Who knew windmills could be so durn elusive?
June 17, 2009
At 12:01 AM, we were still up and Dean poked me and said “happy anniversary.” What a romantic. Three years married. Looks like this thing is going to stick.
It was our last full day in Paris, so we decided to make it count. Earlier plans of relaxing forgotten, Dean tied on his sneakers. I would have too, if I owned sneakers, but they are dreadfully unfashionable, so I do not. However, I wore sensible yet stylish flats. We were going marathon sight-seeing.
Lady Liberty in the middle of the Seine was a quick stop. She is much smaller in Paris than her sister in NY, but just as pretty.
Then we took the metro north to the area just east of Sacre Coeur. As we walked up the steps and popped out of the ground like gophers, I had the distinct feeling that maybe we ought to run back down. There were a lot of street vendors, but not the pretty awning-ed ones. You could buy chestnuts that were roasting over a paint can full of coals (yum, lead-smoked nuts), or miscellaneous items out of re-appropriated shopping carts. I was sure the map said that Sacre Coeur was just a few blocks away, so we kept our heads down and put one foot in front of the other until we saw the big dome.
The stairs that Rocky runs up are nuthin compared to the millions of flights we had to trek up to get to the church. It was either several million flights of stairs or perhaps ten flights. Thinking back, I’m almost sure it was the former. I made several Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven” jokes near the beginning of the climb, but by the end I was just concentrating on crawling and gasping for water. Dean, bless his wonderful heart, offered me a piggy-back ride around flight five. I thought about it, but I didn’t know how I could accept and also maintain my position that I weigh 120, so I politely declined.
Sacre Coeur was worth the climb, which is saying a lot. The interior was gorgeous and since tourists weren’t allowed to take pictures, it didn’t get that crowded. We walked around and marveled for a bit at some incredible mosaics, then went back outside.
The view of Paris was awesome from there! Buildings and buildings as far as the eye could see. There were more steps right to the front of the church, and a musician with an amp and a guitar was standing at the base, singing anything requested of him. A huge crowd just sat on the steps enjoying his show. Everyone sang along when they knew the words, and there was this general sense of well-being and camaraderie among all of us there. Now if they could make the mass experience more like that, I’d probably enjoy going to church a lot more.
From reading, we learned that Sacre Coeur was the alleged location of the martyring of St. Denis, a bishop and the patron saint of Paris. St. Denis was beheaded by the rather nasty Romans, and legend has it that he posthumously picked up his own head and marched North with it. Where he finally came to rest, a pious widow buried him and the Parisians later built the Cathedral of St. Denis over his tomb. Looking at our map, Dean and I decided it was too far for us to walk even with our heads still attached, so we went about looking for the next metro stop.
Not wanting to brave the streets from which we’d just come, we set out due West from Sacre Coeur. It was like night and day. There were charming cobble-stone paths lined with tourist-y crafts, gelaterias, and artists showing beautiful paintings. We continued on and found the area where I told Dean I would be buying my Paris vacation-apartment as soon as I make my first billion--Montmartre. He agreed. With me making a billion dollars, that is. Montmartre has shady trees, fantastic boutique-type shops, and wrought iron balconies on very French-looking buildings. Just lovely.
My tourist book said that the windmills that inspired such artists as Van Gogh and Renoir were right around our location, so we did a few laps around the block to try to find them. We could not. After passing a young blond man with a backpack and a map twice, we eyed each other and stopped. He asked us a question in French, so we looked very confused. He switched to some other language. (German?) We stuttered, “Anglais?” And so he switched to English. Dammit, all these Europeans are so much more worldly and cultured than us. Turns out he was looking for the tricky windmills as well, so we compared guidebooks and maps and decided it was an evil joke the French were playing on us, and that the windmills must not actually exist. We found a replica-windmill by a restaurant and took pictures of that before parting ways.
Continuing through Montmartre, we saw some famous cemetery. We don’t generally spend too much time looking at dead people, or their resting places for that matter, so it was more like a walk-by.
We found our metro stop and went up to St. Denis. For a headless dead guy, he sure did manage to get pretty far. The Cathedral of St. Denis is now the necropolis for French royalty and houses such big-name remains as King Louis and Marie Antoinette and other famous royal Frenchies. I read some plaques, but no word on whether Sarkozy is being saved a spot. Again, we can only look at boxes containing old dead people for so long, even if they are ornate sarcophagi, so it wasn’t too long before we headed back into town.
Notre Dame was close to the hotel, so we thought that would be a great place to end the evening. Plus, they light it up at night so I wanted to check out that action. Being June, I guess, it got dark super-late--maybe 9:30 or 10 PM, so we had time to sit leisurely at an overpriced tourist-laden cafe right next to the church and have some snacks and wine. They were having some sort of concert inside the church, so we couldn’t go in, but the sounds of the choir emanated through the square and the strains were great to hear. Sure enough, as it got dark, the lights came on. I’ve said so many things were beautiful in Paris already, and this was, too. Looked like a postcard. We walked around the entire structure, and I think I may have liked the back even better than the front, with its regal flying buttresses. We saw a statue we recognized on the front facade--a man holding his head in his arm. St. Denis. Apparently, that’s how he is most often depicted. How awful for the poor guy. Dean and I discussed what we’d like to be holding for all effigies of us for centuries to come. Dean quickly settled on a football. I couldn’t decide between a BlackBerry or a martini glass.
Walking back, we passed probably the coolest street performer we’d seen thus far. A young woman was somehow twirling / hula hooping fire with various batons and baton-like structures. Her male co-performers did highly physical break dance stunts around her. Now, fire is a quick way to win me over, and so are shirtless young men, so I loved it.
We got back to the hotel completely spent, ready to fly back to NY.
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