In Paris: Pere Lachais

 Monday morning in Paris dawned warm and bright once again, but unfortunately Katie needed to spend the day inside, catching up homework. So, I was handed over to the very capable other Katie (in whose apartment we had spent that enjoyable Saturday night) and Orla, sans Luke, who had already flown home to Dublin. Our first task for the day (and a very important one) was to obtain baguettes; after that, to visit a cemetery which had particular significance for me: Pere Lachais.

Unfortunately, I forgot my wallet, leaving it somewhere in Katie's room (blargh!) but fortunately the girls were able to spot me Metro tickets and lunch money. We obtained baguettes (oui!) from a corner cafe and carried them down the street, where we ate on a bench, crunching away. My lap was covered in crumbs by the time the mozzerella, tomato and basil baguette had fully met its doom; nothing else was left but the brown paper in which I'd carried it there. So crunchy! So savory! So tasty.

We had bought a map of the cemetery at a local newspaper stand before eating, and we unfurled it as we passed through the front gates. We were met by cobblestone streets and a sudden quiet; only a few steps in, we could barely hear the traffic on the street behind us. A large monument of white marble read "for the dead" in French, in case we didn't already know where we had found ourselves. We walked behind it, picked a side street, and set off. It really was like a small city; the tree-lined roads gave that impression strongly. And the monuments on either side of us could have been buildings. There were so many: thousands upon thousands. It was really impossible to try to capture the scope of the place in a single frame. A video may get the point across, but it still wouldn't capture the hushed reverence of the place.





As we made our way toward the center of the cemetery, I felt excitement mounting. After a brief consultation of the map, we settled on a more direct route. Then, at last, there it was: the final resting place of an author most beloved, Oscar Wilde.


Oscar Wilde's tomb

As you may or may not know, tradition dictates that ardent admirers leave something other than flowers for Oscar: a kiss. I'm not a lipstick-wearing gal, at least not yet, but I had obtained a tube of reddish rouge from Katie for this purpose. I was determined. However, when I got up close, I was...to put it lightly...slightly grossed out. I had underestimated the number of previous visitors, and I found myself taken aback by the sheer number of red and pink smooches. I couldn't find an untouched spot that wasn't a foot over my head. I took my time applying lipstick and waiting for the other tourists to clear out. I found the least touched spot possible on a far corner, and handed the camera to Orla. Finally, I screwed up my courage, pushed back my germophomic tendencies, and planted a wet one on Oscar. I'll admit the reception was a bit...cold. And hard. Perhaps Oscar knew I was reluctant. For that, I apologize.

I rubbed off the lipstick on a tissue, smothered my hands in sanitizer and patted them on my face. Yeah, it was that nasty.



Memorials to the Haulocaust victims of France.

We kept walking until we found ourselves at the rear of the cemetery, right along the far wall, which is lined with memorials to victims of the World Wars and of the Holocaust. Honestly, I hadn't been prepared for this kind of thing. Actually, I hadn't even known that there had been camps in France; just a few miles from Paris, in fact. After the giddiness of finally seeing Oscar's tomb, I felt a wave of quiet flow over me, and I observed these monuments in silence, taking fewer photos.



After that, we saw the tomb of Edith Piaf, the famed French singer whose life was documented in the film "La Vie en Rose," which I still have yet to see. Piaf is buried in her family tomb with her parents, wedged in tightly among other monuments. I had to step on/around other tombs to get there and take a proper photo, and I whispered "sorry!" repeatedly as I went. I always feel the urge to do this in cemeteries.

We spent a while searching for a historic figure Orla had studied, then found the resting place of a British comedian. The sheer number of famous names here is impressive. We later found out that the composer Chopin is laid to rest here as well.


Arguably the most famous person of recent years laid to rest in Pere Lachais (to Americans, at least) is Jim Morrison, front man of The Doors, who died here in the city in 1971. There are barriers around his tomb to keep people from getting too close to it, but the tomb was covered in flowers and candles anyway. A nearby tree was so covered in Doors-related graffiti that it seemed the bark had just given up on trying to grow back; nearby graves hadn't been spared either, which I thought was rather disrespectful to their inhabitants. Morrison's celebrity seems almost greater in death.



Jim Morrison's grave

After that we returned to the 3rd arondissment to retrieve my wallet, then took the Metro downtown for some shopping! I don't have any pictures from that afternoon except for a hastily-snapped photo of the Opera House. I indulged a bit in some very French-looking tops. I was tempted by some beautiful dresses, but I'm very glad I saved my money, as I would need it for my Eurostar adventures.

The evening was rounded off with homemade crepes, macaroons, plenty of French cider and beer, and lots of laughter. Still, Pere Lachais was in my head. It had been just hours before that I had pressed my lips to the final resting place of one of my final authors; just hours had passed since I had learned that there had been internment camps just outside of Paris, and seen memorials to those that had suffered; just hours had passed since I had walked through a city of the dead right in the middle of one of the most famous cities of the living. I don't think I'll ever experience anything quite like Pere Lachais.