One Montmartre Morning

The morning after Friday, November 13, I wake up in my bed on Montmartre. On Facebook I see friends announcing that they are “safe after the terrorist attacks in Paris.” At first, I have no idea what they mean. I’m lying in an apartment many kilometers from the attacks and have simply slept through the whole thing.

In the morning, the Facebook updates continue with the usual, predictable expressions of sympathy and tricolored profile pictures. But also, unfortunately, with the equally embarrassingly necrophilic attempts to harness the tragic deaths to various political agendas.

I go for a morning walk on Montmartre. The bakeries are open, and Parisians hurry home with long baguettes for their morning coffee. People stroll, shop for fashion, and smoke Gauloises. Perhaps old friends stop and talk a bit longer than they usually do. As one does, when there’s exceptional news to discuss.

Tourists swarm in front of Sacré-Cœur as if nothing had happened, snapping selfies with the Paris skyline in the background. And here, for the first time, I see deployed soldiers. Calmly they stand, hands resting on their rifle stocks, quietly discussing last week’s sports results.

On my way back up to the apartment, I meet a small, elderly Parisian lady. It’s our landlady. She shakes her head and places a hand over her heart.

“C’est triste,” she says. “C’est très triste.”