Père Lachaise Cemetery

Dear Mark and Amy,

Before going on our one-week holiday, I returned to my favourite cemetery, the famous Père Lachaise, which is a bit north of Nation and sort of SE of République.  You, Paul and I can still remember playing in the Cemetery across from our home in Wadsworth.  I have always been attracted to them.  I never understood horror stories about cemeteries.  To me, they are quiet parks.

As we approach Père (Father) Lachaise, we see a large stone wall surrounding the acres of land.  In fact, the cemetery is built on a hill.

I no sooner entered and walked a bit before I saw this old memorial with the simple phrase, "Adieu, Mère" (we might now say, "Bye, Mom").

Unlike our cemeteries, some older European layouts have streets and alleys between the tightly-filled plots.  I have no idea why these tall structures were so popular (and some are still being built).  Possibly it makes it seem like the loved one has a solid home, and protected from the elements; therefore all is well.

You can tell if family members have not been cleaning their tombstones for a few years.  I like the moss, the softness it gives to the cold stone.  Crosses are omnipresent.

 As one proceeds further, you have to climb the hill.  This climb is rather steep, almost like going to two floors.  Some stairs are wide, others are narrow, possibly more like service entries.

Crosses will be a theme in these photos, so I won't keep noting their presence.  This was a Christian nation, and there are still millions of active Christians in France.

It was nice seeing an actual live flower, in bloom.  It was not plastic, it may not even have been carefully planned, but it was real in the world of hard stone.

Some small buildings have elaborate stained glass windows.  Most have been shattered, likely by freezing and thawing, or the buildings shifting on their small foundations.

Sometimes, the place seems to be a maze, totally confusing.  It can be challenging to find a specific marker, since each of the 90+ quadrants is fairly large.

I was impressed by this marker in honor of Gerda Taro, a journalist.  I hope to learn more about her contributions to the free press.

I like to return to the graves of Edith Piave and her family (sister).  I never heard her sing live, but have a complete set of her many CDs, each song being about three minutes.  What a voice . . . what a difficult life . . . all finally destroyed by drugs and alcohol.  Though surrounded by friends, she was forever lonely and fearful.  She basically raised herself and her sister, singing under windows for coins until they had enough for coffee.  Her grave is now a pilgrimage spot.  People even leave handmade mementos.

I also like to visit the large two-floor structure where urns are preserved.  I noticed that quite a few are once again empty, signifying that the family has not paid to renew the rental contract.  I saw that one impressive storm was on its way, so I managed to get to the upper walkway in time to stay more or less dry, in spite of the wind and sheets of rain.  Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was over.

 The floor has glass blocks which admit light to the basement level where still more urns are preserved.

Everything seems so dignified and proper, but again, one can tell which stones have not been visited and dusted lately.  The plastic flowers seem to anchor spider webs very securely.

 

Nobody seems to know who this intriguing young woman was.  Possibly a dancer, a flapper, an actress?  People have tried to figure it out, believe me.

I briefly tried staying dry in this entrance doorway, but the wind whipped the rain right through, so I trotted off to a much better doorway where one buzzes to get into a large complex of condos.

Finally, between showers, I managed to get away.  The streets smelled fresh from being washed by the rain, the sky was overcast, it all seemed hopeful.

All for now, with love from us both,
Evan