PÈRE LAÇHAISE REPORT
We here at Mango Pudding Blues are back, children. We’ve been back for a little while. But we thought we might take an extra week or so of vacation from you and your greedy, demanding eyeballs.
Paris? Wonderful. Wonderful. And while we are certain that we will have a lot to say about Paris to you in the future, at the moment we are speechless. While you wait, however, we offer you this little update on our promised haunts in Père Laçhaise cemetery.
1) Jim Morrison. Humble little headstone. Difficult to find. He’s sort of nestled off the path in the middle of a group of far bigger graves. The giveaway is the security fencing that keeps the pilgrims ten feet away and the gendarme who lurks by a tree, making sure the four nervous goth kids and two old hippies don’t attempt to exhume the lizard king.
2) Oscar Wilde. Fabulous, enormous modern sculpture. And a surprise! On and around his name there are 100 lipstick kisses. Is this a tradition? Or did a rabid pack of fans pass by moments prior to our arrival?
3) Chopin. Capped by a weeping marble angel and festooned with fresh tributes, still-burning candles and heartbreaking handwritten notes whose ink was slowly running in the soft rain, it appeared as though “Fred” Chopin had been buried there only hours before.
