Europe, episode 4: Montmartre

Cheesy and narrow as it may sound, Montmartre is like the Holland Village of Paris - chilled, quaint and artsy.  We spent an overcast morning wandering round the Basilica and the artists' market and although the sun only came out after we left for the Louvre, it was pretty charming anyway!

Before we even made it up the slopes of Montmartre, we found a chocolatier called Georges Larnicol and, of course, we practically ran in and threw a mix of pralines, nut clusters and beautiful painted-egg chocolates into a takeout bag.  (The ones called cormorant eggs were splashed with olive and brick speckles and filled with a heavenly dark ganache.)

Eating our loot, we got to the base of the Sacre-coeur and admired the famous carousel for a little while.

It was quieter than usual, a solitary couple on skates wobbling over for a few photos.  We picked our favourite horses then started the climb up to the top of the hill.  I love how there is always music in the air, people lying casually all over the grass.

The inside of the church was cool and dark and subtly tipped with stained glass.  It's an interesting church because when you enter, it looks a little subdued but as your eyes adjust to the light and you walk in towards the dome, a surprisingly bright and ornate ceiling reveals itself over the nave.  I can't quite tell if I like the ceiling or not; it feels a bit out of character with the rest of the building.

On the whole though, it's a wonderfully peaceful basilica, and like I do in every place of worship I visit on holiday, I stopped to say a little word of thanks to the universe.  I'm not religious but I think houses of worship are good places to gather feelings of gratitude and appreciate life.

After our stop at the Sacre-coeur, we walked around the back streets to look for food and found ourselves in a colourful, lively tangle of cobbled ways and wandering people, everything screaming to be photographed.  Rebecca firmly steered me in the direction of lunch - one thing we'd realised was that we both get exceedingly grumpy when hungry - and we decided to leave the photos for later.

It was a very French lunch with onion soup, escargots, confit de canard, beef bourguignon and a large creme brulee that we slowly, richly licked off our spoons at the end.  Once we'd nibbled a few more chocolates with our coffee, we forced ourselves to our feet and staggered over to the artist market which was in full swing.

I love the market with its elderly men in paint-stained aprons and bouquets of canvasses and we strolled through stalls pointing out our favourite pictures, mine daubed with pastel window boxes, hers more rich and real.  Time slowed then, people waiting only for portraits and pictures and the whole world was scented with oils and the chill spring wind.

One of the artists had a dog, a compact black creature sleek as a seal.  He would click rapidly round the market sniffing the air and looping round easel legs, then come back to his master, leaping at him on his hind legs.  Suspicious at first, he ran just outside my grasp, but eventually let me scratch his back. 

As we snapped, we drifted away from the market and into random streets to watch the scruffy-handsome hipsters and girls with almost unreal peaches-and-cream skin.

Rebecca took her favourite portrait of the whole trip right here (her portraits are incredible so believe me when I say this one was the creme de la creme) on a street corner, as a lady reminiscent of Audrey Tautou came out for a cigarette.  We were both taken by her gamine elegance, the way she brought her hand lightly to her mouth.

So often thoughout our journey, we were torn between taking natural candids, like all good street photographers must learn to, and asking for posed portraits.  More than once, I stooped quickly to my viewfinder only to find my subject staring right back at me through it, catching me red-handed.  Luckily for us, most Europeans were amused by this and flashed obliging smiles.  Rebecca and "Audrey" had a little moment and eventually, Bear snapped a beautiful portrait. 

On the way back to the train station, we found an attractive pair of buskers setting up shop and we made a large donation for the pleasure of standing on the street corner and smiling at them for an abnormally long time.  That their music was sublime (and it was, harmonies and all) was just a bonus.  I mean, look at Mr Blue-eyes up there... Hello!

Filled with good food and good music, we took a few more shots and started the slow stroll back down to the bottom of the hill.

Don't ever change, Montmartre!  I know you'll continue be a great place for portraits; a slightly warmer, gentler Paris. 

No outing is complete until I make my (very unwilling) partner-in-crime pose for some cool-street-hipster-wannabe shot...

... aaaand proof that "we wuz here".

Hey, tonight

Earlier this week I finished reading The Secret History (I almost wrote "Shitstory" by accident) and had mixed feelings about it.  Tartt has the rare gift of making me forget that I'm reading and I fell in love with the characters, flaws and all.  I kept reading just so I could spend time in their company but plotwise, I thought it was a little self-indulgent; I can only relate to expensively debauched shenanigans so much.  

I think this book will be better though, taken beyond the confines of the university.  

I'm tired of grading essays and thinking about work and feeling sore from my latest plod.  For now, there's time for a little mustard bird.

Europe Episode 3: Sacre-coeur

I have a whole bunch of photos of Montmartre lined up but I thought that first, I'd simply share some pictures of the Sacre-coeur to see if they could recall the way I felt.  Every time I see the basilica, its quaint, proud dome rising evenly over the green, I am surprised anew by how much I like it.

A few years ago, someone gave me a spiral bound notebook with the Sacre-coeur sketched on the cover.  I still have it, and when I look at it, I remember desperately wanting to seek out and visit the place.  Somehow, it remains unlike any big church I've seen - neither grand nor showy like Il Duomo di Firenze, or ancient and foreboding like the Notre Dame.  

This sacred heart is just that and each year, it continues to sit with its penny-tiled roofs and slender howling gargoyles, content to be itself.

Europe episode 2: "Disneyland is a child buffet"

When I told my French teacher, Chris, that one of the things we had visited was Disneyland, he recoiled in horror.  The implication was clear - who'd go visit such a touristy thing in y'know... Paris?!

But we were actually quite excited.  Thanks to one of Bear's friends, we'd gotten free tickets ("Ah, Singapouriens!" Chris shook his head), we love Disney cartoons and I never really had the chance to go to Disneyland as a kid, so I was pretty curious to truly experience it.

Plus, in the morning as we were getting ready, Bear turned to me and sagely intoned, "Disneyland is a child buffet," which sounded incredibly inappropriate and paedophilic but was just her way of saying that it would be an awesome place to practise portrait photogaphy.  (I know, I know.)

So, we decided we might as well make a day of it.

We ate a huge french breakfast in our pajamas (hidden from judging French eyes by our coats) and Rebecca let me journal at the table as she slowly sipped her hot chocolate and orange juice.

Back at the apartment we were staying in, as we showered and dressed, I pottered around and amused myself with our host's tiiiiny plant.

Eventually, we took a train down to Disneyland and even though the light played hide-and-seek with the clouds the whole afternoon, the colourful, fantastical buildings and rides managed to make up for it.

Relaxed and slightly jetlagged, we strolled slowly round the park smiling at little girls in princess costumes who looked like they were having the best day of their lives.  At the base of the Sleeping Beauty Castle, there was a sculpture of the sword in the stone and children were climbing all over it trying to prove themselves to be Arthur.

One thing you have to give Disneyland is its complete and total commitment, right down to the perfectly curated tiles on the floor.  Everything is bright and cheerful and everyone is happy and patient and even though it's touristy and capitalist, the vibe is also that of parents and children and people in general just having a really lovely time.

(The look on that little girl's face isn't trepidation, she's actually sceptical that she's meeting the real genie.  She asked him twice before she finally agreed to pose for a photo with him, where they both flexed their biceps.)

Around lunchtime, Rebecca's OCD finally kicked in and she decided to look at the park map and plot some kind of a route, after which we ended up having our first "argument" of the trip.

See, someone is scared of big rides and having read stories about people flying off roller coasters to their deaths, prefers (quite sensibly, I might add) to abstain.  Someone else was feeling adventurous that day (despite claiming earlier that she, too, hated roller coasters) and kept following the first person around, saying, "The Crush Coaster.  The Crush Coaster.  I want to go on the Crush Coaster."

The latter wouldn't go alone or let the former hold her camera equipment (as she'd kindly offered to) and this persisted for a good hour until Rebecca finally started falling asleep on a bench from jetlag (I kid you not!) and eventually came to and informed me that she had been pulling my leg the whole time.

We ended up taking a couple of other rides instead, including a very well-produced haunted house in a beautiful gothic-style mansion that was draped with creepers.

Also amusing: this Singin' in the Rain umbrella that sent showers down on anyone who stood under it.

We took the Pinocchio ride, the movie stunt train where we watched the stunt explosions and landslides and eventually climbed Jack Sparrow's ship for exercise.

At around nine, the summer sun started to set, the light began changing and Bear and I were witness to the gorgeous, long, golden "hour" that makes photography there so breathtaking.

I was eternally grateful that we chose to visit the Alice in Wonderland rides around this time, because Fantasyland was utterly magical just then, the quirkily manicured gardens, thatched cottages and pastel furniture glowing warmly.

The teacup ride was especially attractive and I finally managed to fulfill a cliched tourist objective by trying it out.  (I thought of that rather upsetting scene in the Brittany Murphy movie where the little girl has just realised that someone in her family has died and she refuses to speak and just goes round and round and faster and faster on the teacups with a grim look on her face and tears in her eyes (vaguer, vaguer...).  Naturally, I did not have such a grim look on mine.)

Because it only got completely dark at around half-ten, we had to wait around for the fireworks, and sat on the lawn in front of the castle trying to catch ever fading slices of light.

Bear fought her way through the audience to try and get pictures of the sparks while I, a massive sucker for fireworks, stood further back, hopelessly short and hopelessly excited.

Over a sea of children's heads and flashing mouse ears, the fireworks raced and shimmered like stars and I have to admit that there were moments (especially during some of the sentimental Disney childhood songs) when I welled up a little.  People say this is a magical place and there were moments when I truly felt it.  The fireworks went on for a good fourty-five minutes and by the end, the night felt chill and clear and completely worth it.

We were well and truly knackered, jetlag having officially set in about two hours before, and ended up missing the last train and catching a cab at midnight. 

Sorry Chris, but I have to admit, I really enjoyed Disneyland Paris.  On the bright side, I remembered how to say the house number, address and give basic directions en français.

Thanks to you, we got back in one piece!