After 39 years, the
writer revisits Paris
to explore memories
and discover whether
for him there is
still there
6 July 2017 - jeudi
Thunder rumbles and the gray sky looses pelting rain to make
the rooftops glisten. The heat wave has crested and the forecast promises
seventy-degree temperatures with increasing rain through the weekend.
Today, I explore Montmartre (18e). Returning to rue
Ordener, I go left and know it’s good when I reach rue Caulaincourt,
which is tree-lined, of human scale and full of cafes. People carry umbrellas
for occasional light rain below the lifting sky, as I stroll along looking for
someplace to sit. With so many choices, I’m being picky. This one’s too small.
That one has only a single file of tables outside. This one is popular but just
off the main drag. I don’t feel like crossing the street for the next, and then
I reach one just right: lots of outdoor tables,
well-appointed interior and not too crowded.
I relax in the temperate weather beneath the awning, reading
and gazing at waiters, patrons and passersby. Across the street a stairway of
125 steps descends the hill. Multiple pictures I snap show the progress of a
woman in blue dress, who’s a quarter of the way down in the first, and more
than half way in the second. I deny stalking her! On this side, streets
continue the descent, though at less steep angles. I might have lingered for
early lunch but take only coffee in anticipation of exploring Sacre Coeur.
After studying the map at the bus stop, I cross the street
and notice a young woman and her mother doing the same. When the next bus
comes, the francophone daughter steps in and learns the stop is around the
corner. She leads the way, and as we wait a trackless train with ten cars
passes, a sight expected at amusement parks hauling children. This one carries
gray-headed seniors to Sacre Coeur for an advertised price. Our bus
comes soon after then winds around the sheer face of the hill, as to our left
stand one-level rustic restaurants. In a blink we’re at the base of the cathedral
where scores of people sit on steps overlooking northern Paris. The bus drops
us beyond the steps opposite the funicular.
I climb to reach the
cathedral where tourists wait to go inside. They are not overwhelming like
those yesterday, seeming more orderly because their focus is either the
cathedral or the view. From there, one sees hundreds of buildings telescoped
one behind the other in a vast gray expanse that compresses thousands of
invisible people, and I search in vain for the woman in blue.
In my journal, I noted that I often ended up at Sacre
Coeur and at Notre Dame de Paris. I do recall wandering past Notre
Dame (4e) at all hours of day or night. It’s on level ground by the river,
so that makes sense. Sacre Coeur is on a hill and I don’t have memories
of passing close by.
I buy soda from a vendor and sit at the base of the church.
A couple, speaking an unknown language, have two boys, ages two and five. The
older boy picks up a broken cobblestone and right away the younger one wails
for it. The mother consoles him while prompting both to pose beside the brown
bear propped on a step.
The funicular takes me down the hill. It’s time for lunch,
so I scrutinize cafes on the small streets and alight on Restaurant Florenza
on rue des Trois Freres. Open picture windows admit fresh air and
afford views of cafes on opposite corners. Light rain falls and sweat crystals
from the humidity make my skin glow. I place my order then, after the waiter
leaves, cast my gaze to the left. Curses! Across the way lies the café bistro
called Le Progres. I had put a check mark beside its entry in my Lonely
Planet guidebook (11th Ed.) that reads in part: “A real live café
du quartier perched in the heart of Abbesses, the Progress occupies a
corner site with huge windows and simple seating and attracts a relaxed mix of
local artists, shop staff, writers and hangers-on. It’s great for convivial
evenings, but it’s also a good place to come for meals…” So close and yet so
far: I had wanted to test the recommendation. Because I roll alone, I usually
target areas instead of particular must-go places. Serendipity influences my
travels, in which the journey is as relevant as the destination. Nonetheless, I
make a mental note to come back to Le Progres next week.
A steamroller comes
down the cobblestone street, making an ungodly sound --each cobble clanging the
metal drum. The vehicle, however, is on scale with the small street, unlike
tall trucks that threaten to topple careening around the corner. The little
train hauling seniors snakes by.
A man makes multiple trips carrying odd-sized packages; the
ribbing on the back of his blue vest indicates he’s the postman. Civil servants
in Paris --postmen or woman, bus drivers or fare inspectors, wear subtle
uniforms that don’t immediately set them apart, or else the heat has something
to do with it. I don’t recall seeing policemen or women in uniform, although I
do see French military in camouflage and maroon berets cradling automatic
weapons across the chest.
After eating, I make my way back to the hotel and return in
time to watch Inspecteur Barnaby, which is Midsommer Murders back
home and like comfort food.
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Next post in about two weeks.
