This Is the End (an excerpt from Transient Suburbia)

It's National Novel Writing Month! A little check in on my progress:
Total Word Count (as of 11.7): 15197
Words Left: 34803
Days Left: 22

My protagonist, Harper Monroe, is all grown up (finally through that high school section) and has started her journalism career. She writes about musical pilgrimages. Enjoy a journey with Harper.

This Is the End

June 1999

I am lost in a cemetery. It’s a beautiful cemetery but it’s a cemetery nonetheless. I love cemeteries particularly ones where famous people are interred. But right now this cemetery is getting on my nerves.

I have a terrible sense of direction. Even with a map, I can’t say that I know where I am or where I’m trying to go. Interpreting cardinal directions is not a skill I possess. We all have our skills; mine are mostly related to making mixtapes, baking exceptional banana bread, and having opinions about 70s punk bands.

Cities of the dead are intriguing to me. My family visited New Orleans when I was in high school and I remember seeing the above ground tombs there for the first time. The cities of the dead are both creepy and beautiful, monuments to death and life. Tour guides in New Orleans like to tell people that the tombs exist because the dead would float if they were buried underground (New Orleans is below sea-level after all) but that’s really only partially true. The French and Spanish settled the city and the tombs have more to do with their influence than floating corpses.

I’ve come to Paris to find a rock star. Well, the resting place of a rock star. Like so many before me, I’ve come to pay my respects to the Lizard King, Mr. Mojo Risin’ Jim Morrison. Most people come to Paris for romance and good food. I want Jim to tell me my future. Or something.

There are some that don’t believe he’s dead; that the tomb is a simply a ploy to make fans believe he’s gone. Morrison no longer wanted to be the Lizard King; he just wanted a life of obscurity and quiet. People claim to see him at gas stations and on isolated stretches on highway. Morrison and Elvis forever alive, never being able to rest.

I believe he’s dead and buried here at  Cimetière du Père-Lachaise (Père Lachaise Cemetery). Morrison was an addict and heroin would be his downfall. July 3, 1971 - the day the music was over and we could turn out the light.

I have to believe he’s dead. I’ve been walking around this beautiful cemetery for an hour and am lost. I half expected him to appear to me like he appears to Wayne in Wayn’e’s World 2 and convinces Wayne to create the music festival Waynestock. Maybe Jim and aren’t connected on that level. I’m sad about that but I soldier on.

The official map of Père Lachaise Cemetery does not include the tomb of Jim Morrison. It used to and I suspect that it will again one day. The devoted have been making their way to Morrison’s tomb since it was erected and they don’t always exercise the right amount of respect for those buried near Morrison. At one point the tomb was even removed to combat the graffiti and destruction committed. This is why we can’t have nice things.

So finding Morrison’s tomb has now become a quest, a true music fan’s pilgrimage. It also attracts its share of curiosity seekers and people like me, a fan of The Doors but not a devotee. A person who is seeking answers about life who believe that Morrison can help.

I thought I had the directions. My roommate’s boyfriend visited last summer. He wrote down the directions and kept them. To remember his pilgrimage. I dutifully copied down his directions and followed them when I got here (in addition to picking up a map from the visitor’s office). However, he had forgotten an important part of the directions. He had forgotten the “chemins”. Chemins are basically side streets and they’re tricky. The run parallel and perpendicular and round and round. Between the directions and the map I was getting nowhere.I am starting to second guess my decision to start here in Paris. I don’t know why I decided to start my musical pilgrimages with Jim Morrison. I like The Doors but I don’t love The Doors. I could have started with Graceland or any number of places in New Orleans; familiar and close places. But here I am in Paris getting lost in a cemetery.

I don’t know if it’s luck or Jim Morrison deciding to help me out but just as I am about to give up and leave, help arrives. A group of Irish lads (sadly not those Irish lads) appear out of nowhere (or around the corner). I was sitting on the curb, disheveled and annoyed, when they crossed my path. The tallest guy, the one I’ve decided is the lead singer because they’re obviously in a band, introduces himself as Danny (of course) and asks if I need help. I explain my dilemma; Danny and his friends laugh and invite me to join them. They know the way. They have been here before. We walk for exactly ten minutes, circle around the same chemins I had already walked down twice, and walk another ten minutes in the opposite direction. We do not speak.

And then we arrive.

There it was. The tomb I had been searching for. I don’t know what I was expecting. All that happens is that “Love Street” pops into my head at the exact moment I see the tomb. This is probably not the song that most people would think of when seeing Jim Morrison’s final resting place for the first time but it is my favorite and that’s all there is. There are barricades keeping visitors from getting too close. The tomb itself is a bit further back from the path. The bust is gone but the graffiti and offerings remain. Whiskey bottles and song lyrics and flowers. That is what the legion of the faithful have left behind.

The Irish lads make their offerings. They brought whiskey (a little for Jim, a little for them). They offer me the bottle. As much as I would like to imbibe, I decide it is not wise to drink whiskey with unknown persons in a cemetery. Sometimes I’m not very rock and roll. We are not alone; an older couple snap photos and reminisce about seeing The Doors live in Los Angeles in their youth. They sing along to “Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar)” when my Irish friends start to sing it and I can see the happiness/sadness in their eyes. They are lost in the music and the memories and their adoration of a flawed and talented man.

I think about why I have come here. I think it is because rock music makes us do crazy and bizarre things. It invades our souls and takes over our hearts. A friend once told me that all rock songs are about love. After observing these fans, I think I believe that statement more than ever.

I think I was in love once. I never actually met him; we wrote letters to one another. I was always myself in those letters I could tell him anything. We shared rock and roll and books and growing up. And then one day, he stopped writing to me. He’s the one that told me about The Doors. I listened because we traded music and I wanted to be a good music friend. I wanted to understand him through the music he loved. He told me that he thought I’d “dig” the music. And I did. I really did. Not because he liked it but because it was good. I could see Southern California and 1967 and the mythical Jim Morrison.

I am here because I want Jim Morrison to explain to me why people leave and why Love Street isn’t a real place. I need to be in this place at this moment so that I can put this person to rest in my heart.

There is no where to sit at the tomb of Jim Morrison so I sit on the curb across from it. I watch the Irish lads and the couple dance and sing and pay their respects. They being to move along. Not because it is too crowded but because their time with the Lizard King is over. They have had their moment and they can move on. Until next time.

I stare at the tomb. I take a few pictures (like the good tourist I am). I sketch some of the graffiti into my notebook. A few more pilgrims make their way to their moment with Jim - a couple of hippies, some students like me, an aging rocker in well-worn leather pants. They each have their moment, nod to one another, and move on. There are no orgies or wild parties. There are only fans paying their respects.

Morrison has not revealed anything to me. He has not led me to my lost boy or to some version of understanding. I’m okay with this. I feel more at ease, more aware of myself. I spend a few more minutes with Jim. I leave a small token of my admiration (a sunflower) and move along back to the busy streets of Paris.

All rock songs are about love and love is a crazy thing.
 

City of the Dead

We were living in Louisiana when my father turned 40. To celebrate, his mother and two of his siblings came for a visit. I don't believe any of them had been to Louisiana before. I remember my grandmother told me not to be rude to the waitress when I ordered a Barq's (she didn't realize it's a brand of root beer). We also used crab legs from dinner (the longest dinner on the planet) to decorate my dad's cake. It was that sort of birthday.

What stands out in my mind the most though is the tour of Saint Louis Cemetery #1. I'm not sure what possessed us to do this - June in New Orleans is probably not the best time to walk through a cemetery in the middle of the day but we did. Most of us did - if I remember correctly my parents didn't go but I'm not totally sure that's correct. I vividly remember seeing Marie Laveau's tomb, groups of three red Xs everywhere and offerings left to the Voodoo Queen. People would mark the tomb with the Xs or leave Madame Laveau something in hopes that her spirit would grant them a wish or good fortune. Some dispute that she's buried in the tomb that was highlighted on the tour. Honestly, her tomb made me nervous (I was 9 or 10 at the time).

New Orleans is famous for its above ground cemeteries often referred to as "cities of the dead." Families would build ornate tombs for burial. The tombs often resemble buildings (churches mostly) and look like mini cities. Many people believe that this was the practice because of the fact that New Orleans is below sea level (stories of bodies floating down the Mississippi are common on ghost and cemetery tours and there is truth to that as well). However, it's probably more likely that these cities of the dead exist because of the French and Spanish settlers of New Orleans. They brought their practice of above ground tombs with them to the city and the tradition stayed. After seeing Père Lachaise cemetery today, I believe this more than I did before.

Cimetière du Père Lachaise is the largest cemetery in Paris and one of the most famous cemeteries in the world. The latter distinction is probably because of the number of famous people buried here: Edith Piaf (whom I visited today), Balzac, Proust, Colette, Sarah Bernhardt, and of course, Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison. Like the Eiffel Tower,
Père Lachaise is one of those places I've always wanted to visit. It may sound morbid but cemeteries like this are amazing places to see how we honor those that have left us. Families spent time and money to build these structures and you can see many are still lovingly cared for. The artistry among the tombs is amazing - sculptures, stained glass windows, ornate doors - these were not meant to be forgotten. It's not the final resting place of just the famous; the Emperor Napoleon declared that all people could be buried within the cemetery. 

Of course, it's the famous that people come to see (like me). I hopped on the Metro and easily found my way to the Père Lachaise stop and there I was, armed with a map (that was missing some key information like names of avenues and chemins (paths) that I would need to find my way around. I was able to procure an official map and ran into several of the same people along the way to find Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf's graves. It was like a weird version of a scavenger hunt; we spread out to find a particular grave (like Edith Piaf's - so hard to find) and then either point them out or give odd directions using other tombs or markers. I made it to Jim Morrison's grave with the help of four Canadians. Interestingly, they were not all together and found that they have a mutual acquaintance. I did not run into anyone I know today.

Jim Morrison died in Paris in 1971. I've read several different accounts of his death over the years. Some say he died of natural causes; others that he overdosed. Some people don't believe he's dead. He and Elvis are spotted all the time. There was no autopsy so there is no definitive cause of death. His grave has been vandalized and scandalized over the years. There is now a barrier around it and glass in front. People still leave items for him and drink whiskey when they find the grave. The tombs on either side are heavily graffitited, proving that even in death we can't have nice things. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for The Doors. When I think of L.A. in the 60s, they're who come to mind. I'm partial to "Love Street", "Love Her Madly" and "L.A. Woman". 

Morrison is not easy to find and that's on purpose. The amount of vandalism done to the area since he was buried there is extraordinary. For a long time there was no marker. The cemetery map is not the easiest thing to follow but I fell in with the Canadians and we made our way together. I think Morrison would have liked the fact that his grave has caused problems over the years. I wish I had brought my iPod with me today so I could have listened to a song or two.

I took a few pictures (including the graffitied tombs) and moved along. As I was walking towards the Avenue Circulaire, I was able to direct two groups to Jim Morrison - I helped! I made my way to Edith Piaf next (found with the assistance of two Italian girls I met as I came into the cemetery) and then onto Oscar Wilde.

Oscar Wilde's grave is another one that has undergone some changes in recent years. Wilde died while basically in exile in Paris following imprisonment on indecency charges. The tradition at his grave was for women to put on lipstick and kiss the tomb (this started sometime in the 1990s). Wes Craven depicts this in his contribution to the film Paris, Je T'aime. I'm a little sad that there's now glass and barriers up around his tomb. I feel like Oscar Wilde would have liked the attention. It hasn't stopped everyone; the tomb next to Wilde's has a broken cross on top of it because of someone trying to continue the tradition. There are some kisses far up on the sides above the glass. Definitely adds to the pilgrimage feel of visiting.

But I also understand why his family made the choice to have the tomb cleaned and protected. It's their right to preserve the tomb as they see fit just as it was for Jim Morrison's family. If they're not preserved there won't be anything left for the next generation of "pilgrims". 

I ended my day back along the Seine (navigating the Paris Metro like a boss). I found an artist near the Louvre who was painting lovely watercolors and I purchased a few from her. We discussed Montmartre a bit (tomorrow's destination). She told me to take time to sit in one of the parks and enjoy the view. We also discussed the weather (I guess this is normal everywhere). It didn't rain today but was overcast and cool - perfect cemetery walking weather.  

So tomorrow - Montmartre and Sacré-Coeur. And yes, I'm planning to go to the Café des 2 Moulins (Two Windmills) where Amélie worked. Don't judge.