August 31, 2009
We'd planned to see the Orsay Museum today, but it's closed on Mondays, so we head for Montmartre. Montmartre is bohemian Paris, and home to the dazzling white basilica of Sacre Coeur. I was in Paris, at Montmarte, nearly twenty years ago. Then I was too stingy to have a sketch portrait made. I've since thought that was a silly economy. So if I see something I like this time, I'm, taking it home.
There is something almost startling about riding the Paris Metro, packed but silent, then exiting and walking up to street level to see hundreds of people, cafes, shops, all against a lively, colorful background. Coming up into Montmartre has that startle effect times a double espresso.
I stand on a corner, drinking in all the life going on around me, momentarily overwhelmed. A figure emerges from the crowd, an elderly man with a cane, wearing a dark green suit and a beret. He approaches me, tilts his head slightly to one side, and asks, "Are you looking for Sacre Couer?"
I tell him I am. He gives me directions, and I thank him profusely.
Sacre Couer, atop Paris' highest hill, commands a spectacular view of the city. Before we begin the steep climb, though, we need coffee and hot chocolate.
At the cafe we choose I place our order, and we take a table on the sidewalk. When our order arrives, I realize I didn't communicate well. We have one large (by French standards) cafe au lait. Now, I know I can't drink coffee-it will make me sick. However, I love coffee, and this coffee looks and smells wonderful. Bernie tastes it. "Mmm, it's delicious." I pick up the cup and taste it. It's heavenly. Though we share, I drink most of this perfect cup of coffee. I may pay for it later but now it's worth it. Another testament to the mystery of why we do things we know aren't good for us.
The climb to Sacre Couer is steep, and the approach is crowded with shops of all kinds-at least ten beauty shops specializing in elaborate African hair styles, inexpensive clothing in bins that open both on the sidewalk and the inside of the shop, tobacco shops and bars.
Several men are running a shell game in the middle of a narrow street. The amazing thing is that people are falling for it-one of the oldest scams in the world. It's obviously illegal, but the shifty-eyed crooks who've drawn a large crowd seem little concerned about possible arrest. There are no police in sight.
The of city streets opens to a park-like setting. We are just below the basilica on a path with an amazing view of Paris below us.
We've avoided most of the steps to Sacre Coeur-there's just one flight left. But here are all the recent-immigrant vendors with their wares on display. This year you can buy crystal Eiffel Towers. We're about to sweep past them when I see little battery-powered dogs trotting along, barking, tails wagging, eyes flashing. I don't know how I'll find room in my bulging suitcase, but I buy one for Elyse and Brookie.
Violin music pours from the top of the steps-a busker plays as tourists drop money in the box nearby.
Rules are posted a the entrance to the church: no hats, no photographs, proper attire, silence. They're enforced, too. Someone is told to remove his hat, another takes a photo and is told to leave. Silence, however, is elusive. It's clear the atmosphere here is not prayerful. Everyone seems to want to talk. We leave.
Instead of walking down all the steps, we take the finicular, then the Metro back to Central Paris.
In the Tuileries we buy ice cream and then enter the Orangerie, the beautiful Impressionist museum that houses Monet's Water Lilies in two oval rooms, displayed as he specified. On the lower level we also see some fine paintings by Utrillo, Renoir, Cezanne, Matisse and Picasso. Renoir does the most amazing things with color.
Late afternoon-we take the train back to Versailles. On the walk back to the hotel, I purchase the last tuna baguette of the day from a cafe.
We return to our peaceful village through lovely countryside this late August evening.
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