Breakfast in Paris is unhealthy. Beautifully unhealthy. Espresso follows espresso. Croissants caked in butter, ri
p and tear with delicate ease. Pain-au-chocolates melt in your hands on point of contact. Soft creams of goats cheese can be folded into crunching envelopes of bread with a single press of a flat knife. I almost wish I smoked cigarettes to complete this affront to cholesterol. I sit back in my cane chair and give an audience to the ringing silence in this little apartment. A handful of fresh flowers smile back at me. They sit in a small, fat pink vase, which in turn stands on a small fat Moroccan table, which I love. It has a intricate iron carving around its black girdle, and a heavy clay table top that is patterened with Moorish mosaic. I get up and open the windows. The coolness of morning breathes in. Across the Rue, on the building opposite this apartment, sunshine creeps over the giant mural of Marilyn Monroe (the Warhol version) painted there. How wonderfully uncomplicated Paris is.
To walk around the guts of any city is to discover what that city can really offer. In a bus, or taxi, train or tube you miss much. You aren't able to experience the chaos and charisma that street life can spark. You restrict your own vulnerability to being a stranger in a strange land, pushed and pointed at, distrusting and disorientated, nervous but not showing it, acting tough with eyes wide front. There is so much fun to be had being at the mercy of a map. Looking out for street names. Experiencing the panic of being lost. Dawdling here, surging there. Trusting that all will come good in the end. Knowing nothing can go wrong. As I powered my way (perrine-speed mark 4) up the Boulevard de Magenta I was offered everything from help, a home to let, hashish and a hand-job while waiting for the traffic lights to change colour as I crossed the spaghetti junctions outside the Gare du Nord.
In the north of Paris is the towering suburb of Montmartre. Perched at the top of a gradual hill this was once the mecca of Bohemia. The walk is taxing but worth it. Flights and flights of stone steps lift you up past flanking apartments, onwards and upwards. The views of the city of Paris from Montmartre seduced many of the heavyweight artists that are now revered; van Gogh, Renoir, Picasso and Dali. Once there, narrow streets run out of sight, over hills, around corners and off on their own trains of thought. Trees and creeper vines kiss and caress the flat facades of the houses here. Windmills spin their sails when the breeze blows in. Shops are full of reproductions of famous paintings. Some sell original works. Many artists are sold here in the small shops and galleries. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get a bit of oil on canvas for a fraction of its worth.
The main attraction in Montmatre is the Basilique du Sacre Coeur. This chalk-white monument of immense size and Byzantine beauty leaves one breathless when standing toe-to-toe with it. Even
from many parts of the city, the sight of the Sacre Coeur makes you want to stop and stare. The giant cream dome is visible for miles. Three arches invite you into the darkness to visit. Two emerald guardians on horseback keep a permanent watch as you walk underneath. Inside the Sacre Coeur there is a heaven of space filled only with endless silence. Giant, circular stained-glass windows twinkle and flash as you pass by. All around the main alter are smaller places of worship, subtle chapels often filled with flowers and the silent prayers of kneeling people with tears running down to melt on the cold, stone floor.
I am sat on one of the many stone steps oustide the Sacre Coeur with bright mid-morning sunshine burning my face. I'm squinting. This helps blot out the stream of
tourists who are haemorrhaging out of rows and rows of excursion coaches that alight opposite. In clots and clusters they flood past me and into the silence. The whole of Paris is spread out in front of me, hiding underneath the veil of a mist that was borne of the night-before. The cold and rain has gone, replaced with sunlight. Many of the Parisien landmarks are revealing themselves. I can see the two towers of the Cathedrale Notre Dame through the fading mist. I can see every rooftop of every home. For some reason a friend pops into my mind, and I recall a postcard he sent me from Croatia several years ago. In it he said that he was so happy there that he was never going to settle for second best in his life ever again. To my knowledge he never did. Travel can do that to you. Allez, allez, allez.
p and tear with delicate ease. Pain-au-chocolates melt in your hands on point of contact. Soft creams of goats cheese can be folded into crunching envelopes of bread with a single press of a flat knife. I almost wish I smoked cigarettes to complete this affront to cholesterol. I sit back in my cane chair and give an audience to the ringing silence in this little apartment. A handful of fresh flowers smile back at me. They sit in a small, fat pink vase, which in turn stands on a small fat Moroccan table, which I love. It has a intricate iron carving around its black girdle, and a heavy clay table top that is patterened with Moorish mosaic. I get up and open the windows. The coolness of morning breathes in. Across the Rue, on the building opposite this apartment, sunshine creeps over the giant mural of Marilyn Monroe (the Warhol version) painted there. How wonderfully uncomplicated Paris is.To walk around the guts of any city is to discover what that city can really offer. In a bus, or taxi, train or tube you miss much. You aren't able to experience the chaos and charisma that street life can spark. You restrict your own vulnerability to being a stranger in a strange land, pushed and pointed at, distrusting and disorientated, nervous but not showing it, acting tough with eyes wide front. There is so much fun to be had being at the mercy of a map. Looking out for street names. Experiencing the panic of being lost. Dawdling here, surging there. Trusting that all will come good in the end. Knowing nothing can go wrong. As I powered my way (perrine-speed mark 4) up the Boulevard de Magenta I was offered everything from help, a home to let, hashish and a hand-job while waiting for the traffic lights to change colour as I crossed the spaghetti junctions outside the Gare du Nord.
In the north of Paris is the towering suburb of Montmartre. Perched at the top of a gradual hill this was once the mecca of Bohemia. The walk is taxing but worth it. Flights and flights of stone steps lift you up past flanking apartments, onwards and upwards. The views of the city of Paris from Montmartre seduced many of the heavyweight artists that are now revered; van Gogh, Renoir, Picasso and Dali. Once there, narrow streets run out of sight, over hills, around corners and off on their own trains of thought. Trees and creeper vines kiss and caress the flat facades of the houses here. Windmills spin their sails when the breeze blows in. Shops are full of reproductions of famous paintings. Some sell original works. Many artists are sold here in the small shops and galleries. Maybe if you're lucky, you'll get a bit of oil on canvas for a fraction of its worth.
The main attraction in Montmatre is the Basilique du Sacre Coeur. This chalk-white monument of immense size and Byzantine beauty leaves one breathless when standing toe-to-toe with it. Even
from many parts of the city, the sight of the Sacre Coeur makes you want to stop and stare. The giant cream dome is visible for miles. Three arches invite you into the darkness to visit. Two emerald guardians on horseback keep a permanent watch as you walk underneath. Inside the Sacre Coeur there is a heaven of space filled only with endless silence. Giant, circular stained-glass windows twinkle and flash as you pass by. All around the main alter are smaller places of worship, subtle chapels often filled with flowers and the silent prayers of kneeling people with tears running down to melt on the cold, stone floor.I am sat on one of the many stone steps oustide the Sacre Coeur with bright mid-morning sunshine burning my face. I'm squinting. This helps blot out the stream of
tourists who are haemorrhaging out of rows and rows of excursion coaches that alight opposite. In clots and clusters they flood past me and into the silence. The whole of Paris is spread out in front of me, hiding underneath the veil of a mist that was borne of the night-before. The cold and rain has gone, replaced with sunlight. Many of the Parisien landmarks are revealing themselves. I can see the two towers of the Cathedrale Notre Dame through the fading mist. I can see every rooftop of every home. For some reason a friend pops into my mind, and I recall a postcard he sent me from Croatia several years ago. In it he said that he was so happy there that he was never going to settle for second best in his life ever again. To my knowledge he never did. Travel can do that to you. Allez, allez, allez.
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