I owe to Paris the original landscape of my imagination. Boulevards sweep alongside ornate buildings. Trees stand, trimmed and proper, next to their benches. Old men in trenchcoats and hats shuffle through city parks, hands clasped behind their backs. Young children in school suits and square backpacks chase after eachother down the street. An intellectual culture characterizes adult relationships. Red wine and creamy espresso flows freely at cafes, as does discussion. Canvases of greatness, present at corner museums, reminds visitors that this place exists to inspire. Afterall, is that not what makes a man-made city great? That it simulates the ability of nature to stir wonder in a heart?

I'll never forget the first time I encountered this kind of wonder in Paris.

As was expected by my family when guests came to visit, I became the always-willing tour guide. This particular day, I was assigned to a group of Canadian friends to take to Versailles.

It wasn't an unusual Sunday at the Palace. French familes walked through the forest and around the fountains of the palace grounds. I mentioned points of interest to the visitors with the ease of someone who had done this many times before. King Louis XIII began construction of Versailles, as a hunting retreat, in 1623. Each following king, increasingly unaware of the conditions of his own country, became preoccupied with improving the palace. By the time Louix XVI took power the ever-growing palace was still unfinished, but financial troubles put an end to ambitious construction projects.

The walking tour of the Chateau is fairly easy, and the facts are as numerous about each place. The Hall of Mirrors was the site of the ultimately doomed Treaty of Versailles. Marie Antoinette had a play-village. But my favorite bit is the chapel -- it was one of the last additions to the Chateau, finished in 1708 during the rule of Louis XIV.

It wasn't busy that afternoon and, as lady luck would smile on us, it was organ-tuning day. Tuning notes aren't necessarily "music", but how often do you hear an organ tuned? Notes sounded down through the rafters of the chapel and we bunched up around the entryway to listen. This shuffling clearly must have caused a ruckus, because the caretaker who was standing just on the other side turned to look at us. Oddly enough, she did something very un-French: she smiled at us. We must have all smiled back, because she reached over, unhooked the velvet rope and motioned for us to follow her.

We were swept up some stairs onto the second floor of the chapel. Giddy, we quietly took seats just 10 feet from the organ. Suddenly, the music stopped and she turned to us. Did we want to hear a song? Were there any requests? I think we were all still smiling when the tuner turned back to the keyboard and began to play.

I was transported, removed. Whereas before I observed stone and daubs of paint, and listened to strings of notes, all of a sudden these elements harmonized. If only the ceiling fresca had begun to move would the moment have been more magical! Still to this day, I do not remember what she played on that organ. Yet, to be moved in such a way by beauty, I consider a great reward.