In its early years, locally operating courtesans introduced a seductive dance called Can-Can. The Can-Can dance revue evolved into a sort of entertainment of its own, and in part led to the introduction of cabaret culture all over Europe. Nowadays, the Moulin Rouge still has much of the old charm left although the courtesan front (no pun intended) has been taken over by newer “institutions” on the Pigalle side streets. Between tidy little family hotels, you can’t avoid stumbling on brightly illuminated front room windows where generous females eagerly exhibit their assets and lay them at your disposal if you so wish. Many of the workers are from more or less undeveloped African countries. It is quite obvious that people come here to taste some exotic cuisine as a refreshment to their permanent diet.
In 2005 Pirjo and I made a couple of days visit to Paris. As we are so stingy, I booked a room in a small hotel on Rue Pierre Fontaine, only a few steps from Place Pigalle. The room was a bit dusty, so we slept a window ajar although it was November. As far as I remember, the room was only some 35 euros per night, including a continental breakfast. For us two this was more than enough; the room was only for sleeping.
In the 19th century, Can-Can stretching caused arrhythmias on the left and right, and the performers were more or less local residents. Nowadays, selecting dancers for the show is a rigorous process. The successful ones are real professionals in the field. No, you got it wrong; they are real professionals in dance, not “professionals”.
If you walk the Clichy Street by the Moulin Rouge, there is a chance you don’t even notice the relatively modest entrance to the cabaret. The actual red mill is of course there, above the roof, but you don’t see it unless you cross the street for a better view. Most movie theatres have larger door embrasures and foyers than the Moulin Rouge cabaret. Before the door, there are showcases for numerous pictures of the show, but knowing the reputation of this place, you could expect some more glitz. Thirty meters from the entrance, in direction of the Blanche metro station, they sell sausages and burgers in a small takeaway outlet. When the wind is favourable, the smell of dripping easily creeps to the cabaret entrance. Just try to find some glitter from that setting.
The Moulin Rouge building was destroyed in a fire in 1915, but rebuilt and reopened in 1921. In 1962 it underwent major renovation, but the girls on the side streets kept on working incessantly over all these difficult times. During the WWII, the “institutions” of the highest quality were reserved solely for the officers of the German military. After liberation, Pigalle was renamed "Pig Alley" by Allied soldiers. The girls mostly cleared the war with honours, and will most likely continue working after the Moulin Rouge is dead and gone, living only in history books. That’s the nature of their profession. Studies from 2003 estimated that about 15,000 – 20,000 women work as prostitutes in France. In 2010, the number of full-time male and female prostitutes was estimated at 20,000 – 30,000. It is an evolving business.
Prostitutes and clients used to converse at Palais Royal already around year 1800. The picture is from the collections of the Bibliothèque nationale de France
Right behind the Moulin Rouge is a 130 metres high hill called Montmartre (in French: butte Montmartre), which also gives its name to the surrounding district of the right bank. Montmartre is primarily known for the white-domed Basilica of the Sacré Cœur on its summit, and it also is a nightclub district. The order of Jesuit priests was allegedly founded in the priestly grounds of Montmartre. Regarding all recent sexually related scandals within the Catholic Church, I just wonder if the relatively bad reputation of the Jesuit brotherhood had its seeds planted in the local “institutions” (again, no pun intended). Many artists have had studios or worked around the community of Montmartre; Salvador Dalí, Claude Monet, Pablo Picasso and Vincent van Gogh have very likely been familiar with available services. And I’m not talking about the Catholic Church.
Today’s Montmartre Hill has numerous outdoor storefronts that provide you with almost anything edible from flamboyant fish to flamed flans. Small cafes and restaurants serve patrons of whom many don’t have a real kitchen or proper cooking facilities in the apartment. Except for tourists, people living in these quarters seem to be quite young. Many look like students or otherwise distracted. For all the years, many an apartment building seems to be in an interesting condition. Damp, draught, bad heating, French neighbours and foreign tourists in one package. That’s a combination capable of scaring any not-too-much-insane over fifty-year-old from living in these quarters. I’m sure, even my somewhat healthy nose and bones would have caught pain and disease on a long term stay. The window that we left ajar over the nights in the hotel didn’t cause any problems. Although dusty, the hotel was warm and the nights were pretty quiet. In spite of late November, in some countries a precious time for Advent parties (i.e. wet, late, boisterous, and problematic in terms of partner selection, rejection or assent, in the latter case entrance, abandonment, and finally at least moral hangover), the neighbourhood wasn’t too loud either. I’m sure, nocturnal police car sirens’ wail irritates a devoted sleeper more in Alaska than in Pigalle. Or then, the streets are so narrow that all policing has to be done by foot.
If you are intending to make a night club tour in these quarters, you have to be very careful, or have a friend who knows martial arts. There it is so easy to get into big trouble. According to stories, you may not be able get much help from the police if you get robbed or mugged. Joining a group of football fans or a motorbike gang would be a great idea. Their own travel agencies organize interesting and intelligent group tours to various cities. On these tours you don’t have to kill time. All the extra time Pirjo and I had to kill was at airports. We did all the adventurous outing strictly daytime, and we didn’t have any problems with too close international contacts.
The Champs-Elysees Boulevard and the Arc are at a walking distance from the Pigalle, but you have to be a good walker. Pirjo and I rarely used the metro, never a taxi. By walking, absorbing the details of street life in the Pigalle area where we had a hotel room, and elsewhere, is so much more down-to-earth. What I just said really is a cliché, but we lowed it.
We also made a visit to the Louvre for checking Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and an age-old Etruscan sculpture of a husband and wife, who still don’t seem to get tired of resting on their stony bed. On the opposite wall, facing Mona Lisa, there is a huge painting The Wedding at Cana, by Paolo Veronese. The wedding is by actual size the biggest painting in the whole Louvre. As the Mona Lisa is quite small, perhaps at some kind of spiritual level these two paintings do balance each other. For getting back to the hotel, we decided to take a metro. Most likely we were so devastated by the size of the Louvre and the adjacent attractions that walking didn’t sound like a good idea. If not before, at the latest in the metro we came back to the face of earth (this is a figurative, not a literal expression). Travelling line 2 metro in Paris, at a rush hour, was an elbowing, loud, clattering and smelly experience. Well, we were tired and wanted to ASAP get back for verifying if the girls already were back to work. They were.
We also made a visit to the Louvre for checking Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa and an age-old Etruscan sculpture of a husband and wife, who still don’t seem to get tired of resting on their stony bed. On the opposite wall, facing Mona Lisa, there is a huge painting The Wedding at Cana, by Paolo Veronese. The wedding is by actual size the biggest painting in the whole Louvre. As the Mona Lisa is quite small, perhaps at some kind of spiritual level these two paintings do balance each other. For getting back to the hotel, we decided to take a metro. Most likely we were so devastated by the size of the Louvre and the adjacent attractions that walking didn’t sound like a good idea. If not before, at the latest in the metro we came back to the face of earth (this is a figurative, not a literal expression). Travelling line 2 metro in Paris, at a rush hour, was an elbowing, loud, clattering and smelly experience. Well, we were tired and wanted to ASAP get back for verifying if the girls already were back to work. They were.
The Pictures “French CanCan” and Palais Royal published in accordance with the CreativeCommons terms http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/. Pics of the Sacré Cœur, Montmarte and Arc published in accordance with Pirjo’s Copyright clause: “Yes, go on”.
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