Keeping the Sabbath

Morning comes annoyingly early for me, at 1:30 AM to be exact (thanks, jetlag!). I shuffle into the chilly living room where orange light from rue des Martyrs shines brightly through the tall windows. I am surprised to hear a loud party going on very nearby with French rap music blasting and people drunkenly shouting and singing. After awhile, a neighbor across the street leans out of his window and tells the partiers to kindly shut the fuck up. I'm shocked that they actually listen and the party disbands shortly thereafter.

I don't have to stay up alone too long because Charlie also wakes up annoyingly early at 4:00 AM. We have tea and start plotting what kinds of baked goods we'll get for breakfast even though the bakery won't open for another three hours. When the hour is nigh, we go out onto the quiet, still-dark street where street cleaners are hosing and sweeping away the previous night's detritus. Pigeons converge on whatever morsels they can find, seemingly unfazed by the heavy feet of humans coming very close to their fragile bodies. The first order of business is to get Charlie enough coffee to ensure his survival. Then we go directly into our bakery, Landemaine, to acquire our daily quota of butter and wheat. We can't decide on what to get so we get two pastries each, plus a tradition style baguette. I am most excited to eat drops, a layered buttery pastry with créme patisserie and chocolate chips. It has been almost seven years since I've had one and I nearly swoon with the first bite.

Pain au chocolat, drops, baguette tradition, croissant au beurre, and pain aux raisins

 

We are anxious to get out and do something, so we take the metro down to the Île de la Cité. There the sun is just starting to peak through the arches of Notre Dame's bell towers. The church is not open yet and there is already a queue of 300 or so people waiting to get in. A bell rings and the line begins to advance. Seeing that it is a relatively short line for such a frequently visited site, we decide to take advantage and fall in for a quick walk-through before it gets too crazy. It is just as gorgeous as I remember: dizzying arches, beautiful art, and rude tourists constantly violating the pleas for silence and no photography. The stained glass at the rear of the nave is particularly stunning this morning, as the sun sparkles through the rainbow mosaics bathing everything in warm pink light. After circling the nave, we sit for a few moments facing the altar, taking in the sheer size and majesty of the place.

Notre dawn

Delivered back out into the cool morning air of the plaza, we walk around to the back of the church and enter the modest garden there. Charlie reminisces about his first visit to Notre Dame as a child, during which his father continuously touted the virtues of the flying buttresses. Above us hang cute Dobby-looking gargoyles, some missing their cute heads or the upper halves of their bodies entirely. We continue southeast toward Île Saint-Louis, where my goal is to visit my bridge: Pont Marie. As we near our turn onto the bridge, a local resident crosses the street with a large, excited brown and black striped cat on his heels. The cat's tail stands straight up like a flag on the moon, signaling his excitement for whatever treat awaits him inside. The man opens a door and they both disappeared into the building.

Pont Marie is still there, standing strong since 1614. We cross quietly and double back in the direction of Île de la Cité. We see the spire of Sainte-Chapelle rising above the formidable medieval Conciergerie (formerly the Palais de la Cité). Sainte-Chapelle is one of Charlie's mom's favorite places so, in her honor, we decide to brave the crowds and go in. Upon entry into the lower chapel one is first impressed by the small tight arches painted dark blue and donned with six-pointed stars. Colorful stained glass on all sides glow in the otherwise dark room. We inspect the altar and then head up the claustrophobic, uneven spiral staircase for a look at the main attraction. The upper chapel is relatively small but impossibly tall, its bright blue stained glass mosaics culminating in more blue paint and stars. Gold arches divide each segment of the nave, further elongating the dizzying height of it all.

Lower chapel altar

Charles in church

Charlie declares he wants to head toward the Louvre. I knew he does not want to visit it because, as ignorant as it sounds, we're not big fans of art museums. Yes, even that one. His goal is to get to A la Civette, one of the oldest cigar stores in existence, founded in 1716. During the 20-minute walk along the north side of the Seine we pass by several bookstores, a famed row of bird stores, and are approached again and again by scam artists pretending to be deaf and asking for donations. We cross the Quai du Louvre and are swallowed into the high southern arch leading into the perfectly square Cour Carrée courtyard of the Louvre Palace. A low empty fountain sits at its center and we sit on it to take in the massiveness of the square. There are few people here but their voices are amplified and bounce confusingly off the high walls of the enclosure.

Cour Carrée

A crow outside Cour Carrée

We exit through the opposite gate and then take a moment to get our bearings. Charlie's spidey sense leads us to the door of A la Civette, whose golden door handles are shaped like weasels. It smells like sweet tobacco and musky wood. The highly polished glass cases hold fine accoutrements, such as lighters costing upwards of €500. The humidor is neatly organized and just ever so slightly too humid, with a fine selection of cigars from all over the world. Due to a recent decline in production quality, the Cubans were actually the saddest looking merchandise they had in there. The attendant stands by patiently while we pick out cigars and stumble through our French.

By now we have walked a very long way and are ready for a rest. We take the metro back to our neighborhood and promptly fall into the two-hour nap we swore we would not take. When we wake, we venture out again for a short wander, stopping into our local Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and Église de la Sainte-Trinité further down rue Lafayette.

Notre-Dame-de-Lorette

On the way back, we stop into our favorite butcher at the bottom of Martyrs, Chapier François, where we buy a whole rotisserie chicken and container of potatoes roasted in the fat dripping from the rotisserie. We have walked so many miles that I am limping by the time we get back to our door. We both groan our way up the stairs, still sore from our climb to Sacré-Cœur the day before, and settle in for our hot typical French comfort food. Tonight we manage to stay awake until about 8:30 PM.