Old Paris

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After a bit of late start this morning (it was a white Granache), I had a croque monsieur for breakfast, and took the metro up to the fabled Montmartre. This arrondissement is one of Paris' most famous, but unfortunately because of two particular movies. The Moulin Rouge, a popular burlesque house in the '50's (more about that later) and Les Deux Moulins, a cafe/restaurant employing a unique woman named Amelie. It seemed the remainder of all these windmills in Montmartre were consolidated to rooftops. I think I saw one real one in the distance, but it really could have been anywhere, considering the view from Sacre Coeur.
As if to prepare you for the long trip to the top of the second-highest point in Paris, getting of the Metro stop in Montmartre reminded me of my Paris apartment. Damn those stairs! There was an elevator at the bottom, which is an anomaly, I don't know why I didn't take the hint. After I surmounted the steps and emerged from the underground metro (at the "prettiest Metro stop in Paris"), I followed the signs to the Sacre Coeur, and the Butte de Montmartre.
Why this district should be famous is for its grand, white basillica, and the breathtaking view from its doors. Made of travertine stone, its walls exude calcite; I'm not sure what that is, but it ensures that this cathedral stays bright white through the most rigorous conditions. Looking upon it from below (pictures soon, I hope), it has an aura of untaintable purity, but also of antiquity, like old bones bleached by centuries of sun. The steps to the top were nothing compared to the spring-of-decreasing-radius leading to my apartment, and the metro exit warmed me up well. It was difficult shaking the swarms of North-African hawkers along each tier of stairs (one even told me "Hakuna Matata", though I don't think he used that phrase properly), but the most aggressive ones were at the bottom, and they thinned towards the top. Luckily, I am well versed in the ways of "Good cop bad cop" with hawkers, and with no Good Cops around, I managed to shake even the most persistant vendors. I don't even know what they were selling, they all had long pieces of colorful string.
The last platform before the top, a heavenly sound met my ears, and I think I may be changed forever. A bespectacled man was playing the harp, sans sheet music, just in front of this magical building, and it touched my soul. Something about harp music. I shot a ten-second video of him, hoping to capture his sound forever. I could have camped out on those stairs listening to his music for the rest of my trip in Paris and been content.
Having been to the Eiffel Tower last night, I forewent the 5 euro charge to climb to the top of the Dome (honestly, pay to climb 300 more stairs??) and entered the main room of the church, passing a man rocking out on a flute. An actual mass was being conducted, and I was proud of my fellow tourists for respecting that fact. There was the hushed patter of feet circling the church, admiring each alcove. A man with a Moe-haircut and glasses partook of somthing looking like communion (I know very little about Catholic tradition), and two habit-ed nuns sang into mics, their clear sopranos emitting from tinny speakers surrounding the room.
I was uneasy walking through a tourist attraction while Parisiens were worshipping, but I felt worse knowing that these priests (?) conducted mass daily, with the expectation of hosting tourists. I felt like I was in Colonial Williamsburg, and they were all dressed up to play their part ("We can never break character!"). And the booths that turn your penny into a souvenir penny (for 2 euro) at the exit didn't help my unease.
After Sacre Coeur, I visited Paris' Salvador Dali museum, which is home to 300 of Dali's works. I always knew I liked Dali, but today I figured out why. That man is crazy!! His inventiveness, talent, and boldness to express his ideas makes him one of art's best. He's more than just melting clocks (though he does love those); he does sculpture that defies gravity, gouache series of ancient stories, and was extremely religious, and unafraid to say so in his art. He did an entire photo series of himself, with his stylized mustache, respectively expressing different concepts in which he believes. I would recommend looking this up if you want to understand him better; but it could just make you more confused. That's the beauty! I also bought my first Paris souvenir in the museum gift shop: a Dali scent. Apparently the Dali Design House makes a line of perfume in bottles based on his work. I feel like it's legitimately connected to him, and the bottle was so friggin cool! I got a miniature scent in a blue bottle, shaped like an elegant, elongated woman, with a rose-bush head. So cool.
I ate lunch in a restaurant featuring a live pianist, who played classics by Edith Piaf, Mozart, and Annie the musical. After lunch I paused on another steep slope to linger with the view, and a wizened cellist played principal to his accompanying recorded symphony. I love Montmartre, if only for the plethora of street musicians. It felt like the last place in Paris that was honest to the cities roots. It seems that artists can still thrive here, and passions can flourish. When you think of old Paris, this is what comes to mind.
I took a turn for the worse in search of the Moulin Rouge (I couldn't come to Montmarte without at least looking for it) and ended up on THE seediest street in Europe. Neon signs promoting sex and lewdness were dotted with crepe stands. Not an appetizing combination. I passed the official Museum of Eroticism, and the window displays attracted a curious young crowd, but for all our giggling none of us were bold enough to enter. When I finally happened upon the large windmill, it was a sore disappointment. After all you have to go through just to reach it, the windmill atop he Moulin Rouge didn't even spin, and looked like as plain as a stuccoed mexican casa with some blades attached. There was no flair, no posters by Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, nothing to make it appealing other than its fame. It seems little has changed on this street, including this once-legendary dance hall. I can't expect only the magical part of old Paris to remain, I suppose.
I entered the REAL "prettiest metro stop in Paris" and took it to the Tour Eiffel (again!) and there caught the Bato-bus. It took me a few times of saying it to notice the play on words: bateau is French for "boat". The Bato-bus taxis around on the Seine, making 8 stops at monuments, for tourists, or locals sick of the metros. I got a one-day pass (and was mocked by the acne-faced, drop-out ticket seller, how humiliating), and caught the boat to Notre Dame Cathedral, this time to enter.
The outside was more magnificent than the unseeing mind can imagine, and this one is not just riding its fame from movies. There is no way Disney could do this Cathedral justice. The entry arch alone could be studied for hours, and there are so many secret alcoves and twisting stone passageways, it could house every tourist in the courtyard without them bumping elbows. Entrance was free, but that didn't stop the Church from treating this masterpiece like a tourist attraction. Herded along with the rest of the tourists, I was shoved and stepped on, and no mass being held here allowed people to have loud conversations in twenty different languages, right in my ear. This didn't detract from the knee-buckling stained glass, and the sweeping arched ceiling. One old woman almost got punched, though, when she deliberatly stepped on my foot, and didn't even glance when I said "excuse you", but you know, it was God's house, I figured there weren't enough candles to forgive me that one.
At the far back of the church was a set of sculptures sheltered by an azure-blue frescoed ceiling, with gilded five-point stars. The pillars leading to its arches were brightly and richly colored, and running my hand along a red and gold pattern, I felt the history of this building imprinted on my skin. I imagined what it would be like to be in that cathedral alone, without the innapropriately-dressed Spanish girls, and the nuns jingling baskets for donations. I bet it would make the staunchest atheist relent. The pope is coming to town on Saturday; I wonder how he can condone this capitalization on spirituality. Perhaps if he cries a few tears of remorse into the basin of holy water, he can absolve himself.
I didn't turn my penny into a souvenir Notre Dame penny, but I did snap a shot of the booths.
Exiting the curch, I crossed the remarkably short bridge to the island next door, Ile St. Louis, and treated myself to the best gelatto in the city, Berthillon's. I got poire and melon flavored sorbets, and they were worth every penny. Ashley, you were dead on with that one. And Gary, I would be dead in a gutter without the street map. I'm starting to learn my way around, just in time to leave in a few days.

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Photos

Sacre Coeur
Bottom of the hill (but top of the Metro)

Sacre Coeur
Kid in a Ratatouille hat, complete with rat on top

Sacre Coeur
Wind Man detail above pool

Sacre Coeur
I could have listened to this harpist all day.

Sacre Coeur
Vendor outside the church, "chosissez la plus jolie!"

Comments

[ash]

berthillon's
when i was there, i had caramel and chocolat sel - there's something about salt and sweet in france. super amazing though. but i dont think i valued berthillon's as much as i should have, probably because it was freezing rain, and rue d'ile saint louis is the longest street in the world with the most gelato shops in the world until you actually get to the right one...