Dawn is breaking. We stand in the shadow of the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur.
Early o'clock. We are in the arty bohemian 18th arrondissement of northern Paris. A modest hotel in Montmartre is our base.
Bohemian, you say. Hold my paintbrush… Picasso, Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Monet, Dali…
Writers? Hold my quill… Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Porter, Reading, Proust, Joyce…
Inspired? I feel the urge to stroll with a baguette under one arm and an easel under the other. Then climb the 222 steps to the hilltop, don my old army beret, sip a small, strong coffee, ponder life until midday, and then paint an apple.
“Monsieur, qu’en penses-tu? Combien de temps?” The security fellow tells me it’ll be at least an hour.
When anyone tells me they’ve queued for a long time, I usually respond with, ‘I’ve spent longer in the NAAFI queue.’
The creatives and literati drank here in the 1920s. Before them, the painters and artists in the 1880s. Legend has it that Marcel Proust ordered a cold beer from here on his deathbed, and that Hemingway liberated the hotel from the Nazis by storming the bar and ordering 50 martinis.
It’s one out, one in. There are only 25 seats. After 70 minutes, I find myself in this shrine to Ernest, the bar named after him, Hemingway’s. I’m not sure I’ve ever spent this long in the NAAFI queue. I‘m allocated a seat at the bar. I enjoy a few Havana rum cocktails in quick succession and munch on some fantastic nibbles. I breathe in the atmosphere. Is it worth it? Absolutely.
They say that every French bar and every NAAFI have a resident philosopher. I’ve brushed up on my Nietzsche. I’m equally prepared to discuss philosophy or why everything is “merde.”
I can pretend to go heavy, “Libérez l’amour” (capitalism is a prison) or go light, which comes far more easily… or army, or civvie… all bases covered.
Light. There is a French cat named ‘un deux trios’, and an English cat called ‘one two three.’ They decide to have a race across the canal. Naturally, the English cat wins: one, two, three. The French cat, un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq…
Army. Why are they shooting at us, Sarge? Because we are here. Why are we here, Sarge? Because they are shooting at us.
Civvie. I’ve sailed in here and dropped my anchor, wearing a shirt that makes me look like a wa*nker.
All this philosophy is making me thirsty. I smile, “Quand le seagull suivre le trawler… “
“Pardon, Monsieur.”
I present my glass: “Ah, oui, merci, un autre… un plus pour la rue… santé… (channeling my inner Monsieur Cantona…)."
Oh, la la, these cocktails have a mighty kick.
“L’addition, s’il vous plaît.”
La facture arrive. €108. Merde. I tap my card.
“Le reçu, monsieur?”
« Oui, personne ne me croirait. »
I leave a €20 bill with my witty server. I’m bursting with ideas for tomorrow’s early morning run. Time for an Uber back to our base in Montmartre.
Who knew? A few drinks, and my French fluency is off the charts when speaking with my West African Uber chauffeur. She has a smile that makes the City of Light shine even brighter. Try saying that in French, and I tried…
Where were we…
Ah, yes, under the shadow…
Allons y…
Montmartre is dreamy, filled with photo opportunities and cobbled streets. There are steps everywhere. Our lungs and calves will suffer this morning. Buckle up. Let’s climb…
Voila, and that everyone is Sacré-Cœur Basilica. The climb to the summit, and the highest point in Paris. The breathing out of our rear ends has been worth it, non.
At the top of the stairs, let’s all do the Rocky dance. You know, from the film, when he reaches the top of the steps in Philly, he raises his arms like a champion and does his little jig. I do it all the time in those moments — a great training session, just feeling good or happy, England scoring a try at Twickers, that kind of thing…
Let’s descend smoothly to Abbesses. Some of the cafes are starting to open. Time for coffee... and jot down some of this post while it’s fresh, pretend I’m a writer…
To quote Bogie, we will always have Paris; it’s time to say au revoir — literally until we meet again.
Le Fin
