Saturday is the day for two old favorites–Sacre Coeur at Montmarte and Pere Lachaise Cemetery.
As we left the Metro atop at Montmarte, I noticed everyone was herding at the elevator to leave the station. I had forgotten that it is 90–yes, 90–steps to the street. Too late to turn around in the crowds. Up the stairs we went.
We gladly invested another train ticket for the funicular up to the basilica, where another stairway awaits.
As we reached the top of the stairs to Sacre Coeur, the trinket sellers were hustling down the steps, their blankets drawn up, as the local police car patrolled by.
We see these guys everywhere and in all cities. They display their wares on a blanket with loops at each corner so they grab the ropes into a bag in a nano-second when the local authorities approach. They were out in force New Year’s Eve at the Eiffel Tower, and they populate tourist-heavy spots like Sacre Coeur in droves.
As we worked out way into the church embedded in a thick stream of visitors, I thought to myself this was the perfect time to visit a church like Sacre Coeur, since it the middle of Saturday, and Mass will not be an issue.
Wouldn’t you know it–we walked right into the 11:15 a.m. Saturday Mass. Right at the moment of the Consecration.
We shuffled along with the crowds along the side, keeping silent. We sat down to respectfully watch the Communion ceremony, then watched as the officiating priest ended Mass with a remote control that lifted a curtain above the original altar revealing the most spectacular monstrance I had ever seen. This magnificent instrument must stand a good five feet, supported by near life-sized gilded angels. The entire display was dramatically lighted from above. The Catholic Church knows how to make a statement.
Having seen the light, we actually walked down the stairs to catch a train to the other world–Cemetery Pere Lachaise, final resting place of more than a million residents, including scores of the famous.
Pere Lachaise, named for Louis XIV’s Jesuit confessor, is one of the few historic cemeteries in Paris, since the residents of the oldest ones were disinterred and placed in the catacombs that weave underneath the city. We toured the catacombs last summer; they are worth a spooky visit.
Lynn had had enough walking and does not share my fascination with cemeteries, so she planted herself on a park bench near the entrance to wait on my visit to Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf.
Morrison’s gravesite is covered with flowers, and the tree in front is covered with chewing gum. The cemetery officials have shrouded the bottom six feet of the tree with removable, replaceable bamboo screens to preserve the tree from the ravages of tourist deposits. I don’t remember this from before. What goes through peoples’ minds?
Not far down the lane from Morrison’s repose is a much more recent one–the grave of a 21-year-old woman killed at Bataclan. There were no gawking crowds here, but her resting place stopped me in my tracks. She looked very pretty in her photo.
Edith Piaf’s grave is small, nondescript and all the way up in the far top righthand corner of the cemetery. Her stage name is engraved on the side, as her true family name was Gassion. Her initials, PF, are engraved large on an urn at the top of the black polished sarcophagus for fans to place flowers.
After a small panic attack trying to find Lynn in the cemetery, I was happy to retreat to the bistro across the street for a refreshing beer.