Deadpan

After the literary appreciation part of my cemetery tour was over, I moved on to the more entertaining making-light-of-the-graveyard part of the day. First off was the über-creepy wall outside of the cemetery, which featured what appeared to be a banshee holding back the dead in a mossy wall (many of the bricks have howling faces carved into them). Oh, and one of those "why do they have this?" signs, reminding people that "chillaxing and exaggerated dog-walking" (Tom's words) are not appropriate cemetery pastimes.


Next on the list: graves of people with funny names. First up, the B.J. Family (it's the third from the left, with the black door) and the Hickey Family:

Followed by the Big[g]ot and Prud'homme (Prude man) families:

Then, of course, came the zombie virgin Mary eating Jesus. (On the topic of zombies, there were quite a few graves that had sort of collapsed, revealing an empty hole beneath them that was, France-style, closed off from curious children only by a single plastic caution rope. Paris: PANIC. We may have zombies. If I start to write posts solely about brains please send someone after me with a sawed-off shotgun). It's hard to tell from the picture, but Mary really did have a hungry/blank expression, and Jesus looks terrified. She's holding Jesus up to her mouth pretty awkwardly, and as you can see, she's already been to work on his wrists and knee:
Another zombie-like entry. Yes, I understand that some people find it romantic when an undead couple continues to hold hands after burial, but when I die please leave dismembered limbs off of my tombstone:



Then there were some awesome, Addams' Family-esque classics:


And the oh-so-badass spiky, rusty chain approach:
And then there was just inspiration for dos and do-nots when it comes to desigining graves. For the record, Life-size statues of in a saucy playboy pose holding an artist's palette? Hot. (This is romantic painter Théodore Géricault, if you're curious):


Semi-3D portrait etching, however: NOT hot. To me this looks like Jacob Marley coming out of Scrooge's front door (though perhaps there's more of gravy than the grave about him...):And last but not least, the most epic tombstone I saw. Awesome.
(It also, chillingly, sums up my life right now...a crushing granite novel. All it needs is one of my fuzzy sock-clad feet sticking out of the corner, Wicked Witch of the West style.)

Paying homage

I took advantage of the break in stormy weather last weekend to stroll around Père Lachaise cemetery. It wasn't quite sunny (of course), but the gloomy, overcast lighting (and the creepy cawing crows in the skeletal trees) really helped to set an appropriate mood.

Let me start off by saying that I don't have a newfound obsession with death, or anything of the sort--no, Paris hasn't made me emo. A visit to this cemetery has been on my to-do list ever since my arrival, and I've been reminded of this by the fact that it features fairly prominently (*cough Balzac cough*) in the the 19th century literature I've been reading recently. Established by Napoleon in 1804 outside of Paris as an alternative to other, already over-crowded Parisian cemeteries, it was shunned by the French until the remains of beloved writers and intellectuals La Fontaine and Molière were un-earthed and reburied within its grounds. Since then, anybody who is anybody has scrambled to have their loved ones interred alongside these heros. Today the once peripheral cemetery has been engulfed by the Belleville neighborhood (you can just see the distant spike of the Eiffel tower behind the Gothic spire in the photo to the left), and the French and tourists alike pilgrimage to visit its World War I memorials and tombs of countless notable Frenchmen (and women).

I came to visit the tombs of Oscar Wilde, Colette, and Balzac. I'm sure you all know of Oscar Wilde, but here's a brief history of Colette: married to a man who took credit for her first novels. Divorced him to become a burlesque actress and a fairly hi-profile bisexual, eventually remarrying only to have an affair with her teenage step son. Wrote very sensual books with theatrical tendencies and strong female leads. Overall, a kind of wild and scandalous character, and her grave was surprisingly understated, considering. It was better kept and had more tributes than any others I saw, though, which warmed my heart. The classy granite also gave it a much more modern look than the rest of the cemetery.

Oscar Wilde's grave was appropriately campy. An art deco creation with a sphinx-head, it has been adorned with the kisses and love notes of a thousand adoring groupies, whose oily lipstick and "je t'aime, Oscar!"s permanently stain the stone. They've added a plaque imploring visitors not to "deface" the grave, although I have to admit that if I were Oscar I know I'd appreciate the postmortem loving--especially considering that some of those kisses would be from gorgeous men.

Balzac's grave was pretty predictable: respectable but boring. The author of approximately a billion super-long novels (actually just a few under 100, but still pretty insane), Balzac is France's go-to literary hero. His grave featured a copper bust of his rather chubby, boyish face, but then a rather stylish book and plume at the base.


And to finish up, here are a few assorted shots I took:

Dragons and Valentines

This year's Saint-Valentin weekend was as much a celebration of my love for Paris as of my relationship with Tom. Although we did nothing particularly spectacular, we spent a long, leisurely weekend together, taking advantage of all the city has to offer. On Friday we met up at the legendary "L'As du Falafel" (recommended by Lenny Kravitz, apparently) for lunch before spending an afternoon amongst the orthodox Jews and drag queens of the Marais, visiting a museum, stopping for hot chocolate, and generally enjoying the unseasonably sunny day. Dinner was a French-inspired collective effort with Lucy, an artist-in-residence whose cooking skills rival Tom's: basque prawns and rice, a Roquefort/walnut salad, and an apple tart and custard for dessert.

Saturday: stroll around the Alesia area and a visit to a vibrant weekend flea market to pick up extra plates and cutlery. Dance at the Canadian House, which was small but delightfully goofy and Valentine's themed (because who doesn't associate tea-light candles, lasers and shitty American pop music with February 14th?). Sunday: Chinese lunch in the "ethnic" Belleville quarter, in a packed restaurant with a street-side window to afford a view of the the slightly lame Chinese New Year parade. Happy year of the Tiger!