On the way out of the cemetery I passed some haunting memorials to the victims of the Holocaust, many of them grouped together in an eerie corner of the site. As striking and awe-inspiring as this place was, having surrounded myself all morning with such morbidity I felt that it was time to head off for the next hostel, located a few streets away near Parc de Bagnolet, and plan something more uplifting for the afternoon. There was so much to do and see in Paris that it was difficult deciding where to go next, and so I sat for a while in the local green spot with my lunch, watching lazy Parisian park life inside the gates and the noisy bustle of Parisian traffic screaming past outside. A jogger repeatedly passed making countless laps of the park circuit, his confident strides eventually lapsing into shattered shaky steps, as he cursed the beaming sunshine and the inability of his body to absorb its energy at a faster rate than he expended it. Paris (Montmartre)
|
With food in mind, I wandered back down the hill in the hope of finding a mini-market to buy some cheap grub, and there in the middle of the expensive eateries and overpriced tourist hangouts of Montmartre, I found my reward. Following those coffee peanuts the previous night and my dismal breakfast at the hostel in the morning, I stood drooling at the groceries in the store and the quality French wine at rock bottom prices. I spent over half an hour looping around the small number of aisles, double-checking exactly what I could get for my money, and considering all the options. I then emerged with a litre of mineral water, a bottle of pink grapefruit juice and.......a tub of grated celery. Somehow I felt that I hadn't made the most of the opportunity. It was so hot and stuffy outside that I needed all the refreshment I could get, and being somebody with a fussy diet, I had struggled to find much else which would quench my thirsty hunger. Armed like a smugly organized traveller with my mini pack of plastic cutlery, I only needed to find a place to consume it all, and after turning a few corners I soon found myself at a famous location (below).
With an underground line running underneath the street and a large vent covered by a grille above the pavement, it became a fascination of tourists admiring the attraction across the road to stand atop the vent and feel the fresh breeze whisking up from below. Anybody in this sweltering heat would have been tempted to have a go, although 'force eight gale' might have been a better description of the effect it produced. I stood back and delighted in watching hordes of naive young women in dresses clambering up onto the vertical wind tunnel, and quickly back down once they realized their big mistake. It was like watching a girl next door version of the Folies-Bergère. Having established myself as an unofficial pervert, I continued my hunt for somewhere suitable to consume my celery. I began trekking back up through the streets, desperately seeking some idyllic green micro-park, but there was no such thing to be seen. I had walked the equivalent of several miles today and I was shattered. I continued climbing further and further to the point where I was once again greeted by the sight of the Sacré-Coeur ahead of me. It probably wasn't a popular feature on most tourists' agendas to ascend the hill of Montmartre, on foot, twice in a day. Having left the last shops behind me at the foot of the hill, I once more perched myself down on the grass outside the Basilica overlooking the capital, anticipating my salad feast after so much toil during the day in my endless walkabout. What I had come to know as celery, however, clearly wasn't the same thing as the fibrous material that occupied my tub. After one small sample I already knew that if, upon my return to Britain the following month, I could only offer one piece of advice from my whole trip, it would have to be a plea that nobody ever dare to purchase Pierre Martinet's Celeriac Remoulade, or worse still eat it. I would never be able to put into words how unpleasant this thing was, and estimating that the container must hold at least fifty fork-fulls, I really tried to approach the third with thoughts of a will to live, but to no avail. Nothing in any travel guide could have prepared me for this, the party pooper of the grocery kingdom. I'd put all my eggs in one basket and banked on this lone vegetable providing my digestive entertainment for the evening. I'd even opted for the family size pack. Knowing that my only food salvation lay at the foot of the hill, I longed for a flash snowstorm to occur so I could ski all the way down. I remembered that my hostel served dinners, and so dashed back on the Metro the fifteen or more stops to get there. Alas, their Tex-Mex diner advertised in my hostel guide had since been converted into a disco, and I found myself walking the streets of this seedy district searching for nourishment. It materialized in the form of an aubergine. I knew how tragic that might seem to others, but it wasn't all bad. It was scooped, grilled and filled with some kind of vegetable medley, which I had come to understand was the fashionable new term for this kind of plant-based pot-pourri. And better still it came with not just a side salad (no celery included), but also a stale naan bread. Eating out in Paris was always a winner. HOSTEL REPORT: Paris
- Le d'Artagnan, 80 Rue Vitruve, 75020 Paris |