One of the first things everyone asked when I returned from Paris is: “Did you go to Versailles?” Hardly anyone has asked: “Did you go to Pere Lachaise Cemetery?” Franc-ly I can’t understand why. It is a fascinating walk into history. It is also one of those Paris offering that falls between the lines–long lines of tourists, that is.
In mid-May I went to Paris for eight days. It was springtime, it was my first visit, and I intended to make the most of it. But after lines at the Eiffel Tower, lines at Notre Dame, lines at the Louvre (shortened by a museum pass), I decided I was missing the other Paris. If I were going to keep my sanity–and more important, if I were going to have some sense of actually having been in Paris–I needed to spend more time in places that weren’t filled with people like me.
The possibilities are almost infinite, of course. Paris is a place for all tastes and all seasons. But below are some of the sites I wouldn’t have missed. For example:
– Pere Lachaise Cemetery: Pere Lachaise Cemetery is located near the northeastern rim of the city (Metro stop: Pere Lachaise or Gambetta) on the Right Bank. For greenery, history and communing with the spirits of famous Parisians, it cannot be beat. It stands on one of the Parisian hills not leveled by Baron Haussman when he was designing modern Paris. Carved stone steps wind up the hillside, between the tall trees and monuments that line the path. Pere Lachaise has been described as the most prestigious address in Paris. Here are buried some of the most famous of former Parisians. (A map was available at the gate for 20 francs, then about $1.50.)
When I arrived in the middle of a Sunday morning there was a small line of people waiting to get in, and for a moment I had second thoughts. A crowded cemetery would be even worse than a crowded Eiffel Tower. But once inside I didn’t see them again. They were probably headed for the grave of Jim Morrison, one-time lead singer of The Doors. I had other residents in mind.
Those, for example, like the 12th Century star-crossed lovers Abelard and Heloise. He was a cleric in minor orders and a popular controversial teacher; she was his brilliant pupil. At first a meeting of the minds, they fell in love, later had a son Astrolabe, who was later adopted by Abelard’s brother. Heloise’s uncle Fulbert did not approve of the relationship, and eventually had Abelard castrated by henchmen who surprised him as he slept.
Abelard became a monk, and Heloise became a nun. But they kept in communication by a series of now-famous letters. They may have been separated in life, but not in death. When Abelard died, he was buried at the Paraclete, the oratory of which Heloise was prioress. When Heloise died, she was buried with him. The Paraclete was later demolished, and in 1817 they were moved, together, to Pere Lachaise, with some of the stones from the original tomb used for the present one.
The tomb is protected by a wrought iron fence, with statues of the two lying side by side, carved on the headstone.
Frederick Chopin’s grave is more accessible. His place in history and in the hearts of French and foreigners is evident by the fact that after more than a century his grave is still a shrine. Flowers, especially red roses, were strewn on the pedestal beneath the carved figure, and here and there glass candle holders with unlit candles. Someone had added a page of sheet music with a promise to practice. Unlike Abelard and Heloise, Chopin’s one-time love Aurore Dupin, known as George Sand, is not buried with him. After their famous idyll they had a falling out, and she is buried with her family in the cemetery of Montmartre. But for the rest of the world, he remains a legend in life as in death. You almost expect to hear the strains of a Polonaise, faint and haunting, under the sound of the wind in the trees.
Beyond Chopin’s grave is the family mausoleum of Baron Georges Haussman, prefect of the Seine and urban planner for Louise Philippe (the Emperor Napoleon III). Depending on your perspective, Haussman was either the designer of today’s Paris or the destroyer of the historic Paris.
It was Haussman who conceived the grand design of the 12 great boulevards known as the Etoile (or Star) radiating out from the Arc de Triomphe But in doing so he had to demolish various of the winding medieval streets and move out the people who were already there. Some Parisians didn’t like him much, but the emperor did, which is what counted.
At the far end of the cemetery, near the Gambetta Metro stop, is the grave of Oscar Wilde. Like Chopin’s, his grave is still a beacon for visitors, but in its own distinctive way. Here there were fewer flowers, and no candles nor sheets of paper with pledges. There was only a small plaque informing the public in French and English that the tomb is a historical monument and is not to be defaced. Covering much of the surface of the tombstone pedestal are hundreds of precise lipstick impressions, in the shape of a kiss. Wilde, never a conformist, might have approved.
Pere Lachaise is still in use as a cemetery, and among the visitors are friends and relatives of those more recently deceased, with bouquets of flowers or buckets of water and brushes to clean the headstones–all of which contributes to a general air of respect. Beyond the high stone walls of the cemetery Paris goes about its business. But inside you don’t hear what Henry James described as “the great hum of Paris.” Here the voices are muted. It is quiet enough that you can hear the wind sighing in the trees as it has done though the centuries since Chopin was laid to rest after a procession in which 20,000 people lined the streets of Paris to watch his passing.
– The Caillebotte Corner: The massive painting “Paris Street: Rainy Day” by Gustave Caillebotte (1877) dominates a wall in the Art Institute of Chicago. You can’t miss it: triangular buildings with wrought-iron grillwork facing an elegant city square, cobblestones glistening gray in the rain and passbersby under grey umbrellas. In the foreground an elegant couple share an umbrella arm in arm. From the time I saw the painting I wanted to see Paris, preferably on a rainy day.
No guidebook on Paris (or at least none that I’ve seen) mentions the setting for the painting since guidebooks aren’t written specifically for travelers from the Chicago area. Even the museum guide (which uses it on the cover) doesn’t say exactly where it is, only that it is a complex intersection near the Gare St. Lazare on the Right Bank. Since it’s a rare Paris intersection that is not complex, it took some subtle detective work to find it, mainly reading the white card beside the painting and using a Paris map. According to the card, the intersection was where Rue Moscou crossed Rue Turin, now called Place Dublin..
To see it properly, of course, I wanted to see it as Caillebotte saw it–in the rain. Two days after arriving in Paris I awoke to damp streets and a light drizzle–my Paris rainy day. The street wasn’t that difficult to find. Rue Moscou is a short street leading directly from the Liege Metro stop to its intersection with the even shorter Rue Turin (not to be confused with Rue Turenne which is somewhere else entirely). And there it was: triangular buildings with wrought iron balconies on an intersection so complex I wasn’t sure which way to face.
Caillebotte himself might have some difficulty in recognizing it today. It is serviceable now, rather than elegant. The cobblestones have been replaced by concrete paving. (My guidebook said that after the Paris student riots, when cobblestones were used as missiles, various of the older streets were resurfaced with non-portable concrete.) There were now no elegantly dressed couples in fur-trimmed dresses or top hats strolling arm and arm under gray umbrellas. Instead, in the center of the square was a small triangle where black-helmeted Parisians collected or parked their motorcycle for the morning commute. But it was still the Caillebotte intersection. And it was still a Paris street in the rain. And just for one moment I had actually been able to walk into a French painting among the ghosts of elegant people with gray umbrellas strolling a rainy Paris street 123 years ago.
– The Palais de Justice and the French Courts: For a different perspective, it is possible to sit in on a trial at the criminal court. The Palais de Justice (Metro: Cite) is on the same boat-shaped island in the Seine as Notre Dame–Ile de la Cite. The entrance is on a side street, with the entrance to Sainte-Chapelle. (Once inside, ask for “les chambes” if you have difficulty finding the courts.)
Unlike American and English courts, there were three examining judges or magistrates presiding, one of whom talked directly with the prisoners, as well as with their lawyers. As in English courts, the judges and the lawyers were robed in black, but without the English wigs.
The accused sat behind a chest-high plastic or glass partition, each with a warder seated behind. When the prisoner stood, the guard stood, face watchful and unmoving beneath the black forage cap.
It helped to understand a little French, but it is not necessary. (I understand very little.) But French body language is very expressive, and you can watch the drama play itself out, rather like watching a movie without subtitles, or a plot summary. The palm-out gesture of the red-sleeved magistrate as he says questioningly, “Mais (but) Monsieur… !” The prisoner who sat wiping his face repeatedly as he waited his turn, the prisoner who swaggered in with a wink. And “cocaine” sounds very similar in French.
The courts are open from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. with a break for lunch about 12:30, but the second time I was there, the court recessed about 11:30 a.m. It appeared they had temporarily run out of crime…
– Luxembourg Gardens on a weekday afternoon. When you need a rest after legal Paris, Luxembourg Gardens on the Left Bank on a weekday is a great place to bring your lunch. On a weekend or holiday it would clearly be a different matter.
The number of green chairs scattered throughout the gardens, along with the benches, are an indication of what it would be like. But on Monday afternoon most of the chairs were empty. There were, of course, people there, old and young, alone or with one or two others. But they were astonishingly, wonderfully quiet. No loud voices. No boom boxes. No cell phones ringing. Even the dogs were well-behaved.
A polite, solitary guard strolled the perimeter of the pond and garden, looking slightly bored with all that good behavior.
According to one of the guide books, during his lean days in Paris, Ernest Hemingway used to capture unfortunate pigeons when the guard wasn’t around, He then hid their bodies under a blanket in a baby carriage and took them home for his meal.
I had brought a baguette sandwich for my lunch, which I decided to share with the pigeons. If Hemingway could eat the ancestors, I could surely feed the descendants. I crumbled the substantial remains of the baguette for the pigeons flocking at my feet and told them, “Papa sent me.” It seemed the proper thing to do.
– Beyond Paris–Chartres on a Saturday morning: I had decided I would take one day trip from Paris and decided that it would be Chartres. But hopefully Chartres without the crowds. Saturday morning seemed like a good possibility, assuming that the rest of the world was out living it up on Friday night.
With the help of the concierge I took the 9:24 a.m. Grande Ligne No. 4 from the Montparnasse station ((Metro: Montparnasse), arriving in Chartres an hour later. It was a good time to arrive, with the ancient towers soaring dark against a somber sky. The cathedral was silent, stately and nearly empty.
For a moment you could almost imagine what it might have been like 800 years before. It was so deserted that I almost missed the access to the bell tower precisely because there was no line. I climbed the stairs to the top without meeting more than two or three people coming down, and none going up. (It was a good thing too, because I periodically had to stop to catch my breath on the narrow–and interminable–staircase winding up, up, up.)
When I reached the top, the only other climber was on his way down. So I had the little balcony–with its view of flying buttresses, the statues, the gargoyles and the sweeping view of the countryside–to myself.
Afterwards I followed the marked route through the old city on a walking tour. There was the occasional trio of bride, groom and photographer who kept busy waving me out of the scenic spots in their pictures. Otherwise there were only a few people out and about en route, and I could walk the streets of a medieval city uncrowded by 21st Century feet.
– Montmartre and Sacre Couer: And finally, if you want to avoid lines but want something lively, there is Montmartre and the Church of Sacre-Coeur which is probably, other than the banks of the Seine, my favorite place in Paris. On the Left Bank, it offers a breathtaking view of Paris, as well as atmosphere to match. If Notre Dame is Serious History, Sacre Coeur is Serious But Fun.
It was crowded. On a Sunday afternoon the steps leading down from the church were filled with people relaxing in the sun, picnicking and watching the Grand Guignol puppet show. (This was a puppet show with a human puppet doing comedy and quick costume changes in a small curtained portable stage, accompanied by really classy classical like Pachelbel’s “Canon in D.”) There are frequent enough funicular trams running from the bottom of the hill, and enough space at the top of the hill that even in the crowd I didn’t feel crowded.
Once there, the view is breathtaking. I found a place on the steps to eat the baguette sandwich I had bought en route and watched the sky, turning from blue to dark gray and back to blue again as rain clouds moved over Paris. (If you forget the sandwich there is a stand that sells crepes, soft drinks, and ice cream at the top of the hill.)
– Irresistible lines–crepes to go: There was one place I would cheerfully wait in line and that was at one or another of the crepe stands for a Nutella crepe (about $2 in May). While waiting your turn you can watch the vendor make two large crepes at a time on griddles. Then the crepe is folded over, spread with Nutella (a hazelnut-flavored chocolate spread), put in a napkin and served warm, with the Nutella melting into the crepe.
They could, I think, be addictive. They can also be rather messy to eat, unless you are French and born with the knack. (There are also other flavors of crepes beside Nutella, but who cares?)
It’s not that I didn’t do anything truly traditional. For example, I took a night illumination tour (minibus and cruise on the Seine). It began at dusk and, after seeing various Paris monuments from the river, the tour was timed to end at the pier near the Eiffel Tower on the hour. As the hypnotic rhythm of Ravel’s “Bolero” died away, and the boat turned to face the tower, lights began flickering up and down the Tower as they did on New Year’s Eve 2000, while everyone on the tour (including me) went “Ooooooooh!” It was certainly touristy, possibly corny and completely marvelously magical.
So I’m not against going anywhere where there are people like me. But there are still a lot of advantages in trying to see Paris between the lines. For one, you can see things that everyone else could, but frequently don’t. How many people do you know who actually have been to the Caillebotte Corner, the Palace of Justice or Pere Lachaise?
These are also places you can go on your own, which isn’t always the case. For example, if you are traveling solo and senior, as I was, a “romantic dinner cruise for two” on the Seine just isn’t an option. (Incidentally, all of the places listed above are free.)
Furthermore, you’re in parts of Paris where there are actually French people. It made for a good perspective on the legendary Parisian brusqueness in dealing with visitors. Because I was traveling alone, it was often these legendary Parisians themselves whom I stopped on the street with an excusez-moi and asked in my primitive French to take my picture. Serious or smiling, they were consistently gracious about it; in some cases they motioned me to move sidewise, for what they saw as a better shot. (This was, after all, France.)
It also may have helped that there weren’t a dozen other people all asking the same thing. But it made me wonder: Was I simply very fortunate or are the French simply getting a bad rap?
So, as to Versailles. I’m sure it must be very beautiful. I would expect no less of the Sun King or any other self-aggrandizing absolute monarch with a good budget and a talented staff. But, no, I never did make it to Versailles. But still, I’ll always have Pere Lachaise.
