Cimitiere du Montparnasse

16 October, Thursday

Received some information from Severine last night regarding the little farming village called Etrepy, in which I spent two years of bliss as a child. The most amazing thing for me is realizing that the town is not "just outside of Paris," but more like two hours away by train and taxi. She thinks I should be able to find my old house rather easily as the village only has 140 inhabitants.

I knew the place was small, but not that small! She printed out train schedules for me and gave me a list of taxi services; my idea was the get a driver to take me out to the place from the nearest town served by a train and then return after a few hours of my wandering around and taking photos for my family.

I'm pretty sure I won't be doing that trip this week, but should start planning early for a day next week, either Tuesday or Wednesday, as I leave on Thursday.

Today, I had planned on doing an artist's walk, but when I got above ground from the Metro near Tour Montparnasse, the weather was terrible. Windy, with the rain blowing sideways; even my oversized scarf did not keep the wet off my face. I decided to skip a few places and pick up in the middle of the suggested walk: The Montparnasse Cemetery. I LOVE European cemeteries; my first encounter was obviously in the French town I had lived in, but when I was in Munich, I felt the same way. Lovingly cared for by family members and plants and flowers were allowed to be physically planted in the ground at the tombstone or marker. Here in the States, visiting my mother's grave does not feel personal at all, as she is interred in a wall behind a plaque bearing her name and my father's names, his death date still, thankfully, not needed.

I stayed close to buildings to avoid most of the rain, and I walked quite a way before entering the tall stone entrance to Montparnasse Cemetery. As soon as I walked through the entrance, the sun came out and shone brightly. I got a grave layout map from the guard and made my way through the rows and rows of graves. I did not see all of them. The ones I did see were magnificent; not necessarily because of who was interred there, but because of the sculptures and art and mementoes left on top of the tombs. This is a quiet graveyard full of artists, philosophers, writers, politicians, and intellectuals.

The statuary and stained glass was what I had come to see and I was not disappointed; beautiful pieces of art adorned the tombs, from weeping women to angels flying homeward to pieces reminiscent of the art nouveau style. One outstanding piece is that of the Charles Pigeon family—Mr. Pigeon was an inventor and created a gravesite that could hold all the members of his family. With notebook in hand, Mr. Pigeon sits up sideways in a full-sized bed, as his wife, both seemingly fully dressed, lays next to him. A guardian angel stands watch over all.

Many notes and mementos were left on Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Bouvoir's joint grave, as well as on others. As I was admiring one beautiful sculpture, an elderly woman gingerly made her way to the back row of tombs, picked up a broom, started sweeping away dead leaves, and began having a merry conversation with the deceased. It was heartwarming, but felt very peaceful and normal. I continued on down the row, smiling, wondering what visual treat I would next encounter.

Surprisingly, it was a broom! The cemetery keepers of common ground were gathering leaves and clearing the roads with these awesome brooms—they look like what I would commonly think of as a witch's broom—long straw gathered around a wooden stick. I want one!

After my visit to the cemetery, I walked down a few side streets, where many famous artists have either studied or lived. Tiny side streets with cobblestone streets and filigreed steel window guards with windowboxes of bright red geraniums. The beauty of this city still stuns me every day. Yes, it's a lot of cement, but cement done with style and beauty. A formal beauty made personal by lace curtains at a window or a door knocker that doubles as sculpture. I can't get enough.I walked so many miles today; thank goodness for comfortable shoes! I don't know how these Parisian women do it in heels! The wind and rain had put a damper on the early part of the day, but the sun came out and stayed, while the clouds filtered out to blue sky.

On the way home, I treated myself to some desserts: a flan and a tarte monge. French desserts are wonderful; not too sweet and very fresh ingredients. The tarte had a layer of fresh berries that just burst with flavor when bit into; the flan was creamy and smooth, but still had a density I was new to. I loved the older French man in front of me in line today at the bakery; he was loading up on desserts and sweets and sheepishly looked at the rest of us and said, in French, that, of course, they were not for him. We all nodded knowingly. A demain!