Rose Window at Sainte-Chapelle, courtesy of Julian.
Upper sanctuary of Sainte-Chapelle, courtesy of Julian.
Wednesday we hit three shrines: Two religious and one secular. We got up early to stand on line to enter Sainte-Chapelle. This church is two blocks away from Notre Dame. It’s also older and smaller than its neighbor. The entrance to Sainte-Chapelle is shared with the Palace of Justice. Our line progressed much faster than theirs, proving that the wheels of justice move slowly everywhere.
The lower level of Sainte-Chapelle contains the oldest painting in Paris, the Annunciation. I wasn’t able to get close to it to get a straight-on picture. The upper level has a beautiful rose window with other windows depicting Bible stories, and many paintings. Some of the smaller paintings were of assorted martyrs and how they met their fates. Even the floors are decorated.
Detail from floor of upper sanctuary, Ste.-Chapelle.
When I go into a very old church, I think about how a person of the time might have seen it. Churches were about the most spectacular things around. Since the peasant most likely couldn’t read or understand Latin, he or she may have acquired any knowledge of Jesus, the prophets, and saints through looking at the paintings or windows.
The next stop was Sacré-Coeur, on Montmartre. I was creeped out by the place four years ago. It reminded me of the story of Jesus driving the moneychangers out of the temple–before he did so. The area around the basilica at the time was very seedy and full of pickpockets. The pickpockets and scammers are fewer in number now, but there’s still plenty of commerce going on inside. Mass was being celebrated at the time, so visitors were respectful. In addition, photographs aren’t allowed within Sacré-Coeur, although that didn’t stop some people from trying.
The Basilica of Sacré-Coeur.
We’d made reservations months ahead of time to visit the Eiffel Tower at 8 pm, near dusk.
I’m sure this needs no introduction. The sphere hanging between the first and second levels is an ad for the French Open.
The area around the tower was jumping with people selling bottled water, wine, champagne, flowers, selfie sticks of dubious quality, and Eiffel Tower models. Since the French Open is going on, the city set up a Jumbotron so residents could watch the action from the park near the tower. Unfortunately, we misread our tickets–they’re for Thursday, not Wednesday. We wound up staying in the vicinity and having dinner at a restaurant where Julian and I ate four years ago.
Thursday we went separate ways to our own shrines. Roger went to a multimedia exhibit of David Bowie’s career. Meanwhile, Julian and I headed to Librairie Gourmand, where I could worship cookbooks. They have a few English language volumes. I bought a cookbook on Southwestern France and one on cooking for your cats. (Luka and Neli, don’t get any ideas…)
“Come on, Mom. Where’s the love here???”
After we finished our homage to cookbooks, we set off towards the northeast part of the city to see the Canal St.-Martin. We also walked over to a beautiful park, Des Buttes Chaumont. Many of the trails are closed for renovation, but what was open was fantastic. It’s heavily wooded, with a lake, stream, and waterfall. Parisians of all stripes were walking, jogging, pushing strollers, and the like through the park.
Pavilion and lake at Parc Des Buttes Chaumont, courtesy of Julian.
In the evening we reunited with Roger and took the Métro to the Eiffel Tower, along with 50,000 of our closest personal friends. It was much cloudier than the previous evening. We were sandwiched between Spanish and Korean tour groups on the way up. We also had to deal with Roger’s fear of heights. (And he’s the one who suggested we go up the Tower. Go figure.) We did make it to the top without a total freakout on Roger’s part.
Good Seattleite that I am, I was undergoing some soy sauce withdrawal with all of the European food we’ve been eating. Therefore, I suggested we eat at a Japanese restaurant down the street from our apartment. Roger and Julian both love sushi, so this was not a hard sell. The sushi was pretty standard-issue, but one of the skewers that came with Julian’s dinner was truly weird. It consisted of thin slices of beef wrapped around…Mozzarella cheese?!? Who says fusion cuisine is only an American concept? Before we leave Paris for the hinterlands on Monday, I’ll have to deal with my fish sauce withdrawal. I’ve located a couple of Thai and Vietnamese restaurants in the neighborhood to tide us over until we get home, if not to Lyon.
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