The first time I heard about Montmarte was when I was working at the Honolulu Community Theatre on the musical Can Can. The song was a rousing number and was in the show’s finale. The stage and my imagination seemed to explode with energy . . and anticipation.
So, here we were at the real Montmarte. One hundred and twenty five years since its heyday. It was very busy for a Wednesday. The city workers were preparing for the Fête du Vendange, a big celebration for the city.
We met three couples from Houston who were here visiting and who went home with a photo of their entire group compliments of Messrs. Hardy and Hardy! The spectacular view of central and Eastern Paris was framed by wire fencing which would be used this weekend to control the crowd at the largest annual festival in Paris proper.
We wandered by the Funiculaire, took a few pictures and found one of the staircases down to Rue André Barsacq. We found an old theatre, still in use, with posters of upcoming shows. The garden in front was sparse with a few benches, trees and some grass.
Then I saw her. A flourish of yellow and red flowers on the second floor drew my eye. Green foliage rose from the flower box on either side of the window framed a middle-aged woman. Dyed bright red hair, parted slightly to the side with light colored roots and bewildered eyes that were surrounded by a black mascara . . and they were trained right on me. I tried not to stare and continued on past the theatre. But, when I looked back, she was still there, staring at me
On the metro, it was just before rush hour and there were a few travelers. A woman in jeans, plain but simple clothes, with blond hair was having an active discussion with her 8 year old son, plainly dressed, bespectacled and weighted down by a large school briefcase turned back-pack for this journey. He was actively listening and asking and listening. A mother and her son.
Then the young girl, perhaps 15 years old stroking the ear of her brown dog ensconced on her lap, happy to have a doting owner, and the 17 year old young man listening to music and carrying a blue notebook in which he wrote carefully, all were part of the picture as the metro hummed toward our destination at Villiers.
As I sit here many hours later in the 1930’s style hotel near the Arc Du Triomphe, I can still see the scenes painted in my mind of the Parisian milieu. What picture could be more beautiful!