Au revoir Paris

24 November 2014

Monday morning was our last in Paris but, as our train didn’t leave until the afternoon, we’d planned to explore Montmartre, maybe relax at one on the cafés in Place Du Tertre and take in the glorious views from the Sacre Coeur. When we woke up it was raining which put a dampener on things. Wrapping up against the wetness we left the hotel. The rain was pounding against the cobbled road, water gushing along the gutters as we dashed to the little café on the corner for breakfast.

There was shelter under the awning and it wasn’t really cold so we sat at our usual table to eat our croissants and drink our hot chocolate. Even on a grey rainy day nothing can beat a mug of hot chocolate made with real melted chocolate and warm milk to lift the spirits. As far as I was concerned we could stay there all morning drinking one after another. All around us people were dashing to work, collars turned up or under umbrellas and it felt cozy to sit at our little table watching them.

We couldn’t sit there forever though, much as we might have liked to but somehow walking in the rain up the hill to Montmartre had lost it’s appeal. Back at the hotel, as we packed up our bags in preparation for checking out we discussed our options. Maybe would could take the metro to Abessess and walk the last bit. Maybe it would stop raining.

With our bags stashed with the concierge and our bill settled we went back out onto the wet streets. The rain did seem to be easing up a bit so, before we checked out the metro, there was something nearby I wanted to revisit rain or no rain. A couple of times we’d passed a rather interesting piece of graffiti but I hadn’t got around to taking a photo and I was determined to get one before we left the city. Luckily it was a short walk away on Rue La Fayette so we trotted down there and a snapped a couple of photos. It turns out this is an ‘official’ piece of street art called Coup de chapeau painted by François Boisrond in 2001. It seems to sum up the city pretty well.

With the photos taken we scuttled back to Gare du Nord and the metro. From previous visits I knew which station we wanted and the map soon told us which line this was on, what it didn’t tell us was where the entrance to the line was. The place is huge and we spent quite a while walking around looking for it to no avail. In the end we conceded defeat and went back out onto the street. By some miracle it had stopped raining, more or less, so we decided we’d just walk to Montmartre. If it rained again so be it.

As it turned out it wasn’t very far at all and we could have been there already if we hadn’t wasted so much time wandering around Gare du Nord. In no time at all we were in Square Louise Michel standing by the carousel and looking up at the white dome of the famous church. It didn’t look too far off but I knew this was an optical illusion, we were at the bottom of the steepest hill in Paris.

Ahead there were steps to climb, lots of them. Of course, We could have taken the funicular railway but that seemed like cheating.  The first steps curved around the perimeter of the square and took us to  a wide paved area where the less fit could sit and rest before the next ascent. We just pressed on up to the next resting point and then the tiered steps past yet another resting point to the  row of niches below the basilica.  In one of the marble niches  a bunch of red balloons made a colourful statement although I have no idea what they were doing there. It made me think of the Albert Lamorisse film The Red Balloon, where a red balloon  follows a little boy around Paris.

There were just two more sets of steps to climb now, one curved and bordered by beautifully weathered rocks and the last with the church growing ever bigger until it filled our view completely. From the top it’s almost impossible to take a picture of Sacre Coeur so I was glad I’d taken a few on my way up those two hundred and seventy steps. The last time I’d walked up those steps I was twenty years old and I was surprised to find it easier than I remembered. Maybe I’m fitter now.

Montmartre is the highest point in Paris and the magnificent views make it easy to forget about the beautiful church altogether, even on a wet, grey day. The name mean means mount of martyrs because, on this spot, at the beginning of the third century the bishop Saint Denis, the patron saint of Paris, along with priest Saint Rusticus, the deacon Saint Eleutherius and the first Parisienne Christians were martyred.

We didn’t have time to go inside but there was one more place I couldn’t miss visiting. Just around the corner of the winding cobbled streets is the  Place du Tertre, a pretty little square where artists set up their easels each day. It’s a reminder that this is the place where the likes of Salvador Dalí, Amedeo Modigliani, Claude Monet, Piet Mondrian, Pablo Picasso, Camille Pissarro and Vincent Van Gogh lived and worked when they were merely starving artists.

Due to time constraints we had to give the relaxed coffee in one of the cafés a miss but there was a convenient Starbucks on the corner so we went in for a takeaway. This was my last chance to pronounce my name in a way a French person would understand. It turned out to be one more epic fail. The accent obviously needs more work. Much as I’d have liked to wander around Montmartre looking at the places my favourite artists hung about and maybe visiting the Dali museum, L’Espace Salvador Dalí, we had a train to catch.

With one last look at the views we made our way down the simple steps beside the funicular railway. It was time to go back to the hotel and pick up our bags. We’d packed a lot in to the last two and a bit days, walked miles and miles, seen famous and not so famous sights and ticked a few of those bucket list boxes. Even so, it seemed as if there was still so much more to see. This will almost certainly not be the last that Paris has seen of us.

In no time at all we were back in Gare du Nord then settling into our seats on the Eurostar getting ready to go through the tunnel that has welcomed more than ten million passengers a year for the last twenty years. The picture in the Eurostar Magazine seemed to sum the whole experience up perfectly.