Polite Parisians

The Basilique du Sacré Coeur (or Church of the Sacred Heart) was our last stop before leaving Paris. A set of wide, winding stairs led the way atop a small hill known as Montmartre to the entrance of the church, seemingly guarded by 2 statues set to either side: Saint Joan of Arc and Saint Louis, each astride a majestic mount. Street hawkers filled the small landings separating the flights of stairs, their wares laid out on the ground for our perusal. A man in a wheelchair sat outside near the corner of the church making animal key chains from fuzzy wire-piping. I stood and watched along with others in amazement as he skillfully created a dual-colored poodle out of the piping as he chatted with the on-lookers.

Visitors are allowed to enter the church, asked of course to keep as quiet as possible as the morning service was being held. When I entered, the Little Singers of Montmartre choir was singing. The acoustics in the church were amazing, and the voices of the singers seemed to soar to the mosaics on the ceiling above them. I stopped to listen but was shooed along by the ushers inside and left reluctantly, the haunting voices of the choir seeming to hang in the air around me as I walked back out of the church.

Just beyond the church is a boisterous square called the Place du Tertre. The old village square was jam-packed with both tourists and artists of varying skills and crafts. Lingering in one place for too long guarantees that you will be approached by someone wanting to sketch you, dazzle you with their paper-cutting skills (well, they cut paper into shapes that I couldn't manage with a pair of scissors), or offering to braid a bracelet for you from colors you choose.

All of this sits atop Montmartre, the highest hill in Paris. This little village has long been famous among artists and offers some lovely views of the city of Paris as you wander through the streets. Montmartre was infamous from before the French-Prussian revolution for its dangerous taverns and the nearby country pleasure houses of the wealthy. The streets today are lined with sex shops, bordellos and cabarets, among which, most notably, is the Moulin Rouge.

A short break to sit in the park and eat my lunch of fresh pizza before loading back on the bus to head back to Holland was greeted with interest by the neighborhood's sparrows. One particularly plucky fellow landed on the back of my park bench and cocked his head at me as if waiting. I pulled off a bit of crust and held it out. I almost crowed with delight as he deftly took the crust in his beak and flew off into the shrubbery behind me. I waited, but he never came back for more and the other sparrows left me alone as well. It was almost as if they recognized that I had already given food away and left me alone to enjoy my meal after. How polite are these little birdies in Paris. It seems the rumors I have heard about the rudeness of Parisians may not be true after all. *wink*