Ah, the invigorating scent of Paris. It filled my lungs and stole my heart. I let it engulf me as I strolled down the Champs-Elysees one July afternoon. I savored each breath like it was my last, and they were, in fact, my last breaths of Paris. I inhaled my last doses of France, and was suddenly aware of, and saddened by the fact, that I was flying to Germany the next day. I would return home from there.

The streets were a swarming with people, dogs, and cars, but they were so different. In Paris the streets go, “ooh la la,” not “blah blah blah” like the ones in America. Pretending I was Charles de Gaulle (or Hitler) I marched under L’Arc de Triomphe, and then passed cafes, designer stores, and the invasive, pervasive McDonalds before I arrived at the door of the Virgin Records superstore.

I explored the three floors of oh-so-much music - a wing for each genre. Imports, rarities, singles - this place had everything. Luckily, restraining myself from buying superfluous objects during my stay in France had paid off (I merely splurged on them in one desperate attempt to spend my francs). I avoided shopping earlier in my travels as I dreaded having more luggage to tote up several flights of hotel staircases. I had retained almost all of my spending money before I walked through those doors, and dispensed of a large portion of it within the hour, feeling extreme guilt for spending my Europe money on CDs that I could have bought in America. Instead of buying a nice, French souvenir, I acted like a stupid American and spent my money on cheap, manufactured crap. Oh well, the important thing was that I found something to buy.

I narrowly escaped financial doom and headed to the nearest metro station. The beautiful brilliance of that day was only augmented by my descent down into the dreary depths of the station. Gloomy air hit me like a damp towel. It struck me that this is the real Paris. Down there all types of people are alike. All grasping for their balance with a sweaty hand on a sweaty pole. Down there the dirty old men have an excuse to grope, and offer a “pardonez-moi” in return. Down there the man in rags plays his violin for change, filling the underground streets with the most melancholy of sounds.

The Champs-Elysees, the Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame are only parts of the potempkin village that outsiders are supposed to see. They take their chartered buses to the tourist attractions, and CLICK! - they have a photograph - a permanent image of what they believe is Paris. They can look in a traveler’s guide, and see a picture identical to one they took. It comforts them to know that they hit all the “right” places, as they would not want to waste their money by going somewhere that is not cited in the guides. Even the ones who do use the metro, or end up on a not-so-picture-perfect street put those images out of their minds. A characteristic inherent in almost all human beings, is that they have the ability to only remember the things they want to remember. They manage to push the bad stuff to the abandoned corners of their minds, where it can only be conjured up in dreams.

Paris’ Own City of the Dead

After some contemplating of my perceptions, I saw that I was to reach my destination: Pere Lachaise Cemetiere. Oh, how I had longed for this day. Ever since I was twelve I have been completely in love with Jim Morrison, and I’ll even admit that visiting his grave was one of my primary reasons for going to France in the first place. I stepped off of the train in my lizard-print tank top, a long black skirt, and my twenty-hole Doc Martens, ready to find the resting place of the Lizard King, and of various other artists that interested me.

I arrived at the cast-iron gates of Pere Lachaise, purchased a postcard of none other than the Lizard King himself, and grabbed a map of the cemetery. I walked down the cemetery’s path and was in total awe of that city of the dead. The roads of the cemetery formed blocks, much like the streets of a city. On each “city” block, there were the gravestones and memorial statues of the wealthy and the famous. The monuments were outstanding. Some resembled small cathedrals, and even had elaborate stained glass windows. Others were statues of the deceased, while some were gothic-style mausoleums. Pere Lachaise brims so full of corpses, that only a foot or two of grave gravel separates each plot.

I continued my trek, walking some distance behind two young males, whom I assumed would lead me to Jim’s grave, while trying not to appear to be following them. I felt as if the world would converge at that spot. It was July 2nd, the eve of the anniversary of Jim’s death. Looking up, I saw that my brilliantly beautiful day had become overcast, and that with every step, I was approaching a dark huddle of clouds.

I turned onto the street that harbors Morrison, and immediately recognized the grave of my rock idol. It is a simple square headstone that rests on a rectangular stone border. Inside the border, fans had dropped cigarettes, joints, pictures, flowers, and United States dollar bills, perpetuating the cycle of “leaving something for Jim” and “taking something to remember the visit.” I noticed that there was nobody else there, and wondered where those two boys had gone, when I looked up to see a police officer standing a short distance away, watching my every move and giving me a loathful glare. I suppose I was automatically a suspect since I was here to see Jim, though I do not know for what crime. I had heard that Morrison’s grave caused much tension between the visitors and the police.

I stayed there for several minutes, immersed in the cemetery breeze. After a short meditation, it struck me that it was going to storm very hard, very soon. I grabbed a small orangey-pink rock from the side of the gravestone, and rushed to find my other destinations: The graves of Oscar Wilde, La Fontaine, and Edith Piaf.

Just as I was leaving Jim’s grave, the sky opened with a loud BOOM! followed by a CRACK!, reminding me of Riders on the Storm. The most ungodly torrent of rain poured over my head. Drenched, I ran with my camera to the other graves, taking hurried photos, and running towards the gates in a street that was overflowing. I ran to look for cover from the lightning and rain, but was unsuccessful, and I found myself isolated by a river rushing across the graveyard’s stone path. There was so much water, the sewer drains could not take it all in, and it just continued to rise.

The wrought-iron gates were several streets over, so I was forced to remain in place, huddled against a stone structure, until the rain had ceased, and the street-rivers had gone down. I sloshed my way to the exit and saw the opening of the Pere Lachaise metro stop, the stairway to hell. Acting as if it had never surrendered the sky, the sun returned, filling surface-Paris with its radiance. However, I knew that the dark underground was waiting for me, and I disappeared into its depths.