A couple of lifetimes ago, I had the privilege of visiting Europe on a two-week tour.   It was the summer after my high school junior year.  This was just a year before I knew I was going to become part cyborg.  I was a different me and it was a different time.

I worked in a kitchen at a nursing home and saved every penny I could for the trip. My dad, very begrudgingly, paid for the rest but only if I promised to smuggle him back some kind of liquor — which I did although I was underage at the time.

On this trip, I got to go to  Switzerland, France, and Italy.   Well… that was about it.   We were almost constantly on a bus or a train going from some important landmark to the next.  There really wasn’t any time to settle, explore, and appreciate.  Even when we got to a place, adults were constantly warning us of thieves, kidnappers, and rapists.

That doesn’t help set the mind at ease so we could enjoy what was around us.  Of course, additionally, the other girls I traveled with were quite different than myself.   These were girls who avoided me and I them for the most part.  Coming from fairly wealthy families, most of them didn’t have afterschool or summer jobs.  They lived in town.   I lived on a dead-end street.   They had pools.  I had a lake that appears after heavy rain.  They had new cars.  I had a 1965 Chevy.

Well, you get the idea.

Somewhere early in the trip, my camera broke.  I’m not sure how old it was, but it was old.   I’m sure it’d seen its fair share of drops and, attempting to take a picture of some magnificent Russian church somewhere around Paris, it broke.   I forget what happened exactly.   Maybe the button wouldn’t go down or it couldn’t turn film anymore…  Whatever it was, it was pretty devastating.    I did everything I could to resurrect that camera over the coming days and it didn’t happen.  It was dead, Jim.  (This was waaayy before smartphones.)

Unfortunately, I think was the third day of the trip.   I certainly didn’t have the money to buy a new one, even if a chaperone agreed to take me to a store — which they didn’t — so, the whole process was an exercise in futility.

I wanted to try to focus and remember places that we visited so I could come back, sans snotty rich girls and dispassionate chaperones, so I could actually enjoy myself and maybe take a couple of pictures this time — with a real camera.

One of the places that really attracted me was Notre Dame.  It was huge.  It was beautiful.   It was crowded as sin and really confusing.  Information was piped over the speakers in just about every known language.  I really had no idea what was going on around me and all of us were just herded around.  It really sucked.

That’s not my style at all.  And, it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who knows me well, I eventually peeled from the group and found my way to a less congested area.  Not too sure where that was exactly, but it was a huge room with lots of pews.   I think there was some sort of monster organ — it looked like something that Dracula would play — and there were lots of small confessionals on the side.   The doors where deep red – I think – and all of them were closed.

Dad was Catholic, so I was pretty sure those were confessionals.  Just being there, holding still, attempting to really listen to the room, I actually felt the need to confess.  I’m not sure if it was from being in a famous church, the atmosphere… or what… but I suddenly felt the need to cry and confess whatever sins I had committed.

That’s the only time I’ve ever felt that deep-seated need.  Not when I found out I had cancer.   Not when dad died.  Not during 9/11.  Heck, a priest even visited me unbidden before my back operation where there was a real possibility that I’d die or be paralyzed.   I told him politely to bugger off and that just about a year after this trip.

It only lasted for a second.  One of the chaperones pulled me out of the room scowling and pretty upset that I had found my lava pit.

But… I knew that Notre Dame was a place I wanted to go back to with a camera and actually spend some time there.  To investigate what that feeling was.

Fast forward…  Notre Dame was severely damaged in a fire this past April.  I took to long going back with a good camera.

Never to fear!
Lots of individuals donated what they could for restoration.    Moreover, lots and lots of rich people and companies pledged millions.  At one point, it seemed like it was a competition to show who was richer and wanted the most tax break for donations.  I had the feeling I could still return to Notre Dame.  It would be about the same even if a statue of the Virgin Mary was sponsored by L’Oreal and a stained glass window was from Louis Vuitton.

All-in-all, around a billion dollars was donated.   A law was passed by the French parliament to rebuild Notre Dame just as it had been before the fire…. which means the roof won’t be a greenhouse.   I’m okay with that.  Surely, with all of the attention, this wasn’t something that even Presiden Macron could mess up.

The funny thing is that all of these billionaires have actually donated little too “no” money.   The clean-up is being funded by the nickel and dollar donations from us little people.

I got a couple of theories why.

*  Donation regret.
Some of these rich people pledged millions while Notre Dame was still on fire.  They were caught up in the ‘heat of the moment’ as it were in a who has the biggest paycheck/phallic symbol contest.

*  Rich people don’t want to help pay for the clean-up.
Statues, pews, and stain glass windows can exist for hundreds of years.   What could be a better marketing advertisement?  Funds donated to doing the actual dirty work of removing the ash and lead are for the unknown commoners.

*  Image.
I think the world was a bit shocked when Notre Dame burnt.  It wasn’t something that anyone could predict..  although the horrible bungling of how the emergency was handled could have been.

If all of these companies have all of this money to donate to an old church and tourist attraction, why couldn’t they help the yellow vests?   Stop pollution?  Plant trees?  Feed the homeless?  A billion dollars could do a lot to ease those issues.  Living up to their funding promises could actually have negative marketing impact.

*  Stingy
I’m going to assume that Notre Dame has some sort of insurance.  After the insurance is paid and all the little donations dry up, then the rich people will make good on their promises and not one cent before.

The hundred million euros (112 mill US dollars) donated by L’Oreal could be significantly reduced.  Cheapskates.

I really don’t know why I chose to write about this topic today.
It’s just really irritating that the 1% honestly does not like to become involved in the plebian cleaning duties although it’s the foundation for rebuilding.  Although they promised, their promise isn’t worth the breath used to say it.

Maybe I’m being a little harsh, but it’s just unbelievably shameful.

I don’t get it.   I guess I don’t have to, but I really don’t get this.
I suppose it’s okay to break promises to an ancient Catholic church.  /shrug

Still want to go back one day.