Paris: From Churches to Gay Bars (With a Bit of Bohemia In-Between)

So, in a little over 24 hours I will be boarding a plane for Marrakech, Morocco. Yes, this li’l bird’s going to Africa, courtesy of my amazing and brilliant and thoughtful hubby!

But, this means that I really need to get my butt in gear in terms of finishing up my blog entries about Paris. So, here goes…

19 February (still):

As I left Notre Dame, it was late afternoon—but my time in Paris was limited, and so I hopped on the Paris Metro and made my way north! A short while later, I found myself emerging from the Anvers metro stop, and to my right—atop a steep hill—sat the magnificent Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.

This gorgeous building (the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Paris) sits atop the butte Montmartre, and offers an unparalleled view of Paris—but I’ll come to that in a moment. First, I have to tell you about my adventure en route from the metro to the hilltop. 

So, it’s almost a completely vertical climb from the street to the top of the butte, and along the way—starting at the basilica’s gates, unfortunately—are small groups of hustlers looking for money, and they stand in tight knots so that you cannot avoid them entirely.

But I’m savvy, right? 

I recognized them right off the bat as hustlers, and wasn’t interested in playing their reindeer games. 

So, as I’m walking by, one of them gets in my face and starts asking if I wanted a trinket to remember my visit. Without stopping, I held up my hand and politely said, “No thanks.”

Well, the problem was that I held up my hand, because as soon as I did so he slipped a loop of red thread over my index finger and tightened it so that I couldn’t pull my hand free. I immediately protested, telling him to take it off and that I wasn’t interested (nor was I paying for what he was trying to sell me—one of those ‘friendship bracelet’ things that we all made in elementary and middle school). But, my new-found friend and kidnapper of my finger wouldn’t budge, and vowed that he would never charge me for something like this, that it was just a gesture of good will, blah blah blah…

Using my own treasonous finger as a weapon against me, the man proceeded to twine the offending red thread with additional white and black threads, making a bracelet which he eventually removed from my finger long enough to affix to my wrist...

And then the cheeky bastard had the nerve to demand 5€ for it!

I laughed in his face, told him he was dreaming, and chucked him a penny (I figured that was even more offensive than not giving anything) as I pushed past him. 

Suffice to say, he was not thrilled. But neither was I.

Then, not fifteen feet away, another one from the same group accosted me. This time I kept my hands in my pocket as I scoffed and said that I had already been caught by one of his other con-artists friends and that I wasn’t about to be caught again. 

Unfortunately (again), this one wouldn’t take no for an answer—he physically grabbed me by the forearm as he still (ostensibly politely) told me that I should stay and talk with him. I promptly took out both hands, gave him a mighty shove, and told him to bugger off. (And then I ran the rest of the way up the hill, where I was finally safe.)

So, now that I’m safe, I can tell you about the view. 

Truly, the vista from the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur was even more incredible than the one from the Eiffel Tower (which I’ll discuss in a later entry). The only thing you couldn’t really see properly was the Eiffel Tower itself—it was there, of course, just blocked by some trees.

Playing with the panoramic setting...

The bad hair day continues...

Peek-A-Boo...I see you!

After leaving this magnificent building, I headed slightly west and deeper into Montmartre. Now, let me just take a moment to talk about this amazing district. In many ways, my all-too-brief time spent here was my favorite part of the French excursion. 

Beginning in the late 1800s, the area became a favorite for party-goers and artists. At various times Montmartre has played host to nightclubs like the (in)famous Moulin Rouge and artists such as van Gogh and Picasso. And I can tell you that its role has not changed much in the subsequent years: the Moulin Rouge still stands, and (according to the owner of my hostel) it is still possible for starving, homeless artists to find temporary and free lodging within the district’s limits.

I was never able to find any proof of it, but I’d also like to think—and to a certain degree I simply feel as if—one of my favorite musical artists, the legendary Eartha Kitt, was a frequent visitor to Montmartre during her European 'exile' years. This fantasy is (falsely) bolstered by one of my favorite songs of hers, ‘Everything Changes’ from the much-maligned Mimi Le Duck. 

One of my favorite lines within that song goes, ‘One time at Montmartre / I drank gin with Sartre”...

So, in honor of Eartha Kitt’s character’s drink with Sartre—and for all of the talented men and women (known and unknown) who have called this stunning area ‘home’ over the years—I settled down to enjoy a glass of wine (I don’t do gin). 

I did so in a lovely little square called the Place du Tertre, at an equally charming, friendly restaurant called Chez la Mère Catherine, surrounded by paintings undoubtedly meant to attract the eye of unsuspecting tourists. (In fact, I was reminded of the scene from that old episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy, Ricky, and the Mertzes all wind up buying the replicas of the same painting from a ‘street artist’ who sells them to the foolish American tourists.)

I love the random older woman (who looks a bit like my paternal grandmother) who's totally crashed the photo!

As I mentioned earlier, in many regards this was the highlight of my trip. The air was both relaxed and excited in the same moment, and the people—from my server, to the manager (who made a special trip out to see how I was doing), to the couple at the table next to me—were all so friendly! Similarly, the weather was perfect. Sitting outside and drinking wine, all while surrounded by lovely old buildings and attractive paintings…it was tres magnifique!

Sadly, I knew I had to leave Chez la Mère Catherine eventually, and so with a heavy heart I settled the bill and was on my way once more. With help from a local business owner, I found my way along winding, twisting streets (passing, as it happens, the actual Café des 2 Moulins, where the title-character in the film Amélie worked—unfortunately, I didn’t find that out until it was too late, so no pictures).

After losing myself once or twice, I finally found myself standing before the famous windmill belonging to the Moulin Rouge:

She let me know they were 'bout the cake, straight out th' gate!

Now, I’d love to say that I got tickets to see a show at the Moulin Rouge…but tickets were between 100-200€. No way was I paying that much to see a bunch of scantily clad women. (Hell, I’m not even that keen on seeing that sight for free!) So, instead, I just snapped a photo or two and was then on my way again…

I wasn’t sure where to head next—the other big things on my list were going to happen the next day—so I just started walking.

And walking.

And walking.

A little over 3 miles later, I found myself (at dark) standing in front of Notre Dame—by way of the Louvre—once more. Circle complete.

And, since I was near le Marais once more, I decided to stop and have a drink (or two) amongst mes collègues hommes gais. But since I hadn’t eaten recently I got some food at Caffe Vito first—foolishly accepting Nic’s encouragement to order the steak tartare. Don’t get me wrong, if it was just the raw meat I would have been fine…but, I swear, it was the onions and green peppers(?) that did me in! Why people insist on putting those damnable things in everything is beyond me! 

(Ah well, at least the waiter was hot—oh-so-hot: slim, tight gray jeans, early- to mid-twenties, with curly dark hair, green eyes, and just the tiniest patch of black chest hair peeking through his low-cut white shirt!—and so was the guy at the table across from me, who kept eying me flirtatiously and ordering extra items while I struggled to eat my own dinner...not that I noticed either of them of course.)

So, with my belly (more or less) full, I circled the area a couple of times, trying to decide which bar I was going to work my nerve up to entering… In the end, I hit-up three of them (shockingly, each one was easier to enter after an additional drink): The Tropic Cafe, L’Open Cafe, and eventually Raidd Bar (which, I swear, was not nearly as scandalous and seedy when I was there as their website makes it seem…then again, I never went downstairs!).

Thus (finally) concludes my first full day in Paris.

*Whew*

Paris: The First Night!

Now, this is where I was really nervous! 

Not being able to speak or read the language, and having to immediately acquaint myself with Paris’ metro system had caused me no small amount of trepidation in the days leading up to the trip. But, I have to say, it was much easier than I expected (thanks to the directions sent to me by the owner of the hostel where I stayed). In fact, I’d almost be willing to say that Paris’ metro system is somewhat easier to get around on simply because it’s so comprehensive—it never took me more than twenty minutes to get somewhere, even all the way across the city. 

 

 Of course, that being said, it is certainly no where near as aesthetically or clean-ally pleasing as, say, DC’s or Chicago’s metro. (In fact, I might even go so far as to say that New York’s subway is prettier and cleaner than Paris’.) As I explained to Nic upon my return: graffiti tags—and not the interesting kind—were on every possible surface, everything seemed coated in a charcoal-grayish film, and one had to travel down these long, creepy (and often deserted) tunnels to get between one train line and another. Oh, and the tunnels often featured multiple copies of the following movie poster:

Except the writing was in French, making it even scarier!

Do you have any idea how freaky it is to walk down a long tunnel—when you’re already feeling like any manner of goblin or ghoul or rapist could strike you at any moment—and suddenly you find yourself flanked on all sides by multiple images of a nun with milky eyes? It’s friggin’ TERRIFYING!

But, enough about the Paris metro and creepy nuns. The important part is that I mastered that beast, and with the exception of one early-morning occasion I navigated it successfully multiple times during my holiday.

 

So, eventually I made it to Giovanni’s Room, the hostel where I stayed all three nights. Now, let me preface all this by saying that Nic is the one who found this particular gem of a location, not me! 

At any rate, Giovanni’s Room—named after James Baldwin’s controversial 1956 novel—is a hostel accessible only to gay men under the age of 35. It consists of one bathroom, one kitchen, and four beds (one of which is used by Gio, the over-35 proprietor.) Without going into too many details about this—I’ll let your imagination do the work for you—the owner tried (and failed) to encourage a certain stereotypical, 1970s-era gay atmosphere. This included the sale of poppers for €10.

But, the hypersexed atmosphere aside, I won’t complain. 

In all honesty, Giovanni’s Room was clean, it was safe, and everyone was very (platonically) friendly. Oh, and perhaps most importantly, it was within my budget, unlike most other Paris hostels. Also, it was nice to meet other travelers—one young man from China and another from Columbia—with something in common, even if it was simply the gender and sex we’re attracted to. (It was also quite amusing trying to communicate amongst ourselves, with what little bit of Spanish I retain and what little bit of English the other guests possessed.) And, finally, the owner really was an excellent ambassador for the city itself—his full-time job is as a tour guide, and so he was able to tell us the best ways to get to each of the places we wanted to go, and how to avoid scammers and crowds and whatnot.

By the time I checked into Giovanni’s Room, it was about 6:30 PM. But, I was excited to get a taste of Paris, and so I asked the owner where I should start, with the caveat that I didn’t want to go to any of the places already scheduled for the upcoming days. His recommendation (no surprise) was Le Marais, Paris’ answer to Boystown. 

So, I hopped onto the metro and made my way to Rambuteau station. However, once I was the in the area, I chickened out—insecurities and a general distaste for bar-culture have often kept me away from such experiences. But that’s okay, because there was plenty more to do!

Almost immediately upon stepping out of the metro at Rambuteau one finds him- or herself confronted with the towering Centre Pompidou! This was a quite a pleasant and unexpected surprise for me! 

To be clear, the type of art one finds at the Pompidou is not really my cup of tea, so that’s not why I was excited. Rather, it was because of the Pompidou’s connection to The Young & the Restless (one of Victor Newman's wives, Sabrina, was scripted as a curator at the Pompidou).

If only I still had my mustache, I could have done my Victor Newman impression: 'I will crush you!'

 Nonetheless, I went inside as far as I could without a ticket, and was able to tour the bookstore and gift shop, as well as make it up to the first floor before I was finally confronted with a ticket checkpoint. (At that point I beat a hasty retreat.) I have to say, though, that I legitimately loved what I saw, and want to go back one day with Nic! 

After leaving the Pompidou, I started walking in the general direction of the Seine…or so I thought—turns out I was actually walking east instead of south. But this bit of misdirected walking also contained an unexpected surprise: the dazzling (and I mean that in the truest sense of the word) Hôtel de Ville. 

This magnificent building is festooned with an array of flashing, sparkling lights that photos simply cannot do justice to. It also happens to be whence Paris’ mayor conducts business. (By the way, Paris’ mayor since 2001 is Bertrand Delanoë, an openly gay socialist!)

Sadly, at about this point, it started raining pretty heavily. So, I settled in to a nearby restaurant—the Café la Comète—and enjoyed the ever-fancy and sophisticated plate of Croque Monsieur (don’t worry, my eating became much more adventurous the next night).

Unfortunately, the rain had actually gotten worse by the time I was done. Regardless (and after a quick consultation with my map), I bundled up and dashed down the road to the Seine (finally), and caught my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower at night. Sadly, those photos didn’t turn out—but here’s one a couple that I snagged the next night (but still had to doctor a bit) from the same spot, so you get the gist:

 

The Pont au Change

The Eiffel Tower as seen from the Pont au Change.

 

Well, that concludes the exciting(?) tale of my first night in Paris. Pretty uneventful, eh? But give me a break—I’d spent over eight hours on a friggin’ bus, and been up since 4:30 AM. The next couple of days were a bit more exciting…

But you’ll have to wait a little longer for those stories…