Paris: Day 10
Nearly one year later and I'm still going!
The day dawned rainy and grey. We spent much of our morning "caving" and journaling. We ventured out to coffee, crepes, and coffins for the day. We had a long visit to Pere LaChaise Cemetery. We paid respects to a great many greats, but we had a few missions in mind:
First we found Colette, my ultimate favourite writer. According to Mireille Guiliano (of French Women Don't Get Fat), Colette was the first woman to "exercise like an American" with machines and accoutrements. This doesn't matter much to me, but I found it interesting. Mostly, I simply adore her writing style, her amusing ideas, interesting plots and unloveable characters.
Jim quested for Jim Morisson, as he is a tourist destination for a great many. During my first visit when I was 18, his particular plot was accessible, and many of the surrounding stones were vandalized, tipped over, and otherwised desecrated. Now, Morisson's own and several surrounding resting places are fenced in. Still, somehow there are many offerings of respect... and doobies.
During our crazy wander-fest, I discovered Hahnemann.
He's the creator/founder/great mind behind homeopathic medicine. He's kinda my hero.
I tried desperately for over two hours to find Isadora Duncan, but came up naught. Instead, I found huge sites devoted to the fallen in the haulocaust, various plane crashes, and civil wars. Finally, we figured out that the "C" beside her name meant she was kept in the crematorium. I felt stupid. However, on the way to find her, we came across Oscar Wilde.
By proxy, we also found Robert Frost since rumour has it the two share sepulcre. Who knew?
The crematorium is an exceptionally creepy place which travels far underground. It smells of stale flowers and tears. To my delight, we found her above ground level. There were a few tributes to others about: tiny flowers, a lone tea light long since snuffed. I left a favoured and well-loved hair pin.
We walked home to a dinner of leek and potato mash and whole wheat bread with flan aux fruit and tarte auc framboise for dessert from the patisserie on the corner. Afterward we readied ourselves and headed out for an evening of jazz at Cafe le Bistro. We capped the evening with luscious bordeaux, four cheese bread, great music and discussions of existentialisme.
The day dawned rainy and grey. We spent much of our morning "caving" and journaling. We ventured out to coffee, crepes, and coffins for the day. We had a long visit to Pere LaChaise Cemetery. We paid respects to a great many greats, but we had a few missions in mind:
First we found Colette, my ultimate favourite writer. According to Mireille Guiliano (of French Women Don't Get Fat), Colette was the first woman to "exercise like an American" with machines and accoutrements. This doesn't matter much to me, but I found it interesting. Mostly, I simply adore her writing style, her amusing ideas, interesting plots and unloveable characters.
Jim quested for Jim Morisson, as he is a tourist destination for a great many. During my first visit when I was 18, his particular plot was accessible, and many of the surrounding stones were vandalized, tipped over, and otherwised desecrated. Now, Morisson's own and several surrounding resting places are fenced in. Still, somehow there are many offerings of respect... and doobies.
During our crazy wander-fest, I discovered Hahnemann.
He's the creator/founder/great mind behind homeopathic medicine. He's kinda my hero.
I tried desperately for over two hours to find Isadora Duncan, but came up naught. Instead, I found huge sites devoted to the fallen in the haulocaust, various plane crashes, and civil wars. Finally, we figured out that the "C" beside her name meant she was kept in the crematorium. I felt stupid. However, on the way to find her, we came across Oscar Wilde.
By proxy, we also found Robert Frost since rumour has it the two share sepulcre. Who knew?
The crematorium is an exceptionally creepy place which travels far underground. It smells of stale flowers and tears. To my delight, we found her above ground level. There were a few tributes to others about: tiny flowers, a lone tea light long since snuffed. I left a favoured and well-loved hair pin.
We walked home to a dinner of leek and potato mash and whole wheat bread with flan aux fruit and tarte auc framboise for dessert from the patisserie on the corner. Afterward we readied ourselves and headed out for an evening of jazz at Cafe le Bistro. We capped the evening with luscious bordeaux, four cheese bread, great music and discussions of existentialisme.