A quick backstory by way of a question. What do the glass elevators travelling outside the Skylon at Niagara Falls, the Crown on the Statue of Liberty, Sydney’s Centre Point Tower, and Brisbane’s Storey Bridge have in common?
All have been the staging ground for my irrational fear of heights melt downs. From all I have been either coaxed down, carried out, or blindfolded and escorted to a ground level exit. Not a proud record. Acrophobia, from the Greek “acron” (height) and “phobos” (fear). And there’s the first fear. For those my crying, whimpering, hyperventilation, or obstinate refusal to move caused grief too, I am sorry.
Paris is a walking city. Winter will not leave and allow spring to have its way. There’s a chill in the air yet it’s sunny. Perfect for walking.
Striding confidently across Republique Place I am swelled by the sense of history and turn right at Blvd de Magenta. A familiar nod passing Gare du Nord where three days ago I arrived by train from London. A leisurely stroll admiring the tree-lined beauty of Blvd de Rochechouart, cut up rue Seveste and I am in Montmartre.
Here it is, the heart of Parisian arts and demi-monde. The very streets impressionist painters, writers, musicians, all lived, played, and worked. Drinking in the atmosphere I am heady with excitement. I stumble into Square Louise Michel to catch my breath, look up and behold, gleaming in the morning sun, the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur.
It is true. The catholic church owns all the best real estate.
First time visitors note, the sweeping staircases through budding gardens take some work. Ride the funicular to the entrance, something I missed seeing until admiring the panoramic view.
Church was in session. Tourists urged to remain respectful. The service only interrupted by the sound of selfies. Not decoratively ornate, the architecture is the standout. Outside a sign reads Visite Dome. We are already on the highest of the seven hills on which Paris is built. Couldn’t be much further. Caution and chequered history to the wind, up I went.
A tight circular staircase leads to the dome. It has borne the scuffle of sandal clad feet by robed monks over centuries of devotion. Twenty steps up, I wanted out. The passage is less than the width of my shoulders and I can barely stand upright. In this space and with people backing up behind, there is no turning back.
“How far up?” I call. “Three hundred steps,” the answer.
At two hundred steps the walls had moved in to devour me. Now on my hands and knees, I sweat profusely. Willing myself not to hyperventilate I fearfully move upwards. Overcome, tears and snot are part of the equation. This is a new fear to me. Claustrophobia, from the Latin “claudere”, to shut and the Greek “phobos”, fear.
Welcomed outside by acrophobia I lunge at the stone benches along the wall seeking equilibrium. Before me spread uninterrupted views of Paris apparently. If only I can raise myself and make the 360 degrees walk around the dome’s cloistered promenade. I don’t look over or out. Face to the wall I point the phone out and click to the exit.
Back on ground tourists ask the worth of going to the dome. I hand them my phone to look at the photos. “You tell me,” I say. I don’t know.
Imagine my chagrin later finding a website offering a panoramic virtual tour of Sacre-Coeur Basilica from the comfort of your own home.
Still you must admit, acrophobia and claustrophobia, all for just €6.