Paris Day 8: Walking with the Dead (and the Living) on October 1
In Paris, many museums are closed on Mondays. We took advantage of this fact by taking the day to do things that aren't museums. Early in the day, that thing was Pere Lachaise cemetery. We had to get there first, though.
The subway
I haven't talked about riding the Paris subway because we haven't done it overmuch. It's not like the New York subway, where you go uptown or downtown; the Paris subway is more like spokes in a wheel than it is a ladder (well, a ladder with only a couple of crossbars--bleh! Analogies! You know what I mean!) Because of how it's laid out, we've had to plan a bit to be sure we were going the right way each time we've traveled. So we figure out which station we need. We figure out the terminus for the lines in question, then write down the directions, and head out the door.
We had a brief breakfast of coffee, tea, and croissants at La Bucherie next door to Shakespeare and Company, and noted the changing moods of Notre Dame as the light rose for the day. I understand why so many people paint the cathedral; it never looks the same.
On our way to Pere Lachaise, we had to change trains at the Arts et Metiers station which, we discovered, was a steampunk dream. Stepping out into the station is like stepping on to the Nautilus: curved copper walls featuring portholes displaying art and rivets, polished, dark wood seats and trash receptacles, and giant gears protruding from the ceiling. I couldn't help thinking that davidlevine and jaylake would love this place.
Pere Lachaise
Pere Lachaise was and wasn't what I was expecting. First, it's still in active use. We saw graves dated this year covered in astroturf and waiting for their stones. Second, we found Jewish graves, which surprised me, many of which included a Hebrew word that I've never seen before that I recorded so I can look it up when I have time. My suspicion is that it's actually an acronym for a phrase. The Holocaust memorials were stark and sinister. Of course, that's the history they commemorate, but they are sobering, one after another all in a row on one side of the cemetery. We learned some French history looking at other memorials, specifically about the Communards, a story that would later reverberate when we went to Montmartre and Sacre Couer. Elizabeth commented that Pere Lachaise isn't as romantic as Highgate Cemetery in London, which I still haven't seen. We only saw (and photographed) one angel. But we did see other interesting stones and vaults as well as the resting places of many famous people: Jim Morrison, Frederic Chopin, Edif Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and more. Morrison's grave may be the most visited, but Chopin's bears the most regular tribute; fresh flowers and French flags adorn his site. It's no secret to me whose grave will continue to receive such tribute over time.
Tributes of one sort of another were present on many of the graves, whether they were beautiful, ceramic flowers for perpetual memorials or little plaques that said things like "A notre petite maman" or "A notre cousin". These plaques ranged from simple words to elaborate tableaus. Very sweet.
Along the route, we encountered a middle-aged man with wild, faded brown hair who stopped us at the grave of Alain Bashung, ranting about pop stars dying young because they're stupid (Morrison and--weirdly--Bashung, who didn't die that way) and artists not being appreciated. He was passionate but not scary in any way, and gave the impression that he felt like his cause was a lost one that people should still hear about anyway. Elizabeth and I looked up Baschung when we got back to the apartment to learn he was this huge French rock star of whom we'd never heard. Check him out. It's a big world; one country's phenomenon is another's missed experience.
One thing I noticed at Pere Lachaise that I haven't noticed elsewhere in Paris was the sound of bird wings. Pigeons, of course, were present, as they are in any city. But in Pere Lachaise, I found myself weirdly aware of the sound of their flight as we moved through the cemetery. The sound of flapping wings and quiet cooing as they mounted the air seemed present everywhere. It was an interesting sensation there surrounded by the dead.
We had good weather for our walk so it was a pleasant early part of the day. We stopped for lunch at a nearby cafe. I had my first quiche of the trip--salmon and spinach. We chatted up the couple at the next table, who were visiting from North Carolina -- Emily and Perham (a family name) -- and ended up going with them to Montmartre after lunch.
Montmartre and Sacre Couer
Montmartre, we had been warned, is very tourtisty--and it's true. But the things that tourists can't take away from Montmartre are the facts that Sacre Couer church is still astonishingly beautiful and is still used as a house of worship with great reverence. Notre Dame is imposing and awe-inspiring. Sacre Couer is about a gentler, less severe faith. It's more modern than I expected, and so its windows--all post-World War II--are more comprehensible, and its impressive mosaic ceiling truly deserves the description "grand," with its portrait of God, Jesus and the saints gazing down upon the faithful. One chapel is devoted to the life of Mary, its stained glass portraying her life, and the domed ceiling portraying her ascension--just beautiful. It's a remarkable place for prayer and contemplation, built as an exercise in penance for the previously mentioned murder of the Communards, and considered the site of a miracle, for though Montmartre was bombed during WWII, not a single soul died.
We enjoyed the panoramic view of Paris afforded by the church's location at the top of a hill, and then dove into the movie set that is Montmartre. Though it bears historical significance for the number of artists who have graced it as a residence at one point or another, these days it's practically a parody of itself. Sure, it has cafes and squares full of artists selling their works, but it also has street after street of souvenir shops and overpriced cafes selling manufactured French ambiance for the tourist trade. Yes, we stopped by Espace Dali so I could smash some Euro (the only opportunity I've had the whole trip). We did see where Edith Piaf chanted her chanteuserie (yes, I made up that word), and where Van Gogh and other artists argued over technique and philosophy--Auberge de la Bonne Franquette, formerly Aux Billards en Bois. And yes, we had wine at La Consulat just across the street, where Woody Allen has filmed many a Paris street scene (and where, nearby, an older man played guitar with gusto, at one point singing "What a Wonderful World" more or less directly at me). We watched as busses navigated steep one-lane streets so narrow that cars barely fit.
And then it was time to head back to the apartment. We had dinner at a Greek place a couple of streets over that, in deference to Elizabeth's mortification, I shan't discuss further (though I will post a video when I get back). And in general, it was a most excellent day. We spent the rest of the evening planning our last day in Paris and the details of our imminent departure.
The subway
I haven't talked about riding the Paris subway because we haven't done it overmuch. It's not like the New York subway, where you go uptown or downtown; the Paris subway is more like spokes in a wheel than it is a ladder (well, a ladder with only a couple of crossbars--bleh! Analogies! You know what I mean!) Because of how it's laid out, we've had to plan a bit to be sure we were going the right way each time we've traveled. So we figure out which station we need. We figure out the terminus for the lines in question, then write down the directions, and head out the door.
We had a brief breakfast of coffee, tea, and croissants at La Bucherie next door to Shakespeare and Company, and noted the changing moods of Notre Dame as the light rose for the day. I understand why so many people paint the cathedral; it never looks the same.
On our way to Pere Lachaise, we had to change trains at the Arts et Metiers station which, we discovered, was a steampunk dream. Stepping out into the station is like stepping on to the Nautilus: curved copper walls featuring portholes displaying art and rivets, polished, dark wood seats and trash receptacles, and giant gears protruding from the ceiling. I couldn't help thinking that davidlevine and jaylake would love this place.
Pere Lachaise
Pere Lachaise was and wasn't what I was expecting. First, it's still in active use. We saw graves dated this year covered in astroturf and waiting for their stones. Second, we found Jewish graves, which surprised me, many of which included a Hebrew word that I've never seen before that I recorded so I can look it up when I have time. My suspicion is that it's actually an acronym for a phrase. The Holocaust memorials were stark and sinister. Of course, that's the history they commemorate, but they are sobering, one after another all in a row on one side of the cemetery. We learned some French history looking at other memorials, specifically about the Communards, a story that would later reverberate when we went to Montmartre and Sacre Couer. Elizabeth commented that Pere Lachaise isn't as romantic as Highgate Cemetery in London, which I still haven't seen. We only saw (and photographed) one angel. But we did see other interesting stones and vaults as well as the resting places of many famous people: Jim Morrison, Frederic Chopin, Edif Piaf, Oscar Wilde, and more. Morrison's grave may be the most visited, but Chopin's bears the most regular tribute; fresh flowers and French flags adorn his site. It's no secret to me whose grave will continue to receive such tribute over time.
Tributes of one sort of another were present on many of the graves, whether they were beautiful, ceramic flowers for perpetual memorials or little plaques that said things like "A notre petite maman" or "A notre cousin". These plaques ranged from simple words to elaborate tableaus. Very sweet.
Along the route, we encountered a middle-aged man with wild, faded brown hair who stopped us at the grave of Alain Bashung, ranting about pop stars dying young because they're stupid (Morrison and--weirdly--Bashung, who didn't die that way) and artists not being appreciated. He was passionate but not scary in any way, and gave the impression that he felt like his cause was a lost one that people should still hear about anyway. Elizabeth and I looked up Baschung when we got back to the apartment to learn he was this huge French rock star of whom we'd never heard. Check him out. It's a big world; one country's phenomenon is another's missed experience.
One thing I noticed at Pere Lachaise that I haven't noticed elsewhere in Paris was the sound of bird wings. Pigeons, of course, were present, as they are in any city. But in Pere Lachaise, I found myself weirdly aware of the sound of their flight as we moved through the cemetery. The sound of flapping wings and quiet cooing as they mounted the air seemed present everywhere. It was an interesting sensation there surrounded by the dead.
We had good weather for our walk so it was a pleasant early part of the day. We stopped for lunch at a nearby cafe. I had my first quiche of the trip--salmon and spinach. We chatted up the couple at the next table, who were visiting from North Carolina -- Emily and Perham (a family name) -- and ended up going with them to Montmartre after lunch.
Montmartre and Sacre Couer
Montmartre, we had been warned, is very tourtisty--and it's true. But the things that tourists can't take away from Montmartre are the facts that Sacre Couer church is still astonishingly beautiful and is still used as a house of worship with great reverence. Notre Dame is imposing and awe-inspiring. Sacre Couer is about a gentler, less severe faith. It's more modern than I expected, and so its windows--all post-World War II--are more comprehensible, and its impressive mosaic ceiling truly deserves the description "grand," with its portrait of God, Jesus and the saints gazing down upon the faithful. One chapel is devoted to the life of Mary, its stained glass portraying her life, and the domed ceiling portraying her ascension--just beautiful. It's a remarkable place for prayer and contemplation, built as an exercise in penance for the previously mentioned murder of the Communards, and considered the site of a miracle, for though Montmartre was bombed during WWII, not a single soul died.
We enjoyed the panoramic view of Paris afforded by the church's location at the top of a hill, and then dove into the movie set that is Montmartre. Though it bears historical significance for the number of artists who have graced it as a residence at one point or another, these days it's practically a parody of itself. Sure, it has cafes and squares full of artists selling their works, but it also has street after street of souvenir shops and overpriced cafes selling manufactured French ambiance for the tourist trade. Yes, we stopped by Espace Dali so I could smash some Euro (the only opportunity I've had the whole trip). We did see where Edith Piaf chanted her chanteuserie (yes, I made up that word), and where Van Gogh and other artists argued over technique and philosophy--Auberge de la Bonne Franquette, formerly Aux Billards en Bois. And yes, we had wine at La Consulat just across the street, where Woody Allen has filmed many a Paris street scene (and where, nearby, an older man played guitar with gusto, at one point singing "What a Wonderful World" more or less directly at me). We watched as busses navigated steep one-lane streets so narrow that cars barely fit.
And then it was time to head back to the apartment. We had dinner at a Greek place a couple of streets over that, in deference to Elizabeth's mortification, I shan't discuss further (though I will post a video when I get back). And in general, it was a most excellent day. We spent the rest of the evening planning our last day in Paris and the details of our imminent departure.