Sunday Sunday Sunday

Sunday was, as some of you know, my birthday, and I had a truly fantastical French adventure planned. My first planned stop of the day was the Père Lachaise cemetery – final resting place of some of the greats (including Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, Frédéric Chopin, Héloise and Abelard, and, my personal favorite, Amadeo Modigliani) – next, to the Louvre (where admission is free for the first Sunday of every month), and finally, for a ride on the Bateaux Mouches as part of an event planned by the school.


After about two hours of forgetting things and going up and down stairs, I was on the metro towards Père Lachaise, feeling very Parisian in my scarf and black dress and vintage raincoat.

Stepping out of the metro station was like stepping into a Calcutta bazaar. Street vendors selling fruit and candied treats crowded the entrance to the metro, and to pass by without smelling something fantastic was absolutely impossible. On my way to the cemetery’s entrance, I found myself in the middle of a sort of antique street show. Dealers from all over the city came to set up shop on the sidewalks, selling all kinds of goods: books, lamps, ashtrays, china, carpets, trinkets, jewelry, magazines, furniture… even human hair for some reason. (To anyone interested, there’s also a shop by my apartment that advertises “100% Human Hair.” I don’t know why, or who would buy it, but they have it. Maybe it’s a French thing.) After wading through all the buyers and sellers, I finally reached the cemetery, and I knew exactly where my first stop would be.
I made my way through the quieter end of the cemetery, with its family plots and mausoleums. I was struck by the extravagance of some – with large bronze and stone statues of mourners or angels – and touched by the quiet simplicity of others. The difference between those who were sincerely loved and missed and those who wanted to be sincerely loved and missed was obvious.

 
I stepped off the path to look at one grave in particular when I heard heavy footsteps and grunting coming up the path. I turned to see one of the guards making his way back to the crematorium. He passed by me without even looking, and, as he was going the same direction as I was, I followed him. With every step, he let out a loud, wheezing grunt. He looked so much like a pig, it was so difficult to keep myself from laughing.
 

 
After about an hour of wandering, I finally found Modigliani’s grave – my main attraction to the cemetery. It surprised me to see there were no visitors, and no offerings or tokens of affection. I guess it made me a little sad to think that such a great artist could be reduced to little more than a pile of dust underneath a rock. I left a little memento and continued to wander, but I couldn’t stop thinking about his grave for the rest of the day.


My next stop was the Louvre, and apparently, I wasn’t the only person in the whole of Europe who knew about the free admission. The waiting line stretched much farther than I cared to walk, and the wait time, as one of the employees told me, was about an hour. I figured I could wait a month, since I live here now.

The Bateau Mouche trip wasn’t until seven, so I had quite a lot of time to kill. I walked through the Tuileries, past l’Orangerie, and along the river Seine for a while. I walked all around the seventh before I decided on the Champs de Mars for some good, old-fashioned people-watching.
Most of the people were either children or tourists – both good for entertainment value. There was the woman who spend five minutes trying to take the perfect picture of her “pinching” the Eiffel Tower. There was the little blond boy who rode his bicycle up and down the pathway over and over, getting in at least three collisions with other children without tears. Then there was the group of tourists on segways. That was pretty interesting.

I watched them for a while until I was solicited by a relatively creepy tourist to “please take his photo in front of the tower.” I gathered my things, took the photo, and left. A few meters down the path, I realized he had followed me. “Is it alright if I accompany you,” he asked in French. No. It was not okay. He left, and I found a bench further away. I was soon joined by an old bearded woman who was quite emphatic in telling me how much she disliked the “American language.” (Because, even the French know, in America, we speak American…).

Then there was the Bateau Mouche – just a boat ride full of tourists and a few new friends on the river. Not much to talk about there.

As I finish up this blog, it’s about 9:30 at night. The song “Comptine d’Un Autre Eté” plays quietly in the background, accompanied by the soft sound of rain hitting the roof just outside my window. The smells and sounds of cooking rise up out of the tiny courtyard and drift in on the breeze. All I need is family and a few close friends, but still, je vois la vie en rose.