Montmartre, for those of you who don't know, is a place of steps. And if it's not a place of steps, it's a place of hills. This I truly learned as I made my way up the steps to the Sacre-Coeur, the vast cathedral which stood at the top of the hill and overlooked the rest of Paris, sprawling out far below and far away.
Wednesday 31 July 2013
Monday 8 July 2013
Trying to Get Lost in the City of Love, Part 2: Making Music
Rewind now; not far, just to the night before.
The scene: a restaurant not far from Notre Dame, Paris, owned by a friendly, if overenthusiastic Portuguese man. There is a row of tables set up outside, brought together to seat eight people, but for now all the seats are empty. Piano music emanates from inside - Simon sits at the little upright in the cramped quarters of the lower floor bar, while Molly sings "I got Rhythm" accompanied (partially) by me. We'd met Molly and her friends earlier that day, at breakfast in the hostel. It was their first day there, and our last full one, and it being the fourth of July it seemed like a good reason to get together for a drink. She was there with Waller and Chiara, all the way from Rome where they'd been studying.
The scene: a restaurant not far from Notre Dame, Paris, owned by a friendly, if overenthusiastic Portuguese man. There is a row of tables set up outside, brought together to seat eight people, but for now all the seats are empty. Piano music emanates from inside - Simon sits at the little upright in the cramped quarters of the lower floor bar, while Molly sings "I got Rhythm" accompanied (partially) by me. We'd met Molly and her friends earlier that day, at breakfast in the hostel. It was their first day there, and our last full one, and it being the fourth of July it seemed like a good reason to get together for a drink. She was there with Waller and Chiara, all the way from Rome where they'd been studying.
Sunday 7 July 2013
Trying to Get Lost in the City of Love, Part 1: Climbing a Cemetery
The scene: a vast graveyard to the east of Central Paris, mid-morning. Grey clouds hang tentatively overhead, threatening a relieving drizzle which, unfortunately, never comes.
The protagonist: me, puffing and panting as I crest one of far too many sets of stone steps. I turn and look upon the grim panorama, much of the eerie view obscured by trees, before turning the other way and facing the tombs and gravestones which rise up above me, glowering down from the ridge which raises them above the level of the path. There is no direct route ahead. Sighing, I turn to the left and plod on, following the path as it curves around and joins the tombs on the ridge.
Somewhere, I hear the cawing of a crow. I round the next bend and see it, perched on the dirt path which crosses my neat cobbled one; as I step forward it gives a crow of alarm and flies off, and I am alone. Alas, for just a moment; a flutter of wings, and another crow is just getting settled on a farther distant headstone, its head turned to fix one eye on a point far below, away from the direction in which I am heading.
My goal: one grave in particular, a grave I am certain is up here somewhere! For this is not just a cemetery; this is the Cimitière du Père LaChaise (or the Cemetery of Father Chair, if you want to be a smart alec) where famed poet and writer Oscar Wilde is buried.
The protagonist: me, puffing and panting as I crest one of far too many sets of stone steps. I turn and look upon the grim panorama, much of the eerie view obscured by trees, before turning the other way and facing the tombs and gravestones which rise up above me, glowering down from the ridge which raises them above the level of the path. There is no direct route ahead. Sighing, I turn to the left and plod on, following the path as it curves around and joins the tombs on the ridge.
Somewhere, I hear the cawing of a crow. I round the next bend and see it, perched on the dirt path which crosses my neat cobbled one; as I step forward it gives a crow of alarm and flies off, and I am alone. Alas, for just a moment; a flutter of wings, and another crow is just getting settled on a farther distant headstone, its head turned to fix one eye on a point far below, away from the direction in which I am heading.
My goal: one grave in particular, a grave I am certain is up here somewhere! For this is not just a cemetery; this is the Cimitière du Père LaChaise (or the Cemetery of Father Chair, if you want to be a smart alec) where famed poet and writer Oscar Wilde is buried.
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