The Agile Rabbit (Lapin Agile) is a Cabaret located halfway up our climb. The venue existed circa 1860 under the name Au rendez-vous des voleurs, meaning "Where the Thieves Meet".Some twenty years later, the walls were decorated with portraits of famous murderers and the place became known as the Cabaret des Assassins. The Lapin Agile was also popular with Montmartre residents including pimps, eccentrics, poorer people, local anarchists, as well as with students and a sprinkling of upper-class snobs.
Now here is a cabaret I can get in to. The signage is distinctive as it portrays a rabbit fleeing from a stewpot. 
Across the way is the neighborhood vineyard which features a guest winemaker every year, proceeds for each bottle going to charity. I’ve been told not to rush off for a bottle as it really is not that good.
Two blocks up is Le Cabaret De Patachu and you might just recognize some of the International  performers who have graced the stage. Notable performances include, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr, and Leaky Roof open mic-er, Doc Soloman (along with his tennis ball puppet One Atom Android). 
At the very top is the village of Montmartre, the quaint shops, restaurants, along with the Basilica of the Sacré-Cœur (Sacred Heart), a majestic, white-domed church which is a landmark for France's Catholic Church.

But the real headliner is, of course, the view. Gazing out from the top one is greeted by a breathtaking view so different from the one of the Eiffel Tower. This a people’s view, close vast enough to see the city but intimate enough to recognize the humanity. 

Past the red windmill of the Moulin Rouge, we begin our slow climb up the winding streets of Montmartre. We pass the Love mural, bursts of graffiti, and even the café made famous by the film Amélie. Our first real stop: the modest home once shared by Vincent van Gogh and his younger brother, Theo.
Pausing outside, we glance up at the second-story window and the small plaque that marks his stay. It’s easy to imagine the arguments that rattled within those walls—between Vincent, his long-suffering brother, and Theo’s wife. “I’m sorry, my wife says you have to leave. Your ear is bleeding on the carpet again.” Cruel, perhaps, but history rarely tidies up after genius.
Turning away from the building, we see the same broad view Vincent once painted from his window. And when I say the same, I mean almost the same—minus a million changes that time and progress have inflicted. Still, if you rub your eyes hard enough, you can catch the ghost of swirling light and color that might remind you of Van Gogh’s sunflowers.
Further up, the neighborhood reveals more stories. Here stood Picasso’s early studio, and here too, Gertrude Stein once refused to pay him for her portrait—though she later relented, proudly hanging it in the least exalted of spots: her ground-floor restroom.
At an old public fountain that once kept Montmartre supplied, I stop for a sip. (Don’t worry, I’ll test it for giardia back at the hotel.) But the real highlight comes a few steps later: the statue of Le Passe-Muraille, the unfortunate clerk Dutilleul immortalized in stone, caught mid-passage in the wall.
The story goes like this:
Dutilleul, a humble government employee in Montmartre, discovers—quite by accident during a blackout—that he has the peculiar gift of walking through walls. At first, he uses it to torment his overbearing boss, then graduates to burglary, strolling in and out of buildings like a phantom. He even allows himself to be arrested, only to vanish from his cell, baffling the police.
Romance complicates matters when he begins nightly visits with a married woman while her husband is away. But fate has a cruel sense of humor: after taking a certain medication and exerting himself too much, Dutilleul’s strange gift fails him. He becomes trapped in the stone, suspended forever between two worlds.
And you thought your problems were bad. This statue is one of my favorite stops in Montmartre, and I think of poor Dutilleul often.
Feeling in need of cheer and perhaps a bit of divine guidance, I continue upward and meet my newest spiritual leader: Saint Denis, the headless cleric himself. But that story, along with a touch of revolution, will have to wait until next week.

​Standing before the iconic red windmill of the Moulin Rouge, it’s hard not to feel the pull of history—and curiosity. Those legendary doors all but dare you to step inside. I know I’m itching to see what’s beyond them. Aren’t you?

​On second thought, it looks like a silly place.

I’ve probably said this a dozen times, but Paris isn’t just the City of Light—it’s also the City of Stairs. They’re everywhere. Down to the Metro, up to Sainte-Chapelle, tucked into side streets. They spiral and twist like something out of Hitchcock, and I’m convinced they’ve claimed more ankles than all the wars in Indochina. Each corkscrewing step feels like a dare, inching you closer to that one misstep that sends you back home for a date with your orthopedic surgeon. But enough about me—let’s talk Montmartre.
Rather than face another calf-burning climb, I slipped into the historic district the back way—far more scenic and far less punishing. Bakeries and fruit stands lined the streets, each one more tempting than the last. And then, something new caught my eye: the Uritrottoir. I was told the one I stumbled upon springs up from the pavement at night, offering… let’s say… relief to intoxicated men. Right then and there, I vowed to return one day, just to see it in action—maybe even give it a spin.
I paused at the famous “love” mural before spotting graffiti that wasn’t just tagging, but real artistry. Paris, it turns out, celebrates its graffiti artists, each leaving behind a signature style like a painter signing a canvas.
But time was short, and culture waits for no one. Ahead lay Picasso’s studio, Van Gogh’s home, and countless other treasures still to be discovered.

​Next week: We Climb!

​April 2nd
64°F (17.78°C) with a low of 43°F – Sunny and brisk.
Before we continue our journey to Montmartre and beyond, I thought it might be a good time to pause and reflect on two very important subjects:
Medium Rare and Saint Denis.
At first glance, the two may not appear to have much in common. Upon closer examination, they still don’t. But be that as it may, we shall proceed.
Saint DenisI first became aware of this Parisian celebrity while visiting Notre-Dame. Much like the Seven Dwarfs propping up the Disney offices in Burbank, California, saints surround the great cathedral, presumably doing something. I’m not entirely sure what—perhaps warding off evil spirits—but they’re definitely there.
The most notable of these saintly figures is Saint Denis, famously known as the headless saint. If I understand the story correctly (and I might not), Denis was persecuted, beheaded, and—here’s the twist—picked up his severed head, held it at chest level, and walked home. This miraculous feat made him an instant celebrity and eventually a saint.
Now, here’s where the details get fuzzy. I’m unclear whether he managed to sew his head back on and live out the rest of his days in a semi-normal priestly fashion, or if he collapsed shortly after his return. Maybe he dropped his head along the way and never quite made it back. I’m not sure. But as we head into Montmartre, you’ll see some photos I took of Saint Denis, and I didn’t want to freak you out without some context.
Medium Rare (a warning)Ordering anything medium rare in Paris is a bold move. Apparently, the only “head” your beef has encountered is the one belonging to the chef preparing it. It makes you wonder—what does rare even look like?
I learned this the hard way while dining at a little café after visiting the Eiffel Tower. Lesson learned.