The Ryndex

The story of Duckies’s trip actually starts at Denfert-Rochereau. I had figured out a foolproof plan to meet my guests in Paris, instead of at the airport, and I’ve been putting it into practice. In theory, I send you (the guest) a phone card, and detailed instructions on how to take the train into Paris from your airport and terminal, as well as detailed instructions on how to contact me on my mobile phone.

In practice, your plane is late, or your luggage gets stabbity stabbed, and you leave me two or three messages in my voice mail because I missed the ring and you called the next time while I was checking my voice mail, and your voice sound dangerously at the edge. And we never actually know if we’re going to meet up until you actually step off the train, and at that point, it’s okay because we’re so happy to see each other!

Then we go to the Fête de Vendanges in Montmartre.

We actually planned Duckie’s arrival for the vendange (harvest) at Montmartre. It’s an interesting yearly event, and I’ve never gone. There’s only one vineyard in Paris proper, up behind the hill where Sacre Coeur is perched. Once a year, they sell the wine for charity in a little local festival, with a parade and stalls and stands selling specialties from all regions of France — different wines, dried sausages, oysters, tartiflette, cheeses, ice creams, candies, and so on and so forth (and there’s more so-on-and-so-forth than you’d expect).

We didn’t buy any of the wine, because we’re not particularly charitable — for one, it has a poor reputation, and secondly, there’s sufficient demand that it’s fairly expensive. We did pick up some other trinkets from the festival, and I had a great deal on farm-made sausage — all pork-based, but with recipes that included other meats such as pheasant, bison, stag, nuts and even blueberry (that’s the only one I haven’t eaten at time of writing).

We did see one man get inducted into some sort of Order of Shellfish. We stopped and listened to the entire ceremony, but I couldn’t tell you what it was about. There was a costume, some medals exchanged, papers signed and presented, registers stamped and sealed. I’m sure it was a big honour — he looked suitably impressed.

That was about it — certainly another way to see the top of Montmartre. We went into the church and walked around (taking no photos, of course). On our way down, a man tried to get me to stick my finger into a loop of embroidery thread. I didn’t, because I know the trick.