I have been to Notre Dame countless times in my life, albeit not in the last ten years. As a family, we lived in Paris from December 1978 to April 1982. An occasional family activity on a Sunday afternoon would be to go to Notre Dame to hear part of the recital being put on by the organist. I would have been anywhere between six and nine years old, my sister Sacha four years younger. There must have been an inevitable limit to the time we spent there before Sacha and I got restless but I do retain memories of those afternoons and remember feeling the majesty of the moment, between the beauty of the interior of the temple and the raw energy of the organ being played with all the stops out.