Day One in Paris: E. Piaf

Following is a stylized account of my travels in Iceland and Paris. As told here, this chronicles the activities of possibly the most obnoxious tourist to have ever set foot outside his own country.

“That cat’s gonna bite you,” I said authoritatively. “I wouldn’t get near that thing if I were you.” The man had approached me in Pere Lachaise, the cemetery where Edith Piaf was laid to eternal rest. I was still looking for her when he asked me about the little black cat. Yes, I’d gone to the cat, but had left it alone, feeling that it wasn’t in the mood to entertain visitors—now or ever. He went to Blackie, seated and looking wary at the corner of a stone building. The cat snarled, gave fair warning that the man was about to be slashed. The Parisian, a longtime resident of the quarter, recoiled; he asked me about the political situation back home, shifted the groceries that he carried from the local shops he’d visited all his life. He used the cemetery as a shortcut. I told him I didn’t care about the political scene, wasn’t aware that there had been a presidential election even, and asked him if he knew who the candidates were—because maybe there was someone there to my liking. I then asked if France still had kings and where I could visit the guillotine or if they only brought it out on special days. And our conversation dissolved there in the November rain, the words washing away onto the glistening cobblestones. We went our separate ways.

In the City of the Dead, I was getting closer. I’d bought a map and a photo of the tomb out front, from the man who made his life there at the entrance to the massive place. I was joined by French tourists, also on the same quest.
“Guess you didn’t buy a postcard, like I did,” I said with an air of reproach. “Look, I have a map, too.” So armed, I had everything I needed to locate the grave in the huge grounds, which encompassed many city blocks. Still I couldn’t find it. The man with the groceries pointed out the grave of Yves Montand, whom I didn’t even know was buried there. He was a contemporary of Piaf’s, sang the same kinds of songs, even covered the same ones at times.

“I guess I’ll show you a picture of the grave, so at least one of us can find it,” I said grudgingly. “Seems like some people might part with a couple of francs for a lousy map and a postcard—even if they are French.” The woman, solemn in her devotion to the departed singer—but not devoted enough to buy a postcard—looked at the photo and soon found the grave.
“Monsieur!” She called me over, where she and her husband were standing in front of Piaf’s tomb. I came over, laid a bright yellow rose on the resting place. I’d bought it at one of the local florists, and it hadn’t come cheap. I pointed this out to the others there, with the implication that some of us were maybe a bit more sincere in our pilgrimage to that place, and that for others it was just something to do.
“I’m American,” I said to the small gathering that was paying its respects. “She isn’t even from my country,” I added. “But I’ve come to this place with a map, a postcard, and a bright yellow rose. And I’ve crossed an ocean.” I paused. “What do you have?” I asked the visibly upset French woman. “A video camera,” I said mockingly. With the assembled persons seething with resentment, I took my leave. I’d asked one of the cemetery workers if there was water in the vase atop her tomb, where other assorted flowers were displayed, and put the beautiful and fully bloomed rose in it to keep it from wilting too soon. It would also be a deterrent to cheap tourists, who would be tempted to snatch it for the adornment of another’s grave.

So ended my first day in Paris.