The Butt of Montmartre
Sacre Bleu! I make my way around Sacre
Coeur...
The Butt of
Montmartre
I was looking for a
friend of a friend who owns a glacierie at the foot of the funiculaire at
Montmartre. I couldn't find the place. The woman who sold me a strawberry
soft-serve cone said, in French, "You don't know the names of the other business
owners here, just their faces and the names of their
stores."
Vive la
capitalisme!
The hill on which Sacre
Coeur sits is called La Butte de Montmartre. Unfortunately, on a humid Saturday
night, it is littered with beer cans and people. A very drunken Brit swaggered
toward me and said, "How about it, baby!?" I squeezed past him, not thinking it
was important to point out that I scratched that particular itch with a man
named Ken who lives in Essex.
On the
funiculaire, a very pushy, obnoxious American woman made love to my love handles
with her elbow the entire way down, instead of holding on to a pole. I wanted to
point out to her that only a complete idiot wears a wool beret on the hottest
day of the year. Hers was the only beret I saw the entire time. I also saw no
less than three accordian players, and a man who was an organ grinder, but had
an eight-year-old kid with him instead of a monkey, and the boy was not doing
any tricks. Maybe they were pickpockets. These musical surprises, which I expect
to hear non-stop when I wind up in Hell for shoplifting Playgirl magazines when
I was 15, were countered by another musical surprise, which I relate in the
following entries.
Posted: Sat
- July 10, 1999 at 02:40 AM