Paris is fairly flat. Consequently, anything that is on anything even remotely resembling a hill can be seen from many parts of the city.
Sacre Coeur is such a landmark.
We had arranged to meet my daughter there in the afternoon. Little did we know that this would be no easy task.
It was a Sunday afternoon in early April. Our first week in Paris had been kind of cool and a little rainy — not too different from what was happening back home in Seattle.
After we returned from Calais, however, the weather improved somewhat. Sunday in particular was sunny and not too warm, but not too cool either. Just the kind of weather to bring people out in droves. Which it did.
We had started out at the top of the steps, after climbing it-hurts-to-remember how many stairs out of the Metro station. (if you’re ever in Paris and want to visit Sacre Coeur, do not — I repeat, DO NOT — get off at the Abbesses station. Instead, disembark at Anvers.) About halfway up, we realized why so many people had been queued up for the elevator.
Anyway, we got to the church and started looking around for my daughter. Don’t see her. Walk around. Don’t see her.
Can’t call or text her, because, well, we’re in Europe and we don’t have international calling on our cell phones.
In the meantime, I take some photos of the church.
I take a panorama of Paris.
We wend our way down the steps toward Montmartre. After we get to the bottom and were about ready to throw in the towel, my daughter hails us. She had spotted my bright yellow blouse, a beacon among all the stylish Parisians wearing black.