Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, and Musee d'Orsay to boot.

Sunday, October 7, 2007.

While I was at the Louvre on Saturday, and was wandering through the bookstore (how could I resist), noticed a book on the Musee d’Orsay. So I picked it up and leafed through it. Agh!! It only made me want to visit that museum, too, and I was determined to do so before I left Paris, even though I’d just spent over six hours in the Louvre and could barely walk anymore. Even if it meant hobbling the entire time I was there. Even if it meant I would cripple myself for life. I simply had to go: Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Renoir—how could I not go??? Mother would disown me for sure.

Morning, breakfast in my hotel room of brie, bread (still good from yesterday!), and orange juice. Then a bit of last minute plan-changing. I’d decided to forego Notre Dame and go straight to the cemetery this morning, to get there before the crowds. Also, to give myself a bit of time to walk to Gare du Nord, and figure out the Metro system.

That would also give me the afternoon to check out the Musee d’Orsay. Woop!

It was a beautiful walk to the station, along the Seine. Brisk and crisp, a beautiful Paris fall day. Some traffic, but not overwhelming, so still fairly peaceful. Crunchy dry brown and yellow leaves underfoot. A bright, clear sky above.

A perfect day to visit a cemetery.

Managed to negotiate the Metro system just fine. It’s simple, straightforward, and easy to navigate, once you figure out exactly where you want to go, and which lines you need to take and connect to. Even the automated ticket dispenser came with English instructions, which was a speeder-upper for sure. Bought my one-way ticket, then snaked through the underground labyrinthine corridors to the correct platform. Hopped on the train, got off at Nation station (heh, that rhymes), connected to my other train, and got off at the Pere Lachaise station just fine, thank you very much.

Heh, after Rome and now Paris, I’m a Metro pro now.

I climbed the steps to open air, and took a moment to get my bearings. Saw a long, large cement wall lining one side of the street, and immediately guessed that that was the cemetery. But I was at a loss. I knew how big it was, and knew I needed a map, but wasn't sure where to get one. Most of the shops were still closed that early in the morning (I arrived around 945am). But I did find a sidewalk newsstand open, so I thought I’d try there.

As I tentatively approached, an elderly man approached me, and grabbed my elbow, asking me in French whether I needed a map to the cemetery (at least, I think that’s what he was asking me). My grasp of French is still sadly rudimentary at best (despite all those years of French language classes at school), but my comprehension was even more challenged by the fact that this poor man was missing several of his teeth. But the man repeated what he’d said (I’m guessing he spied me staring helplessly at the cemetery wall earlier), and gestured toward the vendor, pointing and reassuring me in his missing teeth French.

When the fellow who was in line in front of me finished buying his newspaper and walked off with his young son, the elderly man pushed me forward, urging me to ask the vendor for a map. “Pour la cimetiere, pour la cimetiere,” he kept repeating. The vendor seemed to know what he meant, and reached behind the counter and rummaged around for a bit (knocking down a postcard stand in the process, oh dear, those are tight spaces to work in!). Dug out a map of the cemetery, and said in rough English, “two fifty.” I dug some change out of my pocket and paid for the map.

As I left with my prize, I thanked the elderly man profusely, thanked him over and over, “merci monsieur, merci beaucoup, merci, merci!” He laughed at me with his partly-toothed grin, and patted my arm, then wandered away down the street.

I smiled after him, and trotted across the street to the cemetery entrance, eager to start exploring.

It was a beautiful cemetery. The map was frighteningly convoluted, and it took me several minutes to get my bearings. In fact, the entire time I was there, I shamefully admit that I had to keep shifting the map around to reflect the direction I was walking in. It was the only way I could keep the winding paths and streets straight in my head. And trying to locate single graves amongst all of those tombs and tombstones… but I was determined. First stop: Marcel Proust. His grave seemed to be closest to where I was. Then, Maria Callas in the columbarium, then Oscar Wilde, then Gertrude Stein. Then I would have to hike to the other end of the cemetery to find Jim Morrison’s grave. But first things first.

As I walked along, I got disoriented—was this the right way? I had to consult the map again. As I studied more closely, I realized that the entrance I thought I had entered was in fact not marked as an entrance at all on the map—I had entered by the Pere Lachaise metro stop, which was at the bottom of the map, not the top, where I thought I was! After a bit of re-orienting, I figured things out, and with a renewed sense of direction (if only all things in my life were as simple!), headed off to find Proust.

Stumbled around for a bit, and just as I was about to give up, looked down and saw the tombstone. Yes, cheesy as it sounds, it was just like that. I literally just looked down, and there it was. Dark grey slab of marble. “Marcel Proust” engraved on the front side. Snapped a couple of photos, paid my respects, then wandered off to find the next one.

In turn, found Maria Callas (under the Columbarium, number 16258, took a picture for mum), Oscar Wilde (yes, it is covered in kisses, and yes, the monument’s wee-wee is missing), Gertrude Stein (I left a white stone on her grave and paid my respects), and took various other photos as they presented themselves. Really, though, it was such a lovely morning, it was difficult to take a bad photo of anything, I think.

Then, the last one on my list: Jim Morrison’s grave. I needn’t have worried about finding it in the maze; all I needed to do was follow the others who were looking for it, too. And yes, there is a guard posted there, to ensure nothing untoward happens to the gravestone. Took a couple of photos (including one of the mildly amused guard), then wandered off to find my way out of the cemetery. During my wanderings, found the tomb of Rossini as well, and another grave of some artist I didn’t recognize—but his gravestone was so beautiful, I had to take a photo. So I did.

I left the cemetery feeling calm but somewhat solemn. Couldn’t help but think about my own impending end, as we all do at some point. (By the time I left, all the tour groups were filtering in—thank goodness I missed those crowds; I imagine they might have interfered with my calm, peaceful morning.)

Went back to the metro. Got on my train, was marveling again at how efficient and wonderful the Paris Metro system was, and was only one station away from my transfer point… when the train ground to a halt, and the lights went out.

Oops.

I sniffed something faintly chemical or burning electrical… but perhaps it was just my imagination. In any case, sat in a darkened train full of other disgruntled passengers for almost ten minutes while attendants walked up and down the tunnels trying to figure out what went wrong. Finally got on our way (a little girl on the train yelled, yippee! when we started moving again), transferred successfully, then got off the train at Cite station, to try my hand at Notre Dame again.

Nope. Foiled again. There was a sign posted outside the tower entrance, stating that the tower tours were closed for a special mass at noon. What time was it? 12:10pm. Ahh.

I walked to the Musee d’Orsay instead.

The museum was lovely—took a bunch of photos, even got a couple of good ones of paintings, as “proof” that I’d actually seen them myself, with my own eyes. I stood transfixed for a few minutes in front of my favourite Monet (the train station), which caused a crowd to form around me. So, I tested my theory: if I stand transfixed in front of a random painting, will others crowd around me to see what it was that I was fascinated by? Sure enough, it seemed to happen more often than not, quite to my amusement.

Ah well, at least people are looking at art, or pretending to be interested, right?

After yet another long day, trekked back to my hotel, grabbed a panini on the way, had a quick dinner, then fell asleep reading in bed.