One day I woke up in Quartier Latin, Paris. It was pouring down rapidly as the sun hid behind the grey clouds. April is usually a wet month, and Parisians are well prepared for its unstable weather and the sudden downpours. The rain was loud enough for me to hear it without my hearing aids. It had a nice tone of the sound of the water dropping onto the 18th century narrow brick stone roads. It was a Wednesday, but it felt like a Sunday. I had trouble sleeping since my arrival in France. My body and mind were still trying to adjust and blend into the French time zone. It took a few days to get off the Sydney clock. Thirty three hours of travelling from the bottom of the world to the top, where my ancestors came from; Europe.
The Latin quarter is a wonderful place in Paris. There is a special vibrant and artsy charm feel from the quarter and it is one of the oldest areas of Paris. You can visit the Cathédrale Notre-Dame, the Jardin Botanique, walk along the gravel paths in the gardens of Luxembourg and the Panthéon within the area. One of the best places to go for an evening drink. It is lively and lots of students. A pleasant atmosphere.
In the morning I would stand outside on Rue Mouffetard, drink my café and light up some cigarettes under the small hostel front covers to avoid the rain. It was hard to believe that I had packed up my shit, jumped on a plane and decided to move to France for one year. I didn't even know how speak the language of love. The People walked passed me miserably, some were trying to shield themselves under an umbrella but could not win. Water had come from all directions. The wind certainly made it unfair. Everyone hated the cold raining mornings. But I did appreciate the rain. Once a while, a girl from Switzerland would join me for breakfast; commencing with a cigarette and small talks over un petit café with a warm fresh croissant at the Bistro du Marché. Then, we would finish off smoking another cigarette before she would make her way to university from Place Monge station. I had paid no attention to which one she had attended to; I was too distracted by her beauty and warmness when she told me. We basically became roommates in a four bed dormitory room. Her genital soul gave up some of her time to help me improve my French vocabulary. When she left Paris and returned to Zürich, we stayed in touch until it had slowly faded out naturally.
Journey to Pére Lachaise was quite simple. Two subways via interchange at the Opéra. I offended got lost during my first month in Paris and was hopeless with directions. Ending up in the wrong place and in the wrong time. The Underground Metro or catching a bus on foreign grounds and having that language barrier situations can be frustrating, especially for a hearing impaired person. Along the way to Lachaise, I looped onto a café terrace for une demi blonde. While I was enjoying my new life in Paris with a cold fresh beer. Suddenly, out of no where, a twelve year old punk had snatched my bag but my quick reflex grabbed hold of the backpack shoulder strap before he could have made a run for it. Pulled back the bag towards me and I kicked him loose, he fell onto the ground. The people who witnessed the crime scene moved in closer to my table. The punk got up onto his feet and ran off. The people were concerned for my safety and had come to my aid. After we had settled down and le serveur refilled my beer, I pointed onto the map to show him my final destination, Tout droit, c’est juste la bas (Just straight ahead, it is just over there), the Frenchy guided me as he pointed down the street. I paid for my beer and gave him a sincere gratitude​. Merci, merci beaucoup.
Le rendez-vous at Pére Lachaise Cemetery could not be avoided at any cost, regardless if that punk had stolen my backpack, I had all the necessary items in my front pockets. It was far too important for me to not to let anything stop my motivation. I could have gone any other day but I was too eager and too impatient to find 'The great American poet'. He changed the face of music with his band. The cemetery is the largest cemetery in Paris that holds over 70,000 burial plots. And, I was going to find him. It is said that you can get lost in the cemetery. I did not participate with the two hour tour that was offered at the main entrance, instead, I had purchased a map. There was no interest for me to learn about Édith Piaf, Molière or Oscar Wilde. Looking back now, I wish that I had invested my time to have taken the opportunity.
Walking down the narrow, intersecting paths, passing under the branches of the tress shaped like forked lightning. Passing by the remains of the deceased buried more than two metres deep, a variety of nobles from an era and time now forgotten. As I continued to stroll along beside the frontier of the dead and living, observing the tombstones that are displayed in many forms: Faded sculptures and dirty statues. I chose to believe the weather was to blame for their dull presentation.
Time drafts slowly and the sun has been hiding behind the grey clouds all day. Regardless of the chilly weather, I did however enjoy my solo walk and the chance to spend time on my own. Content in observing the graves of the artists, poets, writers, musicians and the wealthy dead who were buried in Pére Lachaise for whatever darn reason.
Victor Noir, a French journalist whose tomb was inspiring, deeply strong, powerful and perfect. He was the nephew of Napoleon III. He was shot by Prince Pierre Bonaparte. It is also known to be 'The Sexiest tomb in Lachaise'. The tombstone is a realistic portrayal body of himself lying on his back with his top-hat beside his right knee with a fresh red rose inside, and a white Floribunda rose that was placed on the palm of his hand from a nearby stranger. There is a visibly rubbed crotch area on the tombstone body. There is a rumour, that if you rub his penis and drop a flower in his hat, it will bring a blissful sex life.
Drops from the sky began to come down softly, the clouds must have prepared themselves ready to invade and flood the town. It was only a matter of time before I could have ran away from the battle. I checked the map for directions to locate the American poet. I was not very far off. People started to flee the cemetery. I pulled the hoodie over my head, kept my mind on the target and weaved between paths and graves not looking back, nor for an exit. An army of twenty tourist rumbled up against me, hitting my shoulders as they pushed their way through me, searching for shelter as the rain grew stronger.
From a distance I discovered a barrier circling around a number of colourful graffiti stones. I had seen this image in a photo somewhere in my past and I knew he was resting inside the circle of steel. I had slowed down the pace of my speed and caught my breath. There was about fifteen people who stood under the pouring rain. Some of them stood under an umbrella. The rest stood still without gear. I was nervous to stand too close but close enough to acknowledge the legend. The name on the tombstone was James Douglas Morrison. Born in 1948 and died in Paris in 1971. The stone bears a Greek inscription:​ Kata Ton Δaimona Eaytoy. (True to his own spirit.) There was absolute silence, no eye contact and all the people stared into the same direction. My emotions did not feel any sadness or happiness. I felt I had to stand there in front of the lead singer's stone for a few minutes, quietly. It certainly gave me the chance to give my respects to the person who went out and delivered something unique in the world of poetry and music.
A song from The Doors gently tuned into my mind. I closed my eyes to focus on the sweet notes of Robby playing his guitar and heard Jim’s words while the rain flooded the city of love.
"Can you picture what will be? So limitless and free Desperately in need Of some stranger's hand In a desperate land"