I fell in love with photography in the first place. It is not only about images. It is about memory, refuge, and meeting the world through another’s gaze.

If You Go

If Paris is in your plans, make time for the Maison Européenne de la Photographie. You may arrive expecting to see photographs. But if you linger, you might leave changed — carrying the weight of another person’s vision, and perhaps, a little more courage to see the world for yourself.

A visitor contemplates the work of Marie-Laure de Decker at the MEP

La Grande Arche de la Défense: A Modern Monument to Humanity

La Grande Arche de la Défense – © David H. Enzel, 2024

La Grande Arche de la Défense (“The Great Arch of the Defense”), originally called La Grande Arche de la Fraternité, is a monumental building in the business district of La Défense, in the commune of Puteaux, west of Paris. Usually referred to simply as La Grande Arche, the 110-meter-high (360 ft) cube is part of the historic axis that runs from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe. The distance between the two arches is about 4 km (2.5 miles). Built as one of President François Mitterrand’s Grands Projets, it stands as a symbol of modern France.

In 1982, a national design competition was launched at Mitterrand’s initiative. The winning entry, by Danish architect Johan Otto von Spreckelsen (1929–1987) and engineer Erik Reitzel (1941–2012), reimagined the Arc de Triomphe for the late 20th century. Instead of commemorating military victories, their design celebrated humanity and humanitarian ideals.

Construction began in 1985, led by French civil engineering company Bouygues. In 1986, Spreckelsen resigned and transferred his responsibilities to his associate, French architect Paul Andreu, best known for his work on Charles de Gaulle Airport. Reitzel remained involved until the monument was completed in 1989.

The structure takes the approximate form of a perfect cube, with a width, height, and depth of 110 meters. Some have suggested it resembles a hypercube—or tesseract—projected into three dimensions. Built with a prestressed concrete frame clad in glass and covered in white granite from Bèthel, Italy, the Arche has a striking, minimalist presence.

La Grande Arche was inaugurated in July 1989 during celebrations marking the bicentennial of the French Revolution, including a grand military parade that passed beneath its soaring frame.

Sources: Wikipedia | French moments

Father Pitt: A Public-Domain Photo Treasure of Pittsburgh

PPG Place, Pittsburgh – © David H. Enzel, 2022

If you’re interested in Pittsburgh, the blog Father Pitt offers a wide-ranging collection of photographs of my hometown.

The author remains anonymous, but the site is maintained with care and updated regularly. Each photo is accompanied by thoughtful descriptions, and the entire collection is released to the public domain under a CC0 dedication—making it both a visual resource and a gift to the community.

Planning a Trip to France? Start with the ‘Join Us in France’ Podcast

If you’re planning a trip to France—or simply want to deepen your understanding of French history and culture—the Join Us in France podcast is a superb resource.

Launched in 2014, the podcast was originally co-hosted by Elyse and Annie, two women who know France inside and out. Annie was born in France but has also lived in the United States, while Elyse grew up in New York yet speaks the language fluently and has an encyclopedic grasp of French culture and history. Ironically, Elyse, the American, often seems “more French” than Annie, who was born there. Due to time constraints, Elyse no longer appears regularly but still joins when she can.

The podcast shines in the way it makes France approachable for American listeners. I especially enjoyed episodes on driving in France, French cheese, and Le Marais in Paris. Another episode on modern and contemporary art in France introduced me to 18 museums across the country, many of which I hadn’t known before.

Each episode comes with detailed show notes—an invaluable aid for trip planning. Unlike the many resources that focus mainly on hotels and restaurants, this podcast helps you understand the soul of France.

For additional perspective, Annie and Elyse were also featured in Amateur Traveler episode 428 about Paris. Amateur Traveler is a podcast I listen to often, and it covers destinations around the world. But if your focus is France, Join Us in France is the podcast to follow.

From Synagogue to Frauenkirche: Nuremberg’s Church of Our Lady

Frauenkirche, Nuremberg – © David H. Enzel, 2024

The Frauenkirche (“Church of Our Lady”) stands on the eastern side of the main market in Nuremberg, Germany. An example of brick Gothic architecture, it was built between 1352 and 1362 on the initiative of Charles IV (1316–1378), Holy Roman Emperor.

The church’s origins are bound up with tragedy. In 1349, during the Black Death, a violent pogrom led to the expulsion of Nuremberg’s Jewish community. Charles IV ordered the city’s synagogue demolished, and the Frauenkirche was built on its ruins as part of the newly created Hauptmarkt.

View of the bombed-out city of Nuremberg, 1945 – US Holocaust Memorial Museum, courtesy of National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, MD

Yet within a few years, the city authorities, short of money, sought to attract Jews back. In 1351, Charles IV allowed their return under specific conditions, and by 1382 the Jewish community numbered more than 500, concentrated in the Judengasse (today’s Judenstrasse). More background can be found at the Jewish Virtual Library.

Centuries later, between the two world wars, Nuremberg became a stronghold of the Nazi Party. Julius Streicher (1885–1946) founded one of the first local branches there in 1922 and published the antisemitic weekly Der Stürmer. The city also hosted massive Nazi rallies, and its Jews lived under daily harassment and threat.

The Frauenkirche itself was nearly destroyed during the bombing of Nuremberg (see photo above) in World War II, leaving only its nave walls and façade. Restoration was completed in 1953, and today the church once again dominates the Hauptmarkt as both a historic monument and a reminder of the city’s layered past.

The Institut de France: Guardian of Knowledge and the Arts

Institut de France, Paris – © David H. Enzel, 2024

The Institut de France is a French learned society that brings together five académies, including the prestigious Académie Française, guardian of the French language. Founded in 1795 at the direction of the National Convention, it is housed on the Quai de Conti in the 6th arrondissement of Paris.

Today, the Institut oversees nearly 1,000 foundations, along with museums and châteaux open to visitors. It also distributes prizes and grants—amounting to more than €27 million annually in 2017—most of them awarded on the recommendation of the académies.

Faithful to the mission set for it in 1795, the Institut and its five académies continue “to contribute, on a non-profit basis, to the progress and influence of letters, sciences, and the arts; to honor useful inventions and discoveries; to recognize distinguished artistic achievements; and to reward noble deeds and the steadfast practice of civic and social virtues.”