Autumn in Paris. Day 3: Jim Morrison’s Fences, the Arc de Triomphe, and Fleetwood Mac
By: Vlad Copilu
Tags: Travel, Paris

I went to bed again, quite late, but I managed, surprisingly, to wake up at about eight-thirty. The alarm on Johnny’s phone woke me up. He wakes up with Rock FM as an alarm. I finished writing for the blog, but I still had to upload pictures, and with the internet here, it can take an eternity. After I got out of the shower, I found out that we also had breakfast, consisting of butter (Johnny caught an old one), jam, cereal with milk, toast, and orange juice. It wasn’t ten when I left the hotel.

Pere Lachaise

Since I was a few months old, my brothers made me listen to music. I wasn’t aware of what was happening, but I was best asleep, they say, with The Doors, which became my favorite band. It has remained that way until now, although I have somewhat given up on Morrison’s beliefs. However, the tomb of Jim Morrison at Pere Lachaise was at the top of the places I wanted to see. I called my sister L. to share her emotions, who kept urging me to convey all the best to Eliade (who is buried in Chicago), Emil Cioran, Eugen Ionescu, and Constantin Brâncuși. The last three, whom I thought I was sleeping in Pere Lachaise forever, are buried in Montparnasse Cemetery, which I don’t think I’ll get to. At Montparnasse, which is a competition with Pere Lachaise, there are also the deceased Serge Gainsbourg, Philippe Noiret, Andre Citroen, Jean-Paul Sartre, Emile Durkheim, Sam Beckett, and other famous people of Romanian origin such as Tristan Tzara and Brassai, real name Gyula Halasz, born in Brașov in 1899. Perla Șezi is, however, full of celebrities on whatever alley you go. I entered from the subway station of the same name to the cemetery. The first to be seen was George Melies, the father of the art of cinema, to whom I have a passion for films. The place is quite hidden but fantastic for a director who chose to live the second part of his life in a quasi-anonymity. On its stone was a piece of film and on top of it two stones. It was pretty challenging to keep up with the view of this cemetery, where I did not feel suffocated or uncomfortable.

Not all famous Romanians are burried at Montparnasse. Martha Bibescu lies here, along with Anna, the Countess of Noailles, Nicolae Penescu, Alexandru Vona, George Enescu and Elvira Popescu. We only managed to see the graves of the last two.

In order not to prolong the work with people who are lower than the hat I lower for them, I also looked for Mr. and Mrs. Balzac, Oscar Wilde (who has a fancy grave), Frank Alamo, Eugene Delacroix, Georges Bizet, Bugatti (who only has his name written on a stone and that’s it), Edith Piaf and others.

Jim Morrison, Chopin, and Petruciani

I saved what I wanted for the end. Morrison’s grave can be found relatively quickly and not necessarily out of geographical ease, but because there are at least 20 people around it at all times. I haven’t seen that anywhere in Pere Lachaise. Besides, it’s the only eternal place you can’t reach, and you can see from a distance of ten meters. The tomb was crowded for a long time by fanatics who snatched pieces of the tombstone, so those in charge decided to fence it. They sing, drink wine and beer, smoke, and stick chewing gum on circular wooden boards surrounding a tree. As an epitaph, there is a text written by Morrison’s father with whom he did not have a happy relationship. Kata ton Daimona Eaytoy, from ancient Greek, means Against the devil himself. At the same time, this name is also found in the title of an album by the Greek extreme metal band Rotting Christ.

I did something after this episode that I had been waiting for a long time. That it is incredible to be able to leave something remarkable behind when you immerse yourself in the Pere Lachaise of your eternity. Morrison has succeeded, although his lyrical exacerbation often leaves me cold, now, at 31 springs this fall. Although the other giants descended from here to Heaven are superior to King Lizard, pop culture will come out triumphant every time.

I left with “My wild love went riding” from The Doors in my mind and the vocal cords to the graves of Chopin and Petrucciani.

We left the immortals to eat something. We looked for a more decent terrace, enjoyed some excellent pasta, and then made our way to the Parc des Princes. The gust was already relatively healthy, and we were given directions to the tickets. We couldn’t find anything available. The match was to be played behind closed doors. Despite the Romanian’s departure from us, we still didn’t succeed. Johnny kept urging me to pay attention to the older men, which I did. “150 euros, each ticket”. Yes, but leave me with these prices! Etoile Rouge Belgrade will not be the equivalent of Arsenal Cincu, but neither is Barcelona, with all due regard for their glorious past. We wasted more time near the stadium, criticized everyone who had a ticket, then headed to the Arc de Triomphe.

I annoyed a lady.

We enjoyed the grandeur of the Arc de Triomphe, which we caught surrounded by wonderful sunset light. There were quite a few people around, under the Arch, because they were waiting to climb on it. There were even more upstairs, I think. We descended slightly on their Kisselef, which is called the Champs Elysees. I took some more pictures of the street, in the middle of the pedestrian crossing, which has a kind of island with a traffic light pole. When I take an artistic picture, one comes by bike and swears at me because it ruined my whole vacation. I was to blame for her regularly cycling. I took a deep breath and walked on with difficulty. There is not much to say about the Champs Elysees. Opulence, many terraces, high prices at most restaurants, and a lot of people. Johnny was so hungry that we got stuck in a Burger King, where we each fought a cheeseburger. Then I went to the Latin Quarter because that’s where life is more lively.

The Latin Quarter hits you right away. This is precisely what every significant capital or city in the world has. Shops, fast food, and many pubs. In one of them, we stopped to watch the Napoli-Liverpool match. Because I forgot my cigarettes at the hotel, I had to look for a tobacconist, a commercial item that is still fashionable all over Europe. I found a place out of this and stood in line. An interesting thing here is that at every tobacconist or brasserie, there are lotteries. When I entered, Johnny Cash could be heard. Next to the counter was a gentleman in his 50s, whom I let buy before me. It was slightly fragrant from so many lotteries, probably because it gave me an ugly look. There was a couple in the back. The man asks if he has to listen to Johnny Cash all night because he buys a lottery that says cash. If he had had Tokyo Hotel, I think he would have gotten into a fight.

Johnny had stayed at the pub waiting for me. We got to the game, ordered some fancy beers, and the universe started to mess up. Since the beginning of this year, I have acquired an obsession for Fleetwood Mac in the formula with Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks. Especially for the song “The Chain.” We were delighted because it was fixed. I sat, talked, drank, and then asked for the note. When I get up, The Chain comes in again. If you know someone with a fly on your hat, please ask them to calm down. I thought we were being watched all this time: in front of the hotel window, there is a car with Brăila numbers.

We left the Latin behind and headed for the hotel.

About 25 subway stations we had to travel again to the accommodation. The journey by Parisian subway is always the same, the stations are close, and the people are different. You can create stories if you look into everyone’s eyes. So did I with a girl in front of me, who I think fell in love with me when she saw how beautiful I yawned. Obviously, with his hand to his mouth. He was with another guy. They both seemed clumsy in showing their love for each other. They went down with us to Saint-Denis Basilique, and we could feel their footsteps as they followed in our footsteps. We slowed down a bit because a thief was running next to the subway station again, these two of us. When we turned left, he asked us if we were still going to F1, I told him, yes and his face lit up. He told us how frightened he was that someone had followed him when they arrived to stay. They were Italians, or, well, he was Italian. I put Johnny on the slice, who said arrogantly that he was talking a little. They rushed to the hotel to look at them like tennis. She, like me, didn’t say anything all the way; she just laughed as she moved on to whatever we said. If I told her in Swahili that I was hungry, she would grind the beans. The two are newlyweds and were very pleased with this hotel. I think so; you don’t always stay in something like that.

That’s about it for today.

Au revoir.

This is the English version of a post from my blog, Papucicutimbre. The original version is here .