Springtime in Paris: Sacré Coeur de Montmartre

In general people don't think of hills when the subject of Paris comes up, certainly not in the same way they do with Rome, or San Francisco, or Lisbon. The one exception to this would be Montmartre, the tallest hill in Paris and the only one that qualifies as a tourism destination. The hill may have originally been named for a Roman temple to Mars that once existed at its apex, and then adjusted to fit the legend of the martyr Saint -Denis who was decapitated there for preaching Christianity. The hill is not enormous but rises steeply enough that many people opt for the funicular rather than climbing the two hundred and twenty-two steps that run up the southern slope of the hill alongside it. There are several other ways to approach Montmartre from the south, such as the scenic and curvaceous Rue Lepic, but in the end we elected a shorter and more direct ascent via Rue Ravignan.

Montmartre was not incorporated into Paris until after the Haussmann renovations were already in progress and its topography was unsuitable anyway for long, straight avenues so it was completely bypassed when the city was refashioned in the mid nineteenth century. Our walk uphill was an opportunity to admire an eclectic collection of old buildings that bore no resemblance to the well-structured walls of apartment buildings that filled the lower arrondissements.

The summit of Montmartre is one of the most touristy parts of Paris, rivaling the heart of the Quartier Latin. I had planned on finding us a bistro in which to have lunch before we reached this area but somehow nothing presented itself until we reached the congested lanes west of the Basilica. I was relieved to find out that some of the restaurants around us were quite well-reviewed and that the most promising one had a table for us despite it being the peak of the lunch hour. We selected our usual favorites like escargot, duck confit, and foie gras. I prevailed on Spenser to try a savory galette while Cleo went with a poke bowl just to be rebellious. I can't remember why I asked but our young waitress told us she was from Algiers, which I found odd as she didn't look the least bit North African. I had always thought that virtually all the French left Algeria at the conclusion of the Franco-Algerian War in the early 1960's, which would have probably been before the waitress's parents were born. Had some community of French held on in Algiers, or were her parents contractors or diplomats? Obviously I wasn't going to ask so I simply inquired if she felt it was a good idea for Americans to visit Algeria and she answered that she thought Algiers was perfectly safe, but that we would have to be careful inland. I never thought seriously about visiting Algeria so it gave me some food for thought.

The hilltop contained a tiny network of cobblestone pedestrian streets that only took a few minutes to explore. Dozens of restaurants were packed into the small area, most of them with outdoor seating which made the streets feel even more crowded. There were a few souvenir shops and art galleries, as well as a biscuterie that specialized in macarons. The macarons were particularly gorgeous and presented in the most tempting way imaginable.

The top of Montmartre wasn't always an energetic hive of commercial activity. From medieval times most of the summit was occupied by a Benedictine convent that was eventually destroyed in the French Revolution. By that time the convent's courtyard had already been opened to the general public as a village square, and the new buildings that replaced the convent were constructed around it. Place du Tertre is now the heart of the Montmartre neighborhood and has a long artistic tradition. The square and the cafes around it were once frequented by such luminaries as Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, and even Picasso in his younger years. Currently there are dozens of artists who rotate through the square and are required to earn a license through a jury system. They compose landscapes, portraits and caricatures and specialize in rapid production for impatient tourists. We didn't have souvenirs on our mind but it was interesting to watch the tightly organized array of artists busily filling their canvases.

The second oldest church in Paris sits at the top of Montmartre but has been reduced to obscurity by its much larger and more famous neighbor. Saint-Pierre de Montmartre is the twelfth century church of the convent that was destroyed during the revolution. Its modest, Romanesque façade was overshadowed by the belltower and dome of Sacré-Cœur. We walked inside only because we were already at the front door and I was taken aback by the vibrant color of the stained glass windows. I thought we had stumbled upon some of the best-preserved church windows in Paris until I noticed odd, non-traditional motifs like little footprints and fish forms as well as a Cubist approach to the central themes. A quick inquiry to AI confirmed that these were twentieth century replacements of windows that had been destroyed during the revolution.

We were now fully primed for the main event of Montmartre. The Sacré-Cœur Basilica is a relatively modern Parisian landmark, having been constructed in the late nineteenth through early twentieth centuries. The impetus for its creation was the perceived moral decline in the country since the French Revolution and it is still perceived as an anti-progressive symbol by French leftists. The breathtaking structure of pale grey travertine displays a strong Byzantine influence, an unusual choice that may have been a reaction to the recent proliferation of Baroque edifices associated with deposed ruler Napoleon III. The basilica's position atop Montmartre makes it visible from much of Paris and the impressive height of both the central dome and belltower add to its prominence.

Naturally there was a long line to enter the basilica and we weren't particularly motivated to study yet another cavernous church interior. Instead we enjoyed the view over the Left Bank that the hill provided and slowly migrated down the staircases in front of the church. The lush green hillside that faces south was renamed Square Louise Michel by a recent socialist Parisian administration, in honor of a prominent figure in the Paris Commune of 1870 who was exiled to New Caledonia. The park is a popular place for Parisians to relax, eat lunch, and enjoy the view of the city. Every so often we turned back to enjoy the receding outline of the surreal basilica, resembling a black and white illustration superimposed on a verdant landscape.

The final item on my Montmartre itinerary was Halle Saint Pierre, a former covered market that is now repurposed as an exhibition space and art bookstore. I had hoped we might be able to pass an hour or even two inside exploring different galleries but the only thing that was free was entrance to the cafe in the lobby. The exhibition spaces required payment which would have taken the fun out of it, and there was no way of knowing if we would even be interested in the contents.

As we stood outside the building wondering what to do next, a guy walking past stopped to tell us in English that if we were looking for a cafe, there was a really beautiful one just a block away. We were in fact not looking for a cafe but we had to interpret this unsolicited advice as an act of divine providence so we walked in the direction the man had pointed in. We soon came to a long staircase that went halfway back up the Montmartre hill on its eastern side. Reascending Montmartre wasn't what we had in mind but we didn't want to be turned back by laziness so we hauled ourselves up the steps. There were actually two quite charming little restaurants at the nameless little plaza at the top of the stairs, one very cheerful and colorful and the other occupying the tip of a wedge-shaped block. There didn't seem to be anything else promising along the roads leading away from the plaza so we decided to return to our starting point.

There was a small residential neighborhood wedged between Montmartre and Goutte d'Or, the African neighborhood we had explored the previous day. There were a few interesting things to see here, such as an unusual apartment building with a prominent corner turret featuring porthole windows. In the Haussmann lexicon this feature symbolized an important urban node. A dusty antique store sported a bedraggled stuffed cat and plastic skeleton limbs wedged in the window grating above its entrance. Mei Ling reported that the interior was very eccentric with all kinds of disparate kitsch jumbled together. A single surviving maison de village on an otherwise bland block seemed to be thumbing its nose at its conformist surroundings with its pignon roof and purple shutters.

By this point it was about three in the afternoon and I didn't have anything left on the itinerary I had created before the trip. I didn't have any desire to return to Goutte d'Or so we decided to go back to the Opéra district for a closer look at Palais Garnier. We turned south and walked back through the ninth arrondissement along Rue des Martyrs, pausing to investigate any interesting food stores along the way. Among the best were a bakery that sold tarts and quiches in repurposed wooden cheese boxes and the fruit stores with frontages resembling overflowing cornucopias. We bought Ian a carton of red currants, one of his favorite European delicacies, before continuing on towards the opera house.