In Brief
Intellectuals migrated here in droves when word spread around Europe that the teachers had set up shop. Latin was the language and the city teemed with free spirits. Today it’s a tourist haven, but many memories and artefacts linger.By The Numbers
In the early morning I left in search of adventure, leaving Karen to write her own story in the local Bastille food markets. An overcast sky cast muted light over the pedestrianised streets south of place St-Michel. The narrow alleys date back to Roman times(1) but I was content to explore the elegant ironwork of retired 17th and 18th century grandeur.
These houses have hosted authors, politicians and scholars – even Napoleon lived here in 1795 for the exorbitant rent of 3F a week. On St-Severin I was awestruck by a collection of 13th century facades now almost absorbed by encroaching 21st century progress.
A small fluffy dog with a red coat trotted past with its proud looking owner, then stopped, and a dark-haired man in white overalls emerged from a boulangerie, both apparently curious about this guy with pink glasses taking pictures of walls.
Half-timber facades added an air of prestige to nearby rue Galande and several tiny shops showcased unique decorative homewares, art and antiques, their extraordinary designs screaming exclusivity and overdraft. I thanked myself for leaving Karen to explore the local food markets. My arrival at square Rene-Viviani(2) was rewarded with views across the Seine to Notre Dame and a lovely shady park containing Paris’s oldest tree, an acacia planted in 1601.
Adjacent the park at 39 rue de la Bucherie is Paris’s smallest house. Built in the 16th century, it looked right at home next to the Shakespeare and Company bookstore now run by Walt Whitman’s grandson. An impatient looking black cat waited outside the closed store. I offered it a pastry morsel leftover from breakfast but it spat at me and skulked away.
At place Maubert(3) the small square overflowed with the smells, colour and cacophony of one of Paris’s finest local outdoor food markets. A reconnaissance revealed disgusting pastries, fat flavourful olives and delicate luminescent roses. I bought samples of all three, a café amercano, and relaxed for a while before journeying down arcaded avenues to the neo-classical Pantheon(4).
Inside the magnificent former church are entombed many of France’s great men but outside there was more commotion as a wedding ceremony concluded and the participants spilled into the square.
The bride was beautiful but appeared depressed, a fashionable look I was told by one of her friends. I managed to talk them both into a picture so I’d at least have some evidence that I’d experienced high culture in Europe’s sophisticated capital. I gave them both a red rose, but the bride’s scowl endured.
The Musee de Cluny(5) was my last stop, offering an unparalleled collection of medieval art on a site more than 1700 years old -- an amazing shrine to culture, wealth and prestige in a city that oozes the 21st century equivalent.