Meandering in Montmartre, Part Two

When I ended my last post I was recalling my first visit to Montmartre, back in 2005. My family and I followed Rue des Abbesses to Rue Lepic (the street where Vincent and Theo moved to a few months after Vincent arrived in Paris). We followed Rue Lepic--an upward slanting and curving street that is virtually all residential--until it ended, and then we took a series of turns. At that point we were about as high as one can be on the Butte Montmartre. In fact, we were level with the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, only behind it now, a block or two away, in an area thriving with restaurants and shops and overrun with crowds of summer tourists. Hot and thirsty, we grabbed a seat at an outside table of one of the cafes. I can't remember what my wife or kids ordered, but I ordered a large Stella Artois draft. And though I'm not a big fan of Stella, I can attest that I savored that one. As we sat and enjoyed our drinks we spied a sign on the wall of the cafe that indicated that the building dated to the nineteenth century and had been then a favorite hangout of the Neoimpressionist community located in Montmartre. I believe the sign even mentioned Van Gogh by name. So, what do you know, we had stumbled onto one of his old watering holes.

When we were finished at the cafe, we wandered the area for a bit longer, checking out some stores, and then found our way back to the Rue Lepic and down the hill again. It was my wife who discovered it: an unassuming, creamy white-toned building with white shutters and dark blue doors, a building that melded almost invisibly into the others lining the east side of Rue Lepic. We'd walked by it the first time without evening noticing. But a rectangular sign with gold letters affixed to the wall near the front door told you: it was the building where Vincent and Theo lived all those years ago. Immediately, of course, we started snapping pictures. My wife made me pose beneath the sign. People walking by studied us curiously, unable to figure why this rather ordinary building should attract such interest.

Well, that was 2005. As it turned out, our camera was having difficulties and we lost most of our pictures from the trip, including half that we took in Paris and almost all we had taken in the south. So part of my reason (albeit a small part) for wanting to return this past summer was to snap some pictures that would last. Indeed, on that cloudy Saturday morning last summer when I arrived in Paris the first place I went after I unloaded my baggage at the hotel was Montmartre. It was far cooler in May 2009 than it had been in August 2005, but not so cool that as to be uncomfortable, especially when the sun peeked out. From the 2005 trip I knew precisely where Vincent and Theo's building was located. I skipped the Basilica and headed toward Rue Lepic, stopping along the way to observe the curve of the streets, the color and architecture of the buildings, the characteristics of the inhabitants. I wanted to burn Monmartre into my memory as well as take dozens of documentary photos. (Such as the ones above.) I examined Vincent and Theo's building again; then, I headed up the street toward the Moulin de la Galette, the umbrella name for two famous windmills--located almost at the heighest point on the street--that Van Gogh depicted in various paintings. An historically significant edifice--it had to be defended during the seige of Paris in 1814--during Van Gogh's lifetime it was regarded as a colorful bit of scenery; a convenient end destination for center town Parisians out for a long walk; and the site of a popular observation deck (at the "Blute-Fin" mill) and a "guinguette" (bar/dancing venue) at the "Radet" mill. Since I'd decided to make the creation of one of Van Gogh's windmill paintings a significant scene in the novel, I lingered for a long time outside the (unfortunately locked) gate to the Blute-Fin mill and then further on to the Radet mill, which tops a still functioning restaurant.

When I'd stood and gawked and photographed as much as I could, I continued on the Rue Lepic until I found the same cafe I'd visited with my family in 2005. This time, instead of sitting outside, I headed in without hesitation. I wanted to sit down, yes, and after the long stretch of Arkansas to Montmartre traveling a tall beer sounded awfully nice, but mostly I just wanted to see the interior, which was narrower and longer, more tightly packed, than I expected. I took my table--the place was almost empty inside--ordered my beer, brought my journal out from my backback, and began recording: what I'd seen and was now seeing, how the day had gone and was going. Without quite realizing it, I was sitting inside what would become the model for Café du Tambourin, the cafe appears in several of my Paris scenes. (Du Tambourin was an actual cafe, but I have no idea of its real life address as it does not operate anymore, at least under that name.) I think at the moment what I felt was pure fatigue, but accompanied by the delicious knowledge that I'd arrived--in Vincent's old neighborhood--and that I was gratefully off my feet; that I had a home here for as long as I wanted it, or at least until my beer ran out.

Meandering in Montmartre, Part One

It was about this time last year that I arrived in Paris, on a cool, partly cloudy morning in early May, a Saturday as I recall. And one of the biggest national holiday weekends on the French calendar: the anniversary of the end of WW II. I felt grateful to find a cafe open for breakfast, to say nothing of the fact that my hotel hadn't lost my reservation, even if I couldn't yet occupy the room. When I finally did get into the room I dumped all my baggage: a large suitcase, a bag for my rather oversized laptop, and a backtop jammed to the hilt with books and guidebooks and maps and railway tickets and drawing pads and half a dozen other necessities. Then I reorganized, emptying my backpack of everything and then putting in only exactly what I needed for that day. I was sicking of lumbering around like a pack mule. You'd think I'd want to rest for a while, muzzy-brained as I was from a "night" spent on a transatlantic flight, which of course equals only a few hours of sleep. But I had only two days in Paris before I must leave for the south, and I knew my research itinerary was a full one. Besides, I was too wired to rest. I also knew the first place I needed and wanted to see: Montmartre, that famously bohemian district in the 18th arrondissement of Paris where Van Gogh lived for two years with his brother Theo, and where he first met a number of men who became crucially important to him, some personally and some professionally (and some both): Emile Bernard, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, Paul Signac, Paul Gauguin, Camille Pissarro, Pére Tanguy, Georges Seurat. (Just to name a few.) Arguably, the story of painting in the second half of the nineteenth century is the story of Montmartre, as it welcomed first the Impressionists and then the Neoimpressionists before either group found acceptance in larger society. It also where many of these painters lived, if not permanently then at least for a time.

To clarify: This would not be my first tour of Montmartre. The first time I even heard of the place was in 2001 when my family and I took a trip to Paris with a group of UCA students who were going on a "field trip" while studying in Maastricht in the Netherlands. We were joined on this Paris leg by my mother-in-law and a couple friends of hers. While my family and I toured many of the familiar spots of central Paris, my mother-in-law was "dragged" by her friends up the slope of Montmartre. To her, the area was nothing but a "big hill" with a bunch of people trying to hawk tacky wares. It didn't sound like I was missing anything at that time, so I hardly gave it a second thought. We were too busy hanging out at the playground in the Luxembourg Gardens; at the small, temporary amusement park established at the Tuileries; and at the Jardin d' Acclimatation in the Bois de Boulogne. When I returned to Paris in 2005, however, with the idea for Yellow firmly in mind, and armed with considerable knowledge about Van Gogh, I knew I had to go to Montmartre. It was a bright, gorgeous mid-summer day when we exited the Metro and made out way, among crowds of other tourists, to the area. To say the least, what I found hardly matched my mother-in-law's description. Yes, of course, Montmartre is essentially one high, large hill, around which a variety of streets wend. But oh what a great hill.

What one can't not notice upon arriving in Montmartre is the stunning white church that sits at the top: the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur. The marble on the church, which has become the symbol of the district, literally shines. Although the construction of the church was not completed until long after Van Gogh's death--and thus it has no connection to either him or the artistic community he played a role in--one cannot visit Montmarte for the first time without stopping in. Or at least I thought so. While my wife waited with our two sons on the broad courtyard outside, and bought a great and possibly illegal purse from one of those nasty "hawkers," I walked up the towering church stairs, enjoyed the incredible view of Paris afforded from there, and then went inside. The transition from the bright sunshine outside was rather drastic but I felt rewarded by the lavish interior.

Done with the church we headed down the hill a bit and then westward along the Rue des Abbesses, picking up sandwiches at one of the many streetside eateries. Our rather overactive, overgrabby young boys earned a disapproving look from one restaurant employee who murmured to the woman next to him something unkind about the English. I chose not to disabuse him of his false identification, but smiled upon receiving our sandwiches and wished him a good day.

Next post's: Discovering Van Gogh hideouts