Journey to France. Pilgrimage to Lisieux

Paris — Day One

Such a strange feeling… Only this morning I had my breakfast in Vienna, and now — just an hour or two later — I’m already in Paris. I’m looking for the bus that takes us from Orly Airport to the city center… then I get on the subway, ride two stations, and suddenly find myself at Montmartre. But I don’t recognize this area as Paris yet. It feels different.

Still, I recognize my friend. After dropping my luggage at her ami’s apartment and having a few snacks, we’re off to explore the city. We pass by little French cafés and small boutiques with biting prices. And here we are — near our first sightseeing spot: the Cathedral of Saint Magdalene.

Inside this cathedral lies the relic of Saint Magdalene — her right or left hand, I don’t remember exactly — but we’re not allowed to venerate it. The interior is cozy and beautiful, but that’s really all I can say. I get bored quickly describing the color of cathedral walls, the mosaics, the frescoes, and all that. Honestly, most cathedrals look quite the same from the inside.

Moreover, I think people should go there — to churches and cathedrals — not just to admire their architecture or decorations (which has become a kind of fashion now), but to actually pray and think about… God. It always looks a bit ridiculous when people visit the House of God and pretend it’s about everything else — architecture, culture, whatever — but not about God himself.

Looking at the statue of Saint Magdalene, I bow my head before her, showing my respect, and suddenly I feel… something. The presence of the Holy Spirit.

No, don’t be scared. I’m not seeing ghosts or hearing voices. I just feel this inner quietness — the quietness of the eternal soul, that peaceful stillness we sense when we touch something holy and divine.

Of all the holy saints, I was always most drawn to Saint Magdalene. God had his own plan for her life. Through her example, He shows us that even if we are great sinners who have done very, very bad things, we all still have a chance to come to the Lord — because He loves us all equally.

After sitting there for a while, I decide to buy a small statue of Saint Magdalene. I want to invite her into my life. They say she’s the patron saint of married women and protector of marriages.

Our next destination is Jardin des Tuileries, where we take a small break. It’s warm and sunny today. We’re sitting by the murmuring fountain among Parisians who are so effortlessly gorgeous in their laziness. I love the way they know how to enjoy their time, their food, and their lives. How lovely it must be to be born a Parisian — to speak so easily one of the most beautiful languages in the world… French.

I’ve always associated this language with something exquisite and delicate. It’s not only the language of love, but also the language of poetry, music, pastry, and fashion. Once, my French teacher asked me, “What comes to your mind when you think about French?”

I thought about cozy French cafés. There’s something special about them. I love the way people sit so close to one another — it feels warm, yet nobody bothers anybody. Everyone still has their own space and respects each other’s privacy.

After a while, we slowly approach the Louvre Pyramids — drinking a few cups of coffee on the way — but we decide not to go inside the museum. We were there long ago, and, honestly, we couldn’t recognize any paintings except the Mona Lisa.

I remember that visit well. I got completely lost in the endless halls of the museum. There were just too many pieces of art. It wasn’t really for me to spend all my time staring at each one and thinking, “What might the Master have meant when he painted this or that?” — as the so-called art gurus do, writing tons of novels about every particular artwork, trying to interpret its “hidden meaning.”

But what if the Master meant nothing? Maybe he just wanted to paint a tree — that’s it. Without overthinking. Maybe if he had thought too much, he wouldn’t have done it at all.

I’m pretty sure that one day modern art will reach the point where people will try to explain blank sheets of paper in a “showing-off” manner. They’ll say some deep, pretentious nonsense like, “The Master painted nothing to show the emptiness of his soul, his lack of creativity, his deep hidden depression…” And people will nod as if they understand, paying millions of euros just because a Master’s signature lies underneath. Crazy… but we’re not far from that yet.

We take some photos near the Pyramids — just for Instagram and Facebook — and then head toward Notre Dame Cathedral.

There’s already a huge line. We’re not interested in queuing for hours, so we cross the bridge instead and admire the cathedral from Île de la Cité. Notre Dame looks so majestic from here.

Meanwhile, ferries glide along the Seine, and Victor Hugo’s stories drift through our minds. When the bell strikes the eighth hour, we half-jokingly think it must be Quasimodo, pulling the bell back and forth.

My travel guide says that in this very cathedral, there are holy relics — the crown of thorns that was placed on Jesus’ head during the crucifixion. But these relics can only be seen and venerated on special days: the first Friday of each month, Easter, and Christmas. So, definitely not today, tomorrow, or even the day after. Such a pity!

After a while, we take the metro to the Eiffel Tower. According to our estimates, it shouldn’t take more than half an hour, but because we couldn’t understand the Paris underground map, it took us an hour.

Switching from one line to another (and regretting not going on foot, which would have been faster), we finally reach the Eiffel Tower.

It’s already night, and the tower is sparkling with tiny glowing lights. Now I feel I’m recognizing the Paris I met three years ago. It was August 2013… has it already been three years? Or perhaps it’s not Paris I recognize, but myself. I feel free and careless, just as I did before. Paris reminds me, “Who am I?” and “What is my destiny?”

We cross to the other side of the river, where the Eiffel Tower looks astonishing. We take a few pictures and head toward the Arc de Triomphe.

On the way, we take a small break, sitting on the steps of Trocadéro and listening to street musicians singing something sweet in French. I recognize some of the songs — it must be “Aïcha.” Just imagine it: cozy stairs, the glittering Eiffel Tower at night, and French chanson. A delightful combination!

We want to disappear into this moment. But as midnight approaches, we hurry home, bypassing the Arc de Triomphe. It doesn’t look so impressive at night, and the streets of Paris have emptied. Some shady figures try to sell us who-knows-what, and we feel a bit scared.

Finally, we reach our apartment. It’s already one a.m., we’re exhausted, and we immediately fall asleep.

Day Two — Lisieux

It’s six a.m. We’re rushing around Gare du Nord, looking for our train to Lisieux. People are running around too, sending us back and forth in confusion. Note to self: for such information, it’s better to ask railway staff directly.

Finding our platform isn’t easy. Thank God we arrived early and had some extra time. Finally, we board the train to Lisieux. We’re sleepy and dizzy — only about three hours of sleep — but we’re in Paris, and Paris is like a dream itself.

Lisieux… I had been waiting for this pilgrimage for so long… and now, it’s happening!

The weather is sunny, though it was supposed to rain. My friend takes a nap; I try to rest too, but my mind wanders to plans for the evening. Perhaps we’ll have a walk in Montmartre later, then visit Champs-Élysées, Jardin du Luxembourg, Place de la Bastille, and Saint Martin’s Chapel — that same place where Amélie tossed her pancakes. And maybe have petit déjeuner in a cozy café.

Stop it! My mind is already worrying about things that haven’t happened yet. I need to focus on the pilgrimage. With that thought, I drift into a light sleep.

We arrive in Lisieux at 9:26 a.m., almost missing our station. After stepping out of the train station, we spot a small hill where the basilica stands and know the direction to go.

Lisieux is a small, cozy village that has preserved its traditions. Passing boulangeries, souvenir shops, and tiny cafés, we even see some locals in traditional clothing.

Within five minutes, we’re near the Basilica, but first we stop at the information point for a map. Now we know “what is where.” We decide to start our pilgrimage at the Carmelite Church, very close to the Basilica. Following blue stripes, within ten minutes we enter Carmel de Lisieux, where Saint Teresa took her monastic vow. Here lies the coffin with her remains. They were originally buried in the cemetery, but the grave was twice exhumed, consecrated, and finally transferred to this chapel.

The energy inside is immense. People arrive in large groups.

“Hello, Saint Teresa!” I whisper, gazing at her grave.

Perhaps some curious readers wonder: “Who was Saint Teresa, and why did you decide to make this pilgrimage?”

It all began with La Vie en Rose. Marion Cotillard’s portrayal of the legendary French singer Édith Piaf impressed me deeply. I began researching Piaf’s life.

When Piaf was only two, her mother left her with her own parents while her father was at the front. Her maternal grandmother treated the child harshly, feeding her wine instead of milk so she would sleep longer. Imagine that!

When Piaf’s father returned from the front, he brought her to her grandmother, who ran a public house. By age three, Piaf was completely blind, and her maternal grandmother apparently didn’t notice. Fortunately, her other grandmother, Gassion, and her maids took her to Lisieux, to Saint Teresa. Thousands of pilgrims had been visiting annually. On August 19, 1921, Piaf arrived, and by August 25, miraculously began to see. Until her death, Piaf worshiped Saint Teresa, spoke to her, and even claimed to hear her voice.

At that moment, something stirred in my heart.

“I also want to go on a pilgrimage to Lisieux,” I thought.

Closer to the trip, I researched how to do a pilgrimage — I had never done one before — and studied Saint Teresa’s autobiography. Through her words, I felt an invisible connection with her.

Usually, saints seem distant, almost untouchable. But Saint Teresa… she felt close, simple, like a friend or sister, humble yet radiant, with a sublime soul devoted to God.

“Holy Teresa,” I prayed, “Please show me your mercy, and ask God to help me with…” — I whispered my most cherished desire — “if it is His will.”

Perhaps some skeptics might wonder how a “Muslim-born woman” (by birth only) can visit a Christian saint. But I believe saints have no nationality, no religion. They transcend our earthly labels.

When I hear someone say, “My religion is better than yours,” it sounds like a kind of spiritual arrogance. Fanaticism, in my opinion, is worse than atheism.

Saints, however, are always grateful to God, never asking for themselves, serving others, and through them, our requests to God are purified and fulfilled in the best possible way.

Looking at Saint Teresa, I felt a flutter in my chest.

“Holy Teresa,” I begged, “Please be my guide. I want to understand God, to know His plan for my life, and to learn how to do good for others.”

At that moment, I felt that Saint Teresa had heard me.

God is near. I am safe. Whenever I feel scared or unsure, He will be there, watching over everything. That doesn’t mean I should be lazy and expect Him to do all the work. Never. God doesn’t favor the inactive.

In the Bhagavad-Gita, Krishna tells Arjuna, who tried to shirk his duties, that an honest worker performing their responsibilities deserves more spiritual progress than a lazy yogi hiding in a forest pretending to be holy.

Spirituality doesn’t require abandoning life. A calm mind and disciplined life are far more effective than visiting psychologists who only analyze your childhood or environment without bringing true peace to the soul.

And that’s how our pilgrimage ended. We didn’t perform anything extraordinary, nor did we know exactly what to do — we simply prayed sincerely.

I thanked Saint Teresa for this opportunity and asked her forgiveness if we had erred. I felt her acceptance of our sincerity.

Returning to Paris, our hearts felt lighter. Could it be a sign that our pilgrimage was successful?

Last Day

On my last day, I finally slept in. In the morning, it was raining. Despite being the end of May, it was chilly and humid.

We went for petit déjeuner at a nearby café on Avenue de Clichy, ordering croissants and coffee. It was Sunday, and the streets were quiet; the French seem to enjoy late mornings.

After breakfast, we revisited the Church of Saint Magdalene. This time, we were fortunate enough to venerate her relics. I stood on a stool, bowed my head to the glass case holding the relics, and showed my respect.

Then I walked along Champs-Élysées. Because it was still raining, my friend chose to spend her last day shopping. I wanted to enjoy Paris, so we split up. Listening to Joe Dassin, I crossed Alexandre III Bridge, with the Seine and Eiffel Tower opening up magnificently before me.

Next, I headed to Jardin du Luxembourg. Since it was still raining, I stopped in cafés along the way for tea. Finally, I reached the park with its majestic palace, rumbling fountains, and trees. A live orchestra was even playing. Perhaps I’ll return when the weather is warmer.

Leaving Luxembourg Park, I went to Place de la Bastille, visiting Victor Hugo’s former home, now a hotel.

Afterward, I headed to Saint Martin’s Chapel — the same place from Amélie. Few tourists were around; mostly locals. I paused on a bench, reflecting on the film. Amélie is one of those movies that leaves you thinking about life’s small joys.

Happiness indeed lies in small things. The film’s main character found joy in little pleasures — tossing a palm into beans, breaking a sugar crust, tossing pancakes. I remembered my own small joys: the smell of freshly printed books, snow crunching under my feet, the scent after rain, or the sound of thunder. Life is brighter because of these little moments.

After resting, I returned to Montmartre, passing Gare du Nord — noisy, dirty, with strange people wandering about. But at least I saw Paris in its true colors.

Reaching Montmartre, I climbed the hill to Sacré-Cœur. My feet were exhausted. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the painters and writers mentioned in guidebooks — perhaps they were nearby.

As night fell, the view over Paris, with its twinkling lights, tiny houses, beeping cars, and wandering people, was breathtaking. I didn’t photograph it; no camera could capture it, and I didn’t want to risk losing the moment.

Being hosted in a Parisian flat and meeting locals, I felt almost like a Parisian myself. Thinking about karma and reincarnation, I realized that in a previous life, I must have been Parisian. I felt so attuned to the city’s mentality.

Later, I would meet my friend and visit the Deux Moulins café, near Moulin Rouge, where Amélie was filmed. Then a snack near our apartment, gather my luggage, and catch the bus back to the airport.

When I return to Vienna, Paris will feel like a beautiful dream — but it will remain in my heart.

For now, I want to vanish into this moment, absorb the city’s energy, and memorize every second I’m here.

Au revoir, Paris. I will be back… many, many times.