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Annie Brown

It’s two minutes before six p.m., according to my iPhone,
which I’ve pulled out of my pocket for the sole purpose of
checking the time. We have less than two minutes to go.

My friend Meghan and I stand dwarfed next to the Sacré-
Coeur, which graces us with its grand hilltop presence. Barely
minutes before, we had rushed out of this Parisian landmark
to be on time. (In actuality, we were nearly chased out just as
we were finishing; a guard in the cathedral caught me
sneaking a photo of the grand mosaic dome inside.) Our tour
guide told us that they magic we’re waiting for will happen at
six, but as we wait, we wonder if it will happen at the hour on
the dot or if we’ll have to wait a little longer.

Then church bells begin to chime. They probably belong
to the Sacré-Coeur, the hill’s main attraction, but perhaps
other bells from surrounding churches are joining in. I
honestly can’t be completely bothered to know. I am paying
less attention with my ears and more with my eyes.

Within seconds, the Eiffel Tower, which stands some
distance to the right of the Sacré-Coeur, lights up in a dazzling
display of rapidly twinkling white LED lights. It is stunning—
beautiful.

My eyes water, not from the brightness of the lights but
from the childlike awe I experience in seeing them and from
the satisfaction of this moment having lived up to our small,
spur-of-the-moment hype. The anticipation we had produced
in the 15 minutes before makes it even more special for me
than if it had just started to light up if we had been walking by
it. It’s perhaps even more magical than it would have been if
we had seen it from our group’s tour bus on the highway

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