Kissing Poets in the Graveyard

June 16

After lunch at the cafeteria with Kate, Judith, and Edgar on a Saturday, Edgar and I broke off and took a trip deep below Paris into the Catacombs. These lie even under the metro system. They were tunnels once dug to supply stone for the buildings of Paris, but they were filled with bodies of those causing disease in the city where they lay in regular cemeteries in the 18^th century. The bones of the dead line your path, used almost like building blocks of a fence around you, with skulls arranged in a pattern of death. It’s surreal. Kate said her trip to the catacombs reminded her you can sleep when you’re dead, so she’s been hitting Paris sights like a whirlwind.

June 17

On Sunday, Kate joined Edgar and me on an excursion in northeastern Paris. First, we attended Sunday mass at Notre Dame at 10 am. This mass features Gregorian chant, which was gorgeous. Despite the irreverence of the tourists they continue to allow in the church while you attend mass, it was a wonderful experience. Even with really creepy, Tim-Burton-style organ music.

Afterward, we set off to find the remains of the Bastille. We went to the Opera Bastille, which is in the area where it once stood. Apparently, it’s the most often visited monument in Paris that doesn’t exist. However, the trusty guidebook suggested we might find leftover bricks, but we found this NOT to be the case. It’s the only time the old book has let me down. (Photo: Where's the Bastille?)

We then had lunch in a true Bohemian bar. We wandered into this place where every patron was a chain smoker, we only listened to obscure, jazz/world music I’d never heard, the walls were lined with well-used books and posters of musicians of which I’d never heard, and we ate weird bar food. Naturally, we were the only tourists in the place.

Nearby, we found Pere La Chaise. It was the most famous cemetery in Paris for me, but I shouldn’t speak for all people. Buried here are famous people such as Chopin, Sarah Bernhardt, and so many more. Over 1 million people reside here, with only 100 000 headstones. Crazy. In particular, we managed to find (after much difficulty, trust me) Camille Pissarro, Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and the place’s most famous dead guy, Jim Morrisson. We found his grave on accident, and I told him exactly what I thought of the Doors, which unfortunately is not complementary. After defaming the dead, I (almost) kissed Oscar Wilde’s grave like so many others have. Who started that crazy tradition?

We attempted to hit the jazz festival in the Bois de Vincennes, but rain forced us to a Salon de The. Instead, we went back downtown and managed to make our way all the way through the Picasso Museum. It was a collection that I think may have been the most extensive in the world. We were exhausted.