It
was still early when I climbed out of the Metro, but I knew that there would be
at least one open cafe, and there was. I sat and nursed two orders of
croissant and cafe creme. The cemetery wouldn't open until 8 am, and I suppose
it isn't tactful to wake the dead.
I'd wanted to come to Père Lachaise since I first read Danny Sugarman's "No One Here Gets Out Alive," which detailed the madcap fan devotion around Jim Morrison's grave. I'd made the long hike out here during a previous visit in 2005, but two days of snow had iced up the cemetery's hilly slopes and I had found it closed.
The cemetery's distance from town had always been a problem, but a necessary one. Until 1785, many of the town's residents had been buried in the near-open grave beneath today's Fontaine des Innocents near Les Halles. After the rains, the area became a mire of decomposing body parts. Napoleon had those bodies moved to the city's famous catacombs, and when these began to fill people were buried out at Père Lachaise. At first, residents were turned off by the cemetery's distance from the city center, so some of Paris' bigger names were moved here, in order to improve its cachet. Writers La Fontaine and Molière were brought here first, then the tragic and celebrated lovers Abelard and Héloïse. Steadily, the dead of Paris began to undertake this one-way trip, and Père Lachaise eventually grew into the city's largest necropolis.
Relieved to find them open, I entered the front gates and found a bench midway up the hill. Nowhere else in Paris can there be found such a concentration of her history. There were so many names here, and the grounds so expansive, that I needed to plot a route. As I sat in the shade, listening to the birds, it dawned on me that I had finally escaped the incessant horns and sirens of the hectic streets of Paris. A man with a cane hobbled by at that moment and said to me, "It’s beautiful isn't it?" I had to agree.
I continued up the hill in front of me. This was the original section of the cemetery, and certainly the most beautiful. Gothic and sometimes macabre sculptures decorated the graves of what must have been some of Paris' most noble families. Each sculpture was a masterpiece, rivaling anything in the sterile museums of the city. Here, surrounded by trees and dappled with morning light, the stone figures came alive.
I topped the first hill and looked to the west, catching sight of the Eiffel Tower and the domed Pantheon, itself a repository of renowned dead. I saw too the man with the cane, ducking down one of the small cobbled trails that extended the wider "boulevards." As he disappeared once more from view, I wondered if he was here due to grief or mere curiosity. Through the morning, I'd repeatedly wonder this any time I encountered any other strollers, offering a subdued smile rather than a boisterous "Bonjour."
I found Colette's grave first, then sought out Chopin. As I was looking, I took a photo of a life-sized figure of a man into whose hands someone had placed a rose. I liked how the red of the rose contrasted so strongly against the grey stone. Just then someone shouted out at me, and I turned to see a man with wild hair approaching, holding a thick notebook to his chest. He repeated what he had shouted, then asked me, "Speak English?" As I nodded, he told me that I was looking at one of the men who had designed the Louvre. He then launched into a frenetic spiel, throwing out names of the famed dead in between answering questions.
"Do you know Chopin?" Gesturing behind him.
"Yes."
"Balzac?
"Yes"
"Proust."
"Of course."
"Thierry Le Roi?" I paused and apparently made a puzzled face. Then he held out his hand to shake. "And you?"
"Ted Taylor."
"Ah, English! There are (X) English people buried here."
"My name is English but my family is Irish."
"Ah, Oscar Wilde! There are (X) Irish people buried here. The first person buried here is Irish. A young girl. Do you have time for a tour?"
I regret that I said no, that I didn't have time. I liked the idea of wandering around the cemetery in the company of this eccentric, slightly mad person. But as I made the universal gesture of tapping my left wrist he simply smiled, said "Enjoy Monsieur," and sped off again.
I continued my own perambulation, to pay tribute to Balzac, Yves Montand, Sarah Berhardt, Proust. The latter's grave was littered with Metro tickets, so I added my own. I was amazed how simple some of the graves were, and how difficult to find were others. The most elusive grave was Edith Piaf, with whom I played peek-a-boo awhile. I admired the prone figure of Victor Noir, whose crotch had been polished to a fine sheen by the hands of women who rubbed it as fertility talisman. Oscar Wilde had been encased in plexiglass, yet the cherub upon his grave had been emasculated, a fate that poor Abelard had suffered in actual life. The glass didn't stop people from kissing the cherub's face. And of course I found the grave of Jim Morrison, though it had been barricaded, and a group of workmen had chosen that area for a smoke break, which prevented a longer visit.
I visited too a few of the names in the crematorium, including Maria Callas and Isadora Duncan. There were a number of people standing in front, and others continued to arrive. Some were in black, and all looked to be in their 30s. A friend had died I suppose, someone far too young. It was a reminder that not all of us here had come for sightseeing. Moments like this always bring to mind one of my favorite song titles, "Strangers Die Everyday."
I continued on to the back wall of the cemetery, its strip of lawn dedicated to mass graves, to air disasters, to the members of the French resistance, to Jews killed during the Nazi occupation. Around and to the left a stretch of wall sat beneath an apartment building. Covered now with ivy, very few bullet holes were visible from the day in May when 147 Communards were shot. There was no information on where they had been buried.
I allowed myself some time to wander free, coming accidentally to a few interesting graves (such as the Camera installed in the tomb of the very much living cemetery ethnographer André Chabot), and missed a few that I'd have liked to see. But the hollow grumbling in my belly told me that it was time to get back to the world of the living. LYL had chosen to opt out of this morning excursion, not wanting to risk polluting herself with the ultimate impurity of death. As it was, I later made her anoint me with salt as a means of purification, before we went out to celebrate the rest of the day.
I'd wanted to come to Père Lachaise since I first read Danny Sugarman's "No One Here Gets Out Alive," which detailed the madcap fan devotion around Jim Morrison's grave. I'd made the long hike out here during a previous visit in 2005, but two days of snow had iced up the cemetery's hilly slopes and I had found it closed.
The cemetery's distance from town had always been a problem, but a necessary one. Until 1785, many of the town's residents had been buried in the near-open grave beneath today's Fontaine des Innocents near Les Halles. After the rains, the area became a mire of decomposing body parts. Napoleon had those bodies moved to the city's famous catacombs, and when these began to fill people were buried out at Père Lachaise. At first, residents were turned off by the cemetery's distance from the city center, so some of Paris' bigger names were moved here, in order to improve its cachet. Writers La Fontaine and Molière were brought here first, then the tragic and celebrated lovers Abelard and Héloïse. Steadily, the dead of Paris began to undertake this one-way trip, and Père Lachaise eventually grew into the city's largest necropolis.
Relieved to find them open, I entered the front gates and found a bench midway up the hill. Nowhere else in Paris can there be found such a concentration of her history. There were so many names here, and the grounds so expansive, that I needed to plot a route. As I sat in the shade, listening to the birds, it dawned on me that I had finally escaped the incessant horns and sirens of the hectic streets of Paris. A man with a cane hobbled by at that moment and said to me, "It’s beautiful isn't it?" I had to agree.
I continued up the hill in front of me. This was the original section of the cemetery, and certainly the most beautiful. Gothic and sometimes macabre sculptures decorated the graves of what must have been some of Paris' most noble families. Each sculpture was a masterpiece, rivaling anything in the sterile museums of the city. Here, surrounded by trees and dappled with morning light, the stone figures came alive.
I topped the first hill and looked to the west, catching sight of the Eiffel Tower and the domed Pantheon, itself a repository of renowned dead. I saw too the man with the cane, ducking down one of the small cobbled trails that extended the wider "boulevards." As he disappeared once more from view, I wondered if he was here due to grief or mere curiosity. Through the morning, I'd repeatedly wonder this any time I encountered any other strollers, offering a subdued smile rather than a boisterous "Bonjour."
I found Colette's grave first, then sought out Chopin. As I was looking, I took a photo of a life-sized figure of a man into whose hands someone had placed a rose. I liked how the red of the rose contrasted so strongly against the grey stone. Just then someone shouted out at me, and I turned to see a man with wild hair approaching, holding a thick notebook to his chest. He repeated what he had shouted, then asked me, "Speak English?" As I nodded, he told me that I was looking at one of the men who had designed the Louvre. He then launched into a frenetic spiel, throwing out names of the famed dead in between answering questions.
"Do you know Chopin?" Gesturing behind him.
"Yes."
"Balzac?
"Yes"
"Proust."
"Of course."
"Thierry Le Roi?" I paused and apparently made a puzzled face. Then he held out his hand to shake. "And you?"
"Ted Taylor."
"Ah, English! There are (X) English people buried here."
"My name is English but my family is Irish."
"Ah, Oscar Wilde! There are (X) Irish people buried here. The first person buried here is Irish. A young girl. Do you have time for a tour?"
I regret that I said no, that I didn't have time. I liked the idea of wandering around the cemetery in the company of this eccentric, slightly mad person. But as I made the universal gesture of tapping my left wrist he simply smiled, said "Enjoy Monsieur," and sped off again.
I continued my own perambulation, to pay tribute to Balzac, Yves Montand, Sarah Berhardt, Proust. The latter's grave was littered with Metro tickets, so I added my own. I was amazed how simple some of the graves were, and how difficult to find were others. The most elusive grave was Edith Piaf, with whom I played peek-a-boo awhile. I admired the prone figure of Victor Noir, whose crotch had been polished to a fine sheen by the hands of women who rubbed it as fertility talisman. Oscar Wilde had been encased in plexiglass, yet the cherub upon his grave had been emasculated, a fate that poor Abelard had suffered in actual life. The glass didn't stop people from kissing the cherub's face. And of course I found the grave of Jim Morrison, though it had been barricaded, and a group of workmen had chosen that area for a smoke break, which prevented a longer visit.
I visited too a few of the names in the crematorium, including Maria Callas and Isadora Duncan. There were a number of people standing in front, and others continued to arrive. Some were in black, and all looked to be in their 30s. A friend had died I suppose, someone far too young. It was a reminder that not all of us here had come for sightseeing. Moments like this always bring to mind one of my favorite song titles, "Strangers Die Everyday."
I continued on to the back wall of the cemetery, its strip of lawn dedicated to mass graves, to air disasters, to the members of the French resistance, to Jews killed during the Nazi occupation. Around and to the left a stretch of wall sat beneath an apartment building. Covered now with ivy, very few bullet holes were visible from the day in May when 147 Communards were shot. There was no information on where they had been buried.
I allowed myself some time to wander free, coming accidentally to a few interesting graves (such as the Camera installed in the tomb of the very much living cemetery ethnographer André Chabot), and missed a few that I'd have liked to see. But the hollow grumbling in my belly told me that it was time to get back to the world of the living. LYL had chosen to opt out of this morning excursion, not wanting to risk polluting herself with the ultimate impurity of death. As it was, I later made her anoint me with salt as a means of purification, before we went out to celebrate the rest of the day.
On the turntable: Billy Joel, "Songs from the Attic"
