Paris: Day Three (part I)

As exciting as Days One and Two were in the City of Lights, Day Three promised even more thrills: for the first time we would be, truly, on our own. A second Breakfast in Bed royal room service treatment followed (again with the two-man crew bustling, tidying up our room as we scurried about, tying back the heavy dark drapes, making me sign the 75 euro itemized receipt, and eagerly accepting my 5 euro gratuity), and what we didn’t eat we made sure to stow away in our carry-on bags. You see, we were going to leave the Crillon this morning and venture out to a hotel in the Latin Quarter, south of the River Seine, for a room we were going to pay with our own dime. Hence, we were unsure whether we’d eat breakfast in Paris again.

This Thursday morning dragged on as subconsciously we were melancholy about leaving the wonderful five-star hotel. Our showers were a bit longer, our dressing took an extra half-hour, our packing twice that. Finally, we took one last circuit of the room, ostensibly to make sure we weren’t forgetting anything, but I think we just wanted to soak it all in for a few final minutes. Then, our suitcases in the red carpeted hallway, we closed the door behind us, headed down to the fourth-floor elevator, and descended to the lobby.

Check out went smoothly. A young lady with a beaming smile wanted to make sure our stay was excellent – and we assured her it was. My wife mentioned that we wanted to get back but was upset that the hotel would be closing for two whole years. “Well, you’ll have to come back and visit us before than!” the young lady bubbled. Two not-quite-bellboys-not-quite-concierges approached us and pleaded with us to take our bags. They asked our destination, and when we told them we’d need a taxi, they assured us they would have one ready and waiting.

Which they did, of course. A two-dollar euro coin for that man (we were a little more than halfway through our money not quite halfway through our trip; tips had to be rationed now). Our bags were already in the taxi’s trunk, and we got in to ride to the Hotel du Lys, about a mile-and-a-quarter as the crow flies, but twice that taking the winding semi-cobbled streets of Paris into account. The car was a fairly new black Volkswagen; the interior was pleasant, as was its smell. The driver was a polite Frenchman in his mid-50s. Like most French professionals, he was wearing a jacket, a tweed jacked in this case, and wore some sort of a cap.

(It must be noted here that I was keeping an unofficial beret watch. Bonus points if the beret-wearer was also wearing a blue-and-white horizontal-striped shirt. And if said person was also a mime – well, I done think my head would explode. Anyway, at this point in the trip, the count was at ... one. I’d see another only at the airport on the way home. My wife saw a beret and a blue-and-white horizontal-striped shirt once each, on different individuals. Another French cliché shot down, I suppose. The taxi driver’s cap, you might be wondering, did not qualify as a beret.)

Another thing I learned is that French taxi drivers are not much different from New York City taxi drivers. Well, that’s not exactly true, because never at any point in the ride did I feel my life was threatened. But there was a bit of jerkiness, and bit of lane changing, sudden bursts of acceleration, and expletives, only in a language I didn’t understand. Well, not that I understand New York City cab driver-ese either. Once a driver on a perpendicular street got “caught in the box” and blocked our forward progress. Our driver honked, muttered a frustrated “Ahng” and raised his hand backside towards the stuck car. That driver honked back and duplicated the gesture.

A twenty-minute drive through traffic brought us to the Hotel du Lys on Rue Serpente (how sinister a street name! The back of my mind wondered if there would be intrigue or foul-play of perhaps a voodoo-ish sort during our stay). Serpente was one of those iconic Parisien streets: narrow, winding, and canyonesque, with sand-colored buildings six or seven stories high. The trip there cost twelve euros; I gave the driver a twenty and got back a five.

We wheeled our luggage through glass doors into a pleasant, dark-wood lobby. Not bad, I thought, surely this is a great deal for the $125/night we booked! The desk clerk, however, shot this down fairly quickly. After my wife asked him (in French) if he spoke English, he instantly grew bored with us. Checked us in, handed us a key attached to a large block of wood the size of a DVD case, and told us “Room 14 up the stairs.” He pointed the way without getting up. All touristy smiles, we thanked him and followed his finger-line.

Around the bend was a spiraling staircase (one built in to the walls, not a stand-alone) which felt as if it was built around the turn of the century. The eighteenth century. That is, none of the steps were parallel to its neighbors in any dimension and in any direction. During the next two days more than a few times we almost went tumbling forward descending the stairs, because of this. You know, your body kinda becomes accustomed to where the step is going to be. Not on the staircase of the Hotel du Lys. But the biggest problem with the staircase was getting all the luggage up unassisted. Room 14 was on the fourth floor (but since floors were staggered it was like the sixth or seventh – go figure, I still can’t), and I nearly dropped dead of a heart attack hauling 140 pounds of luggage up in two trips.

The room was small and L-shaped. The bedroom took up most of it, most of it being something like ten-by-fifteen square feet. The bathroom hooked off to the far left as you stood in the doorway. When you opened the bathroom window you saw the interior of the bedroom through that window. The teevee was small and mounted in a far corner above an armoire. Inside the armoire was a safe for your possessions and money, although I don’t think it could be called a “safe” since it refused to lock shut.

There was no air-conditioning. Of this we were aware. What we did not expect were temperatures a dozen degrees warmer than what Paris is used to this time of year. Subsequently, or consequently, it was stifling inside, even with both windows cracked open. Probably because both windows opened to a wall fifteen feet away. One painted that sandstone color, which radiated heat and sunlight back at us.

So, there would be no hanging out in the hotel room. Du Lys was forcing us out onto the streets to explore the city. Okay, well and good. It was still on the south side of noon, and our bellies were still full from Crillon breakfast. Today was the day we would visit the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. Only problem was that it was getting there. The Basilique lies about two miles due north of our position, back over the Seine, past the heart of Touriste Paris, in a hilly area that makes it the second highest point in the city.

A taxi was out of the question; cab fare would bankrupt us. Walking was, too, since the Eiffel Tower, the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the Tuileries, the Louvre, et al, literally destroyed our feet. The only way to get there was Paris famed Metro. Which we were veterans of, somewhat. Consulting the map, however, dampened our spirits as no single route ran to the Basilique, or anywhere near it. Still, my wife was game, even if I was thinking of calling it off (to my eternal shame). However, being the stronger-willed of us in situations like these, she prevailed, and we hit the pavement.

The biggest pro for the Hotel du Lys was its location: just off the Rue Saint-Michel. However, before you reached this main thoroughfare (which brought you to the bridge to City Isle, where the Notre Dame Cathedral lay), you walked into a triangular orientation of one-lane streets which features the Perfect Storm of sidewalk cafes. Five or six of them; hard to tell because they all sort of merged into each other. They were always busy, from the time we usually left the hotel (about 11 am) until way past our bedtime (midnight). Sandwiching the Bistro Triangle were a pair of bookstores, a fountain where young ’uns played music and did European break-dancing, and two Metro stations.

The first one, natch, had no live tellers to help us nor any machines to dispense ticketry. The second one, across the Rue Michel, did. I must admit to being very intimidated by the large post-modern map in the underground tunnel. But the wife thought it doable. If we bought a ticket on the blue B line north a handful of stations to the Gare du Nord, we’d be within a couple hundred meters of the Basilique. Something in my mind said “Do it!” so I said, “Let’s go!”

Again for the standard fare of 1.40 euros, we bought a ticket each and boarded the appropriate train (not until after boarding a yellow C line train by mistake, and jumping off just as the doors were closing). The trip was quick, a pack of noisy kids behind us I labeled “French Stomp” notwithstanding, perhaps ten minutes. We got off at Gare du Nord, or North Station, if my French is up to any type of speed. A massive train depot not unlike a cross between Penn Station and the biggest mall you can think of. We negotiated the maze and made our way surfaceward, exiting in bright sunlight of an 85-degree, superhumid Gallic day. Then we negotiated a maze of stinky panhandlers and street vendors, and eventually crossed into the shadier side of the street.

If my bearings were any good, we were about a quarter mile southeast of Sacre Coeur. Very quickly we realized that this part of Paris, so far northward from the touristy, sight-driven environs, was a lot more city-like. Meaning, more like the New York I and to a much-greater-extent, my wife, is used to. A little dirtier, a little skankier, a little more dangerous, a little more business-is-business instead of business-is-tourism. I noticed myself not making eye contact with people. One man shouted at me from a store door to come in and buy some pants – and, strangely enough, there was little friendliness in his voice. “Just ignore everyone,” my wife said, making a beeline towards where we thought the Basilique might be.

We had to consult the map a few times, but at last we were in sight. We had crossed a busy street (Boulevard de Rochechouart) that had a train line run down its middle, then found ourselves in the Arabic clothing district of Paris. The streets got very hilly, very narrow, and all cobblestone, and we passed a dozen or more open markets where cloth and clothes of an Arabic, Persian, and other middle Eastern styles were sold. It was not too busy an area, but it was definitely the most run-down section of Paris we’d been in. Fortunately, the sparkling white tiles of the Byzantine turrets of the Basilique were visible over the shabby storefronts we were passing by. We zeroed in, and before we knew it, were in front of what appeared to be a gated forest sanctuary, an oasis in this Algerian quadrant we found ourselves in. It also was the base of a giant mountain. Our feet wept in anguish.

I entered, taking the lead, my excitement growing. I wanted to see this Basilique and pray here. Three years earlier, in a hospital bed, recovering from painful surgery on my pulmonary vein, I saw a prayer card containing the Sacred Heart of Christ, and the thought this is what you should devote yourself to entered my mind and has stayed there, off and on, over the past thousand days. I felt, due to the whole strangeness of how this trip fell into our laps, that I should visit this shrine.

There was a few winding, very steep but paved paths leading upward, until suddenly we were in a wide-open pavilion, filled with hundreds of tourists, pilgrims, water bottle vendors, and, uh, pickpockets, I suppose. We were at the technical foot of the Basilique. Looking upward, you saw grassy fields reaching towards the church at somewhere between a thirty and forty-five degree angle for some two hundred yards. Right down the middle were a series of stairs for the brave and for those with prominent calves, quads, and hams. Off to the left were more sensible, winding pathways in the cool shade. We sat down on a free piece of real estate, when my wife realized we had neither food nor water. I told her to stay put and went down to the main streets, but towards a large group of mingling people, figuring there’d be food and drink in that direction. There was; I found an open-air shop and, forgetting the word for water was l’eau, asked for, inexplicably, agua.

I returned to the wife and we rehydrated. Thus energized, we hoofed it up the central stairs all the way up to the Basilique, stopping frequently to appreciate the hazy view of southern Paris and to catch our breath. Then we reached the top, and I entered the Basilica of the Sacred Heart.

At the door is a prohibition to be quiet (people would be praying), to not take pictures, and to dress modestly. Imagine the tumult and outrage if St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York had signs like that outside its doors (if it does, kudos to them). Immediately, as I generally do and really did in Paris, I felt a supreme sense of peace and serenity flow into me as we stepped into the church. There was a slow-moving line of folks moseying in a great circle about the interior, seeing all the ... displays, I guess, for lack of a better word. There were posters of when Pope John Paul II blessed the church in the early 80s. There were statues of the Holy Family and other saints. There was a large statue of Christ, arms outstretched, Sacred Heart prominent on his breast. I stood in line, then was in front of it. I prayed for healing, dropped a euro in the poor box, and moved on.

There was a gift shop, and I went in, but everything, as usual, was too expensive for our budget (i.e., Rosaries for 18 euros). There was also, oddly, what I thought to be a recruiting office. A funnily dressed small man was chatting with a nun inside. I was unsure who was recruiting who. Finally we returned to our entrance at the rear of the church, but instead of exiting, we walked up the middle aisle and sat down.

Aside from having beautifully large stained glass windows, the ceiling of the Basilique is incredibly awe-inspiring. Magnificent stone arch architecture a hundred feet up, but that’s really just a guess. What caught and held my attention was the ceiling itself – a massive mosaic of Christ, with golden beams emanating from His Sacred Heart. Other iconography was present, but my eyes always returned to that golden Sacred Heart. I recall sweat dripping off my half-inch-long hair onto the back of my neck, but I kept looking up, kept staring at the eyes of Christ, and felt at peace.

What must have been ten minutes or more passed in the twinkling of an eye. We got up to leave and as we exited I passed an old beggar-woman dressed in black and holding a cup. Something moved me to drop pocket change into that cup, maybe a grand total of a euro. We walked back into the sun and examined the Parisien skyline again, though it was too hazy in the distance to make out the Eiffel tower or other landmarks two miles distant. My wife began descending, this time by those winding pathways on our right. I lingered until she was nearly there, then turned and dropped some more coins in the woman’s cup. “Merci,” she said, and it sounded like “Mercy.”

We spent the next twenty minutes walking down to the streets via this walkway. We passed a small, cavelike grotto, where someone thoughtfully left a half-consumed bottle of Diet Pepsi. We passed two Chinese musicians, one strumming an acoustic guitar (and looking up tab on his iPhone) while his partner played that skinny Chinese cello-thingie. Let me tell you, it was a lot easier going down than going up, even more so in the heat and humidity. By three o’clock we were at the foot of the Basilique du Sacre Coeur, and twenty-minutes later we had made our way to a Metro station much closer than the Gare du Nord. Twenty minutes after that we were back in the Latin Quarter of Paris.