constanttrek

Montmartre

October 2nd, 2004

Despite the tone of the last few posts, I really do like Paris. Who wouldn’t? It has more class in it’s little demitasse than I could hope to aspire too, more bars than I could get through in a lifetime, and no bans on smoking – something I heartily approve of, my quitting notwithstanding. There is something inherently civilised about waiters who not only ignore people lighting up in the non-smoking section of a restaurant, but indeed, happily bring the offender an ash tray.
But the part I like the most, without a shadow of competition – tacky, touristy, and shallow though it may be – is Montmartre.
I fell in love with the idea of Montmartre years ago. It’s the kind of place every good boarding school girl dreams of running away to – or should, if they have any commonsense. Despite the fact that it’s heyday as an absinthe soaked, bohemian haven was over long before I was born, for years I cherished rather romantic notions of going to live there. I decided I would rather like to starve (but glamorously of course) in a garret, whilst doing fabulously creative things, preferably with a wildly exotic lover.
With such high expectations, I thought, I was bound to be disappointed by the reality, and so for years I have bypassed it during my stops here.
But Montmartre has achieved a rare feat for a place of such iconoclastic status. It is at once a complete tourist trap, complete with hustlers, bad souvenir shops, and overpriced coffee; and yet also a genuine hub of creativity and – dare I say it – bohemia. Perhaps the offbeat flavour is a little less edgy than it once was, and the image a little more contrived, but then isn’t everything now? Whatever it’s failings, and even though I have no idea of what is really going on for the artists who paint there, I love it. Unashamedly, absolutely, adore every cheap and nasty bit of it.
I love sitting on a bench at the base of Sacre Coeur hill, in front of the gaudy 18th century carousel with it’s Venetian themed panels on the roof and gilt edged curlicues, and eating a hot crepe dripping with butter and sugar, serenaded by cheesy recorded accordion music.
I love the quiet cobble stoned alleyways with tiny hidden restaurants and bars, where all the customers know each other but still smile welcomingly at a dorky looking outsider; the sexy, glamorous twenty-somethings who whiz importantly around on their scooters and disappear tantalisingly behind peeling painted doors; and the classic, breathtaking view from Sacre Coeur.
But most of all, I love the Place de Tertre. It must be one of the most blatantly touristy corners in all of Paris, and I don’t care. I defy anyone to wander into it’s pretty little heart, past all of the gloriously clichéd painters and portrait artists, get served by one of the horribly kitsch but wonderfully slick waiters, and not be enchanted. It’s impossible.
In it’s own way it is as pretentious as anything the Deux Magots has to offer. There are artists in berets (!) puffing on pipes, would-be hippies selling homemade stuff, and plenty of self-conscious artistes having deep and meaningfuls. But, in marked contrast to the Deux, there seems to be an underlying sense of fun in Montmartre. Here, life is a mad kind of carnival, and the tourists are just as much a part of the spectacle as the artists who paint them – for how would one survive without the other? – and, more importantly, are just as welcome.
On the second day that I visited, the waiter from the café recognised me instantly (even with my clothes on), and ushered me to a nice table as if he actually gave a shit. He remembered how I had my coffee, and gave a good imitation of understanding my disastrous French. Regardless of the motive, nothing makes me happier than fantastic, ego boosting service. The artists also seem to know a face if they see it more than once, and one of them actually painted mine while I wasn’t looking. Best of all, he wasn’t remotely pissed off when I didn’t buy it, and didn’t try to “hard sell” me in the least.
By the end of a week I felt like a local, and the beauty of the Montmartre residents is that they indulged my fantasy, despite my patent lack of either artistic skills or bohemian looks. Eventually I gave in and got the bearded beret wearing pipe smoker to paint my niece’s portrait from a photo. Everyone has to be a tourist sometime.
Luckily, I am not staying long enough to have my illusions shattered, and so Montmartre will always remain a fantasy place which lives more in my imagination than anywhere else. But I rather think I would like to come back when I am 60 or so, and buy myself a garret to starve in. And an exotic lover.

Entry Filed under: trekking