Was Rick Blaine Wrong?

Paris, France

May 26, 2025

“We’ll always have Paris.”

- Rick Blaine, Casablanca

In the third century, St Denis was arrested for denying the divinity of the emperor. He was imprisoned, booted from the Île de la Cité, and dragged up the Roman road that still bears his name.

Beneath a temple of Mercury atop a hill overlooking the city, St Denis lost his head. But he somehow retained his wits.

He picked up his severed noggin, washed it in a nearby stream, and began to walk. Where he finally collapsed became the holy site of his eponymous cathedral, where French kings would be laid to rest.

The butte where St Denis died was named “Mons Martyrum”. That’s where we went this morning.

I was warned the base of Montmartre had become somewhat seedy. Not that the area around the Anvers Metro was unsafe (especially on a Sunday morning). But that it could be tacky, scammy, and disconcerting.

That wasn’t entirely true. There’s the usual abundance of souvenir shops, overpriced candy, and other schlock.

But it was harmless and safe. Beggars were conspicuous by their absence, and no hookers or hucksters adorned corners and curbs.

Being a tourist area, pickpockets can be a problem. But this is true in any crowded part of Paris, particularly on trains. So we played it safe by seeking sanctuary.

A Pleasant Surprise

In modern Europe, the best place to avoid crowds is Sunday Mass. But this week, we were pleasantly surprised.

The pews were packed.

Mass was beautiful. The organ was solemn yet uplifting, with a small choir adding transcendent hymns in angelic French.

Perhaps the main draw was the site. Atop a hill over remnants of a Roman temple to Mars, St Pierre de Montmartre is the second-oldest church in Paris.

In its crypt, the nascent Jesuits surreptitiously met under guidance of St Ignatius Loyola. It was there that vows were taken to form the Society of Jesus.

Consecrated in 1147 by the Cistercian Pope Eugene III, the Romanesque edifice was (literally) overshadowed by Sacre Coeur when that basilica rose 150 years ago. It had been a rough century for St Pierre.

Like most churches, this one was ravaged by the Revolution. With predictable originality, it was rebranded a “Temple of Reason” by Jacobin lunatics. A couple decades later, Russian troops used it for barracks after the defeat of Napoleon.

By the late 19th century, St Pierre fell into disrepair. Closed when sections threatened to collapse, the structure received a reprieve. At the last minute, the city decided to save it. Renovated at the turn of the century, it was returned to the Church in 1908.

After Mass, we decided to visit the most prominent landmark on Montmartre. But we thought better after seeing hordes queued to enter Sacre Coeur. Short on time and loathing long lines, we turned away and returned to town.

An Afterthought

In 1428, Joan of Arc was repulsed by occupying English at the Porte Saint-Honoré. We faced no such obstacle penetrating Paris. Emerging from the Metro near La Madeleine, we strolled the road where Moliere was born and Henri IV was murdered.

On either side of Place Vendôme, Rue St-Honoré and Rue de la Paix anchor one of the more prestigious retail districts in the world. At its exclusive shops humorless guards keep riff-raff out, while monitoring worthies who manage to get in.

My wife was welcome. But her husband and sons kept their distance. They decided to peek under the cupola of le Église Notre-Dame de l'Assomption.

This is the Polish church in Paris. It’s capped by a disproportionately large dome, the underside of which is adorned by a fabulous fresco of the Assumption.

Like many structures in the French capital, this would be a major attraction in almost any U.S. city. In Paris, it’s among an assortment of afterthoughts that hardly merits a mention.

A Treat

Across the Seine is Les Invalides. The ornate Pont Alexander III provides a path, which extends thru a series of gardens to the majestic façade.

Dominated by twin pavilions flanking double-doors, the entrance supports a statue of Louis XIV beneath the gold dome covering Napoleon’s tomb.

Elsewhere on le Rive Gauche, my wife adores Musée d’Orsay. After the Commune burned the original palace in 1871, the Orleans Railway acquired the site along the Seine.

A new station was designed to harmonize with the elegance of its arrondissement. With Beaux-Art influence, a façade modeled on the Louvre sheathed a structure of iron and glass indicative of its time.

Within four decades, advances in rail technology rendered the Orsay platforms obsolete, and the station closed before the Second World War. For almost half a century, Orsay was relegated to ad hoc exhibitions and cinema shoots.

Not till 1986 did it open as a museum housing masterpieces from the Second Republic to the First World War. We were there less than two hours… sufficient only for an appetizing sample of the extensive exhibits.

But while there we received a treat. Dancers from Le Moulin Rouge appeared in period dress, and put on a Belle Epoque performance.

Geometry and Order

Paris “learned to think” on the Left Bank, after Abelard established its eponymous university on Rue de Fouarre (nicknamed the “Street of Straw” for the covering on floors where students sat at what came to be known as the Sorbonne).

Many of the pupils now lounge on grass in the Luxembourg Gardens. I can see why. Anchored by the Florentine palace of Marie de Medicis, this urban oasis is a classic presentation of a Parisian park.

Unlike their American counterparts, French gardens don’t pretend they’re replicating a rural scene in a city setting. They instead use geometry and order to reinforce a sense of civilization.

Disheveled shrubs (like the homeless they harbor and derelicts they disguise) are non-existent. Tall trees of similar specie are stately, trimmed, and planted on-center at regular intervals.

With statues, fountains, and bollards, these arboreal boundaries guide pedestrians along pea gravel paths, and offer (mostly psychological) protection from vehicular roads around the park.

The Tuileries, Champs de Mars, and Esplanade des Invalides are additional examples of this enlightened design.

Changing Faces

Contrary to popular perception but consistent with my experience, the people of Paris have been pleasant and polite. They appreciate my flawed French, but don’t resent reverting to English. Hospitality flows like red wine at a leisurely lunch.

Having been away so many years, I was worried I wouldn’t recognize Paris. I was relieved the central city remains much as I remembered. Of course, like us, most people in those areas aren’t Parisian.

But on the trains and in the outskirts, we saw the face of a changing France. Unlike in the U.S., we saw few bums, and never felt threatened or harassed.

But like a teenager we’d last seen as a toddler, change may be imperceptible to locals who see things every day. Yet it’s clearly occurred.

Charles de Gaulle warned that if his country abandoned empire (and, after unmitigated disasters in Indochina and Algeria, he wisely agreed it should), it mustn’t allow former colonials to flood into France.

De Gaulle was obviously ignored. Alien cultures are inundating Paris. Like much of Europe, France is fading under an influx of Islam, which now represents an eighth of its inhabitants.

And it’s no longer banished to the banlieues. Hijabs are as common as croissants. In many areas, Arabic is treated as a second language. With the duplicitous complaisance of their feeble “hosts”, Mohammedans continue capturing a dying West.

The slow-motion surrender is the consequence of Western guilt, greed, and grift. Only formerly Christian countries that blessed the world with artistic excellence, economic prosperity, and scientific achievement are expected to invite invasions that advance the demise of their honorable patrimony.

No one expects South Africa to ruin itself by supporting an unceasing flow of European immigrants. Rhodesia wasn’t required to welcome as many Englishmen who wanted to “resettle”.

Instead, these once prosperous places are excused for whacking white locals who’d lived there for centuries. Such places now drown in poverty, debt, and blood.

An Excuse

The world needs Paris, and what it represents. But Paris won’t exist if the City of Light ceases to be French. It still (mostly) is. But for how long?

As Tom Woods once said, we don’t go to Beijing to hear bagpipes. Why would we want to see the Tuileries awash in turbans?

Variation is beautiful. But what’s wrong with a French France? We’ve never gotten a good answer from disciples of “diversity”, who ardently insist every place be the same.

France’s post-war welfare state was ostensibly established to provide pensions, medical care, and other “insurance” to French citizens.

This imploding Ponzi is now used as an excuse to import immigrants who can “save” an unsalvageable system. How long can this persist till France admits Rick Blaine was wrong?

JD