R.I.P Jim Morrison

Jim's Grave, Pere Lachaise, Paris.
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Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918), poet & soldier, coined term "surrealism";

Sarah Bernhardt (1844-1923), actress;

Riders on the Storm

Jean-François Champollion (1790-1832), Egyptologist on Napoleon's Egyptian Campaigns, decipherer of the Rosetta stone;

Frédéric Chopin (1810-1849), composer (his heart is entombed in a pillar in the Church of the Holy Cross in Warsaw, Poland;

Max Ernst (1891-1976), Surrealist and Expressionist artist;

Jim Morrison (1943-1971), American singer, songwriter, and poet (Permanent crowds and occasional vandalism surrounding this tomb have caused tensions with the families of other, less famous, deceased. The cemetery has been forced to hire a full-time security guard for the grave.)

Édith Piaf (1915-1973), France's most famous singer;

Marcel Proust (1870-1922), author;

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), Irish novelist, poet & playwright. (In)Famous for "flamboyant" lifestyle in Victorian England.

These are some of the famous people buried at Père Lachaise. We had picked up the rental by the time we got to the cemetary. We both couldn't help noticing that every car had dings and dents. We soon found out not to put the handbrake on when we parked, so if necessary, the car could be bumped and pushed about to make room for other cars. The rain fell in fits and starts throughout the day.

Père Lachaise is a rather large place with crypts and tombs laid out along the thin twisting paths, all with dark gothic reliefs covering the entire building. Gargoyles, grotesques and looming busts lurk around every corner, sneering and snarling in their stone seduction.

We past many gravestones before we found the legendary resting place of one James Douglas Morrison, who died at the age of 27 in a bathtub at a motel in Paris. Guards circled at a discreet distance keeping a wary eye out for any disturbance at the gravesite. There's been statanic orgies staged at night, hippies making love on the slab and diehard drugged up hard core fans of his music lingering in the shadows waiting to do who knows what. None of the above was seen at the time we were there so we’ll just have to go back.

Met two Doors fans from America at the gravesite toasting Jim with a bottle of wine, we hung with them for a while going from gravesite to gravesite and then into an enclosed crypt to shelter when the rain became heavy. Graffiti covered the walls, from pentagrams and demonic drawings to Ann loves Paul scribbles.

We wandered around amongst the tombs for the rest of the afternoon with the occasional rain falling down upon us. To think of all these people through all the ages with their dreams and loves and fancies and all their experiences now silent, not even able to hint at what wonders they have seen or heard or felt through their lives. Like riders on the storm I suppose we all have to make the ultimate journey sometime.

We limped back to the car to dry out, glad that we had seen where Jim lives and thanked him for his music.