Paris for Dreamers

by Katrina Lawrence

  Parisians have had a passion for antiques since the late 1800s. Could it have been a reaction to all that mass production? Did they begin to crave the authentic, or objects that could attest to a flair of individuality? Rococo chairs and Louis XVI consoles were in particular demand, but for most Parisians, second-hand goods didn’t need a regal past. It was at this time that flea markets established themselves, so called, too, in French (marchés aux puces) — a sign that Parisians didn’t mind picking their way through an infestation in pursuit of the just-so teapot or tray.

  The most celebrated flea market in France — and probably the world — is the Puces de Saint-Ouen, on the upper outskirts of Paris. If it’s a weekend, a trek out here is highly recommended. Take the Métro to Porte de Clignancourt (find Saint-Paul station up on Rue de Rivoli, catch a train west to Châtelet Les Halles, then switch to head north, to the end of Line 4), and make your way up to Rue des Rosiers. Along here you’ll find several large antique centres full of well-curated boutiques, but more appealingly whimsical are the ramshackle markets — miniature cities of alleyways that meander past sheds opened to reveal all sorts of heart-palpitating loveliness, from crystal-and cherub-adorned candelabra to ruby-velvet poufs to folding screens fashioned from rose-embroidered silk. Don’t miss the Marché Vernaison and, further along the street, the Marché Paul Bert Serpette. Here you’ll spot many grand armoires and luxurious sofas that could only look at home in a château (or museum), but fossick a little more and you’ll uncover a perfect small souvenir, such as a vintage café au lait bowl or a Nouvelle Vague film poster. Never mind if one is a little cracked, the other dog-eared; the point is not perfection, but that a product speaks to your heart.

  The French have an innate fondness for bric-à-brac — a term derived from an Old French expression for ‘any old way’. They love the random, the curious, the imperfect, something that is not just aesthetically but emotionally pleasing. Something that hints at a story, that holds a key to the past. Places can retain history — those celebrated lieux de mémoire — but so too can things. For a city that lost so much beauty during the French Revolution — and numerous other civil unrests — perhaps these choses de mémoire help to piece back some of their past, and patrimony. Chipped porcelain and all.

  Itinerary

  • Arènes de Lutèce: 49 Rue Monge 75005

  • Montagne Sainte-Geneviève: Place Sainte-Geneviève 75005

  • Musée de Cluny-Musée National du Moyen ge: 28 Rue du Sommerand 75005; 09.15-17.45 (Wednesday-Monday); closed Tuesday, 1 January, 1 May & 25 December

  • Église Saint-Séverin: 2 Rue des Prêtres Saint-Séverin 75005

  • Le Petit Châtelet: 39 Rue de la Bûcherie 75005; 12.00-14.30, 19.00-22.50

  • Marché aux Fleurs: Allée Célestin Hennion 75004; 09.30-19.00 (Monday-Saturday); 08.00-19.00 (Sunday: bird market)

  • Église Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois: 2 Place du Louvre 75001

  • Place Dauphine 75001

  The City of Light is shaded beige — being carved from limestone, the building block of the metropolis since Gallo-Roman times. But Paris is also a city of red — of love, passion, revolution ... Of velvety-scarlet boudoirs behind the demure, classic façades. It’s just one of the many Parisian paradoxes. Such as: How can the locals seemingly eat so many croissants and remain slim? How can a city simultaneously celebrate the height of luxury and life’s simple pleasures? And how do these obedient little Parisian children grow up into adults who sometimes seem to love nothing more than to speed the wrong way down a one-way street?

  ‘I can’t help it, it’s my Latin blood,’ a Parisian might respond, with a nonchalant Gallic shrug. But there’s also that Gallic factor: the spicy DNA of those rambunctious ancestral Gauls, mixed in with that of the hot-blooded Romans.

  Some visitors might not, at first, realise that Paris’s story can be traced back to the Roman era. Since the Empire’s fall, Paris has been knocked down and rebuilt to such an extent, its past layered over again and again, that you could be forgiven for missing any of the signs that point in such a direction. But saunter down Rue Monge, and duck through the doorway at no.49; what you find at the end there will cause your jaw to hit the ancient ground: the Arènes de Lutèce.

  You’re standing on what would have been part of the semicircular terrace seating, which held 15,000 spectators. Nowadays, on the steps that remain, students from nearby universities read and converse and debate. Opposite, in what’s left of the old stage backdrop — a wall of sculpture-filled niches, as much for acoustic properties as aesthetic purposes — couples kiss, perhaps unaware that below them are the old cells that once held half-starved animals. Kids kick soccer balls around the sunken ground, where gladiators once fought to the death while the audience roared with delight.

  Julius Caesar and his troops marched into town in 52BC and conquered the Parisii who inhabited the Île de la Cité. Lutetia Parisiorum was a boomtown waiting to happen; as an island, it was naturally protected from enemies, as well as boasting prime position as a trading port. Lush fertile land stretched for miles, and plentiful stone reserves allowed the Romans to build their neatly gridded blocks, majestic landmarks and efficient highways, spreading the thriving city southwards over the Left Bank.

  Wind your way west (turn right back on Rue Monge, left into Rue du Cardinal Lemoine and right into Rue Clovis), sloping up to Montagne Sainte-Geneviève — or Mons Cetarius, as the Romans knew it. Here, where Saint-Étienne-du-Mont now stands, was Old Paris’s focal point of religious and social life, the Forum — a large public space dominated by a temple, and edged with a basilica and shop-lined arcades. It was, no doubt, the place to come when locals wanted a new-season toga or a bunch of grapes to peel, or to make some kind of sacrifice to the gods.

  Continue westwards, past the Panthéon, until you hit Rue Saint-Jacques; this had a former Roman life as Cardo Maximus, the north–south axis that pierced all large cities of the Empire. Turn right and you’re not only walking on the ghost of Lutetia’s central street, but by that of Lutetia’s main aqueduct, too, which gushed calcium-rich water into the city’s bathhouses. Turn left at Rue du Sommerard and you’ll come to the Musée de Cluny, and the other significant Roman remnants in Paris: the Thermes de Cluny. Once inside, bathe in the beauty of the former frigidarium, or cold room; the multi-coloured marbles, mosaics and frescoes depicting scenes of the good Roman life have long gone, but the stony splendour of the vaulted ceilings, which scale to 14 metres in height, is as awe-inspiring as ever.

  The Cluny is officially the Musée National du Moyen ge. I must confess it took me until well into adulthood to warm to the medieval theme, and to actually make it here. I’d thought of the Middle Ages as the Dark Ages, the centuries of gloom and doom bogged down in the valley between those high cultural peaks of the Roman Empire and Renaissance. I couldn’t see how there’d be any beauty among the dark Gothic — a term coined during the Renaissance to denigrate medieval style. So when I finally got around to visiting this museum, I was gobsmacked.

  The turreted townhouse originally known as the Hôtel de Cluny was built towards the end of the fifteenth century, and it’s suitably flamboyantly Gothic, with mullioned windows and glowering gargoyles. But what you might not expect are the wonders on show beneath the wood-beamed ceilings, or the fantastical vaults. The sculptures with faces so refined they could have been touched by an angel. The exquisitely gemmed jewellery and glistening stained-glass panes. Colourful fifteenth-century ceramics inspired by the allure of the Middle East, and religious paintings that pop with vibrantly alive blues and reds. A sprig of roses, from 1330, tenderly nurtured from gold. An ivory mirror case etched with the forlorn figures of Tristan and Isolde, carved hair combs that if supersized could double as wall art, and perfume vials that look like bijou amphora.

  Beauty, in fact, became an obsession of the Middle Ages. Crusaders and Silk Route traders brought brightly hued silks, perfumes and glass mirrors to France, and raved about the hammam, or T
urkish bath. By the late thirteenth century, Paris boasted twenty-six bathhouses, where locals could cleanse themselves with lathering plants and herbs not too dissimilar to those found in Cluny’s medieval garden today. More than just steam rooms, bathhouses also featured wooden tubs so Parisians could soak like their Roman ancestors. But whereas cleanliness was a civic duty in Roman Paris, and the Thermes a place for socialising, bathing later became more a rite of romance. As the famous thirteenth-century poem Roman de la Rose — an allegorical dream in which the beloved is a rose within a walled garden — advised: ‘Allow no dirt on your person: wash your hands and scrub your teeth.’

  One of the city’s most gushing displays of beauty and romance is surely La Dame à la Licorne (The Lady and the Unicorn), the series of wool and silk tapestries that are the jewel in the Musée de Cluny’s crown. Starring a glamorously dressed and tressed maiden and her loyal white unicorn, who exist on an enchanted island amid all sorts of flora and fauna, five of the hangings depict the senses: in Sight the Lady holds a looking glass up for the unicorn, whose hooves gently rest in her lap; in Sound she plays an organ and in Smell she weaves a flower crown, while in both the unicorn obediently stands by; in Taste the Lady feeds a sweet treat to her pet parrot as the unicorn grips a banner bearing the coat of arms that appear throughout; and in Touch it’s now she who hoists the emblazoned banner, her other hand daintily holding her beast’s horn.

  And then there’s the mysterious sixth tapestry, in which the Lady stands in front of a tent that’s embroidered with the words Mon Seul Désir — My Sole Desire. Her maidservant holds a chest brimful with jewels. Is the Lady renouncing her gems and retreating away from sensuality, into the tent? Or has she just come out into society, ready to adorn herself and experience the world in every way? And what is her desire? Is it her heart, her love, her passion …? Is that the sixth sense?

  Fashioned around 1500, the tapestries’ most intriguing mysteries are perhaps the why, the who and the whom. Most experts believe the commissioner was either Jean or Antoine Le Viste, who hailed from a family of movers and shakers in the various realms of Parisian power. I like to believe it was Antoine, who ordered the wall hangings for his beloved bride-to-be Jacqueline Raguier; their initials are theoretically woven into the tent (the I is old French for J). Antoine married Jacqueline in 1510, a time when France was coming into its own Renaissance, inspired by Italy’s cultural rebirth of the previous century. And perhaps Antoine saw his fiancée as a Botticelli babe, a floral-strewn, flaxen-haired, fair-faced vision stepping out of a springtime scene, her purity immaculate. In medieval folklore, unicorns were attracted to the scent of a virgin, who alone could tame these mythical creatures. But who can deny the winking connotation of the unicorn’s horn; Antoine wanted to both revere and ravish Jacqueline. He wove his lust and passion into the very fibre of his betrothal gift, in the virile and manly lion and all those rabbits hopping around, in the red background fertile with mille-fleurs in full bloom. Really, when you think about it, it’s enough to make a girl blush.

  Back out in Cluny’s courtyard, stop to admire the old well, and then look up to the turrets and towers, particularly the detailing. Yes, what you see clinging to the stone are indeed clusters of sculpted scallop shells. Which seems rather random, until you remember that scallop shells are the symbol of Saint Jacques, the patron saint of crusaders, or, Saint James as we know him in English, and Santiago to the Spanish. And the street we’re on, Rue Saint-Jacques, is so named because, in the Middle Ages, Parisian pilgrims used this arterial to set off for Santiago de Compostela, where the Saint’s remains are reputedly buried. Scallop shells above a doorway often indicated the owner had made the sacred trek. That or they really liked to dine on scallops, known in France as Coquilles Saint-Jacques.

  Continue along the street of the scallops, following the phantom footsteps of not only those homecoming pilgrims, but the crusaders and traders who introduced Middle Eastern exotica to Paris so many centuries ago. On your right you’ll see, squashed together, buildings that well predate the city’s architectural codes of 1667, which regulated heights and banned gable roofs and generally introduced the urban style of classic-chic for which Paris has become famous. The families who lived here would have regularly attended mass at the church on your left: the Église Saint-Sévérin, which is worth a detour. Most of its stained glass dates from the fifteenth century, and rivals anything you’ve just seen at Cluny for exquisiteness. Wander to the ambulatory that wraps behind the altar, and stand by the twisted column that spirals out into ribbed vaulting, creating a palm tree-like effect around you; as the multi-coloured light filters in through the abstract stained-glass windows at this end of the church (they were installed in the 1970s), you could be in some psychedelic wonderland.

  A little further north along Rue Saint-Jacques, turn right at Rue de la Bûcherie — the street that Shakespeare and Company has made famous — to find Le Petit Châtelet, a restaurant nestled into a small house that has stubbornly stood its ground since the Shakespearean era. The restaurant looks touristy but serves up surprisingly satisfying Gallic fare — and if you’re craving Coquilles Saint-Jacques, you’ve come to the right place.

  After déjeuner, continue across to the Petit Pont, which takes you to the edge of the parvis of Notre-Dame. The cathedral, built between the 1160s and 1340s, is one of the finest and earliest examples of Gothic architecture, which was — ironically — made possible by the trade routes opened up after the First Crusade. Along with the glass and gold, and all the talk of hammams came inspiration for new ways of scientific and mathematical thinking. Architects aspired to new design heights, with pointed arches and rib vaulting, and Byzantine tracery techniques encouraged glassmakers to create new effects, such as the glorious rose window, featured on the western nave of most Gothic churches, spectacularly so on Notre-Dame.

  Continue north, and stop to smell the roses, literally, at the Marché aux Fleurs on your left. The rose is a particularly beloved bloom in Paris. Back in Roman times, rose-inspired and -infused celebrations could be notoriously debauched. By the thirteenth century, however, the rose had been pruned of its wild pagan connotations, and recultivated as a Christian icon; once the sign of Venus, it was now the flower of the Virgin Mary. The rose also symbolised the beloved maiden in courtly lore. In the Unicorn tapestries, the Lady stands in front of a rose-spun trellis, waiting herself to be picked. And just like her, the rose was about the senses: rosewater flavoured food and scented the skin; the satiny petals called out to be caressed; the vivid hues dazzled the eyes ... But therein lies another paradox: the rose was at once chaste in its whiteness and heady in red. Perhaps that’s why Paris so loves the rose, a flower with an intriguingly dual nature.

  Parisians would have also appreciated the power of roses to mask their city’s various vile odours. Head over the Pont au Change and turn left at the Quai de la Mégisserie, so named because it was the main address for the animal hide business. Add to the stench of this strip the emanations of the nearby butchers and bird sellers — and you start to appreciate how Paris was, for many years, known as the rankest smelling city of Europe. It’s difficult to imagine the look of the old quai, so architecturally cleansed by Baron Haussmann was it, but continue on to Quai du Louvre, where the eighteenth-century townhouses still stand and you’ll get a feel for an older Paris, one more haphazard and hurly-burly.

  See where the Louvre is now? It was a medieval fortress in the early sixteenth century, soon to be restyled into a Renaissance palace, inspired by the same evolving sense of beauty that spun the Lady and the Unicorn into reality. Turn at Rue du Louvre and stop just over the first street you cross. The church to your right, Église Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois (another with a splendid rose window), would have been there back then, albeit in an earlier form. Now, go inside for a treasure hunt of sorts. Walk beneath the soaring organ at the entrance and veer right, until you reach the southern transept halfway along. Look up at the stained glass window, and squint
until the pane at the very bottom comes into focus. Notice anything similar about the crest seen within? Oui: it’s the Le Viste arms that were emblazoned throughout the Unicorn tapestries: red, with three silver crescent moons along a diagonal blue band.

  Antoine was evidently the patron of this window. Installed in 1532, it was perhaps a status symbol for a man who, records show, held a succession of ever-powerful administrative positions in Paris. Sadly, the records also show that Jacqueline had died in 1520, and that six years later he married a Charlotte Briçonnet. We don’t, hélas, know much more — did a heartbroken Antoine roll up the tapestries in an effort to bury his sadness? — which only enhances the enigma of the Lady and the Unicorn. In 1841 the dramatist and historian Prosper Mérimée (also author of Carmen, which became the basis for Bizet’s opera) came across the tapestries in a woefully neglected condition and began to campaign for their restoration. A few years later, the Romantic writer George Sand raved about them in her novel Jeanne. The story — and the secrets — of the Lady and the Unicorn are indeed the stuff of romantic fiction.