To quote one of my favorite french songs..."The stairways up to la butte can make the wretched sigh/While windmill wings of the moulin shelter you and I." Montemarte is quite the wonder. I explored first the beauties of Sacre Coeur, which I found more modern than I remember studying, but beautiful nonetheless. The mosaic above the alter was just breath-taking and the light pouring in from the dome above fought for my attention from the glittering masterpiece. I then traversed down into the lovely tourist-engulfed area next to the basilica where all the artists congregate to sell their work to tourists with money burning holes in their pockets. It was suffocating, really, with every artist you pass asking to draw your portrait.
I found some solace in the nearby views of Paris---charming tile roof tops and clay chimneys, and lost myself in the winding cobblestone streets. Literally, I was lost all day. The best part about it was that for once, I had nowhere to be and nothing to do. Ok, by nothing I mean that Balzac was screaming through my backpack that I was still only on page 70 instead of 200, but why would I want to torture myself with 19th century depressing and longwinded Parisian literature when I could much more easily and enjoyable adventure through the sacre coeur of Paris itself?
Random: I came upon the most interesting and rather inspiring graffiti in a random stairway traversing down the hill. I feel like such art as graffiti is just as interesting and just as worthy of attention as the beauty of a basilica or the colors on a canvas in a square of artists. It is almost more telling of the culture, at least the youth of the culture, than anything else, because it is not contrived for tourists, but rather as an expression of needs, dreams, and desires.... or just artistic expression---très cool.
Alas, I played tourist and wandered into a boulangerie where I was snarked at by the owner for not making up my mind quickly enough and then not having exact change... c'est la vie. Still hungry, of course, I made my way to a creperie where I was the sole customer, and proceeded to partake of the best part of french culture---the food. Cidre de Normandie est incroyable and if I can bring some home, I most certainly will.
An hour and a half later, after I felt that I had sufficiently stuffed myself and had taken my time ( in the true sense of french dining habits), I made my way down the hill to where I was told I could find fabric stores. I was informed back home in the US that they were primarily located at the base of Montmartre, but the enormity of the collection of shops was never discussed. These stores wind on and on, street by street, with their bolts of fabric spilling out onto the sidewalk calling you in with signs reading "Promotions!!!" (sales). And I mean, who can resist a sale sign, especially in Paris? Not me. As this whole section of town directly ties to my independent study for The Theatre School, I made a point to take business cards and addresses, and make notes of the establishments' selections. Of course everyone that passed me with my little book in hand on the side of the street, not so discreetly scribbling down numbers, looked at me with suspicion and a look that read, "ça, c'est bizarre." I found some good stuff, as they say, and with a splitting headache, ran out of time for it all.
I guess I'll just have to go back....
Oh que chuis jalouse!
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