Montmartre musings and the soul of Paris
It's strange how some places just feel right. That's what struck me today about Montmartre. As I climbed the winding streets toward Sacré-Cœur this afternoon, I felt like I was approaching something more than just a famous landmark. The hill has a gravity all its own.
The day began with rain tapping against my hotel window. I spent the morning planning my Montmartre visit over coffee, as I mentioned earlier. By noon, the weather had improved enough to venture out, though I still packed my rain jacket just in case. The temperature hovered around 12°C all day – not exactly warm, but perfect for walking uphill without overheating.
I took the metro to Anvers station and began the climb up. I could have taken the funicular, but there's something about earning the view with your own footsteps. The narrow streets wound upward, occasionally revealing glimpses of the city below between buildings. I stopped to catch my breath several times – not because I'm out of shape (though 28 days of croissants might be catching up with me), but because each new vantage point demanded a moment of appreciation.
Place du Tertre was exactly as I'd imagined – artists with easels set up, sketching portraits and painting scenes of Parisian life. I watched an elderly artist with nimble fingers create a charcoal portrait of a young woman in just minutes. His hands moved with the certainty that comes from decades of practice. I wondered how many faces he'd drawn over the years, how many stories he'd briefly intersected with.
Sacré-Cœur itself was magnificent, its white domes standing in stark contrast to the darkening sky. Inside, the mosaic of Christ with outstretched arms dominated the ceiling. I sat in one of the pews for nearly twenty minutes, watching the play of light through the stained glass as clouds moved across the sky. A group of nuns sang evening prayers in one corner, their voices echoing through the basilica.
What struck me most was the diversity of people who had made the climb – tourists like me, yes, but also locals who seemed to treat the basilica as an old friend. An elderly Parisian man entered, nodded at the altar as if greeting an acquaintance, and took a seat near the back. He didn't take photos or consult a guidebook; he simply sat in comfortable silence.
After leaving the basilica, I wandered the streets of Montmartre, intentionally taking wrong turns and discovering small squares and hidden cafés. On Rue de l'Abreuvoir, I found a tiny patisserie and treated myself to a raspberry tart that was so delicate it barely survived the journey from plate to mouth.
As evening approached, I found a small bistro with outdoor seating and ordered cassoulet and a glass of red wine. The waiter, noticing my accent, switched to English and asked where I was from. When I told him Norway, he smiled and said, "Ah, you came for our warm weather then?" We both laughed at the irony as the temperature continued to drop and I zipped my jacket higher.
Over dinner, I thought about tomorrow's weather forecast – more rain and even cooler temperatures. The waiter had also reminded me about the potential transportation strike on Thursday. "Just like Paris to welcome you with a strike," he said with a shrug. I'll need to plan accordingly, perhaps focusing on one neighborhood to explore on foot.
By the time I finished dinner, night had fallen completely. The lights of Paris spread out below Montmartre like a constellation. I walked back down toward the metro, stopping occasionally to look back at Sacré-Cœur, now illuminated against the night sky.
I arrived at my hotel just before 10 PM, tired but fulfilled. My feet ache from the cobblestones, but it's the satisfying kind of fatigue that comes from a day well spent.
Paris is teaching me something about contrasts – between the sacred and profane, the historic and modern, the chaotic and serene. Today, Montmartre offered all of these in one place. Perhaps that's why it felt right.
Tomorrow I'm thinking about the Eiffel Tower, though the weather might push me toward indoor activities instead. I'll see what the morning brings. For now, I'm content to let today's experiences settle in my mind as I drift off to sleep with the distant sounds of Paris filtering through my window.
472 days to go. The journey continues.