Montmartre

To see Paris from Montmartre, the hill in the north of Paris is to realize something you’d always suspected: Paris is old and doesn’t care. Looking south was like looking at a Midwestern plain: flat with very occasional bumps. And almost all the bumps were of older cathedrals. What is new is too often boring and everyone stays away—no one really cares about La Defense, for example.

I remember we were walking past le Tour Montparnasse in a group of French students, when we were going to that bar a few nights ago. They pointed it out—there’s the tour (tower), there’s the tour! (this was all in French). The maps also pointed it out. I was intrigued. I asked what was up with it (“Peux-tu l’expliquer?” [Can you explain it?]). One replied that it was a monument. To what, I asked. He was confused. For what goal, I clarified. Oh, he said. He realized, but he did not have the words to communicate that realization. For artistic purposes, he said. Let the record reflect that le Tour Montpanasse is a straight medium-sized black skyscraper that would blend in in Chicago or New York or any metropolis.

Any modern building immediately attracts attention by virtue of its modernity. While going to the laundromat today, my eyes alit on a gleaming glass building. It was one of those buildings that tries to conceal the unpleasant fact that it is made with crude girders by instead showing its perfect curved glass. It was totally out of place in the neighborhood. It would’ve been unexceptional, though aesthetically attractive, in any other city. The only modern buildings that I’ve seen that really work in Paris are the pyramids in the courtyard of the Louvre, the Centre Pompidou and the Opera Bastille. The first works somehow by blending in perfectly with its surroundings: it is grand and so is the palace. The second works by being utterly, flamboyantly ridiculous. It shows off its piping, its escalators. It makes a production out of its modernity. It sits next to a solemn cathedral. Had it been a mere modern building, it would’ve been jarring. But the Centre Pompidou is so jarring that it ceases to be jarring in the first place. It works. As for the third one, it is located on a roundabout. It works because there’s nothing to compare it to.

By contrast, the majority of houses in Paris are exactly the same and yet they never cease to be aesthetically pleasing. They have those rounded roofs and the sandstone exterior. They are invariably perfect for pictures: they are so straight that they direct the eye towards the end of the block and whatever it was you meant to be taking a picture of.

The cathedrals are mostly so tiny in comparing to the gargantuan rambling works of Chartres, for example. Surprisingly, many don’t conform to that whole building must be in the shape of a cross rule. Some are not perfectly symmetrical: the one outside the Louvre has a tower on one side, with no balancing tower to accompany it. And the stained glass is always so beautiful.

One thing that unites the Middle Ages and the modern time against the times in between is the use of glass. The use of glass is inevitable to show off. Think about the number of modern buildings you’ve seen that are made entirely of large panes of glass. It’s become an unremarkable phenomenon; every sketch of a new building seems to include huge amounts of glass. It made sense in the Middle Ages, at least. Glass was absurdly expensive. To be able to afford that much glass for your cathedral was a sign of your means. But it’s not as clear what it means for modern buildings. Here’s my theory: glass in modern buildings shows the supremacy of our building techniques. It’s as if we really can build castles of air.

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As you might have guessed already, I did my laundry today. I was surprised by how commonplace it was. I understand just enough to get by at this point. In general, the service seemed relatively affordable (more on that later), except for one caveat. The drier. It runs for like ten minutes. It left my clothes damp. Damp enough to be inconvenient, but not damp enough to justify another eighty centimes. They are still vaguely damp now. I think they’ll be dry tomorrow.

Even though I brought entertainment with me (a book), I couldn’t help but watch my laundry at some points. My favorite was when it was going in a spin cycle. The washer was turning so fast that the clothes became mere suggestions, just a blur of color.

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After that and lunch and a religieuse (a pastry that, after consumption, always has me feeling religious), I went to Montmartre. Which is how the opening paragraph got there. But I’d like to add something about the neighborhood and some other, more general observations.

There’s no getting around the reality that the district is a tourist-trap. It is such a tourist trap that the laundromats are full while charging as much as three euros more per load than my laundromat. The truth, though, in Paris, that touristy exists only a block or so away from authenticity (read: better food and cheaper prices). Sometimes it exists within an island of general cacophony. It is truly odd that I can walk a block and have the average price jump five to ten euros and yet apparent quality stay the same. Tourists are lazy, afraid and desiring comfort most of all. This approach could never work in a rational market.

Sacre-Coeur, the cathedral that all the fuss is about, is worth it. Perched on top of Montmartre, the building echoes the Taj Mahal and has a regal attitude. There’s a good argument that it’s Paris’ most aesthetically pleasing cathedral. And, of course, there is the view, which must be seen.

Descending from the Montmartre, I encountered some cheap eateries. Which was shocking. I could see Montmartre from the restaurants. Ah, irrational markets. At any rate, these two restaurants translated their French menus into English, very clumsily. The most egregious and therefore my favorite was the one for “Glaces Deux Boules.” It doesn’t take a professional digging in archives to suggest that “Two Scoops of Ice Cream” is the best bet here. But the restaurateur made an unconventional choice: “Freeze Two Balls.” No one can be this stupid; my guess is an effort to scare off tourists.

With that, I left the district and went home.

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Most unfortunate fashion choice of the day: two typical choices fused together. No, sir, a black blazer with white pinstripes and a black-and-white horizontally striped sweater do not work together.

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The French love their flag. Their affair is not as heavy with PDA as the Americans’, and it’s better than the relatively frosty and schizophrenic relationship of the English. On all buildings, both the Union Jack and the flag of England are displayed. The flag of England, St. George’s Flag, is more obscure to those who have never been to England. It is a red cross on a white field. The Union Jack itself is a combination of the flags of the different constituent nations of the United Kingdom. Of course, it can’t be good that England feels the need to prominently fly both flags at a one-to-one ratio. This fact, among others, leads me to suspect that the frosty and schizophrenic relationship will resolve itself in divorce.

Back to the French. The French display one flag at once, usually a large one. It is displayed on multiple buildings. As regards their flag, they’re proud and don’t derange themselves over their intensity. It’s simple and appropriate.

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French police officers dress like mailmen. It’s a one-piece navy blue outfit; a jumpsuit, essentially. Perhaps the ridiculousness of their garb explains why they feel it necessary to have POLICE written on so many parts of their clothes.

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Montmartre’s metro station encapsulates the experience of the neighborhood. The infirm and the tourists take the elevator (and aboveground, the tram). The rest of us hike up the corkscrew stairs, breathing heavy or panting by the fourth flight. The problem with corkscrew stairs is that you never know when they’re going to end. At least the paintings on the side, of Montmartre’s famous sights, are nice to look at.