“Do you have a knife” he asked in broken English. “A knife?” I repeated, slightly incredulously.
As we sat there watching the circulation, the great organ began to breathe. An enormous beast belched out sub bass notes that caused the entire building to vibrate. 4 choristers (male and female) punctured the bass notes – their voices circulating toward the roof. A half an hour of choral music began.
The alarm went off at 7am. Sunday mass on Notre Dame for 8am. I wasn’t in bed until well after 1am, typing and noodling and watching bits of La Vuelta. Cycling is unique in that no-one pays to watch. It’s impossible to charge people to stand on the side of the road. So it’s hard to police. Pro-Palestine residents have been lining the route for almost 2 weeks now with flags hung from houses, trees and waved above the riders’ head as they pass. They’re determined to send the Israel team home. The Israel team haven't been welcome in the Basque Country. In an era of mass sports-washing, it’s left to cycling to do the heavy lifting.
We eventually pulled ourselves out of bed and nuked two bowls of porridge in the microwave. We walked out through the apartment complex at about 7.40am – opened the metal gate with the fob and crossed the road to the side of the small art cinema on Ave Jean Lolive and the Velib station to the left.
I still had the Velib app still on my phone from last year but had totally forgotten how the system worked. After a few minutes of faffing about, I sat on the stone steps beside the Velib station, fished my glasses out of my bag and re-read the instructions. We bought two 24 hour passes. Enough to get us in and out of town – but we were running very late for 8.00am mass.
Sunday morning in Paris was quiet, just a few cars passed us as we went under the peripherique and into the cycle network that now saturated the city. A left took us along the Canal Saint Martin. Police redirected traffic to the left-hand side of the canal. Crossing the bridge, we could see a group of cops down at the quay-side below surrounding a tent – presumably belonging to a homeless person. Were they being woken to be arrested? Were they dead? We pedalled on through the quiet streets and into the 10th with the canal on the right collecting the morning heat and air conditioning the surrounding area.
We re-docked the bikes in Place de la République – as the sat nav was no longer cooperating. Cyclists darted from all the surrounding streets criss-crossing the main square. 8.00am mass was long gone by this stage, but we were still determined to make it to Notre Dame.
We arrived there about 9.00am. The public space in front was already black with people. We joined the queue as it snaked off though the crowd barriers like an airport check-in. On reaching the front door a security guard pulled me to the side and asked me to check my bag.
“Do you have a knife” he asked in broken English.
“A knife?” I repeated, slightly incredulously.
“Yes, a knife” he repeated.
“No” I said, opening my bag and pulling out some swimming goggles.
We went through the door to Notre Dame into an enormous space. The anatomy was similar to Armagh in Ireland (as all cathedrals are) – side isles/ambulatory, nave, transept, choir etc, but the scale was off the charts. Slightly exhausted from the late night and the cycle into town, we took seats in the nave toward the centre. Looking up, the interior was pristine after the refurbishments. Pews had been replaced by rather sleek, stylish wooden chairs that interlock. Thousands of tourists circled around the inner walls, down the aisles, around the back of the cathedral and back out the front door. An endless procession of iPhones raised to the heavens. The congregation in the nave – us included – were there for the main event.
As we sat there watching the circulation of tourists watching us. The great organ began to breathe. An enormous beast belched out sub bass notes that caused the entire building to vibrate. 4 choristers (male and female) pierced the bass notes – their voices rising toward the roof. A half an hour of choral music began.
At 10am mass then began with a procession from the right transept. Incense swung on a chain – the building filled with music and smoke and a timeless atmosphere as the ancient theatre came to life. For an hour and half the performance played to a full house – call and response – each line known by heart even if we didn’t know French. Even as a lapsed catholic, there was no denying the power of the mass. A piece of theatre that reaches back for over 2000 years – honed and tweaked to deliver the maximum impact. The cardinal blessed the congregation “Father, Son and Holy Ghost” - it was clear to see the interlopers, using a left hand to bless themselves or getting the “holy ghost“ motion the wrong way around. Maybe they'll convert? Regardless, it was without question the best piece of theatre in Paris.
Slightly shell-shocked from the mass, we quietly made our way out of Notre Dame, blinking into the sunlight. We sat on the benches outside, recovering from the morning’s exploits. We gathered ourselves and went on the hunt for a few books. Shakespeare and Company bookshop had the inevitable queue so we went a few streets further to The Abbey Bookshop on Rue de la Parcheminerie. It was shut but was due to open in an hour at 1pm so we killed the hour with a coffee and lunch in the beautiful herb garden at the Musée de Cluny.
We crossed the road and made our way back to the bookshop. We picked up copies of Dorian Gray and The Road and headed up the hill to the Jardin du Luxembourg. A military procession with horn players mounted on horses passed the front gate, thousands lined the streets to watch and listen. We lucked out and grabbed a few loungers in the park and sat in the shade listening to a brass band on the band stand run. Nodding off in the heat I was jolted awake by a bird shitting on my trousers and splattering onto the book. I looked up. There was nothing there. We took it as an incredible sign of good luck – direct from the heavens – that we hope to cash in later.
We left the park once the band finished and walked back to the centre in search of Piscine Pontoise – a 10 minute walk away. A beautiful building with changing on 2 galleries above the pool. No codes or keys or money. Simply change in the cubicles, leave all there, put your finger in the small hole in the wooden door and pull it shut. 33 metres this time. Old school. Easier for laps, but each lane crammed full.
Unlocking 2 bikes we pedalled back - retracing our route toward the peripherique, stopping of outisde the Paris Philharmonic for a large beer before cycling the last 10 minutes home. Exhausted.
An easier day tomorrow. A swim and a stroll.
Up and out of Rue Victor Huge for about 10am and walked south toward Piscine Georges Vallerey. The pool was due to open at 11am. We had lots of time.
Hidden among the megastructures was a small café chair, made from multicoloured metal, balanced on one leg with the name Mireille. That was the standout grave among the jacked-up, testosterone memorials.
The road rose gradually up through Ave Jean Jarres and through Jardin Serge Gainsbourg. The road then crossed over the Periphique and up Boulevards des Maréchaux to the swimming pool in the 19th. As we approached the front door we saw the Olympic Rings above the door from 2024.
We got there at 10.35, so 25 minutes to sit in the sun. It had a communal area at the front of the building. A thin, older woman – long thin, hair sat on the concrete semicircular seating outside, knees hunkered up speaking on her phone with ear phone attached. I thought she was talking to herself at first. We sat close by. Another small older woman approached us pulling an old-fashioned shopping trolley behind her. She stopped, sliding the trolley in front – reached in to pull out several “Dieu t–aime” (God loves you) leaflets. We accepted one with a smile. She mumbled something half-hearted and walked away.
Locals began arriving from all directions to gather in the communal area - on foot and on bikes – descending like pigeons on a public square searching for crumbs. They walked tiny circles around each other, sometimes bumping into each other but never making eye contact – only making eye with their phones. By 10.55am, a makeshift queue began to form. I didn’t realise the French queued. The doors opened and we made it to the pay desk.
The building opened out to expose a mixture of fresh wood over 1950s brutalist concrete. Nice building. €3.50 each – we got the locals’ rate. The top of the staircase split left and right. One side for the women the other for the men. The top floor was pool level. You could see through the glass windows at the top of the stairs, across the void and into the pool area. The newly installed wooden roof – latticed frame and glass – let light flood in. It was rolled back in the centre letting the sunlight pour through and bounce off the rippling water bouncing sun waves onto the heavy concrete columns holding the building up. The whole place shimmered.
We split left and right into the Vestiaires (changing rooms). A man pointed at my feet and wagged a disapproving finger. Confused, I quickly scanned the other feet in the Vestiaire. Everyone was barefoot – having removed their shoes in a small seated area outside the changing room. “Pardon, monsieur” I said sincerely, quickly removing my shoes and smiling. The lockers took some figuring out. French instructions. I dived in. They accepted no money or keys. I closed the locker door, where a locker number was revealed on a panel nearby. I Hit OK then entered a code of my choice. To open, do the opposite - enter the locker number then the code. Easy? It took me 10 minutes with a shrugging pool attendant to figure it out.
Lanes were 50 metres. Olympic standard. No messing in Paris. Lanes were classified as follows - Cours (Courses) 4 Nages (4 strokes) Crawl (no translation needed) Material (floats, flippers and various cheat methods), 2 lanes were unclassified. The swimmers were already doing laps – anti-Clockwise. In Ireland we go clockwise. There was a mix of abilities in each lane. Traffic backed up. The accordion effect. We progressed from the unclassified, through the “material” lane eventually finding our level in the “4 Nages”. 50 metres at a time meant no additional kick at 25 metres – that took some adjustment. 20 lengths made it 1km. That was good for starters. We left the pool with a buzz, banking all those small cultural difference for the next visit.
Over the hill and onto Rue Gambetta and down the steep hill to the triangular bar – La Chope Saint Fargeau – at the next intersection. We ordered 2 coffees and had a good gawk at the people jogging, cycling, dog walking. Paris has become quieter but just as busy. The air seemed cleaner too. Off again, down Gambetta and into square Édouard-Vaillant – a small but hiving park. Families played table tennis on a few concrete tables, a dad played football with his son on the bandstand. A young couple snogged and rolled about the bench next to us. People entered and exited the scene intermittently. We ate the baguette, tomato and cheese that Fancea made at the apartment – with the bottle of water we filled. I laid the swimming towels on the back of the park bench to dry in the sun. It was hot-hot – getting toward 30°C but shaded in the park. The crematorium of Père Lachaise was a few streets away – so we slipped in the entrance on Rue des Rondeaux on 20th.
Oscar Wilde was just up the hill. It was quite the grave – a massive sphinx like figure, sculpted by Jacob Epstein – sat on top of a large rectangular plinth. It stood 3 meters tall and wide, and a few metres deep. No one’s digging Wilde up, that for sure. A glass barrier now surrounds the stone to protect it from graffiti. Graffiti was written on the glass instead – lipstick kisses and hearts. Sunlight hit the lipstick on the glass and cast temporary, moving monotone graffiti on the stone behind. A woman posed for photos in front of the grave. She scolded her husband for fumbling the shot and told him to try again. She closed her eyes, lowered her head – then suddenly raised it again Norma Desmond style – opening her eyes and smiling broadly, ready for her close-up – CLICK – she seemed happier. It’s what Wilde would have wanted.
Père Lachaise is a city for the dead. Avenues and arrondissements complete with street names, street signs and maps. A headstone race had resulted in towering monuments, obelisks, statues, abstract art – “they’re trying to take the money with them” Fancea said. We poked and pointed and scratched our heads at the absurdness of it all. Jim Morrison’s grave was a half hour walk away. On the way, we meet an Irish couple who ask us where Wilde’s is – they were on their way from Morrisons. We give them directions like we were recommending a good bar, “down that street about 10 minutes and take the second on the right.” We swapped stories about the madness of the Irish traveller graves at home – they’d fit right in here.
We found Jim Morrison’s grave, cordoned off with metal crowd barriers (very fitting) – the grave was pretty unremarkable among the surrounding skyscrapers. More notable was the tree beside the grave covered in bamboo matting, with the matting covered in chewing gum. Admiring fans seemed to want to leave something of themselves close to their hero… chewing gum. Fans – eh? Better on the bamboo covered tree than on the ground? Hidden among the megastructures was a small café chair, made from multicoloured metal, balanced on one leg with the name Mireille. That was the standout grave among the jacked-up-on-testosterone memorials.
An older French woman stopped and asked us who we’re looking for. We shrugged our shoulders and say we’re just walking around. She proudly gave us directions to Molliere’s plot. We thanked her and she said “goodbye”. We continued to walk in circles but eventually stumbled on it by accident. I knew he was a writer but that was about it. I made a mental note to chase it up later. We left Père Lachaise at the bottom entrance and into the 11th and Rue de Roquette.
We stopped at Resto Zinc Les Marcheurs de Planète – pulled in by the music. Fanch popped her head in to ask if there was music during the week. The girl working told us to come back on Thursday for “Cabaret”. I ordered 2 beers and we sat outside. Bikes and people everywhere. Incredibly busy but still quiet and intimate. We sat and chatted, drank and let the stress fall further away.
Off again and up and around Place Bastille. Legs were heavy, but we still made it around the canal basin. Homeless tents up at road level overlooked the expensive big canal boats and houseboats down in the basin. We made it onto Quai Henry IV on the Seine on the 4th and sat in the low sun for a half hour, looking over toward Notre Dame in the distance. We mulled over going to Mass there the following morning. We’d walked across half of Paris today and figured that was enough. We jumped onto the Metro close and nodded off between stations. Eventually we made it back to Pantain and picked up some things for diner.
We're off to mass in the morning.