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.
It's the second time I've walked up there that day - the first time I took the longer but less steep route through the gardens, photographing flowers and cats - and though the sky is overcast up above, it's still far too hot. I'm sweating by the time I get up there. It's just me and Jobe this time - the others have returned to the hostel, whereas we want to stay and explore Montmartre a little more.
This is probably the closest to lost I get in Paris the whole trip, which is a shame. We lose our way a little, heading down narrow staircases and wandering beautiful residential streets, but ultimately we find ourselves in a place I recognise.
Thankfully, this place is beautiful, a small square populated by street artists selling their wares, impressive paintings or even sculptures, or simple portrait artists doing caricatures or sketches. By now, however, we're tired and too poor to afford the fifty euro artworks which seem to be the lowest sum for anything of note (I wish I'd been able to take some photos to show you, but they were pretty strict about that). Seeing nothing of interest within our miserable student price range - I have no time or sympathy for caricaturists, despite their talent - we decide to head back the way we came, and take the metro back to central Paris.
But first, a couple of stops. Le Petaudiére is a tiny restaurant on a tiny street in the narrow back ways of Montmartre. I can't speak for the food, but what I will say is: it has cider, and it isn't half bad. So Jobe and I relax and talk, listening to the music belting from the upright piano in the next room (that's one thing about Paris: most restaurants seem to have an upright piano next to the bar, no matter how cramped it is.). Mainly we cool down, sit back and rest before preparing for the journey home - we still have untold numbers of steps to climb up, and a long way to go before we get back to the metro station.
Sighing, we stand up and leave, realising our journey ahead. Back the way we came - up hills much of the time, rather than down; we're going back the hard way - we soon near our journey's end. But then we're greeted by another distraction. Jazzy piano music in the distance; we follow the sound until we come across the source, a graffiti-covered piano in the middle of the street. Two girls finish playing their swing tune, and I give Jobe a look.
'Go on,' I say with a grin. 'Show them how it's done.'
So Jobe does. He stands at the piano (there's no stool) and plays a quick classical piece, before a small child interrupts him, plinking along with the high notes. I stand back and watch Jobe and his new friend playing their own separate songs at the same time, and I begin to think maybe all this sweat was worth it.
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