I heard it again today. King of Montmartre. They’ve been calling me that for years now. I guess I’ve earned it—I've lived here long enough—and it’s meant with love I suppose, but it’s a little heavy to carry around.
Still, if a man like me were to have a kingdom, I suppose Montmartre is a suitable enough place. It’s not fancy, just a little hill village, really. Perched high above the city, it feels different from the rest of Paris. The air is different; the people are different. More real. We Montmartrois are like a tribe and we're fiercely devoted to our rebel village. Anytime you find people talking over too many glasses of wine, you're bound to hear the word, "secession."
You live in Montmartre because you love it, because you want to be a part of something that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a belief. You have to take Montmartre as it is, good and bad. It takes grit and determination to live here, in dilapidated buildings propped up on steep streets—some so steep, they’re stairs. It can be unforgiving, especially in winter. And except for a small area that’s been tarted up for the tourists, the 18th district is mostly pretty raw, especially north of Rue Ordener and east of Boulevard Barbès. I should know; I’ve lived here all my life and know every inch of every stinking gutter, so excuse me if I don’t quite get the quaint paintings they sell to the tourists in Place du Tertre. My Montmartre may not be pretty but it has heart, and I love it like a mother. It’s the only mother I’ve ever really had.
I admit that I spend most of my free time within the boundaries of my neighborhood. You could argue that I have the entire city of Paris to play in—and I do from time to time—but Montmartre is in my blood, it tugs hard when I’m away and draws me home. I suppose I don’t feel at rest anywhere but in the bosom of my mother. I am Montmartre and it is me. I guess that’s why they call me king.
