The Magic Of Montmartre

I figured it out. I am addicted.

Montmartre is perfect for a fantasist like me.

Everywhere I go, I imagine moving to. Which house would I choose? Where would I shop? It’s a lifelong habit. More like a risky impulse, because I’ve actually done it once or twice. Just ask my kids.

Now I live within walking distance of Montmartre. That proximity has saved me from myself.

Yes, I still linger at the real estate windows. In Paris, there are no multiple listings. Every company operates as its own entity with its own listings. It’ll drive you crazy but it gives you lots of storefronts to gaze at as you stroll around.

The Montmartre listings are still, amazingly, less expensive than the listings for apartments and flats closer to the river.

I suppose that is partly because the 18th arrondissement is, in fact, farther from the center of the city. It is probably also because you’ve gotta have some leg muscles to get up and down the steep rues and passages of Montmartre.

It is delightful that this ancient quartier of artists is still almost within reach of normal folk with normal budgets.

This district thrived at the turn of the century. At the bottom of the hill were the nightclubs: the Moulin Rouge, the headliner, in the Place Blanche, and the Chat Noir (which has moved and seems to have claimed its modern form as a hotel).

A bit farther up you find, still today, the Moulin de la Galette, and farther up again you find Au Lapin Agile and the weird and wonderful Bonne Franquette, now more a restaurant than a nightclub.

You can access some good histories of these clubs online. Here’s one by Lily la Tigresse:

Before I moved to Paris, I stayed twice in a tiny studio in the Place Émile Goudeau. Just off the place is what remains of the Bateau Lavoir, the famous unheated, ramshackle artists’ studio building that flourished at the turn of the 20th century. Make a list of Paris artists that you’ve heard of, add in ones you haven’t, and you’ve got the occupants, longterm and temporary, of the Bateau Lavoir between the 1890s and World War I.

Around the corner and down the street is the little market made famous in the film Amélie.

Every day I walked both up and down the hill: down toward the Seine, the museums, the Left Bank, the big parks, and up toward the Place du Tertre, where today’s street artists hang out, work, and sell their art.

Although today it takes me less than half an hour to walk to those same places, I still get a pang of nostalgia for the weeks I spent right there in the bosom of the great hill. Silly me.

Why am I addicted? I’m not alone, of course. Several other Medium writers, and probably thousands beyond these precincts, have celebrated this lovely, unique place. Molli Sébrier has written about living on Montmartre (lucky thing!).

It is the street art, humorous, political, nutsy, and almost always a cut above anything else in Paris.

It is the cobblestones and the stories embedded in the brickwork.

It is the tiny shops and cafés, still not overtaken by the chains (though there is a Starbucks up there, and I have-gasp-bought drinks there).

It is the stairs, the endless, beautiful stairs.

It is the getting lost and discovering something new: some new-to-you wall, or shop, or vine, or door.

It is the Musée de Montmartre, a not quite hidden gem of a small museum with an almost totally hidden courtyard and café overlooking the historic and still functioning vineyard.

It is the annual October fête des vendanges, celebrating the grape harvest from that lovely vineyard.

It is the tourist shops, just a little bit better and more interesting than the ones down the hill. (I’m headed there to get my new winter scarf, for which I’ll spend eight euros rather than sixty.)

It is the Sacré Coeur, whose dome is the best thing about this church, which some argue and others deny was built to memorialize one of the worst reactionary impulses of this great city’s history. It is not ancient. The basilica was not officially completed until 1923. Don’t stand in line to see the inside, if the line is long. Instead, go buy some organic soap — much more rewarding in the long run. But wow, that dome.

Oh, and be very careful on the great flights of stairs leading up to the basilica. There are hawkers and thieves and scammers — as well as sweet tourists like us. Just be a bit cautious. Do not let anyone persuade you to tie a little woven bracelet on your wrist. DO NOT.

It is the dancing and playing.

It is the people treating Montmartre as their neighborhood — which it is.

Oh! One more bit of Montmartre magic. Here, men may be transformed into cats.

Or maybe it was the other way around. Magical, in either case.

Two of my other writings on Paris.

Thanks for reading!