A day exploring edgy and bohemian Bellville and Menilmontant.
Up from the Metro into the cornucopia of a street market along the Boulevard de Bellville: shiny old suits, long out of fashion; cascades of glittering fish scales flicked into the sun; almonds, their velvet skins wrinkled like the faces above them.
Climb the steep, noisy Rue de Bellville. Modern buildings on the left. Old on the right, taken over by Chinese migrants under a profusion of signs. A figure emerges from No. 40; a glimpse beyond of a crumbling courtyard with an air of time passing it by. A red van breaks down; someone pushes and grunts, ‘Ne marche pas’.
Parc de Bellville sits at the heart of the area between Rue Ménilmontant and Rue de Bellville; on one side the rambling old community, on the other curving white walls of new development, ‘ Appartements a Vendre’. The Parc’s tiered green slopes are quiet, fountains play, a Senegalese worker in waders cleans a pool, people sit and read, sketch and write. From the belvedere the Pantheon, the Tour Montparnasse, Les Invalides, the Beaubourg and the Eiffel Tower rise through the haze on the Parisian skyline.
Descend the Rue Julien Lacroix to the Place Maurice Chevalier shaded by nine chestnut trees and watched over by the Notre-Dame-de-la-Croix de Ménilmontant atop a steep flight of steps – the bells announce midday. Chevalier (1888-1972) was born and grew up in Menilmontant.
Belleville Cemetery is dominated by polished grey granite. Enamelled photographs show set faces from the 1920s and 30s; gilded letters honour ‘A Ma Fille Chérie’, ‘A Nos Chers Disparus’, ‘A Mon Cher Parrain, Jeanne’ and many more departed. Cats prowl and doze.
The area between the Rue de Bellville and the Rue Ramponeau appears sad and decaying behind abandoned bars and shop fronts. It’s emblematic of the older parts where the tone is of cracked plaster, wood weathered to silvery grey and the faded colours of a community sucked dry. A more careful look and there is the vitality of art and craft – painters, sculptors, glass blowers, metal and leather workers. Figures cut and stitch jackets and dresses intently behind a window.
Up the hill along the Rue de Bellville, Boulangerie Ganachard at No. 150 sells artisan bread and sensuous patisserie. Cars draw up, double-park with light flashing, smart young men jump out and go in and come out clutching baguettes or exquisitely wrapped pink parcels, perhaps a tartelette or a rich gâteau. There are bizarre bread creatures in the window and an aged Certificat de Mérite. Hidden ovens suffuse the street with the comforting aromas of wood smoke and baking bread.