The French Must Love Stairs.

I originally wrote this at three am in Paris after my spring 30th birthday, edits in progress with an adaptation for a children’s book.

Long day. The French must love stairs. Kid you not, ready? One, stairs down the hotel room, two, stairs down to the metro, three, stairs in the metropolitan transfer, four, stairs to go to the street, five stairs in le grand magasin, the lift didn’t work, six, crazy old stairs behind some creepy, eerie and barely lit residential villa circa 1867 behind moulin rouge and near the Cemeterie Mortemarte.

We were walking down the rue in search of the perfect meal to grace our appetites. The desire to preserve shelling out several Euros was imminent on the mind, however each menu was carefully pondered before sitting down. Now mind you, we’ve already surpassed the two restaurants the guidebook suggested since their existence vanished. My feet hurt, it’s raining, taxis are whooshing by without much care of pedestrians and people are bustling in the city taking pictures of Moulin Rouge and enamored by this ridiculous grate of hot air the metro produced. Now, we’re dehydrated, but determined to eat a meal even better than the night before, so we decided to approach the off-beaten path.

Lured by the observance of locales on this particular street, Rue Lepic, we headed up the private and quaint rue; trekking through uneven stones in the road, dodging Renaults and puddles, fumers and dripping awnings- we pursue with famished determination.

The entry gate to a common path (which was mysterious and piqued my interest) wasn’t only ajar, but busted-yet, carefully set beside the pillars of stone where it used to hang. The gate, I imagine was probably just as graceful and inviting as before – even with it’s current infirmarie it boasts grandeur. My accompaniment of hungry fellows kept moving along, but noticed my lagging and peering into a dark shadow with uncertainty. ‘Come on’ I hear. But I pleaded that they all had to just look up at the grande sight of yet, more stairs. I knew the unknown of the top of the stairs would be an adventure and irresistance for some-since I wanted to explore the sight more, I coaxed them to stray to the stop of the stairs. I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive of the predicament we could soon be in once we reached the top, but felt safe in numbers. I imagined old maids carrying au pains back to their kitchens, the hunchback-type struggling the stairs, mistresses laughing with their suitors and staining the walls with wine, children losing their balls down the multitude of steps to the street or fiddling with marionnetes on the railing in funny voices.

My friend quickly interrupts my fanciful thoughts of 19th century romance and said gruffly, ‘This is probably some bum’s haven and pee stop.’

Laughing, I still walked up the narrow slippery stairs and clutched to the rail with my leather gloves. The light from the moon hit the old cobblestone steps with history and each step was glimmering of acsenscion to the unknown.

Once we reached the third flight, bright flourescent green graffiti was blaring- ‘Dr Special and Mr G’. You gotta love American rap music-it really ressonates globally. We reached the top, but still could not see ahead! An old boulder rock stood in the way. I imagine it was some olde fountain or wall, but left without flowering vines or care. We could now report no bums were present on this quick journey, but just around the rock, a beautiful perspective view of another tree-lined street to some very expensive maisons. To each side of the continued path was gardens both secret and open-more walls and windows in the horizon.

Now, I know the fountain of youth in France-le magicien de la stairs! Ponce de Leon had it right at his backyard!

.k.shew / originally written 19 Avril 2009