Cemeteries and Snails, Light My Fire

Well it’s been a while since I have written. I was so sick when I returned and then as soon as I started feeling human again, we had a big party in the park and my grandkids came to visit for a few days. When you are dealing with the cutest little three year old who is full of energy and wants to play all the time, you can’t really write. So now I have some time and I want to get my thoughts and reflections down before I forget the details. I know I will never forget the general sense and joy of the trip, but the details may slip away.

We are in Paris, it is Monday. Yesterday we decided not to try to see Notre Dame because there were long lines and Leea thought that even if we got in it would be like a sardine can on the inside. She is a wise woman. We got up early Monday ate breakfast at the hotel and arrived just after Notre Dame opened. We sailed in and got to enjoy the cathedral in relative quiet. It is beautiful and historic, but after seeing the cathedral in Seville, it is hard to get too excited by any other cathedral. We sat and contemplated for a while, enjoyed the stained glass window and took in the sense of the place. Then we headed for the cemetery.

The Pere Lachaise Cemetery is in eastern Paris and is home to Jim Morrison, Chopin, Sara Bernhardt and many other notables. I just love cemeteries. They are just so strange and funny and sometimes sad. They help me remember or reflect on what is important. And they are a stunning reminder of how much we think we matter. The monumental structures that we erect to try to make note of our existence on this earth are remarkable. In this cemetery there are structures that could easily house a small living family. There is something, not sad, but wistful about this need to stake a claim to the earth. It seems diametrically opposed to the concept of letting go or detaching.

Jim Morrison’s grave is a simple one and has a colored history. Apparently he was in Paris when he died and so that is where they buried him. The grave had no official marker until French officials placed a shield over it, which was stolen in 1973. In 1981, Croatian sculptor Mladen Mikulin placed a bust of Morrison and the new gravestone with Morrison's name at the grave to commemorate the 10th anniversary of his death; the bust was defaced through the years by cemetery vandals and later stolen in 1988. In the 1990s Morrison's father placed a flat stone on the grave. The stone bears the Greek inscription: ΚΑΤΑ ΤΟΝ ΔΑΙΜΟΝΑ ΕΑΥΤΟΥ, literally meaning "according to his own daimōn" and usually interpreted as "true to his own spirit" but I suppose it could also mean according to his demon. Mikulin later made two more Morrison portraits in bronze but is awaiting the license to place a new sculpture on the tomb. So even his death, as was his life, is unmanageable.

I also love roadside memorials because they are such a direct spontaneous outpouring of feeling, loss and celebration. We saw several of these in Spain, but they went by so quickly I didn’t get any pictures of them. Sheila will remember our hunts for roadside memorials in the OC a few years ago. We would go out and find them and photograph them. In the process we realized how powerful they are.

We saw some funny sites in the cemetery, like recycle bins that caused me to reflect on the ultimate recycle and graves that looked as though someone had escaped. Other graves had warning tapes on them, like warning, “Do Not Enter.” Duh!! But after a few hours, our stomachs were demanding attention. We went in search of food.

We found a little café near the cemetery and had a lovely lunch. I had escargot and a fresh salad with everything imaginable thrown in and a delicious dressing. The French salad dressings are to die for. Perhaps I shouldn’t say that after just visiting the cemetery, but they are scrumptious, if that is a word. Leea thought the escargot was disgusting, though she stared in rapt amazement as I ate it. They were very good.

Well off we went to the metro. This was not so pleasant. I put my ticket in the slot and a very drunk young man came up behind me to sneak on the metro. I didn’t see him and in the process of squeezing in close behind me his shoe scraped down my bare heel and he stepped on the back of my flip flop causing me to stumble out of the swinging doors and saying ow!!! He had a large can of lager in his hand and he started making fun of me yelling, “ohhhh, owwww!” Well that was the final blow; I was annoyed and did not think before I spoke. I said, “F*** you!!” He was very drunk and started getting confrontational. I didn’t really think he would do anything, but Leea started pulling me out of the metro station. I thought she was afraid of him, but she told me once we got out, that she was afraid she was going to punch him out. He was so drunk I think we could have taken him. Grin. Anyway we left the metro station and went to the next station and hopped a train home.

It must have been my day to get annoyed, because as we were walking toward our hotel this woman drives toward me on a motorcycle. I was not in the street. I was on the sidewalk, but in Europe driving on the sidewalk appears to be accepted. Anyway, so I threw up my hands, because I didn’t think she saw me, and she started swearing at me in French. At least it sounded like swearing. So Leea accused me of being a trouble maker all day starting fights in the metro and on the streets of Paris.

We went back to our hotel and Leea took a nap. I decided to go investigate the Luxemburg Garden which was right down the street from our hotel. It was very relaxing and I managed not to get into any fracases. The first thing that struck me when I walked into the Garden is that Parisians actually use their parks. There weren’t just a bunch of homeless people or drunks in the park. There were hundreds of ordinary citizens sunbathing, sitting in chairs reading books, picnicking, playing chess, cards, bocce ball, tennis, basketball and football (soccer.) Kids were playing on a playground. My first stop was the huge fountain near the entrance. Children were sailing boats in this large water element. The boats were made of wood with cloth sails and the children pushed them out into the water with wooden sticks. The wind carried them where it would and the children ran to meet the boat when it touched the edge again. No motors, no remote controls, just wood and wind. It was so relaxing to watch. I sat on the edge with my feet soaking in the water and daydreamed. Or is it daydreamt?

That night we had reservations at The Crazy Horse Saloon for a burlesque show. We had decided not to eat dinner at the theatre because the dinners at the dinner shows are not known for their quality. So we left early hopped the metro. We had read the directions and maps wrong and took the long way to the area of the theatre. But we eventually got there and found a restaurant near the theatre and had a delicious dinner. I had the little lobsters grilled. I was concerned when they delivered surgical instruments again, but these were easy to extract. Leea had a pasta dish that contained a lot of mussels, so I ate a bunch of those too and they were very good. I don’t know why we don’t eat them here. They tasted a lot like clams. Maybe ours don’t taste that good.

After dinner we went to the show. Our ticket included a bottle of champagne, which we declined in favor of water and coke. The show was amazing. It was not the big chorus line burlesque show, but an intimate show that used lighting and stage setting to produce a show that was so much more overtly sensual and sexual than the large shows. And, we had front row seats! Leea wondered whether this was a normal mother daughter outing. Who cares? It was great, but by the time it was over we were exhausted and decided to take a taxi back to the hotel. We both slept like babies.