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Jack Kerouac and Annie Powell: both on the road past Al’s Lunch

Jack Kerouac and Annie Powell: both on the road past Al’s Lunch

By Kurt Phaneuf and Bernie Zelitch

How did this forsaken eatery unite the creative worlds of photographer Annie Powell and writer Jack Kerouac? Courtesy of the Henry Ford Museum and Newspaperarchive.

Al’s Lunch, a picturesque diner in the heart of Lowell’s Little Canada, was too fleeting to make the public record. Nevertheless, it lives through a famous home-grown writer and an under-appreciated immigrant photographer.

We’ve been casting for connections between Jack Kerouac (1922–69) and Annie Powell (1859–1952) that may have occurred in the 1920s and 1930s. Al’s Lunch provides one small but curious nexus between Powell’s 1935 image and Kerouac’s first published novel in 1950. Given the frequency with which new connections between photographer and writer are emerging, new information about them has been added to one of the walking tours given by the annual “Lowell Celebrates Kerouac!” (LCK) festival scheduled for October.

The greasy spoon’s likely namesake was Albert Turner (1906–68). He and brother Emile Turner (1904–63), both second generation French Canadians, operated a bar at 166 Aiken Street. The prefabricated diner was delivered to Aiken and Cheever Streets (along the Northern Canal) sometime in late 1934 or early 1935. Any business partnership they may have had ended as the diner, on property owned by Proprietors of Locks & Canals (PLC), went up for sale. Albert soon opened a variety store nearby, and Emile transformed Castonguay’s carpentry shop across Aiken Street into Turner’s Cafe. He remained in the bar and restaurant business until his death in 1963.

On April 23, 1935, the British-born Powell, then seventy-five and six years a widow, helped package the sale of the abandoned structure. Working on a clear Tuesday with temperatures from 41–56 ℉ (PLC records), she commemorated its favorable downtown location placing the City Hall tower on the left. She rendered the building with flattering light, and made the diner stand out by lightening the edges in the darkroom. Both Powell and Kerouac would have appreciated the opposing declarations: “STEAKS AND CHOPS” and “FOR SALE.”

The broker on the sign was auctioneer and real estate agent John C. Percival & Co. Around that time, Emile Turner and competing brokers apparently ran ads offering to sell or move the structure, all with an unknown outcome.

Powell’s photographs would have been ordered by PLC as part of a campaign to find a new tenant to resume rent. PLC kept an acetate copy of the original glass plate negative and a print. An additional print was sent to Jerry O’Mahoney Diner Co. in Elizabeth, N.J. The company would have manufactured, delivered, and likely financed the structure with installments still due. They were also national brokers for the resale of diners (or “lunchcarts” as a preferred term of the time), so they may have taken on the additional role as cobroker.

That day, Powell took a second photo of the carpentry shop across Aiken Street soon to become Turner’s Cafe. We know from Powell’s outtakes she had great affinity for composition and likely was on site for several hours to set up. So there is a reasonable chance that thirteen-year-old Kerouac, a student at Bartlett Middle School, was a witness to her efforts. Located adjacent to some of Kerouac’s favorite walking routes through Little Canada, Al’s Lunch was roughly two blocks from Kerouac’s old parochial school (St. Joseph’s), church (St. Jean Baptiste), and after-school hangout (playmate Arthur Louis Eno’s grandparents lived across from St. Joseph’s) on Merrimack Street. He explicitly refers to the eatery in his debut 1950 semiautobiographical novel, The Town and the City (TC), a book that addresses Kerouac’s Depression-era childhood and the waning financial fortunes of his family. In this passage, Kerouac’s father Leo (fictionalized as George Martin) follows his established morning ritual in the face of pending business closure:

He [George] realized how funny it would seem to get up in the morning and not drive down and park the car by the canal and the railroad tracks, have breakfast in Al’s lunchcart (our emphasis), and then come in the shop to his cluttered desk and his galleries of type, and say good morning to Edmund and old John, and then watch Jimmy Bannon come in at eleven all weaving, twitch-drunken and tortured, and then to work there all four of them in grinning joy.

“Jimmy Bannon” is a stand-in for Leo’s real buddy, Charles Connor (1902–61), a local political pundit and publisher of the Lowell Optic newsletter which Leo printed at his Spotlight Print shop on Bridge Street. The Spotlight sat across from another popular lunchcart, Paradise Diner, adjacent to Eastern Canal and two mill complexes (Boott Mills and Massachusetts Mills) near the railroad tracks. Though The Paradise was likely the inspiration for the diner in the above passage, “Al’s lunchcart,” Kerouac often switched the names of people and places in his hometown novels to ensure a measure of anonymity for his subjects. Less than a mile west of Bridge Street, Al’s Lunch– straddling another canal feeding another textile mill, Lawrence Manufacturing Co.– would certainly have been part of Kerouac’s photographic memory bank of Little Canada lore and imagery. A central trope in Kerouac’s writing is the Great Flood of 1936 and the changes it brought into the lives of so many Lowellians. The metaphorical overlap and nearly simultaneous historical erasure of Al’s and Spotlight Print—the latter damaged by the “six feet of water” that had “filled [Jack’s] father’s printing plant”—would have been irresistible to a writer known as “Memory Babe.”

Given Kerouac’s love of music, the name “Al” may have had additional meaning to him (as well as to the Turner brothers) through its use in the popular Depression-era song, Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? Interestingly, one of the characters in TC is named “Al” though he certainly didn’t operate a Little Canada greasy spoon. Modeled after William Maynard “Bill” Garver (1898-1957), a heroin addict and small-time thief with whom Kerouac had become acquainted during his subterranean explorations in New York City, this “Al” represents one aspect of the titular “City” Kerouac intended to contrast with his small “Town” Lowell upbringing.

A touchstone in Kerouac’s expansive memory, the diner’s exact location makes appearances in several other of his works. For example, Kerouac writes in his phantasmagorical coming-of-age novel Doctor Sax (1959)

One night long ago, in the thirties, in the height of the Depression a young man who was walking home from the mills at midnight, down by the canal at Aiken near Cheever (our emphasis) in Little Canada, headed home to Pawtucketville to a wretched furnished room over the Textile Lunch…

The overlapping references to the mills, the canal in Little Canada, and another greasy spoon (the Textile Lunch on Moody Street in Pawtucketville) is clear. The site even provides the backdrop for a rare moment of levity in Kerouac’s touching elegy to his older brother, Visions of Gerard (1963), in which “Emil” (Jack’s father Leo) rides to work in a motorcycle sidecar with his print shop partner “Manuel” (former business partner Manuel Santos):

[Manuel and Emil] go careering up Aiken thru the tenement streets of Little Canada and cross the canal bridge (our emphasis) and along to the high Medieval granite walls of St. Jean de Baptiste church (where Gerard was baptized), then left on Moody Street along busy storefronts, then right, to Merrimack Street, with its trolleys and busy cars…

A previously-unpublished sketch Kerouac wrote in 1944, possibly in preparation for TC, supports the notion that the lunchcarts of his youth in the area of Moody, Aiken, and Cheever Streets were fertile inspiration. In Self-Portrait (2024), editors Paul Maher and Charles Shuttleworth have made available for the first time Untitled: He Walked Towards The Funeral Home. The sketch starts out on “River Street” (actually Merrimack Street) as hung-over narrator Michael Daoulas (Kerouac’s pseudonym) walks to the funeral home (Tremblay’s) for the wake of his uncle George (Joseph Kerouac), only to find he’s an hour early. Embarrassed that he hadn’t spent the previous evening with family and guilty at having caroused with old boyhood friends instead, the narrator seeks distractions and decides to explore some of the nearby Franco-American haunts of his childhood. Michael eventually winds up in an unnamed diner, taking in its sights, sounds, and smells before eating a large breakfast of ham and eggs and crêpes suzette. The rich sensory experience of people and place triggers an epiphany before the text ends abruptly. By the time that sketch was composed, most of the diners in Lowell had gone through changing business models. Interestingly, “Arthur’s Paradise Diner” still operates on Bridge Street.

It’s likely that Kerouac knew Powell, as he says in the opening paragraphs of TC, “[at] the center of the town… everybody knows everybody else.” His oeuvre contains over seventy “photographer” references. Although it’s unlikely Powell inspired any of them, she might have caught Kerouac’s eye for vivid, memorable, and eccentric characters. She was elderly but spry, well dressed with wide-brimmed hats yet imposing behind a bulky tripod and camera. Her speech was probably near-incomprehensible due to her provincial Yorkshire accent. Also, Powell inserted herself into Kerouac’s circle. She sought commercial opportunities to sell images, including at the daily newspapers where Kerouac had friends, and may have rubbed elbows with Jack’s printer father. She often convinced locals to model in her photos, finding ample sites and subjects in the Kerouac family neighborhoods of Centralville and Pawtucketville. Some of Powell’s most fascinating photos were snapped just a few feet from Kerouac family homes.

Source material suggests that Powell was both a reader and strong in mind and body. She likely read about Al’s Lunch in the The Lowell Sun serialization of The Town and The City during the summer of 1950. She may have even attended Kerouac’s one-and-only book signing at downtown Lowell’s Bon Marché department store on March 14 of that same year. It’s fun to speculate that her close neighbor on Harris Avenue, Francis Sargent, was also there. “Sarge” was a well-known sports editor for the Sun and had worked with Kerouac when the latter was a cub sports reporter for three months in 1942.

Though some might argue that we’re making too much out of a tenuous thread linking a single Annie Powell photograph and a snippet from one of Jack Kerouac’s longest novels, we’re convinced that the creative process and the enigmatic ways such creativity can influence us should be approached with both delicacy and broad-mindedness. Whether Powell’’s photo was just another freelance job in a largely unheralded career, and “Al’s Lunch” was just another “jewel center” in Kerouac’s vast, imaginative storehouse, we do know this: two seminal Lowell creators have left us evocative traces of a rich, mysterious, shared legacy we’d do well to explore with open eyes and hearts.

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Our joint walking tour is Saturday, Oct. 11, at 10:00 am.

Kurt Phaneuf is a retired high school English teacher and adjunct literature professor from Central New York. A student and writer on all things Kerouac for over 40 years, he is also a longtime participant in Lowell Celebrates Kerouac’s annual fall festival, leading and co-leading a number of festival tours.

Bernie Zelitch is founder and executive director of the by Annie Powell charitable nonprofit. Formerly an investigative journalist, he is a songwriter, historian, and member of the Photographic Historical Society of New England board of directors.

Living Madly: The Chairs of Summer

Photo courtesy Uriel Mont

Living Madly: The Chairs of Summer

By Emilie-Noelle Provost

Over the past five years, Rob and I have spent several weekends at the Eagle Mountain House in Jackson, New Hampshire. We began staying at the hotel because it’s close to many of the places we like to go hiking. One of the best things about the hotel, built in 1879, is its enormous wrap-around front porch lined with wooden rocking chairs.

As we sipped coffee on the hotel’s porch on a recent Sunday morning, I started thinking about these chairs: the generations of summer visitors who have sat in them; the conversations they’ve had; the marriage proposals; the breaking of bad news; the cocktails people have enjoyed while taking in the mountain views.

Eagle Mountain’s sturdy rockers reminded me of similar ones on the porch of the historic Gosport Hotel on Star Island, located off the coast of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I spent several summers hanging out in these chairs growing up. As much as my life changed over those years, the chairs, solid and hard-worn, were always the same.

At the house where I lived as a kid, we had a set of heavy wooden outdoor chairs with removable vinyl cushions. Hand-me-downs from a family member who no longer wanted them, these chairs were monstrosities. It took two adults to move one. The cushions soaked up rainwater like sponges, and if you happened to stub a toe on one of the chairs’ legs, you’d be hopping around for ten minutes, howling. When my friends came over, we usually sat on the lawn.

The first summer I lived on my own, after graduating from college, I bought two green plastic chairs at a hardware store. I lived in Boston and didn’t have a car, so I carried them the three blocks back to my apartment. My roommate and I put the chairs out on our miniature balcony, which overlooked the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. We spent much of that summer sitting in them while grilling burgers on a rickety hibachi we’d picked up at CVS, and drinking gin and tonics out of plastic cups.

Rob bought me a foldable canvas sand chair with the Rolling Rock beer logo on it—a promotional item he’d picked up for a few bucks at a liquor store—when I was pregnant with Madelaine. It’s one of the most comfortable beach chairs I’ve owned, but as that summer wore on and my belly grew bigger, I usually needed help to get out of it and back into a standing position.

When Madelaine was a toddler, we got her a pint-size white resin chair, just the right size for a two-year-old. She used to like to sit outside in it to eat lunch, an upturned 5-gallon bucket serving as her dining table. We were living in our first house at the time. When we sold it, we got rid of most of our outdoor furniture, but not that chair. She’ll be 27 this year, and that little seat is still stored up in the rafters of our garage.

For a number of summers, Rob complained about the fact that it’s nearly impossible to find the old fashioned aluminum-frame chairs—the foldable kind with backs and seats woven from vinyl straps—that his parents had when he was growing up. Several years ago, quite by accident, Madelaine and I found a few of these chairs for sale at a discount department store, and bought one for him for Father’s Day. We put a fancy bow on the chair and set it up in the middle of the garage so he’d find it when he took the trash out. Its metal frame digs into the back of your legs after you’ve been sitting in it for a while, but it’s still the only chair Rob uses whenever we have people over during the summer.

We’ve wiled away many summer evenings in the four red plastic Adirondack chairs we bought when we moved into the house where we live now. But they only seem to last a season or two before they break and have to be replaced. We’re down to two of these chairs now—both sure to break soon. We still haven’t decided what to replace them with.

Weighing a mere two pounds each and folding neatly into custom carrying cases with handles, our newest summer chairs are stored in the back of our car. Made of polyester mesh and steel, these two comfy high-tech seats are ideal for relaxing and enjoying drinks and snacks after a long hike. They weren’t inexpensive, but they were worth every penny.

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Emilie-Noelle Provost (she/her) – Author of The River Is Everywhere, a National Indie Excellence Award, American Fiction Award, and American Legacy Award finalist, and The Blue Bottle, a middle-grade adventure with sea monsters. Visit her at emilienoelleprovost.com.

Meeting Julia Child

Meeting Julia Child

by Leo Racicot

I had become good friends with the well-loved American writer, M.F.K. Fisher (Mary Frances) when, on one of my many, cherished visits to her bungalow home in Glen Ellen, her friend, Julia Child, phoned her for a chat.  After she hung up, I saw a bulb light up above Mary Frances’ pretty head. She said, “Julia lives in Cambridge. You live in Lowell. I’d love for the two of you to meet. You’ll get along swimmingly!”

I jumped at the chance to meet the famous French Chef. MF made all the arrangements and in March of that year, after Julia gave a talk at the Boston Public Library followed by a book-signing at nearby Newbury Street’s Harvard Bookstore Cafe (now gone), I stepped meekly forward, calling out my name to “Mrs Child”.  “Oh!”, she burbled to the long line of admirers waiting for her autograph, “Leee-ohh’s here!! Leee-ohh Rass-ee-coe is a friend of M.F.K. Fishah!!” Everyone clapped as I ascended into Seventh Heaven.

Every Saturday afternoon, when I was a boy, lying belly-down on my living room couch, watching Julia Child, The French Chef chop, dice, bake, parboil and joke her way into everyone’s heart, including mine, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would one day be standing in front of her (or rather, I should say, cowering under her for at an imposing 6′ 3″ tall, she towered over my quivering smallness like Juno halloo-ing down from Mount Olympus. To say I was a tad nervous is to say that flames are hot).

But she put me at ease immediately in that goose-y, Warner Bros. cartoon of a voice, “Call me Jooo-leeah!!”. I had wondered to myself whether some of her t.v. personality might be a put-on for entertainment’s sake. I was wrong; Julia was as engaging, eccentric, generous, smart and daffy as she was when she cast her magic spell every week over PBS viewers here in Boston and all over the world.

With a wave of her hand, Julia shooed her entourage away proclaiming, “Leo and I shall be dining alone”. We were ushered to a corner table by the head chef himself, a dark, jolly Buddha from Tunisia named Moncef. We ate and drank lustily, and spoke about many subjects (at least Julia did; I was happy just listening to her hold forth on a constellation of topics the scope and breadth of which was infinite, for Julia, I would come to learn in the years ahead, did not care to talk shop. Local politics, world affairs, space exploration, the literary and arts scene, libraries, her days as a spy for the O.S.S., the Cambridge community and neighborhood she lived in — these were the subjects she was more apt to pile onto her conversational plate. She was one of the most intelligent people I have ever met, as well as one of the funniest; her comedic skills and timing could, at times, rival Lucille Ball’s; And she was possessed of an Olympic energy. “I never tire!” was her motto, and I saw her outlast, outdo, outshine people 20, 30, 40 years her junior, including me.

Our evening was a total delight.

So it was with some regret when it ended that I hailed her a cab and watched it whisk her away into the night. My time with her was so once-in-a-lifetime and surreal, it was as if it had taken place in a dream. “Well, I probably won’t be doing that again anytime soon, if ever”, I thought as I made my happy/sad way home…

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Years later, I took a job as caregiver to the son of former members of The Roosevelt Administration, Hilda and Francis Shea. My responsibilities were solely to instill living and language skills in their son, Richard. I was told to report to an address on Francis Avenue. And though I knew the street was only a stone’s throw away from Harvard Yard (having trained at Harvard Divinity School years before), I had no real idea where Francis Avenue was in relation to its neighboring streets.

Imagine my surprise, then, when, about a month after taking up my duties there, the house manager, Bob Stone, took me over to the kitchen window, pointed to a grey house in the near distance and said, “I bet you don’t know who lives there”. I said I did not and Bob exclaimed, “Julia Child!!” I was so beside myself, I made the mistake of telling Bob I had actually had dinner with Julia and the story of our evening together, and about M.F.K. Fisher. I say “mistake” because the very next day, Ms. Shea, my employer, came down to the kitchen asking if I knew how to make a sauce soubise. I said I did not and told her the on-going joke among my friends that “Leo could burn boiling water if you give him the chance”.  “Oh, come, come now”, tittered Ms. Shea, “I know you’re friends with M.F.K. Fisher and Julia Child. You’re being much too modest.”  No amount of protest could convince Ms. Shea that knowing M.F.K. Fisher and having dinner with Julia Child once did not mean I could cook. She led me over to a wall spilling over with cookbooks galore and declared, “You are my son’s companion and now you will be my chef as well.” I swallowed hard. Was I ever in the stew. Because Hilda Drosnicop Shea never took “no” for an answer. From anyone. Ever. She handed me a cook’s apron, showed me where all the pots and pans were kept and said, “Let’s see what you can whip up for this evening’s meal.”

Only God knows what came out of the oven those first, few months because I certainly didn’t. Somehow, my concoctions didn’t look a thing like the pictures in the cookbooks. Let’s just say it was not uncommon for staff to call out for pizza delivery as soon as they saw what I had plunked down for them on the table.

One particular fright that was supposed to be Hungarian goulash but looked like a volcano had erupted in the Dutch oven and tasted even worse, became the final straw. It was time to call in the cavalry (a.k.a. Julia Child, or as we all in the house came to intone whenever something inexplicable sat bubbling on top of the frightened stove, “What Would Julia Do??”)

It is little known about Julia, I think, that she was one of the most accommodating celebrities on the planet. Her home phone number was listed in the book; not only did she not mind people calling her for culinary rescue; she also welcomed them, for she loved all things food-related and saw herself as a teacher and felt it her duty to school her students or at least listen when they needed kitchen assistance. Perhaps because fame had come to her later in life, she had not let it go to her head. Down-to-earth, practical, and having herself made many mistakes on her way to “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”, she more than understood (the reader will please forgive my use of the obvious idiom here) that “You have to break a lot of eggs before you can make an omelet”.

And so, Julia and I became better friends this second time around. We went to the movies together, took fine walks around The Writers’ Block, shopped at Farmer’s Markets and local grocerias, went for rides to see the New England foliage.

Mostly, we spent happy hours in her kitchen, her patience and good nature explaining why my souffle had taken a nose dive, why eating my Apple Brown Betty was like sticking your tongue into a giant sugar bowl or why the catfish casserole “should never have been put into a recipe book in the first place; some recipes simply don’t work!!” She helped me become, over time, if not her or M.F.K. Fisher, then certainly a reasonable facsimile thereof. I can whip up a mean jambalaya, can tease the most succulent juices from the driest meats, and my Beef Bourgignon has been known to draw near-orgasmic sounds from those lucky enough to find it on their plates. Ahem.

For this is the basis of what Julia Child did. Her gift to America. That she was able, through talent, but also through hard work and perseverance, belief in herself and a soupcon of “funny” thrown in for taste, to turn a country of unculinary dolts like me into cooks who won’t flinch when handed a pot, a pan or a brand new recipe to grapple with. Julia Child changed the way we think about food, about eating, about ourselves in our kitchens. She liberated the American palate, mired for generations in a diet of meat, potatoes and gravy. She introduced new foods to the American table, opening our minds to experimentation and international cuisines. We eat better because she explored better foods for us to eat. Julia was a true pioneer and like all pioneers, found the courage to step out onto an unknown road and bid us follow…

I miss her. I imagine we all do. With a spirit as brave and nonesuch as hers, how can we not?

Julia Child at home, 1992

Julia Child with MFK Fisher and Kathleen Hill at Fisher’s last house in Glen Ellen, California

Julia Child and fans at Sonoma Fair, Sonoma, California, 1991

Leo (the author) with Julia Child at Joyce Chen’s, Central Square, Cambirdge, 1987.

My dear friend Rosa and friends at Julia Child’s place, 1990

Julia Child entering downtown Lowell Barnes & Noble, 1988

The author’s first kitchen

Tour de Montmartre in 2025 Tour de France 

Tour de Montmartre in 2025 Tour de France 

By Louise Peloquin

Tour de France fans have been following the thrilling étapes, or stages, of the road race since the July 5th blast-off. On July 27th, the last étape will celebrate 50 years of arrival at l’Avenue des Champs Élysées with an unprecedented passage. For the cyclists, it will be a nod to the 2024 Olympics.

In a May 21st Paris City Hall meeting, the ASO (1), Mayor Annie Hidalgo and Police Prefect Laurent Nuñes presented the details of this last étape which will leave from Mantes-la-Ville in Yvelines.

ASO PHOTO of the Montmartre étape

The peloton will not only complete its victory laps on Champs Élysées but will also climb La Butte Montmartre – Montmartre Hill – three times before descending towards the famous avenue. This run, unique in the history of the Tour de France, is sure to spice up the 21st étape which is usually predominated by sprinters.

The 2024 Olympics spectators still remember how the Rue Lepic ascent and the passage in front of Sacré Coeur basilica electrified them. Consequently, the Tour organizers decided to integrate this demanding and spectacular étape into this year’s final route. The 68th and last ranked ascent of the 2025 Tour could potentially offer an ideal launch to the two-wheeled adventurers who aim at outstripping the peloton.

With its cobblestones, its tight turns and the popular ambiance we can only imagine up on top of La Butte Montmartre, this passage could transform a traditionally-established finale into a real Parisian classic, enough to upend the dominance of the favorites.

Instead of the usual eight runs on Champs Élysées, this year the cyclists will only do 3 before tackling the 16.8 kilometres through Rue Lepic to Montmartre. At the third passage at the top of the Butte, 6 kilometres will remain until the final Champs Élysées arrival.

The 21st étape itinerary is not exactly the same as that of the 2024 Olympics which ran through narrower streets and looped out into eastern of Paris. However, Rue Lepic is included and will lead the peloton to the Sacré Coeur as the race did during last year’s Olympics. The cyclists will then take wider streets to head towards the Place de la Concorde by Rue Royale. For the 50th consecutive year, the Tour de France will end at “the most beautiful avenue in the world”, Champs Élysées.

Our own photos provide a peek preview of the July 27th Montmartre itinerary.

boulevard Clichy

Place Blanche and the Moulin Rouge

rue Puget

rue Coustou

rue Lepic’s renovated cobblestones

rue Lepic curving up to La Butte Montmartre

moving up rue Lepic passing Le Moulin de la Galette (made famous by Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s 1876 painting)

Place du Tertre and its artists at the top of La Butte

Sacré Coeur basilica on top of La Butte

rue Lamarck

rue Lamarck sidewalk café-restaurant

rue Caulincourt

Place Clichy

     Tour de France cyclists need to keep their eyes on the road, especially on such a tricky étape. However, anyone who reconnoiters the itinerary will smile at the multicolored hearts painted on the rue Lepic pavement.

pavement hearts

     Café-restaurant owners, souvenir shop managers and tour operators look forward to the 21st étape because it is sure to boost business. Montmartre residents, however, are not so pleased with the expected crowds and all of the nuisances linked to prepping for the Tour. Posters such as these are popping up in many old Parisian streets: “Let us protect Montmartre from the forced (construction and renovation) works!” We can understand their yearning for peace and quiet on their own select Butte. We also know that living on top of one of the planet’s most famous hills is a privilege with a price tag. One of the prices to pay is welcoming visitors from the world over.

poster on a rue Lepic residence

     The Tour de Montmartre is sure to thrill all spectators be they among the dense crowd or sitting in front of home entertainment centers in air-conditioned living rooms. Bon Tour à tous! (Have a good Tour everyone!) (2) 

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1. Amaury Sport Organization. A French company that organizes major sporting events, most notably the Tour de France.
2. Louise Peloquin’s photos.