Montmartre; A Party Bursting At The Seams

I didn’t plan on getting caught up in a crowded party scene again.  I just wanted to go to Montmartre to get another photo of Place de Tertre for my granddaughter Isabelle, a very talented budding artist.

Paris rarely has such a perfect Automne day as last Sunday.  The sky was a piercing deep blue that an impressionist would dream to paint.

La Fête des Vendages, celebrating the annual grape harvest was going on, having returned after being canceled the last two years due to Covid.

In the past, I usually went more for the gaiety of it all.   Montmartre is a very picturesque hilltop village that was a mecca for artists still reeking of the bohemian Paris of yesterday.

I love walking aimlessly around the winding narrow streets of quaint Montmartre and then taking in the stunning crow’s eye view of Paris below.   I didn’t think la fête would be so crowded, but boy was I wrong!

Depriving Parisians of their beloved festivals for two years had made them stark ravenous hungry to party!  I don’t blame them one bit!

Plus the tourists have returned, not yet like before, but I was happy to see them enthralled with the Paris I love.

As soon as I stepped out of metro stop Abbesse the sound of a great blues band greeted my ears. I stood around for a while to catch a talented tap dancer hitting the steps in perfect rhythm.

I took a slight shortcut up Rue Vieuville, turned left and headed for the stairs.  I had always prided myself in the past to climb up for the cardio rather than take the funicular!

Somehow, those stairs suddenly looked a lot steeper than I had remembered.  Undaunted, I started my climb.

Halfway up I already felt a little breathless.  After a brief pause, I continued up like a true soldier.  By this time though, I am thinking what a fool I am!  What was I trying to prove?

The last 6 steps to the top were the hardest.  Ok, it wasn’t Everest, but I don’t remember ever being so relieved to have reached the top!

Suddenly, I was caught in a funnel-neck of elbowing humans, some looking a little too tipsy. I almost felt like turning back, but after all the physical effort to reach the top, I resigned to bear it out.

The police had cordoned off the area, just below the Basilica checking for the Pass Sanitaire.  Once in there was a little more room, but I had to dodge multitudes while watching my step over the very uneven old cobblestones.

I was tempted to stop by one of the Champagne stalls to enjoy a flute, but I resisted like a trooper.  There weren’t many takers at a Burgundy stand, which I am sure was offering overpriced wine.

The rat a tat of a drum beating musician caught my attention as he ambled by.

In the street, the tempo suddenly picked up and with music blaring, people were swaying and singing to the beat.

After two years of the grim and fearful reality that gripped the world, it was good medicine for the soul!  It felt like we all just got released from a dreary prison.

Inching along trying not to bump into anyone, I headed up to Place de Tertre.

Surrounded by old taverns and cafes, once the hang out of impressionists,  the square draws many a tourist who wants to have their portrait painted by one of the many artists who hold court with brushes in hand.

It’s enjoyable for me to gaze at the artists and their models sitting patiently, hoping the artist will capture all their beauty, like these pretty young ladies.

Unmistakable drifts of hot crepes browning on the griddle drifted by along with the slight mustiness of red wine.

The small vineyard of Montmartre, called Clos de Montmartre is planted with Gamay and Pinot Noir grapes.  I have never tasted the small quantity of wine produced, though I hear it has its charm.

Years ago when the hill of Montmartre was covered with vines, the wine flowed cheaply for the masses to guzzle. Back then it bore a dubious reputation, except for its diuretic qualities.

There was an old saying:  C’est du vin de Montmartre.  Oui en boit pinte, pisse quarte.  “Wine of Montmartre, whoever drinks a pint, pisses a quart”.

The Confrérie du Clos Montmartre holds its annual parade which I caught several years ago. With much pomp and circumstance, members draped in stately navy blue and red capes proudly marched along with barrel-chested men toasting the crowds with silver tastevins hung around their necks.

Before I left the merry scene, I felt called to seek the quiet refuge of Saint Pierre de Montmartre, one of the oldest churches in Paris.

At one time surrounded by the vineyards of a Benedictine Abbaye, there has always been a church there since the 3rd century.  Even before, it was a place of Roman pagan gods worship.

The wine stand in the courtyard with the beautiful copper Alembic still had returned for the fête, selling vin chaud.

Whereas most seek out the lovely Sacre Coeur Basilica which is actually fairly new, having been completed in 1923,  I feel the old stones of Saint Pierre drawing me in for quiet prayer before leaving.

Its slightly misaligned nave reminds me of our own human imperfections.  Bandaged and scarred by life’s struggles we have to plod along, bravely carrying on till our time is up.

Walking back to Abbesses down Rue Yvonne Le Tac, I stopped to marvel where Saint Ignatius de Loyola started the Jesuit Order in 1534.

Already after 6, it was time for me to scurry home leaving all this merriness, to put together my Sunday pastry, a croustade, a regional treat from the Southwest region of France.

A luscious dome of crunchy golden brown filo pastry filled with Armagnac soaked apple and prunes, it is one of my favorite fall desserts.

Taking the elevator up to my floor, a lanky 17-year-old neighbor, slumped against the wall as breathless as I felt after my stair climbing.

Out of curiosity, I asked if he had just run a race.  “No, was on my bicycle” he replied between labored breaths.

Since there aren’t any steep hills around the neighborhood, I must admit I felt smugly vindicated in comparing my own breathlessness at my age versus his!

Fortunately, the croustade didn’t take long to assemble, and once in the oven, I poured myself a flute of sparkling.  Can’t afford Champagne every night, but the various regional sparklings of France more than suffice!

Here’s to the joy and gratitude of being here!