Monmartre

The only times I have ever remotely felt in love with Paris are the days I have wandered through Monmartre, where I live. Now let me get this straight with you. There are two, no three Montmartre's. There is the Montmartre I live in which could be a rough, dodgy area in any city, full of Kebab shops and The Monoprix supermarket and dodgy, dodgy shops, and bars that no sane person would EVER enter. And people who punch you in the arm for no reason. And then you cross the train tracks, that would take me home if only I had the money, and you walk past the prostitutes and the crowd of people who, for a reason known only to God and themselves, stand in one particular road, outside a building that appears to be nothing and you enter into Montmartre behind the Sacre Cour which is actually a pleasant maze of streets full of quirky Boutiques and Boulangeries and bars and then you take the side streets from here and you could be in Provencial France and suddenly you feel like you've stepped into a painting by Toulouse Loutrec and finally you are in Paris. The Paris that you read about and wanted to visit. Now this Paris in itself has two sides. It has the quiet Provencial esq side, which is pretty and artistic and it also has the busy bustling, sexual side featuring, of course, the Moulin Rouge. But for me, Paris at it's best is in the quiet side streets up here. Suddenly Paris is beautiful, different to any other city and quirky in her own way. It's not often one glimpses this side of Paris. But for a regular fix, one may never need to leave Montmartre. Just don't venture over the train tracks that take you to London. Because over there Paris is at her worst.