I took the Métro to Mairie de Saint-Ouen, just above the northernmost edge of Paris’s circle—at the twelve o’clock of its watch face—and headed toward the church, using the neighborhood map in the Métro station.
During the fifteen-minute walk, the buildings went from modern glass and tile structures to run-down brick high-rises with satellite dishes attached outside every window. When I finally reached the church, I was amazed to see the squat stone building nestled in the middle of an iffy-looking housing project. Seeing a gang of surly boys leaning on a rail nearby, I headed directly for the church’s front door and tugged at it, only to find it locked.
I stepped back to get a better look. The stone facade didn’t look very old, but the carving over the lintel was medieval, showing an angel handing a chalice to a queen. To the right of the church was a cobblestone courtyard lined with rosebushes locked behind a white metal gate. On it hung a paper printed with the hours of upcoming masses. “église Saint-Ouen le Vieux” was typed across the top. This had to be the right place.
The church was perched on a high cliff overlooking an industrial stretch of the river Seine, and I could easily imagine—with its vantage point over water transport—why this location had been chosen for the seventh-century royal villa. If pilgrims came here to worship, the relic sellers couldn’t have been too far away, I thought.
I glanced around for a church boutique or one of those shops near European holy places that are stuffed with pictures of the pope and postcards of saints. But the only buildings sharing the block with the church were apartments and a retirement home. I began walking away from the church, outward in a zigzag pattern so I wouldn’t miss anything. There were no reliquary shops. No signs with cords or ropes.
I even checked the local bars. None of them had a name even slightly resembling what I was looking for, although what did I expect? A pub called “The Cord and Relic”? “The Healer and the Rope”? I didn’t exactly expect to see “The Sign of the Cord” spelled out in so many letters, but I found nothing of interest within a good six blocks.
Frustrated, I went back to the church and sat down on its front steps, ignoring the catcalls of the gang of boys and trying to formulate a plan B for my search. A group of three men walked up to a nearby building, knocked on a locked door, and cast suspicious glances at me and the boys as they waited nervously for someone to open it. I am so out of here, I thought, feeling distinctly unsafe. As I stood to go, a man with a priest’s collar walked out of the gated courtyard. I went after him.
“Excuse me,” I said. The man smiled patiently and waited. “Is there some sort of church shop nearby that sells relics or religious items?”
He shook his head and shrugged. “When the church is open for mass, we sell candles and postcards. But I don’t know of any shops around here that would deal in what you’re looking for.”
I thanked him and, disheartened, began walking away.
“You know, you could always try the Marché aux Puces,” he called after me.
The Marché aux Puces. Paris’s famous flea market. It was less than a half-hour walk from here. Of course, it hadn’t even existed a thousand years ago, but maybe something had. Something that could have remained. Or relocated. The market was the place in Paris where you could find almost anything, so . . . why not?
It was already past noon, so I picked up a panini in a shop and ate it while I walked, knowing full well that eating lunch on the street in Paris is an etiquette no-no. As I munched my sandwich, people I passed wished me bon appétit, which was a teasing way of saying, “You should really be sitting down to enjoy your meal.”
As I hit the edge of the huge mile-square area that the market comprises, vendors with folding tables holding junk—not even the usual flea-market-style “junque”—started to appear, selling everything from gross old plastic potty seats to car parts. The closer I got to the market’s center, the better the goods got, until actual market stalls and tiny shops began to appear, jam-packed with everything from wooden African masks to vintage seventies lava lamps to crystal chandeliers. The smell of incense and furniture wax blended with the sharp sting of sautéed onions as I passed one of several food stands dotting the market.
I scanned the shop signs as I went, looking for any cordlike symbols. Maybe a workshop that used to house a rope maker, I thought. But there was nothing like that hanging above the antiques stores I passed. Finally I stopped and asked a vendor if he knew of anything that had a sign of a cord. He rubbed his chin and shook his head. “Non.”