Paris (October 15, 2015)

Paris holds a population of roughly two million within the city proper, yet twelve million pour in daily to work — commuters filling every corner of one of the world’s great capitals. Only about half of Parisians own a vehicle, and for good reason: the cars are small, the streets are narrow, and the people themselves seem designed for elegance rather than excess. The French are famously slim. They wear beautiful, colorful coats and tie their scarves in those effortless, impossible twists that no tourist can quite replicate. The boots, the tights, the gloves, the hats — all of it deliberate, all of it polished. And they watch back. Just as the eyes follow them, their eyes follow the visitors just as intently.

Paris has been visited several times before — but this trip was different. Something had shifted on the streets. Where once the traffic was dominated by small, compact cars, suddenly there were SUVs and sleek, high-end sports cars occupying the narrow boulevards. These belong to a different Paris — one populated by transplants from the Middle East, staying in the five-star hotels, some of whom are said to own them. The Four Seasons George V, one of the most storied luxury hotels in the world, is reportedly owned by Middle Eastern royalty — a detail that makes the contrasts of modern Paris feel sharper than ever.

Only about half of French citizens own their apartments. Minimum rent in Paris runs roughly €1,200 per month, against an average salary of around €2,000. Of France’s 67 million citizens, a majority still identify as Catholic on paper — but only a fraction are practicing believers. A leading French religious magazine declared that France is “no longer a Catholic country” — and walking those streets, the weight of that statement is felt in the bones. The French have lost their way with God. The outcome is written all over the city they have built in His absence.

The Stinking Soup

France’s countryside is breathtaking — rolling hills, grazing cattle, and open meadows stretching to the horizon. The only interruption to the pastoral beauty is an unexpected one: nuclear cooling towers rising in the distance, sharing the landscape with the cows. France generates roughly 75–78% of its electricity from nuclear reactors — the highest share of any major nation in the world — and produces so much surplus that it exports power to neighboring countries, including Germany.

The first day in Paris was uneventful in the best possible way — settling in, surrendering to the nine-hour time difference, and letting the day dissolve at a gentle pace. By evening, a craving had taken hold: French onion soup. A small group set out on foot in search of a quaint café. The menu posted outside the door said the right thing. Everyone sat down and wasted no time ordering.

Care was taken to avoid any lost-in-translation moment. The waiter was asked directly and answered with confidence — the real thing, absolutely. The mouth was already anticipating it: a baguette buried under molten, charred cheese, oozing with fresh-cut onions from a proper French kitchen. As the waiter approached, the steam reached the nostrils first — and something was off. “French soup?” A nod, yes. “Yes, yes,” came the reply.

He was not wrong. It was cheesy soup. It was just goat cheese.

The first bite sent an urgent and unfriendly message to the brain. The second was worse. The gamey smell was overpowering; the taste was the single greatest food disappointment of the year. Natalie and her companion held out as long as dignity allowed — which was not very long. The bill was paid. They left.

The worst part came on the walk back to the hotel. The soup came with them — every belch of the way.

The Forbidden Metro Ride

Day two began with a meeting — Joanne, the group’s leader, collected everyone’s passports and delivered one firm instruction: no metro.

Four of them, including Father Leonard from EWTN, had their hearts set on Sacré-Cœur at Montmartre. A taxi fare was looked into. The number that came back — somewhere around €40–50 — was enough to kill that idea quickly. The metro, on the other hand, was less than €2. The earlier warning was weighed, set aside, and the decision was made: metro it was. Joanne would not be hearing about this.

Stepping onto that train, something unexpected happened — it felt completely natural. The Paris metro, for all its reputation, turned out to be effortless. The local feeling arrived almost immediately.

Sacré-Cœur Basilica

Sacré-Cœur Basilica crowns the hill of Montmartre with over two hundred steps leading up to its doors — and inside, something even more remarkable awaits. The Basilica has maintained Perpetual Adoration for over a hundred years without a single interruption. Perpetual Adoration refers to the continuous exposition of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist — twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. It is a prayer of profound quiet, an act of love before the Real Presence, practiced by the faithful who simply come and stay awhile with the Lord.

The Basilica’s Grand Organ is in a class entirely its own. The sound is so sacred it seems to pierce straight through — the kind of music that makes the soul feel, just for a moment, as though it has already crossed into eternity. Prayers were offered for every intention brought from home. It was a most holy experience, and one not easily forgotten.

The Metro Passengers

Afterward, the group stopped for lattes and crepes filled with rich, dark chocolate — a proper Parisian interlude — before heading back toward the hotel. Metro tickets were purchased and handed out, and it was during that small transaction that things went sideways. Father Leonard had struck up a conversation with a local priest and was making introductions all around. In the distraction of the moment, the wallet was tucked away, the purse was zipped up, and everyone boarded.

At every stop, more passengers crowded in. Students loaded and unloaded at each station; the car became uncomfortably cramped, impossible to move through. As a cluster of French students exited, a voice called out for them to be careful. One young man turned back and, in a mocking tone, repeated the words back — a detail that would later seem rather suspicious.

The exit stop was nearly reached when the purse caught the eye — unzipped. A quick search through the bag turned up nothing. Father Leonard offered calm counsel: “Wait until we exit the metro to take a better look.” On a city bench outside, everything was unloaded from the handbag. Wallet — gone. Two credit cards, all the euros, all the American cash — gone. And it was only day two.

The purse had been zipped. That much was certain. Whether that sharp-tongued young man was the one who lifted it — only God knows.

Mike

A call had to be made — back home to Mike, to break the bad news. The cards needed to be canceled immediately. This was a Marian pilgrimage with a demanding itinerary of one-day stops across multiple cities, which made wiring money nearly impossible. There would be no quick fix.

The Dinner

Dinner that evening was most unpleasant — and not only because of the wallet. By this point, Joanne had gotten wind of the metro adventure. Every bite came with a well-earned reprimand. Even dessert was not spared the lecture. Father was sending encouraging texts from across the table, trying to lift the mood, but it wasn’t working.

Still — the incident did not touch the spiritual blessings of the day. Not for a moment. The only real sadness was the crystal rosary purchased in Lourdes. It had been in the wallet.

One Hundred Dollars

Father Leonard quietly produced a one-hundred-dollar bill — pressed into hand with a promise to be repaid once home. What followed was an unexpected complication: French banks and businesses were reluctant to accept large-denomination American bills due to concerns about counterfeits. A visit to a bank had to wait nearly a week.

Going without money — for someone who loves to shop — was a hard and humbling lesson. No rosaries. No holy medals. No shoes. Passing shoe store after shoe store without stopping. The temptation to ask someone for a loan flickered once or twice — and was immediately dismissed. A loan for something material? No. That line would not be crossed.

St. Catherine Labouré

The next stop was the Rue du Bac — home to the Chapel of the Daughters of Charity, where St. Catherine Labouré received some of the most consequential apparitions in modern Church history.

The Miraculous Medal owes its origin to Catherine Labouré, a member of the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul, to whom the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared three separate times in 1830 at the motherhouse of the community in Paris. In each apparition, the Blessed Virgin appeared sitting in a chair, asking Catherine to have a medal struck honoring her Immaculate Conception. As a means to spread fervor, Our Lady told Catherine that a medal should be coined based on Catherine’s impression of one of the visions — in which Our Lady stood on a globe, holding in her hands another globe representing the entire world, France in particular, and every single person upon whom she would bestow grace.

To this humble, obscure Sister the Blessed Virgin appeared, made prophecies, and commissioned the making of the medal which soon came to be known as “miraculous” because of the favors wrought. St. Catherine Labouré lived a life of prayer and service to the poor and was canonized in 1947.

St. Catherine is also one of the Church’s incorruptibles — meaning that when her body was exhumed, it was found to be intact, showing no decomposition. Her incorrupt body remains today in the chapel in which she had the apparitions on the Rue du Bac. Her body rests on the right side of the main altar — a silent, luminous witness to everything she received and everything she kept hidden for decades out of pure humility.

Prayers were offered there for every intention carried from home. It was a most holy experience — the kind that does not leave a person the same.

The Meals

Without funds, packing became a necessity. Part of the complimentary breakfast was quietly set aside each morning for lunch — a practice the ministry had long made standard. Plastic bags come from home for exactly this purpose: not only to save money, but because the itinerary moves so quickly that stopping for a proper meal is often simply not an option.

The autoroutes of France offer a pleasant surprise for road-weary travelers. The rest stops along the highway are nothing like their American counterparts — they are well-equipped, clean, and stocked with genuinely fresh, tasty food. The lattes, in particular, are wonderful. Father Leonard, with characteristic generosity, treated to a latte at most of these stops. It was a small kindness that meant more than it might have otherwise — given the circumstances.

From Paris, the journey continued onward to Lisieux.

My Prayer

Dear Lord, thank You for Your wonderful provisions. Adapting to travel without funds was teaching dependence on You for everything. Amen.