'3rd October 2012
There is a man standing across the street from my window. I had seen him when we first arrived outside our lodging, and took him for a tramp. When I saw him now, I stopped to watch what he was doing at 10:30pm outside, worried for a second that he was up to no good.
It became clear that he was watching something intently, and I wondered if I was about to witness something criminal. I followed his gaze to long bundles on the ground. He is watching two people sleeping on the street, a street of wonderful Paris. He is ever vigilant, or so it feels, watching over his friends or family while they sleep on the street. I wonder, in fact I hope, that perhaps he too will sleep when one wakes and relieves him of his post; a changing of the guard, the homeless guard.'
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'4th October 2012'
Montmarte, with its many shops and the one humongous church, was our first sightseeing endeavour. No lover of architecture, masonry, glasswork, sculpture, giltwork, frescoes, or carpentry should leave Paris without paying Sacre Coeur a visit. Spiritual folk, on the other hand, needn't bother.
Even I, 'faithless' heathen that I am, must admit a sense of other when entering a church, or in fact any place that is sacred to people. This is not such a place. It is a monument whose purpose is forgotten to the modern man. It stands, instead, as a reminder of a once exuberantly aesthetic ideal peoplekind had; it stands, and international hordes flock to see it. Vultures abound, selling whatever gewgaw they can, badgering tourists to see, see, beautiful lady, listen, buy for 10 Euro, a bargain. This once holy place has now become a courtesan of capitalism's god, Money.
But to the lovers of aesthetic, I urge you: visit. See Sacre Coeur from streets away, glowing cleanly in the distance above buildings six, seven, eight storeys high. Marvel at its height before you ever lay eyes on the ten flights of stairs that torment you, making your goal tantalisingly far and close simultaneously. Relish that moment of peaceful bliss given by the gracefully tall trees surrounding you on your ascent to the pristine structure. Take in the unique script chiselled into the stones above the entrances, the majesty of the dome, the intricacy involved in every single object housed within.
Erika giggled quietly at a woman trying to catch something ahead of us, when I looked up at the inside of the dome to see four simple, gigantic, beautiful winged angels sculpted into the ceiling. As a feather floats lazily down, I think how splendid that it happened just then. Remembering Erika's giggle, I turn and point out the feather, just as a thought settles into place... "Qed nidhak 'habba r-rix tal-hamiema go knisja!"* she explains with a grin, confirming my thought. In a church where cameras are clucked angrily at and machine gun soldiers patrol threateningly, a pigeon finds its way into the dome, to redecorate with feathers and guano at will.
After much traipsing around Montmartre, our bodies finally deliver the bill for a day spent walking, lugging cumbersome baggage about, and heading up the wrong - and long - main street. My hip gives in, my feet are on fire, Erika's feet stab her with every step, and we both suffer cramped blueish fingers from all the carrying. Having hobbled to our lodging, we collapse at either end of the sofa, grit our teeth as the shoes are pulled off, and end up near-comatose watching a Steven Seagal movie in French.
I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.'
*Translation: "I'm laughing because there are pigeon feathers inside a church!"
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Sadly, that's all I wrote about my visit to Paris. As you can imagine, we visited several other places, and ended up far more exhausted than we had been after our trip to Montmartre. I will say this about Paris: if you want to visit lots of cultural attractions, take a whole week and for the love of god people, don't skimp on train or bus tickets!
Sincerely,
Macs
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