Pere Lachaise Cemetery

My first day in Paris, I walked from Notre Dame to the Pere Lachaise Cemetery. It was a long walk through accidental streets and interesting corners. On the way I bought the obligatory baguette and bottle of water for half the price the vendors were selling them around Notre Dame. The streets I crossed were less Belle Paris and more Paris Ordinaire, with a definite increasing ethnic presence from Africa and North Africa. At last I reached the cemetery, which was quiet and had a steady small straggle of visitors.

I found myself a shady step at the feet of Faure to eat my baguette, drink my water and to smoke a leisurely cigarette. Refreshed I wandered off to find the grave of my hero during my intense teenage years, many moons ago. Along the way there were some lovely mausoleums, many dilapidated, others pristine.

It was obvious, like me, most were seeking out the grave of Jim Morrison. Middle-aged couples, younger couples, groups of solitary young men in black T-shirts and a slightly wild feel to them, and teenagers, pimply and in their own minds, probably dangerous. We oldies know that feeling and know how quickly it passes. There are graves of many great and good authors, artists and musicians spread throughout the vast cemetery, but unfortunately Jim’s grave is probably closer to the entrance so unless a visitor has a definite agenda these immortals get ignored. I confess I did the same because I was hot and tired and my camera battery was about to give out. Next time. Despite a plan at the entrance, Jim’s grave was difficult to find, everyone went in different directions.

Family tombs from an age when life was so much more serious and worthy. Inspiration for their architecture varied as did the influences for the tone of decoration. Greek classicism featured heavily.
Some of the statuary was striking – overblown or sombre in turn.

After much ambling and back tracking I found Morrison’s grave. It was virtually hidden, tucked behind other graves almost out of sight. I happened upon it accidentally. Spookily, just when I was sure I wouldn’t find it and could not face a trek back to the master plan, I heard the briefest snatch of the opening chords of Light My Fire. It was enough to convince me I was close. Was it Jim letting me know or merely some other fans nearby who were playing the song in tribute? The oddity was that it was so brief. I had heard that it was a bit of a circus around his grave, with graffiti and tokens left by enamoured pilgrims, but it seems the authorities had had enough and cleaned it up.

What interested me most was the Greek inscription which I had never heard or read being mentioned before. It reads KATA TON DAEMONA EAYTOY - which roughly translates as ‘against his own demons’. I wonder who chose it.