People are real a-holes; or, Paris, the finale

When good Americans die, they go to Paris. 

Oscar Wilde

The future's uncertain and the end is always near.

Jim Morrison/The Doors, "Roadhouse Blues"

During our week-long vacation, we managed to hit some really big tourist attractions, took a bus tour around the city, and after a few days sort of looked at each other and said, "What next?' 

Instead of going non-stop and checking attractions off a to-do list, we sort of took our time walking around, and in the process, stumbled onto places I'm glad we visited. 

Right outside the D'Orsay is a small museum called the Museum of the Legion of Honor (Musée de la Légion d'honneur). It seemed like something to do on Bastille day, and it only had a handful of people inside. Also, it's free, and trust me, not much in Paris is free, so there's that. 

There were hundreds of awards and honors on display from all over the world. I have to say, I love a man in a uniform (cue Gang of Four now, please) and all the meticulousness of medals, down to what specific order and location they are placed. There was an entire floor with medals on display and hundreds of drawers underneath from various regions and countries. For the United States, amongst other things was a Purple Heart with a photograph and description of a young 19 year old man killed during combat in Vietnam. Another display was for a Dutch woman who was a leader in the Resistance during WW2. 

On Bastille day, standing and looking at medals many men were awarded posthumously, I thought of the saying "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori"---"It is sweet and honorable to die for one's country."  It is also the title of one of my favorite poems, written by Wilfred Owen, a young soldier killed in WWI, which condemns the horrors of war. That is the flip side of museums like this---you honor the dead, but realize how horrible war truly is. 

And speaking of death (and free things), no trip of mine would be complete without a trip to a cemetery. I love cemeteries. My grandmother's ancestors were caretakers of national cemeteries, including one in Natchez, Mississippi, that I wrote about a while back. I also wrote about a crazy trip dodging cows and finding a hidden cemetery of ancestors from the other side of my family. As a young kid, I often visited the cemetery near my grandparents' house in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, which has gravestones predating the Civil War. I don't find them creepy at all; in fact, I love the stories gravestones tell and the workmanship no longer seen today. 

My wonderful and patient husband then humored me when I told him that for our 25th anniversary trip to Paris I wanted to drag him through a cemetery. Comme c'est romantique! 

The Père Lachaise Cemetery dates back to the early 1800s and is the burial spot for some very well-known folks from all over the world. I set out with my 2 € map in hand because it is gigantic. It also is paved with very uneven cobblestones, so if you plan on going, wear good walking shoes. I came with a plan, and thankfully my husband was along for the ride, since I can't read a map worth a damn and I'm a directionally challenged disaster. 

Some of the stops among the way included one of my favorite composers, Frederic Chopin (nine years of piano lessons, thank you very much) and the French signer Edith Piaf. There are the playwrights I read in college, Molière and Balzac. And of course, there is Oscar Wilde. His grave has had to be refinished and enclosed in glass because so many people have kissed it wearing lipstick, it's deteriorated the stone. Seriously. There was even a little sign written in a few languages asking that mourners not deface the grave, as it has had to be refurbished with considerable expense (from both his family and the Irish government, which pitched in part of the $60,000 or so to restore it). 

Moliere

Chopin

Oscar Wilde behind a glass enclosure

Okay, who am I kidding? I was there mostly to see the Lizard King. 

I read No One Here Gets Out Alive probably 5 times in high school, listened to Morrison Hotel too many times to count, and did a research paper on Jim Morrison during my freshman year of college. 

(Don't judge). 

And his gravesite that I read about and wanted to visit when I was 15 years old really made me sad. 

But not in a "oh man, what a waste of a talent at 27" sort of sad. I mean his fans made me sad, because they are really sort of assholes. 

(Sorry for the language, Mom. I really can't come up with a better word). 

Since his death in 1970, they have managed to steal two sets of grave markers and also graffiti and carve not only his grave, but the graves and trees surrounding his plot. And I guess it's maybe the caretaker's descendent or something in me, but I think that's absolutely depressing that his fans felt the need to desecrate his and other people's gravesites. There is now an ugly fence around his site and signs asking people to not step on other family's plots.  

I know 15 year old me would think, "Oh my god, lady, when did you get so OLD?" but really. . . I was just a little shocked at the extent of the vandalism. I can't imagine writing or carving graffiti (or kissing with lipstick) on someone's grave. That's sacred, man. You just can't do that.

The condition of his grave---and the few gleeful visitors taking pictures of it, the graffiti, and the gum covered tree next to it---sort of sucked all the anticipation I had and turned it into an utterly depressing spectacle.  

In walking around I also stumbled upon the gravestone of a man named Bernard Verlhac, who went by the pseudonym "Tignous," and was one of the cartoonists murdered by terrorists who stormed the Charlie Hebdo publication offices in 2015. It really affected me so much more than the grave of Jim Morrison, my teenage idol, who chose a slow suicide with alcohol and drugs. After a week of going through metal detectors and having my purse checked at every museum and church, an after effect, in part, of that attack, and after seeing his grave, I stopped to think how terrifying the day they were murdered must have been, and what the sudden loss of a father and husband at only 57 years old meant, and it was a sobering experience. 

Again. . . repeat after me. . . people are assholes. 

(sorry, Mom)

However, I also believe, as William Faulkner said in his Nobel speech, that "man will not merely endure; he will prevail." 

Bernard Verlhac's epitaph reads, "Tu rêvais d'être libre et je te continue," which is a quote from a poem by Paul Eluard. 

Spreading a little hope and bravery in this world, it means this:  "You dreamt of being free, and I will continue you."