If It’s Sunday Then It Should Always Be Paris

When I hurried underground to catch the No. 4 Metro that gray Sunday morning, I was not sure where I was--except slightly lost in jet lag.

Five or six stations later, I emerged on the Ile de la Cite. I was met by sunshine and the intense warble of songbirds. A sign said Place Louis-Lapine. Another pointed to St. Chapelle.

Then I saw a gendarme flirting with a young girl by the Seine and I knew that no matter where I had started my journey, I had definitely come out in Paris.

Over the years I have grown to love Paris, but never more than on Sunday. That is when Parisians turn themselves loose on their beloved city, savoring its green parks and bookstalls, its goldfish markets and fruit stands, its lamp-lined bridges and wicker-chaired cafes.

Sunday is the day of the bird market on the Ile de la Cite, an easy stroll from the Right Bank or Left and the home of wondrous Notre Dame.

Naturally, the bird market attracts bird lovers, both as admirers and buyers. It also attracts photographers who know a glorious photo when they see one . . . or several.

The birds are enchanting, but so are the children who talk to them nose-to-beak. And so are the men in berets and the women with string market bags who have endless bird stories to trade.

I stared into a tiny cage that was marked Le Couple; another said La Paire. Each held two birds. I did not ask the difference.

Some cages were marked Chanteurs and others Reproducteurs. Those distinctions I understood.

There were finger-size birds from Mozambique, as bright as chunks of coral. There were birds the color of violets and periwinkles and limes. There was not a drab bird in the lot. Nor was there a quiet one.

The bird market sells bunches of millet and bags stamped “gourmet bird food.” Stalls are filled with feeders, perches, bells, mirrors, toys and cages made of bamboo or wrought iron.

I left the chirps and the gaudy scene to line up at St. Chapelle before its 10 a.m. opening. It was my first visit back in a decade.

From the outside, the small chapel reveals nothing of its beauty. But up a tight stone spiral staircase I saw again the oldest stained-glass windows in Paris, their colors as deep as gems, so bold that the songbirds paled.

The elaborate ring of 13th-Century glass is like an illustrated Bible, with a cast of thousands covering more than 6,000 square feet. It is possible to read the windows, or so I am told, by starting with Adam and Eve in the lower left frame. I admit I have only scanned the volume.

When the small chapel filled and became noisy, I left and walked to Notre Dame. The great organ was playing. Nuns were straightening rows of wooden chairs.

I sat for a while and felt blessed to be where I was. But the sun drew me on to the quays by the Seine, where poodles were yapping and small boats were setting sail.

I walked by the glass entrance to the Louvre, but decided not to join the estimated hourlong line. Sunday is a free day for that grand museum; crowds soar in appreciation.

Instead I crossed to the Left Bank and made my way to the Musee d’Orsay, the popular collection of sculptures and impressionist paintings that opened in 1986 in the turn-of-the-century railway station, Gare d’Orsay.

I was intrigued by an 1875 masterwork, Renoir’s painting of Claude Monet, one artist’s view of another. Monet, a young man with a rakish hat, is posed with his brushes and easel.

I was also intrigued with the museum cafe that is upstairs behind the great railroad clock, with its see-through face and Roman numerals.

The zesty green salad called “flash” was good; the green cane-backed chairs were comfortable. A door opened onto the roof, which is steeped in statuary.

In this unlikely aerie, with its view toward the dome of Sacre-Coeur, a snack cart was doing a bustling business in baguette sandwiches and orange juice.

In late spring and summer the sun lasts long in Paris and adds evening hours to the day. I had time to stroll through the sculpture gardens and mansion of the Rodin Museum, where admission is half-price on Sunday.

There was time to skirt a favorite secluded square on Rue Furstenberg behind St.-Germain-des-Pres, where old-fashioned street lamps and paulownia trees have the air of another century.

There seemed time for everything, that perfect Sunday in Paris, except dinner at Lionel in Montmartre.

I had heard that this small restaurant (at 26 Rue Yvonne-le-Tac) was a romantic charmer that seats fewer than 25. I had heard that the fresh pasta and smoked salmon were heavenly.

I had not heard that Lionel is closed on Sunday.

It is good to have ongoing dreams.