Walking Among the Dead

They call this the City of Lights, which I had trouble digesting considering it can't illuminate a single alley branching off Times Square.

I have nicknamed it several things, and this really never fit the bill through my experience. It is much more a City of the Dead which, in my personal opinion, isn't particularly a bad thing.

The impressive grave of Frédéric Chopin.
1810-1849

Perhaps my favorite place in the entirety of the city is Père Lachaise. I love this place so much after my first visit that I went back. Neither trip was funded nor organized by the school... not enough Catholic icons present I suppose. Nor are they Jim Morrison fans.

This, in case you're wondering by my lack of description, is the largest cemetery in all of Paris. It is exceedingly famous for being the final resting place of, as mentioned, Jim Morrison, as well as Oscar Wilde, the renovator of the French city post-revolution Haussman, the composer Chopin, and the historically unmatched artist David.

A lot of very talented and legendary corpses.

The cemetery really is an experience all of its own, regardless of who is buried or burned or memorialized in it. It isn't a massive lawn with strategically placed headstones lined for miles. Its only organization is burying people by "claim-to-fame." I.E. Jim Morrison the Lizard King is buried in the Poet's Corner.

The first time I went could not have been a more idealistic time to be present in a centuries old cemetery; cold day with cloudy skies that heightened the experience of the cawing crows. Quite picturesque experience of death.

It literally feels like a small city. All of the mausoleums, and they are more abundant than the headstones, make it seem like each is a little home for the inhabitants. Even as creepy as it is, it is so peaceful and intriguing.

It is 110 acres of stone dedicated to the deceased and open to the living. But only until 5 o'clock.

Which is what prompted my return trip with one man in mind: Oscar Wilde.

It was quite a worthy trip, through the terrible cold. It was another over-casted day, but perhaps the overcast is simply perpetual over this place.

Regardless, the 3.40 I spent on the trip was one that I can mark as my favorite moment in France, besides Normandy.

From all the adoration he received, they surrounded Big O's grave with glass to cease any erosion of the stone itself.

Love to one of the greatest writers of the century.

All the germs and glass in the world weren't going to stand between me and my gesture of respect and adoration for him.

He was definitely my favorite grave to visit. Though he didn't have a statue over him like Chopin, or an expressive lampost next to Jim Morrison inviting people to say goodbye, he his own words inscribed onto the stone concealing his corpse.

And alien tears will fill for him,

Pity's long-broken urn,

For his mourners will be outcast men,

And outcasts always mourn.

Exiled in life, and now the great outcast in the sky, may he live through my kindle purchases and lipgloss.