It was a blue-sky summer evening and I bounced on my heels and grinned. At seventy, I had finally made it to Paris. My husband and I eagerly waited in line to climb the Eiffel Tower. But the line wasn’t moving.  

“I’m hungry,” I said, hoping for a view from the restaurant on the second level.

“Me too,” said Steve. “We’ll be up there just in time for sunset.”

At the ticket window, a Middle Eastern family waved their arms in the air. Nearby, a handful of Japanese tourists milled around wearing puzzled expressions. Then a man in a business suit appeared, shouting first in English, then other languages.

“The Tower is closed temporarily! You may wait at least an hour here or proceed to the exit!”

Steve and I exchanged a glance. Hundreds of tourists murmured around us. Nobody smiled.

I looked back at the entrance where a guard in a security trailer had peered into my open backpack before I stepped out, excited and happy. Now the entire atmosphere had changed.

That same afternoon, we had walked down the Champs de Mars, named for the God of War, to see twelve glass panels engraved with the word Peace in 32 languages. Built for the millennium, the plan was to dismantle them after three months but they were still standing.   

After a short walk from the glass panels, we stepped into the trailer, paid the admission fee for the Eiffel Tower, and proceeded to a small doorway. We were used to the drill back home, at the Empire State Building, the county courthouse and every airport – open your purse, lift your arms, remove your jacket – and with rueful glances as our eyes met, we complied. Built as a temporary structure for the 1889 World’s Fair, the Tower was one of the most famous sights in the world, and an obvious target for terrorists.

After the unexpected announcement, we – and probably other couples with romantic dinner plans – wondered if we should stay. All at once, soldiers with assault rifles and stern faces strode up and began going through everyone’s bags. I felt a shiver of fear. Another man in a suit rushed up and spoke to the soldiers, who then moved to close the gates. One soldier turned to the crowd.

“You must exit across the plaza!”  His face and his voice conveyed high alert and we knew there would be no more questions.

“Let’s go,” Steve said, taking my arm. We crossed back to the entrance with hundreds of people speaking into cell phones. I never thought to ask anyone for information in my high school French. The police looked much too busy to approach, and the eyes of the soldiers were hard, unblinking.  

“What do you think it is,” I asked.  

Steve shook his head and shrugged. “No idea.”

But, of course we had an idea. We watched the news. We knew about the coordinated attacks here the previous November, when over 100 people were killed at a football match, cafes and the Bataclan theater. But on this lovely summer evening, we didn’t speak of it, as if saying the words might make it happen again. To us.

At least we were together. To the right of the trailer, tourists crowded before three open gates. A man shouted “Men!” and pointed left, then “Women!” and flung his arm to the right. Why were they separating us? My footsteps slowed and I thought of holding back but the crowd surged forward, carrying me along.  

“See you outside!” I called to Steve, as he disappeared into the surge. But my promise was no comfort. I was alone in a crowd in a foreign country. I reminded myself to breathe and looked through the black iron bars of the fence for a sign of my husband on the street outside. When I was almost at the gate, a uniformed woman pushed her palm hard against my chest.

“You wait!” she shouted, then ushered a woman with a young girl through ahead of me. She patted my body from head to toe and examined my backpack, the same one I had opened for inspection on the way in. Trembling, I kept my expression sober so she’d have no reason to hold me back.

At last, I stood next to Steve on the sidewalk outside, catching my breath. In the street, police cars careened to a stop, and sirens blared in that high-pitched scream we knew from foreign films. Enough, I thought, wanting to get away. I pulled on Steve’s arm.

“Let’s find a restaurant. I’m starving.”

We walked toward our hotel as more police cars screeched to a halt across the intersection, closing off the street behind us. I exhaled my tension as we left the commotion behind.  

At the first bar along the way, we sipped cold beers, devoured hot mussels and shared our admiration for the businesslike French police. As I sat back and watched the people of Paris go about their evening, I was overcome by tenderness. For them, and for us. Yes, this kind of thing happened back home, but I’d never been so close before, never seen such calm in the face of danger. I held Steve’s hand across the table, grateful beyond measure.

Back at the hotel, I checked the news online.

“Eiffel Tower Evacuated!” French authorities were calling it a false alarm by a new employee who mistook a drill for the real thing. The next day, I read that a backpack or “suspicious package” had caused the evacuation. Whatever the reason, a new reality had set in, dusting our visit with sadness.

Early last year, French officials announced plans to build an eight-foot bulletproof glass wall around the Eiffel Tower. In the new millennium, hate can kill without warning, even on beautiful summer evenings. Nearby, twelve panes of glass stand engraved with our longing.

– Linda C. Wisniewski

Author’s Note: I wanted to write about my only trip to Paris (so far) because so much about it remains unfulfilled, disappointing and full of longing for a better day, trip, country, and world.