Un aspet d’ironie

Places that are not quiet in Paris:

The catacombs. You would think that l’empire de la mort would be silent as the grave since it, well, is a giant grave, but no; the tourists chatter in all languages there just like they do in every other place in the city.

Not to say that I minded. Frankly, all the creepy inscriptions, low, drippy ceilings, and massive piles of human bones were making me a little too mementa morior. Constant reassurance of being alive = always nice.

Places that are quiet in Paris:

Montmartre at 7h45 on a Sunday morning. After all of the tourists coming up the hill to faire la fête Saturday nights, the streets are almost eerily quiet, with nothing but gobs of cigarette butts mushed in the cobblestones to indicate that anyone had been there.

I didn’t catch much of a sunrise, like I’d hoped, but oh well. I think I’ve accidentally become a kind of morning person (thanks, paternal genes), because there is something wonderful about having the world to yourself that early in the morning. The day starts! And you are there to watch it! Beautiful!

Assuming, of course, that you get a bol de café* and a tartine after clomping around in the chilliness.

*Literally, it was a bowl of coffee. I could have wept from joy.