We decided that we would dedicate Thursday to Montmartre exclusively. We did this because Montmartre is a huge pain to get to, mostly because it's very far away, and also because there is a TON of walking involved. And not easy walking, we're talking up and down big hills. Montmartre is translated to "Mountain of Martyrs," so that should give you some idea of what we were facing. But we knew this, so we wore comfortable shoes and felt pretty prepared for the challenge.
However.
There are always things in Paris that only Parisians seem to know. Little tricks-of-the-trade, things you should probably know before you attempt anything in Paris. Things that les stupides Americans do not typically know. Unfortunately for us, no one had mentioned anything about the Montmartre metro station. We read gobs and gobs about the mountain itself, where the painters are, where the tourist traps are, who's trying to scam you, etc., but failed to come across this one detail in all our research. Here's the thing: Paris metro stations are essentially laid out like a blind architect just threw darts at a drawing board to determine where the platforms ought to be: which is to say, poorly. So it's not uncommon to be faced with set after set of stairs, some for you to go up and some for you to go down, with escalators sort of sparsely mixed in. Elevators are for the handicapped. So you develop an attitude of "I can do anything" or more realistically "I can climb any set of stairs." This is a dangerous mindset.
Montmartre is a mountain right? And the metro station is underground. So it didn't occur to us that the stairs to get up to the surface would be like…incredibly long. And incredibly steep. And numerous. And in the shape of a spiral. And that when everyone lined up at the elevator and gave us funny looks because we opted for the stairs, we maybe should have followed them. But we didn't, because we have been here for a week, and we can do anything, guys. How dare you doubt us and our stair climbing ability.
I have never been so exhausted in my life. That we made it out of the metro station is a feat in and of itself, forget climbing to Montmartre, the important thing was that we made it onto solid ground.
Montmartre is a really pretty area, but it is also quite touristy, so you get scammers and pickpockets and gypsies, and things of that nature. It's not really a big deal, you just have to pay attention to what's going on around you. But the views of Paris are spectacular, and on a clear day you can practically see out to Charles de Gaulle (or Orly, we weren't sure which, if either at all. We're educated like that). There is a square, Place du Tertre, almost in the middle of Montmartre, surrounded by cafes, where the artists set up their easels and sell their wares. There's a lot of crappy portrait artists, but if you can separate them out from the locals, you can find some really awesome artwork.
I was there specifically hoping to find an artist from who I purchased a small watercolor painting about 8 years ago. I knew her name was Nicole, and that her last name started with an M. That was it. But I wanted to get another piece of her artwork, so I was determined to at least try and find her. After much circling, looking for a similar style of art, we were coming up empty handed, so I convinced Matt to help me ask one of the older looking artists if they knew her. Surprise! They knew who we were talking about, and brought us over to her husband, who was selling her paintings for her. I explained to him who I was and what I was looking for, and he told me that Nicole had broken her shoulder and was unable to sell her art, so he was doing it for her. And he told me her last name was Mathieu, which sounded about right to me. Her art though was completely different. It seemed like she had sold out to the tourists a little and had a lot of eiffel tour and neon color artwork- it didn't seem so original. So we thanked her husband and went on to find something to eat.
And, here is where we have to deal with something we had a problem with the whole trip: cafe etiquette. We just hadn't been in a restaurant when we didn't feel like we were awkwardly accomplishing some horrific cultural faux pas. So Matt refused to go into the little cafe on a side street (places right off the artists' square are notoriously expensive) on the grounds that we had no one to watch enter and what if we did it wrong? Looking back on it we were just being dumb, as I'm sure they would have been perfectly friendly, but it was terrifying at the time. So, hungry and annoyed, we walked into the first restaurant we saw off the square, thinking that they would at least know what to do with us. Big mistake. The menu was ridiculously expensive, there was nothing on it that sounded appealing, and by this point we were mad at each other and everyone around us.
So we ordered 2 coffee's and a carafe d'eau (a pitcher of tap water) from a very harried and mad looking waiter, who immediately removed all our table coverings with a sweeping motion and stomped off to stand behind the bar, no doubt commiserating about our inexcusable behavior with the bartender. And really? The coffee wasn't even good. So he had nothing to be complaining about, because even I can brew a decent cup of coffee, monsieur. And I learned how to use the coffee machine like, 3 months ago. After sweating and feeling awkward and uncomfortable and knowing everyone was probably ready to kill us, we left exact change on the table and got the heck out of there.
We found our way down a side road to a tiny little boulangerie, which I fell in love with immediately, of course. Although, really, that isn't so impressive because old fashioned lettering and flaky baked goods are basically the key to my heart. So we dined on a hearty meal of deliciousness, involving pain au chocolat (chocolate croissants), macaroons (citrus and chocolate), and a flaky turnover filled with apples (basically like apple pie filling) that I am determined to figure out the name of and just haven't been able to at all. So not healthy, but I would consume any number of calories just to be able to taste those pastries again. And we sat at a wood table facing out onto the street and just people watched, as only the french know how to do.
Once we got tired of that (and believe me, it takes a long time to get tired of that), we headed over to Sacre Coeur, or Sacred Heart. It's basically a huge old church that I'm not even going to pretend to know the history of. These are the things I know about Sacre Coeur: 1.) it's beautiful; 2.) It looks over all of Paris; 3.) It's worth a trip, even if the guards inside are super mean and yell at you if you sit down (but my feet are tiiiiiiired, and I thought anyone could go in the church because seriously? It's a church). So yeah. Big and white and pretty. Lots of pictures of Jesus. Can you tell I've studied churches in depth?
We sat on the steps of Sacre Coeur for a long time, just admiring the view and talking. It was lovely. The sun was out, the steps were warm, and we were together in Paris. What more can you ask for? (Maybe first class seats on the flight home, but that's another story for another day).
Finally, we decided we were ready to brave the metro at rush hour and started down the mountain to get back home. Unfortunately, there was a whole gang of scammers standing at the base of the Montmartre steps, one of whom came after Matt insisting that Matt would have a lot of fun if he would just allow the man to tie something that looked suspiciously like a cable tie around Matt's finger because s'il vous plait, Monsieur, is just like magic! And I guess it is a lot like magic, if you consider magic to be having to pay the guy money to get whatever it is off. But because we are street smart, we brushed right past him while shooting him dirty looks. Par for the course, y'all.
For dinner that night, we decided to try a brasserie called Les Cascades that was basically across the street from our hotel, based on the excellent recommendation from the night clerk at the hotel, who is clearly the night clerk for a reason. Because he knows nothing. We asked him if he could recommend a restaurant, any restaurant at all outside of our neighborhood, and he stuttered over this question for a while before muttering the equivalent of "I do not know." Which: really unhelpful. So we found our way over to Les Cascades and really felt sort of pleased with it. After a week of awkward restaurant encounters, we found our way inside, were seated without incident, and had a friendly waiter to boot. The snails were incredible (oh yeah, and I had snails for almost every appetizer. My body is probably like 60% snail at this point. I'm sure I'll start growing a shell soon), and Matt had a french onion soup that frankly, was to die for, with a giant wedge of cheese and toasted bread slowly incorporating themselves into the soup. The steak frites (steak and fries) were disappointing, the steak was tough- the béarnaise sauce, however, was incredible. You win some, you lose some. Additionally, the crepes with nutella were wonderful, though I felt that the crepes were a little thick. But maybe I'm just a crepe snob. I could live with that title. And the wine…I was not in love with. A Cote de Provence Rosé…eh. I could have done without it.
After we came home, we again watched Money Drop (oh french game shows, let me count the ways I love thee), and then passed out. No snoring on my part this time though- at least, not that I'm aware of…
Click to read about our adventures on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.
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