Anyone for Carcassonne?
05-October-2023
Simply adouroble
12-November-2024
PARIS, MAY 2024
It was a good while since we’d been to Paris, and a trip seemed long overdue, so preparations for a runaway weekend began. Alas Paris Travel Service, purveyors of ferry crossings and cosy hotels up cobbled side streets, is no more. Too baffled and busy to spend ages trying to figure out hotel options, I left it to easyJet to suggest somewhere. They came up with the Originals Boutique Hotel in Montmartre. Tres chic, and so close to the centre of the eternal city. Too late did I realise that Montmartre takes up quite a big slice of Paris and our hotel was right at the top edge of it – the view from our bedroom was perfect for spotting traffic on the adjacent and roaring Peripherique. Getting from Charles de Gaulle, via Gare du Nord, and up to Porte de Clignancourt took well over an hour – and included riding on some very down at heel suburban trains. From the last stop on Line 4 of the Metro it was a walk of about a kilometre through an area with a distinctly north African flavour to reach our boutique hideaway.
The principal objective of the short Paris visit was not actually in Paris. It was Chartres cathedral, which has been on the list for quite some time. It’s an hour’s train ride out from Montparnasse station, where we showed up bright and breezy to buy two return tickets at an imposing ticket machine. The machine could serve you in English, so I went through all the motions and got to the point of paying – card only. The problem was the instructions on the card machine were (a) in French and (b) unfathomable. Rather than risk accidentally pressing a button which meant I had not just bought two tickets, but had acquired the entire train, we went in search of help. Hidden down a maze of corridors was a bright little office staffed by extremely helpful and polite SNCF staff in stylish red uniforms. I explained I wanted to pay in cash and they directed me to a terminal. Having specified my travel choices, when I pressed Go, it pumped out a piece of paper with a bar code on it. This I had to take to another machine, where on feeding it in I was asked in English for the requisite dosh. This was guided into the slot and out popped tickets and change. The staff beamed, pleased to have been of service, and we headed to our train.
The ride was pleasant, on the top deck of a convivial carriage, and we glided through spring countryside into Chartres. This small town is completely overshadowed by the enormous cathedral. It has been the subject of much controversy though. A few years ago, the French government decided to give it a very, very thorough clean. This meant taking off centuries of ingrained dirt, candle residue, soot and so forth, to reveal all its delicate stone carvings as they would have looked in the Middle Ages. On the one hand to see this artistry is a revelation – so much minute detail and expression. On the other, many feel that such a building is a living thing and it is little short of sacrilege to strip away what, in many respects, is its history.
Back in Paris, we walked from Montparnasse towards the Eiffel tower past lots of staging and lighting being put up for the opening of the Olympic Games. The weather was hot and dry; shame it rained on the big night. A metro ride and a shorter walk took us to the Foundation Louis Vuitton on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. This bizarrely shaped building was designed by Frank Gehry (of Guggenheim, Bilbao fame) and paid for by Bernard Arnault – boss of LVMH – to house much of his art collection and show it off to a willing public. The building itself is fascinating, with interconnecting floors, swooping roofs and open promenades that give teasing views of the Eiffel tower. One current exhibition was an appreciation of The Red Studio, painted by Henri Matisse in 1911. When creating it Matisse included a number of works of art in his studio outside Paris. When he was nearly finished, he decided the piece didn’t quite look right so he painted the walls red. If I did that it would look absurd, but Matisse was a genius and it looks wonderful. What made the exhibition so special was that they had managed to gather not only the painting (from New York) but also all the works of art that are included in it – paintings, sculptures, and even furniture. Bernard must have pulled in a lot of favours to bring that off.
Sunday morning saw us early in the queue to see a show at the Quay D’Orsay that recreated the seminal first exhibition by the Impressions in April 1874, 150 years ago. Again, dozens of paintings and a few sculptures had been borrowed from collections around the world to put it together, and it was a unique, once in a lifetime, experience. What is notable though is how tough and capricious the world of art is and always had been. Of the 31 artists who presented work at the 1874 show only seven are well-known today. And no examples of the work of several of those other 24 could be found to put in the exhibition.
We have to discuss food and drink, and here Paris has really slipped. It is very hard to eat well and reasonably economically. So much on offer, that isn’t pizza or burgers, is pretty mediocre. We had a very disappointing risotto on the first night and some odd and pricey seafoody thing the second. Indeed, finding anywhere to eat was a struggle. The best spot was actually the rooftop terrace of the hotel, where you could have a simple (expensive) breakfast looking over rooftops to Sacre Coeur (see photo above).
After seeing the Impressionists, we decided to flaneur through the city where our footsteps took us, aiming to finish up at Sacre Coeur, atop its hill. We crossed the Seine into the Tuileries gardens, happy to see that children can still hire a simple yacht to coax across its circular pond. We walked past Madeleine, surprised by how little traffic there was (part of a scheme to make the centre largely traffic-free, that has somehow made everywhere a bit less vibrant). Nosing round the big stores, Au Printemps and Galeries Lafayette – trying to gauge the current state of French taste in furniture, decoration and tableware. Then a hot slog through narrower and narrower streets, past souvenir shops and cafes, and up increasingly steep pavements until we reached the plateau in front of Sacre Coeur.
The day had been hot, but the cloudless sky suddenly filled with menace. All at once a torrential downpour erupted, soaking everything and everyone. Hawkers frantically grabbed their wares and piled them in boxes, umbrellas shot up and ponchos were pulled on. And we had nothing, and no shelter. Like just about everyone else we just stood in the rain and laughed. We gingerly headed down slippery slopes towards the nearest Metro, where we slopped on to a train like soaked dishcloths and looked around to see everyone else was bone dry and staring at us. How did that happen?
Dried off and packed we trekked out to CDG for the flight home – happy to have seen Chartres, but to be honest, a little disappointed that Paris has lost some of its magic. Fingers crossed the sparkle will return.
