Walk

We made our ritual walk to Le Au Revoir turnoff where she heads to school and I head somewhere unknown.

We are wearing our matching vests. Again. We might trade tomorrow. Mom’s gifts are oftentimes unmistakeable and unforgettable.

I think I am heading to Montmartre, though I can’t say I’m overjoyed at the prospect of not one, but two train changes. Confidence Joseph, confidence, and the buoyant energy reserve you know you’ll have once you’re walking through alleys around the corner from Amelie’s cafe.

Mitterrand station

I have made every internal excuse possible as to why I should go somewhere else. Why shouldn’t I? Because my reason for going anywhere else would be this:

So I wouldn’t have to make any train transfers.

This brings anxiety. Which floor of the station do I go to? Which checkpoint? Which direction? The further I get from the main line, the more anxious I get.

But that is it. I am heading to the Sainte-Lazare stop on the Metro 14 to Mairie de Sainte-Ouen. From there I will take Metro 3 to somewhere. To somewhere.

To…somewhere.

Cimetiere de Montmartre

Cemeteries, following cathedrals, have been the other surprise to me in Paris. I didn’t expect to find them as mesmerizing as I have. Perhaps both have offered a respite, a place to unburden, as elsewhere I’m frequently on my feet and in unfamiliar territory with unfamiliar people.

Montmartre Cemetery, in the northern part of the city, is the third largest in Paris. It’s the resting place of many notable figures, but I didn’t particularly look for any of them in particular. I just wandered slowly through the leaves and the monuments that sprawled out over a huge area.

I also located Avenue Rachel, which I snapped three photos of in honor of an important historical figure to me personally who shares that name.

The leaves are everywhere in resplendent colorations, and if I were to have my choice of being here in any month, I doubt I would decide differently. It is charming in in a soul-deep way that transcends the trivial.

What does it cost to die? A person can die for free, but the burden is on others to decide once they’re gone what to do about them, both physically and symbolically. From what I understand, people dealing in the aftermath of death have a good gig going on. Maybe that’s a simple belief, or an erroneous one. I certainly wonder how much you can gauge or judge a society or civilization by how they treat and remember their dead.

Montmartre

Parts remind me of Portland’s Old Town, the mix of old-feeling and contemporary. Businesses tucked away behind tree-lined sidewalks, a mix of people walking aimlessly and walking with purpose. The kind of shops and businesses that are sometimes dull but necessary, coupled with sudden bursts of oh, there’s another place to buy sex toys!

That was just certain stretches away from the busier and what many - including myself - might refer to as the more charming sections. But I’m still glad to have walked those streets as well. If every street is catering to tourists, or even visitors, of which I am one, then it wouldn’t really be a fully functioning or autonomous community. Right?

And in the midst of ‘work districts,’ there are suddenly reminders of The Old and Ancient. Just like *that.*

More on Cimetiere du Montmartre

Things I’ve learned about myself this week:

Yes, I loved reading Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, a massive ode to Medieval Cathedrals a couple decades ago. I felt like I was learning something about about architecture and the motivations of people in those centuries between The Fall of the Western Roman Empire (476 AD) and the birth and flowering of the Renaissance (1400s). I have forgotten most of what I read, but little passages floated up throughout my memory as I’ve walked amidst and around various churches, eglises, and cathedrals; passages about what inspired ‘common people’ to communally assist in the vast undertaking of these building projects.

We are an age so enamored of our ability to provide ourselves what we need immediately. With convenience. This is not a quick Luddite tome on the evils of technology or a diatribe against convenience. But it is a reflection on the ways in which we get used to our own comfort. One of the first news stories jumping at me when I got back was how Amazon Prime members are losing a major perk: starting next month, they’ll now have to pay for sub-two hour grocery delivery from Whole Foods.

So now they’ll have to pay ten dollars for the right to have their food delivered to their door in under two hours. I’m not mocking. I may not utilize that particular service, but there’s a hundred, a thousand ways in which my life is simpler and easier because of small and banal devices, services, equipment, technologies, et cetera, that are devoted to making my life more efficient. I use them and the thought of not having them is dreadful.

Oftentimes the Middle Ages are erroneously referred to as “The Dark Ages,” because there was a period during The Middle Ages where it was as if the candle igniting Europe and her ideas and knowledge was extinguished, plunging a continent into a period of time where libraries were destroyed, languages were forgotten, writing and reading were known only by a handful, and knowledge was bath water being drained until it felt empty.

But there was still learning. Thanks in large parts to monks who kept those bathtub drips of knowledge alive by devoting their lives and eyesights to painstakingly copying manuscripts and entire books and preserving knowledge and literature and art to be carried forth to the next generations…these precious and vital parts of the past were carried forward in almost darkness. But not total darkness. It’s part of why saying “The Dark Ages” is neither accurate in context of the thousand years between The Ancient and The Renaissance, nor respectful to those who carried a tiny Promethean flame on behalf of humanity.

Point is, it’s so easy to look at the past, especially some of those eras, with an unconscious contempt. We know so much more now.

But look at what these people built. Look. Just look. These massive, intricate, awe-inspiring structures reaching to the heavens. To God.

That’s a part of the answer. They built these cathedrals for the glory of God.

But there’s another part. The part that I think is just incredible:

It took men (almost all men at that point, at least the ones history has graced with a record) of extraordinary vision to create a blueprint for these masterpieces. But it also took extraordinary craftsmen to put together all the pieces, literally and figuratively. And it took a lot of work.

A lot of work. A lot. Physical labor. So. Much. Work. And why?

Well, for the glory of God. Soli Deo gloria. Glory to God alone.

But also, on a human dimension that we should still resonate with today, they did it as part of a community. Part of something bigger than themselves. They might not have loved, or liked, or wanted to be doing so much of the digging and mixing and carrying and cutting and chopping and sawing and heaving and brutal work that goes into building something. They didn’t have motors or engines or giant cranes or steamrollers or bulldozers or tractors or any of the building equipment we use today.

They had their minds and their hands, and whatever tools that combination of things could fashion. They envisioned, they planned, they did the work.

And what kind of timeline do some of these cathedrals take place over?

Not just dozens of years. Sometimes hundreds. That means that many people who began working on a cathedral knew that they would not see it completed in their lifetime.

I know I’ve taken the most romantic version of cathedral-building, the one that glosses over the role the Church had in establishing authority, controlling knowledge, and manipulating common people to expend their lives and energy to creating something majestic. Yes, those things did happen, but I also think it’s a disservice to dismiss the efforts of all those who built them as being paeans to a religious institution.

Yes, many did so, probably most because they believed it would help absolve their sins.

Yet they also did so as an investment of their creative energy, as part of a community effort that would someday pay off.

So we think of some of these peoples as being simple . But they had a vision that extended far beyond what many of us think ourselves capable of today.

They lived beyond the moment.

Beyond the day, or week, or month, or year. Beyond the decade.

Beyond their own lifetime.

They used their skills, their hands and minds and time, to build something they knew would be glorious, majestic, and connect their lives on earth to those of God above.

Amazing.

I didn’t foresee myself as being as caught up in the meaning and the feel of cathedrals and cemeteries as I have been the last week.

These places that are beautiful from architectural and design standpoints, but even more beautiful in what they represent and what they say about humanity and what humanity values.

I spent a great deal of time wandering throughout Montmartre Cemetery, wondering about the lives of each and how many of them were involved in building Sacre Coeur a short distance away, or others.

The yellow leaves dropped, crows dove and swooped, women arranged flowers, middle-aged men picked up garbage, and I wished it would start raining. But it didn’t.

But I needed to find a bathroom, and for reasons of respect perhaps not logical, I determined using Montmartre Cemetery as a urinal would not be an appreciated gesture.

So I finally reluctantly exited, and waited in line for a public toilette by Square Suzanne-Suisson.

Les Deux Moulins (aka Amelie’s Cafe)

I wandered around Montmartre with a slow purpose. I knew where I would end up.

Les Deux Moulins. The cafe from Amelie, the beautiful, lovely reminder of love and the small joys and generosities of life, as depicted in the 2001 French film. Was it a pilgrimage?

Yes. Did I hope my experience would be a little more…better than Cafe de Flore? Yes.

It was. I took a table outside, the fellow smiled patiently as I stammered my way through ordering, and I spent a wonderful half hour watching people pass by on the narrow Rue Lepic.

A good experience. Merci,

Moulin Rouge

Had to stop here for Jamey, my brother and big Moulin Rouge fan. I was by myself, aside from twenty others. Probably locals suddenly noticing this for the first time.

This is why I stop

I pause, stop, double-take, and generally take a lot of detours and wrong turns. This way of walking has not diminished as I’ve aged. It’s gotten even worse. Here’s one reason why. It’s not the only reason. But it’s one. Here it is:

I’ve been shooting pictures for almost two decades. For a good chunk of that, I’ve been shooting specific people and things that interest me. Things like shopping carts. I know, silly, yeah? But the older I am, the larger my collection of shopping cart photos. It’s something singular, something that is a small part of defining who I am, what interests me, and the ways I view myself as a sort of Cultural Anthropologist Documentary Photographer of Tiny Things.

So when I see things like a collection of shopping carts outside a fruit market in Montmartre, I stop. I shoot. I add a picture to this collection.

And that is one reason I stop. There are many more.

Here’s another reason

When people think of Parisian residences, they’re probably thinking of Haussmannian Architecture. It’s a 19th-century style that usually “…features large, elegant buildings with stone facades and wrought iron details. Consider it the quintessential Parisian-style building.”

(https://www.thespruce.com/what-is-haussmann-architecture-5180196)

There’s a number of exterior and interior features that define Haussmannian structures, but to keep it simple, just close your eyes and imagine a quintessential Parisian residence. Chances are you’re seeing a Haussmann residence.

Now, there’s one street in Paris, in Montmartre, that kept its English-inspired Art Deco houses. That would be Villa Léandre. It’s unlike any other street in the city, each has its own garden and own look, and each is apparently very expensive.

So of course I had to dart down this street and take a peek. And a pic.

Musee Montmartre

I had to check out this small, but wonderfully-curated and designed little museum - and place of Renoir’s studio and famous swing painting.

I slowly wandered and absorbed for a few hours, in the process discovering the fabulous work of Raoul Lufy, and rediscovering some lovely work of Toulouse-Latrec.

Renoir’s garden and the overlooking views of the city were almost worth the 13 euro entrance on their own.

Square Claud Charpentier / Finally to Sacré-Cœur

The first time outside the trains I’ve really felt claustrophobic. So crowded, people with hats inside and flashes and talking loud in the church; nuns and attendants asking over and over and over to please keep voices down and hats off and to please be reverent.

When people think of “crowded tourist places,” this is it.

I want our children to fully, clearly, completely understand what it means to carry respect with you. Carry a self-respect that is ever-present, and that leads you to respect whatever environment you are in. Deference is not capitulation and humility is not weakness. Deference is intelligence coupled with respect and humility is awareness and empathy bonded with the self-confidence to set aside yourself and your ego.

There was a beautiful view I would have enjoyed had I been able to Superman-vision my way through the hordes. Instead of an overhead view of Paris, I settled instead for a straight-on view of a Coca-Cola sandwich board, a subject I knew our 11-year old would like.

When people say things like: “…oh yeah, I know exactly what you mean, I have an 11-year old too.” *Insert age in place of “11”* …

…I just want to say something along the lines of Yeah, um, no.

How do I explain our 11-year old’s interest in Coca-Cola? He doesn’t drink it. He likes it for one or two overlapping reasons: because of the design, the typography, and the era it comes from. He is, to use an overused phrase, an old soul in terms of being drawn to things outside the contemporary and interested in topics outside the presumed interest of his demographic.

He gets intensely drawn to certain disciplines or areas of study or historical periods or art styles or activities or authors or ???? And pursues them with…intensity. With focus and the way that someone who loves living life hurls themself into something that brings joy. He hurls himself. Again and again. So his interest in Coca-Cola as a logo and design statement is a small part of his life, but it is one that brings him joy to spot in the wild.

Oh LOOOOOK! A Coca-Cola truck doing deliveries! That’s sooo cool! Oh hey, do you think I could order another Punch magazine off eBay? There’s a 1956 one in good condition that’s only fifteen dollars and there’s some really good Coca-Cola advertisements in it, I think. Advertising in the 1950s, and even ‘60s was so much better.

That’s my son. Our son. And that’s why I took a dozen pictures Coca-Cola - not the diminutive name “Coke” - for my son. In Paris.

Big boxes

Carrefour is a food market that is apparently semi-looked down as a chain store by Parisians. But it is a ubiquitous sight, generally with vegetables and fruits coloring the outside along the walkways, and oftentimes bicycles and scooters squished together outside. It’s interesting to me the idea of what’s “cool” and how it’s so much different depending on whether you’re a local or a visitor. I suppose that’s how tourist industries thrive when it comes to selling products: the idea that you don’t know the area well enough to dig too deep in finding something handcrafted, handmade, or non-mass produced. To me, I look at Carrefour Express and without any foreknowledge, it looks to me like a charming example of a ubiquitous Parisian food mart. But if you’re Parisian or French at large, then Carrefour, I surmised after listening to a conversation between others, is closer to a Walmart Foods than a mom and pop grocery.

I walked along Rue d’Orsel and marvels at all the textiles and fabrics and sewing machines. I vowed to come back with Lanessa, and then got distracted when I spotted several tutus in various colors that were screaming my almost-two year old niece’s name. In French. So I bought one after agonizing between pink and green.

Train

I got rerouted and what I thought was the home stretch is...not. Plus another transfer.

There’s advantages and disadvantages to having a whole coach car to yourself when you don’t understand big chunks of the language, particularly when it comes to navigation and directions.

On the plus side, it’s really helpful listening to pronunciations of places and instructions. I can actually understand a decent amount of French writing, but like most, it’s much more challenging to get my ear attuned to following when I hear the same thing spoken.

Home

Together, Lanessa and I made supper.

One of the most manipulative things a person can do is to find a task that somebody else has almost completed, and then leap in to perform a small function on it, thus qualifying you to use the phrase “together.” I’m not saying that has any immediate relevance to anything, it’s just something I’ve been thinking about.

So Lanessa started supper, and then together, we finished it.

Pasta, chèvre cheese, tomatoes, lettuce, beets, and bread. Oh, the bread. The kind you start cutting and then just RIP. Rip and tear because it’s so strong and hearty and good. She posed for a picture of herself with the food we made, umm, completely together, and then we sat down at the table to eat and have a quiet conversation.

Not really. We settled into the couch and dropped crumbs everywhere as we ripped into the mini-feast and watched a scary movie on my iPad. I believe both of us are now Kate Siegel fans.

Before bed, I was able to FaceTime with Becca and the kids eight hours previous, who were adorning themselves in costume to go publicly beg candy from strangers in downtown Camas. The figures I spotted across 5000 miles of pixels included a cranky dinosaur, blond-haired Madeline the French girl, a giant little precious ladybug, a leather-jacketed rock and roll teen rockstar, and an 11-year old Seussian by way of Willy Wonka character. In the images and sequences I was provided, they all seemed somewhere on an emotional continuum between joy and despair. Or perhaps between pleasure and extreme irritable impatience. Whatever.

There are two things that always make cranky children extra lovable in the moment:

A) extreme distance, where you can chuckle and laugh and miss them without dealing with the actual challenge in the moment, and

B) knowledge of the future, which is to say, knowing that you will someday chuckle and laugh and enjoy the memory of what is now taking place.

In this case, Option A was the easy one, and I am so grateful for the delicious and beautiful hands belonging to le Countess Becca, my wife, into whom I can fully and completely relinquish the care and development of our children in my absence. It is a gift, a wonderful and immeasurable gift to simply trust. To not think about, to simply know that you can trust. From across an ocean.

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