La Ville des Morts

Welcome to What the France:  Happy Way Belated Halloween Edition!

This past Saturday, determined to not let physics calculations and ancient papal bulls (guess which of us was working on which) prevent us from enjoying the sunshine and crisp fall weather, AH and I ventured forth to Pere LaChaise, the beloved ville des morts (city of the dead) of Paris.

Now, if anyone else were telling this story, this right here might be the part where they insist that "really, Pere LaChaise is beautiful!  It's not creepy like other cemeteries!".  But this is me telling this story, and so this is the part where I admit that I've actually always loved cemeteries- they're peaceful, and usually quite beautifully landscaped, and I get a kick out of the unexpected stuff people choose to put on their headstones.  And I've always nursed a slightly macabre streak.  You can't drag me to an actual horror film (unless you want to be on the receiving end of 3 AM phone calls in which you are responsible for reminding me that killing people with chainsaws is actually really impractical and thus unlikely), but I love me a good ol' fashion Tim Burton claymation creepfest.

Now THAT being said, as someone who really digs cemeteries, Pere LaChaise was especially beautiful.  I would even go so far as to say romantic.  And now, for the visuals:

I must say, I was quite disappointed that our attempt to go to Pere LaChaise on All Saint's Day was foiled by nasty weather because the Halloween factor was off the hook.  Exhibit 1: ravens were EVERYWHERE.  It's like Pere LaChaise is like their secret club, and part of the draw is that the pigeons aren't cool enough to know about it yet (ravens: hipsters of Paris' bird population.  You know, when they aren't busy wreaking havoc on my Bird Soap Opera).

Exhibit #2: a black cat crossed my path.  In a graveyard.  If this had happened on Halloween, I think it might have been too much.

While there were plenty of (relatively) simple gravestones, there were also many, many mausoleums that were about as restrained and understated as Saint Chapelle.  

And here are gravestones just lying about willy nilly.  This right here is a big part of the reason I need to be cremated:  if this were my gravestone, I would come back and haunt the crap out of my great-great-great-great-grand-whatever, being all, "Really?  You can't even keep my gravestone UPRIGHT?!  It was bad enough when you stopped bringing flowers, but this is just INSULTING!!" And then I would unalphabetize all the books on their bookshelf, just to be a jerk.

No, I'm not actually on the zombie-vampire-werewolf bandwagon (I like my fantasy full of wizards, beefy sword-wielding men, and ladies in corsets, thankyouverymuch), but this little row of mausoleums just got me thinking how great it would be if the inhabitants came out at night after all the living have left and gossip about that weird lady down in 82 F and the guy from 37 B.  And then they complain about how loud the tourists are during the day when they're just trying to get some sleep: "This used to be a quiet neighborhood, but with all the riff raff, property values are going to plummet!"

One of the reasons that Pere LaChaise is such a tourist draw is that Jim Morrison (of The Doors, in case you've lived under a rock until now) is buried here.  His grave is not that interesting, but I love this tree next to it that fans have come and paid tribute to the Lizard King on.  This one in particular gets me, since I've been wondering the same damn thing since I moved here.

While I'm as much of a Doors fan as any other kid who grew up being force-fed classic rock on road trips with dad (a happy alternative to sports radio), the celebrity grave I was most excited about was this one: 

Playwright, novelist, lecturer, and my first Big Gay Literary Crush, Oscar Wilde.  Yes, I'm kissing his tomb.  No, I did not get rabies.  

That photo was taken back in the spring when I went with my friend Heidi.  So this time, eager to show Jon, I dragged him hither and thither until we arrived...

...only to find they're doing reconstruction (only in month of November, of course).  Some people remained determined to leave their mark, though...

They had to put that sign up because apparently people had been kissing the tarp.  Now THAT'S commitment.

So I've been asked why Oscar Wilde (who was Irish) and Jim Morrison (who was American) were able to be buried in a famous Parisian cemetery.  It turns out, one did not have to be born in Paris, or even France, to be buried in Pere LaChaise, one only had to die in Paris.  I thought that was actually kind of beautiful, and fitting. Here, in the beautiful city of the dead, people from all over the world are united only by the fact that their lives came to an end here, and here is where they wished to pass their eternal rest.

So Happy Belated Halloween!  Hopefully I'll get to writing about French Thanksgiving before January is over.