In 2011 I went to Paris for a weekend in February with my big sister Kath.
I like going away with Kath. She likes to walk to places, as I do, and she’s so relaxed and easy to be with.
We went to see the impressionists at Musée d’Orsay, and I can’t remember what else, except the Basilique du Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre.
We approached via the long, long flight of steps in front of it. And I remember a young man carrying a toddler on his shoulders running down those steps - running down them. And I thought at the time how careless and frightening it was. What if he had tripped? Why hadn’t he seen the danger?
I just came across a poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, the poet who wrote that wonderful poem called Gate A4 - check it out here - which reminded me of seeing that man on the Montmartre steps:
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