Breakfast was decent at my hotel. Included with the cost, I expected the usual crust of bread, piece of cheese and a cup of coffee. I ate the banana and yogurt and saved the pastries for later. I plan to go to the Catacombs this morning to see if I really want to write a mystery novel set in France.
Alas. The Catacombs are closed on Monday. If I'd known that, maybe I could have found an earlier flight from Rome. That part of the trip itinerary was booked in Europe, as it's usually a better deal. I'd chosen the cheapest, of course. Happily, I realized I'd just have to come back to the tombs and the story some time in the future.
Fortunately, the Montparnasse Cemetery was open and I walked down to the entrance. While this sign was a bit off-putting, I will say it was the most relaxing cemetery I've ever seen.
I was not alone in my quest to find certain gravesites. An older couple from Ireland asked me, in English, if I'd seen Samuel Becket. I showed them my picture of the cemetery and gave them the location numbers.
Another young woman was looking for Guy de Maupassant. I asked her if she was a writer, and she said, "I hope to be one. I'm here for a semester abroad." You are a writer, I replied, if you write. Together, we found the author of "The Necklace" and 300 other short stories. Maupassant was a protege of Flaubert, and I paid my respects. I smiled at the fact I never had any idea when I was in college, as much as I loved their writing, that one day I'd decorate their graves. In 1984, I had no time for cemeteries, but 40 years later, I'm coming to grips. I'm an incurable romantic.
I took far too many pictures of literary and artistic heroes, so I'll just put a few here. Can you recognize the sculpture whose memorial is below?
If you guessed Bartholdi, the artist who made our Statue of Liberty, you are correct. Just a reminder that this is an active graveyard. Diggers use machines for the front row sites, but must dig by hand in the middle. Thoughts of Hamlet began as I listened to this digger's French folk songs play on a radio.
I include Henri Langlois here because I loved his films, but was astonished by his grave, covered with images from his masterpieces, including actual filmstrip encased in lucite. Somebody must tend to it daily, for it was spotlessly clean.
I ran into the Irish couple again. I showed them the map and plot numbers and they went in search of Beckett once more. While the Irish searched for Beckett, I found Eugene Ionesco, one of my favorite post-modern playwrights. I thanked him for writing The Rhinoceros. I vowed to write another play, so I've made myself a promise I have to keep, probably early in 2025.
I wasn't looking for Charles Pigeon, but how many gravesites have you seen where a couple is reading in bed, on top of their permanent resting place? And, with a plaque of gold-leaved mosaic proclaiming their names? After working at Le Bon Marche, he invented the Pigeon lamp, a non-exploding gasoline lamp, in the 1880's. This made him rich, and for many years his grave was illuminated by a similar lamp.
I found Beckett! Now I'll play Waiting for Godot and hope to find the Irish couple I've seen taking laps. Because Beckett's grave is low, flat, and kind of humble, it's no wonder they couldn't find it. After I waved them down, they left these flowers for him.
I did forget to find Jean Paul Sartre, and as it was more pleasant sitting on a bench across from Beckett, I waited a bit too long. The humidity and heat were rising, so I needed to move. I'd been in the cemetery for almost three hours, walking up and down in the shade of the trees, admiring the art, thinking about my own plans for my ashes to be spread in my beloved Sierra Nevada above Serene Lakes, and wondering how much a site cost in this cemetery. I took one last stroll to the back of the cemetery that bordered Blvd. Edgar Quinet, and thought this is about as close to Cafe Flore as Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir could get. At first, I didn't recognize their memorial.
Covered in messages, clumps of dirt and the rocks often left on Jewish graves, I was surprised at the number of lipstick kisses on the headstones. Were they a recognition of the love between two writers? A love of existentialism, which wasn't a subject to love, I always thought? But here in a cemetery planned by Napoleon and full of French and expatriot lovers of self-expression through artistic endeavors, maybe kissing the headstone was the right thing to do. After I applied pink lipstick, I felt I should apologize to Sartre for not understanding him after the first two or ten attempts. Reposez en paix.
On my way back to the hotel, I picked up an ink drawing in front of an art studio. Instantly, the owner came out and started talking. I couldn't keep up, so his friend, in the striped shirt, interpreted. I bought an ink and watercolor drawing of the painter, in the glasses here, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Oscar Wilde standing in front of a bar along the Avenue Voltaire. For the next hour, we chatted about art and poetry and music, and they made me an espresso, insisting I try their cinnamon cake. Delicious Albanian recipe. I'm amazed at how friendly immigrants are here and remember that Randy said Parisians aren't friendly. Hmm.
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