The Dead

The Why

"I think the people who are happiest here in the city are the ones who find a stillness somewhere," says Geoff.

"That's why I like ossuaries and cemeteries," I contribute, "They offer a kind of absolute stillness."

"I understand what you mean, but that's a bit dark," he gently chides.

Charlie and I have always enjoyed the places where the dead hang out. Our interest in these spaces may have started as a way of acting edgy or fearless in the face mortality. It may have been influenced by goth subculture and general depressive nihilism during our formative years. Now it really is about peace and quiet, perspective, and history.

The Brief Histories of the Dead - Montparnasse Cemetery

Here lie the likes of French legends Jean-Paul Sartre and Simon de Beauvoir, Baudelaire, Camille Saint-Saenz, and Serge Gainsbourg. It's also the final resting place of Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes and former Mexican president Porfirio Díaz. The fact that the latter is buried in Paris rather than Mexico is testament to how well his political career went.

The entire grounds are awash with the colors of freshly placed flowers from All Souls' Day. The low morning sun filters through the shedding trees and tiny stained glass windows on mausoleums made to look like miniature Gothic cathedrals. The other living are mostly tourists, wandering around with large laminated placards that give the rough locations of various celebrity graves. A few people are here to pay their respects to dead loved ones. We are touched to see an elderly woman knelt on the edge of a long, flat tomb, silently praying.

Charlie smokes a nice Cuban cigar and we chat quietly, appreciating the creative sculptures, unusual names, and stories engraved into the gravestones. One is a giant multicolored mosaic cat. Others show their owners' professions, such as a chef portrayed by a toque-wearing bust or a writer portrayed with an open book and quill pen. We pause a long time in front of one grave, speechless as we read that the only people who lie there are the parents of four children who perished at the Auschwitz-Birkenau extermination camp in 1942.

Ricardo's mosaic cat

We are all compost in the end.

Pure leisure

Paleontology and Comparative Anatomy

We are on our way to the paleontology and comparative anatomy exhibit of the National Museum of Natural History. I first visited with Charlie's family in 2011 when they came to see us in Paris, but Charlie was working that day and couldn't join us. That first time, as soon as I walked in I knew I had to bring Charlie here. He's a skeleton enthusiast and would love it.

Guided by Google maps, we emerge from the metro at the wrong side of the sprawling Jardin des Plantes and must walk through it to get to the museum. Fortunately, it's a gorgeous garden and there is plenty to see, including wallabies (of all things) and a curious colony of feral rose-ringed parakeets, a species introduced to Europe in the 1970s. The herb and flower beds are manicured and colorful and, since it is raining, there is hardly anyone here to disturb the peace of it all. We are glad to have to take the long way in and choose to take the long way out when we are finished.

I am afraid the museum might be crowded because of it being a good indoor activity for a rainy day, but there isn't even a line. We are two of perhaps a couple dozen visitors this morning and enjoy winding through the bone collections at our leisure. And I am right, Charlie loves it and marvels at all of the creatures, large and small, from tiny bats to woolly mammoths.

A silently stampeding herd

A little homie relates to his ancestors.

In the event of a Jurassic Park-type scenario, a pet triceratops is not feasible.

An unexpected flock of parakeets having lunch.

A gardener's dreamscape

The Catacombs

We have been here before, but my skeleton enthusiast husband insists that we come again. Here we stand in line for much longer than we like and, by the time we gain entry, completely hate humanity. Luckily, all the humans we've come to see are dead.

Here lie the skeletal remains of about six million people, collected from centuries-old cemeteries all around the city in response to overflow. None are fully intact, but are stacked into organized piles by bone, namely skulls, femurs, and the other large leg and arm bones. Where they've heaped all the pelvises, vertebrae, hands, and feet remains a mystery. Even ignoring the dead masses, the former stone mines are dark and foreboding. The air is chilly and smells of damp. The architects of this space attempted to add to the spook factor by including large plaques displaying the most Edgar Allan Poe-esque quotes from the Bible that they could find, and taking their pick from Dante's Inferno. Security guards stand at (not regular enough) intervals to try to prevent the ill-adjusted living from defacing or stealing from this impressive collection, with varying degrees of success. We slip through the exhibit swift and silent, pausing here and there to look closer, or to step back and take in the enormity of the space and its contents. Then, in less time than it took us to gain entry, we exit and head directly into the only gift shop worth visiting.

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

"For me... to die is gain." Philippians 1:21

Death's altar

I find this humerus.

Plenty of chiaroscuro to be found here

The Cats of Montmartre Cemetery

I spot one as soon as we enter the gates, a white and grey tabby doing figure eights around the legs of two ladies who stand chatting near a bench. One is holding a bag and the cat knows it's full of delights, which she has come to share with the feline population that inhabits the space. I approach the bench and call to the cat. She jumps up onto it and comes to me, stuffing her face into my outstretched hand for affection. But she quickly realizes I have brought her no food and returns to impatiently orbiting the ladies' legs.

As we move through these enchanted grounds, slinky bodies in our periphery dart around corners and between gravestones like little furry ghosts. I try calling to most of them and am met with either fear or disdain. It is morning and chilly. Golden sunlight is beginning to shine between the tall skeleton trees, its beams lighting up the white stone tombs like natural spotlights for opportunistic cats to warm themselves. Crows congregate on tombs, picking through the wilted flowers and fallen leaves in search of some rare morsel. Despite the early hour, Charlie lights up a cigar and we spend a good long time slowly wandering through the stone menagerie, inadvertently happening upon the graves of historical figures like Alexandre Dumas.

A brief but sweet encounter later on our trip, during a visit to Père Lachaise Cemetery