Nuit Blanche

Nuit Blanche is a celebration of all things art, and Paris stays up all night to partake of it. I got home about 1am, wuss that I am. Not only that, I soaked my feet in a cassoulet pot, one foot at a time because they hurt so much. Later I used the hand-held shower head to direct warm water on my feet and shins because I was starting to get charlie horses. My neighbors came in about 3am and undoubtedly woke the whole building. Nuit Blanche also translates into "all-nighter."

We started at Parc des Buttes Chaumont. Butte means mountain or peak, a peak we climbed to the top, mind you, all the way up and into the temple—so many steps, I don't want to think about it. We also crossed that suspension bridge, but these pictures are not mine. They were taken in the daylight. We were there in the full-moon darkness, and the Sybil's "belvedere" (as they refer to the little Corinthian-style temple built in the 1860s) was adorned by the moon. The park is actually one of Barron Haussmann's achievements. It's remarkable, really, and on a pleasant fall evening, filled with light installations and hundreds of Parisians, quite astounding.

I tried to take a picture of the temple with the moon hanging over it, but all I got was the moon. It was lovely, mysterious, and Romantic with a capital "R." It was also a long walk to the top over uneven terrain. I was with three of my compatriots from Santa Rosa, including Amy, our intrepid Art History instructor who was leading the pack.

My day started when I stepped outside my door into streets filled with a flea market. Everything from expensive furniture, lots of beautiful wood pieces and antiques, to booths filled with junk. Lots of vintage prints, lots of old china, lots of clothing, lots of books and music. Lots of people.

I wanted that chaise lounge. (Is that what it's called? I'm not sure.) I even tried to bargain for a chair—something my apartment could use, but I couldn't handle the language well enough and even when we reverted to  English, I couldn't justify spending the money (around $75) for a cute chair that I'd never be able to bring home.

I settled, eventually, for drinking a coffee at one of the overflowing cafés and watching the crowds. The faire was all up and down Rue du Martyrs and even spilled onto Avenue Trudaine, literally right outside my door. It was my introduction to "Nuit Blanche," a day and night where Parisians to come out to play.

As the day wore on, the crowds increased until last night, around midnight, walking through the square at the Pompidou Center, it seemed the whole of Paris must be out and about. We stopped to watch a video that was projected on the wall of an old building near the Fountain Stravinsky which is in the square adjacent to the Pompidou Center. It was presented in two circular frames, as if we were watching it through binoculars. Sometimes the images were different; sometimes an image would pass from one frame to the other. It was accompanied by music.

Lots of music, in fact. We went into two Gothic churches, église Saint-Merri, which is in the Marais and was built in the early 1500s and later Saint-Eustache, which is near the old market place of Les Halles, the same church where I heard Bach's Toccata & Fugue. Both churches were filled with colored lights and sound, darkened for effect. Very intoxicating to look up into vaulting awash in a light show. It added a whole other dimension to the evening, the scent of the sacred. Indeed, at Saint-Eustache the priests were welcoming people, acting as hosts.

Also in abundance were the street vendors. Everyone was eating crêpes made on the spot on little heated griddles. Very Paris and the cafés, filled with folks. It was certainly more than worth the effort. I now feel initiated. Nuit Blanche is an arts event that's spreading all over the world, actually. It comes from the midnight sun of St. Petersburg, the white nights of midsummer. I visited St. Petersburg in midsummer in the late 1980s, and the lingering twilight is astounding. Out of that has emerged this idea of reclaiming the night by celebrating with art—that has been Paris' contribution and it's quite remarkable.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of the evening was the way it seems to bring Parisians together and make Paris feel like a small, welcoming town. I ended up feeling part of the city in a new way. I don't quite know how to explain it, but it seemed like there was something in the experience that could be translated to my writings about the uprisings of 1830 and 1848, something about the way Paris streets are so vibrant, so rich with life.