“I can’t imagine anybody walking through this quirky arrondissement and not falling in love with it,” Stella gushed as she peeked into the window of one of the many charming stores lining the streets.
L’Objet Qui Parle, The Talking Object. What an interesting name.
“Look at the mish-mash this store’s selling,” she called to Naomi. “I wanna go in and browse.”
“If we continue at this rate, we’ll never make it to the top of the hill.” Naomi joined her at the storefront. “I’m hungry. Want to check out this patisserie?” Naomi pointed to a small café at the corner of the street. It wasn’t very wide, with barely enough space on both sides of the door to put up signs to advertise the daily specials, and no more than twenty feet long. Three tiny sets of chairs and tables were squeezed hazardously on the sidewalk, which was just wide enough for one adult to walk on it. She couldn’t imagine anyone with long legs, like David, sitting there and being comfortable.
“Now you mention it, I am hungry. And I want to buy a bottle of water. It’s hotter than I expected.”
After refueling their energy levels with ratatouille on toasted sourdough bread with basil and garlic, they continued their uphill climb. Five minutes later they rounded a corner, and Stella gasped.
“This is un…be…lie…va…ble!” She reached for Naomi’s arm and squeezed it hard.
Basking in bright sunlight, the Sacré-Cœur Basilica rose into the azure sky. Built of white stone, the majestic landmark had watched over Paris from the highest point in the city since 1891, and now greeted them in all her perfection.
Stella felt tears pooling in her eyes and didn’t even try to stop them from trickling down her face, knowing it would be futile. She sat down on one of the many benches.
I wish David could see this with me. He always hoped we could visit Paris together.
But David would never see this with her; he made it crystal clear. She shook off the unwelcome thought.
After taking pictures of the church, the views, and each other, they continued strolling through the idyllic streets, absorbing the flair and the symphony of languages. It was impossible to count them. This is what a meeting at the United Nations must sound like.
“Do you know what Montmartre means?” Naomi interrupted her musings and peeked through iron gates into a private backyard. A small dog jumped up and down, barking at the prying intruder.
“No.”
“Mount of Martyrs.”
“Kind of gloomy. Do you know why?”
“It has something to do with pilgrimages.” Naomi didn’t elaborate further.
The charming hamlet, a village perched atop the vast city, was a giant beehive of activity. They stopped to watch artists painting amazingly skillful portraits of tourists, sellers offering fresh fruits and mouthwatering juice, and there were little shops everywhere, as well as a small working vineyard on the slopes of Butte Montmartre.
Stella liked how many of the houses were covered with dark green ivy or purple wisteria. To her, it was very humbling to walk where artists like Edgar Degas or Pablo Picasso painted, where Alexandre Dumas wrote some of his novels, Jacques Offenbach composed masterpieces—in short, where those geniuses lived and loved. Or suffered, if their inspiration left them, when their muse abandoned them. Maybe the name of the hill was fitting.
She said with reverence, “Can you imagine what these buildings have seen and heard in their lifetimes, and what secrets they still keep?”
“Maybe it’s better not to know,” Naomi chuckled.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, Stella looked over her shoulder, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the Basilica of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. There she stood, tall and proud, watching and protecting them.
“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” she breathed, and a feeling of contentment settled around her heart.
Meandering back to their hotel, they passed the famous windmill of the Moulin Rouge—and came face-to-face with another side of Paris. Gone was the fairy-tale world of artists, replaced by the harsh reality of greedy salesmen offering their worthless trinkets, desperate men and women using drugs in plain view, and homeless people sleeping on benches, their meager belongings squeezed into a few plastic bags.
“This is so depressing,” Naomi said in a hushed voice. “And how must those people feel, being watched by nosy sightseers? Look at those morons on the bus taking pictures of them!”
“I can’t even imagine,” Stella replied. It was disgusting how many gawkers held up their cell phones and snapped photos of the less fortunate ones. “Let’s keep walking. I have no desire to linger here.”
CHAPTER 8
Stella—July 2018
“L
ooks like Pierre’s recommendation is a good one,” Naomi said after they were seated at an outdoor table in a small restaurant. “Did you see the other guests’ food? I’m almost drooling.”
“No, I don’t stare at people’s plates,” Stella said and pulled her feet out of her shoes. “Ouch, my feet hurt from all the walking. They need a good soaking before I go to bed.”
“Guess what I brought? I never travel without my emergency stash of bath salts. Naomi to the rescue!” With a quick fist pump, she added, “You better be prepared for more walking. We’d never be able to see all of Paris, even if we had a whole week, but I think we’ll manage to hit quite a few more highlights tomorrow. I’ve put an itinerary together and will tell you at breakfast.”
“Why not now, while we’re sitting here?” Stella stretched her legs out under their table.
“Because I want to surprise you.”
“Then I better be patient and wait. By the way, I don’t think I have thanked you enough for asking me to come along. This is already amazing.”
“Yes, you did. Things just fell into place. Now, shush!” Naomi waved it off and rolled her eyes. “Where did our waiter disappear
