Pére-Lachaise Cemetery located on the northeast side of Paris boasts more than 5,000 trees on its 110 acres. It is both her largest park and largest cemetery. Estimates of people buried within her walls vary wildly between 300,000 and a million. It is in this eclectic place that Paris personally hugged me for the first time.
My daughter, Caroline, and I have a secret bond between us that I will keep secret. It concerns Gertrude Stein and her way with words. Because of our humorous connection to the writer, and because of her burial in Pére-Lachaise, Caroline and I included the ancient cemetery on our must-see list for our August 2022 Paris trip.
At the wheel of our huge gray van full of family, including a six month old granddaughter, my highly capable French son-in-law deftly parked on Rue de Rondeaux, outside Pére-Lachaise Cemetery's wall, down the street from one of its gates. Excited, our group entered the grounds en masse, for the very first time. I don't know that any in our group, which included native locals, had been there before. The massive grave markers, trees, and monuments overwhelmed us. In a good way, a sobering way.
From my gray travel purse I pulled the map I'd brought from home, gleaned from a book. Unfolding it, I oriented myself, Caroline peeking over my shoulder. We quickly located the 'x' we'd made on Gertrude's site. Her grave was on the path currently underfoot. Yes! We headed in her direction, stopping often to examine holocaust monuments, other war memorials, and graves. Quite a place, somber and yet, somehow romantic.
Gertrude's grave was exactly where the map described, easy to find. A selfie was taken, bien sur. I placed a small pebble on her headstone, which joined hundreds already balancing there. It marks a visit, respect.
We continued down the walkway, discovering famous gravesites amidst the shambles-like atmosphere of the ancient French cemetery.
Occasionally I suffer from piriformis muscle pain. It is similar to sciatica, which can flare up into excruciating pain. Such pain overtook me right there on that beautiful dream-come-true day. I often describe my pain level to my husband in numbers, with zero representing pain-free and ten being I'm-going-to-die. In Pére-Lachaise the pain ratcheted up to a nine, a number I have only experienced once before at home. My leg was doing weird things which worried me; I needed to sit down. Not about to sit on a beautiful ancient grave stone in front of my family and dozens of tourists, I bit the bullet and persevered, trying to keep my face from grimacing. Not an easy task.
At last, my daughter and her husband said they had to go back to the van to feed the baby. My husband wanted to see Jim Morrison's grave as he promised the guys at work he'd take a picture for them. So, the Frenchies and Tom headed to the right and around the corner, soon out of sight. My stroller-pushing daughter, son-in-law, and baby granddaughter were already out of sight to the left and beyond. I remained standing alone, in the middle of the jumble of stones and paths and tourists and garish grave decorations, nowhere to sit that wouldn't feel like desecration.
Tempted to rest on Edith Piaf's nearby grave, I resisted. I took a picture instead. Then, I began the walk back to the van. The pain was unbearable. I prayed. I know God makes things happen for a reason. I have been a believer long enough to know that God is trustworthy and will take care of me. I prayed for a bench. When I opened my eyes, there was a bench! How had I missed it before?
Praising God, I sat down. For some reason sitting makes the pain go away for awhile, even after I get up again. I sat. A few tears of relief fell, but I kept myself under control, for the sake of others. There on the bench I thanked God for His constant presence. He never leaves me. Ever. (Don't get me wrong, I understood and supported the others who left for the van and Jim Morrison. No self-pity, no hard feelings. Only my husband knew how bad it was, and I assured him I could deal with it, sounding much braver than I felt.)
As I sat, it dawned on me that I was going to need a rest room at some point and Paris does not have fast food restaurants on every corner as we do at home. Besides that, bistros, restaurants, and other businesses do not allow anyone but customers to use their rest rooms. I pulled my new-to-me iPhone from my purse and opened the map app. A public restroom was down the street!
Feeling adventurous, my pain down to a three, I began walking to the gate we'd entered. It was up a sloping path and not a short way ahead. The pain began to creep up. It was hot outside. Sweat began to form on my brow, wiped away by the pink handkerchief I carry in my pocket when walking in hot weather. I was not relaxed. At all. But I was determined to do what needed to be done and do it on my own. I exited the tall navy blue gates and turned left, walking until I began to feel frightened for some reason. Bad vibes or something, I couldn't say.
I texted my son-in-law in the van telling him what I was doing and that I was scared. When he pinpointed where I was he immediately texted: Stop. Don't go down there. Come back to the van now!
Retracing my steps, I headed back to the gray van. Cement rounds in front of the cemetery gates looked inviting. I sat on one to relieve the pain again. As I sat, pain-free, I gazed down Avenue Père Lachaise, the road that jutted out in front of me. I saw friendly looking people, some families and couples, and some sidewalk bistros. Aha! I will tell Charles about this when I get back to the van.
I did. He said he didn't think they would let me use the rest rooms. He said we would soon be on our way to a restaurant for lunch. I would find the access I needed there.
I realized that since the rest of our group was still poking through graves beyond the tall walls, the lunch timeline was going to be too long for me. You know how it is. The more you know you can't, the more your body says, "Oh, but I must!" Yeah. That was happening.
I waited, quietly. Then, I said, "I think I need to find a solution pretty fast."
Silence.
Then, Charles, who is the kindest and most competent person you could ever meet, said, in his gentle, patient French accent, "You know, Cherie, I think if you go into one of those bistros and use your little French, they will let you use the rest room." He'd been thinking about it, you see. My attempts at French do yield results, especially when coupled with hand motions, and sprinkled with a lot of English. It is my little French, my speaks-like-a-four-year-old French.
That was all the encouragement I needed.
I opened the heavy van door and stepped back out into the sunshine of the sidewalk. I walked the Rue de Rondeaux until it intersected with Avenue Père Lachaise. My feet upon that friendly avenue, I strolled a couple of shop, bistro, and flower-laden blocks intending to select the friendliest bistro I could.
Finally, on the corner by a round-about, was a bustling bistro. A pleasant-faced customer sitting outside smiled at me. "Bonjour," I said. "Bonjour," he replied. A hopeful start to my adventure. With as much confidence and nonchalance as I could muster, I entered the busy bistro.
Leaning over the bar was an in-charge looking man with a pencil and notepad in one hand, a phone in the other. Rumpled, but nice enough attire, messy hair, a sort of grumpy face, he was in business mode. The stereotypical French man, I thought. I found him delightful. He looked authoritative, so when he looked up at me as I walked past, I asked, "Où est le toilette?" He made a curving and pointing motion with his arm and hand, and went back to his papers and phone.
"Thank you, Jesus!" My mind exploded with praise and gratitude to God. I turned the corner, found the old, narrow, dark-wood door with its well-worn brass hardware. It creaked when I pushed it open. I was faced with a clean, tiny, functioning bathroom. Nothing fancy, but I have never been happier to meet a restroom in my life. Not only did I find relief, but I found it using my little French and all on my own, against all odds.
France made room for me!
After washing my hands really well - the cool water felt delicious on my skin! - my heart sang in thankfulness to God and the bistro man. I reversed my snaking path from the bathroom to the wide corner entrance. With a merci beaucoup and a smile, I left the man sort of scratching his head as if he knew something unique had just happened.
I skirted my way through the patio tables to the sunny sidewalk of Avenue Père Lachaise.
"What have I just done? What happened?"
"Why, I navigated Paris by myself,. Timid little old me. French people showed kindness and generosity. And, Cherie. Cherie! Look where you are! Look what you are doing! You are ambling along a street in Paris alone and you are not afraid. And nothing hurts!"
I took a moment to look around, still walking slowly as I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself. Excitement bubbled out of me. It was hard to contain. Flowers everywhere. Sidewalk cafés up and down the street. Friendly men, women, and kids. Straight ahead were the large, heavy, dark gates of the cemetery I had long dreamed of visiting, where so many notables are laid to rest. I was in Paris! I was happy! Thrilled! It was better than the movies; it was real. I could smell foliage, flowers, trees, soil, food, coffee, wine, pastries, bread. Oh, the bread! I felt the heat of the sun on my head, shoulders, and back. My mind comprehended French signs and window notices! No translation necessary. I was immersed in France, and it felt terrific!
Paris embraced me!
I floated my way back to the van, opened its unwieldy door, and hopped up into the passenger seat.
"I did it! I did it!"
Caroline and Charles, two of my staunchest cheerleaders, enthusiastically congratulated me and offered praise. Then, Charles said, "They let you in? They let you use the rest room?"
"Yes!" I answered excitedly. "Yes, they did. No problem." I relayed the entire experience to them.
With my objective met, we four settled into our seats, waiting for the rest of the gang to return. They had wandered into the furthest reaches of the cemetery and were trying to find their way out. About this time Charles began to think maybe he should visit the rest room since he had opportunity and time.
It was decided that Caroline could use a quiet moment in the van while Charles and I took baby Sylvie with us. I would show Charles the accommodating restaurant.
As we started down the rue, I told my son-in-law about a closer and friendlier looking establishment on the other side of the street that I had noticed as I'd floated back to the van. We agreed to give it a go, though Charles was a little hesitant. He really didn't think it would work. But he is a learner and will try new things whether it's the French way or not.
We walked down the street and around the corner. I showed Charles the bistro with the pretty tables nestled amidst potted trees with a smattering of customers enjoying coffee and pastries en plain air. I told him I'd hold Sylvie. We'd be just fine. The owner or manager was very kind. Charles graciously asked if he could use the facilities and the man immediately directed him to the back of the room, no problem or hesitation at all. Then, he glanced out at me holding sweet little Sylvie, giving a nod of approval, an invitation to stay.
Sylvie and I relaxed in a red metal chair at a clean wooden table. Half-walls topped with flower pots and trailing vines separated us from the avenue. Pigeons flitted and flapped, some overhead, some walking around our feet pecking at food scraps. Sylvie craned her baby neck to get a good view of the pigeon-toed birds. They cocked their iridescent heads to look back at her. She looked at me and gave a huge toothless grin! I bounced her on my knee. Customers cooed at Sylvie, others smiled as they passed. Bonjour! Coucou!
And I thought to myself, "I am sitting in Paris, down the street from Pére-Lachaise. I am bouncing my youngest daughter's daughter on my knee, at a sidewalk bistro. Pigeons are present. I hear French music! I hear the fast-paced French language. Soak it up, Cherie. Faites attention! Pay attention!" (Yes, my inner-narration was part in French, part in English. What can I say? It happens.)
Because I did pay attention, because I made myself be in the moment, because I soaked it all up and let it become a part of me, I remember every detail. Fondly. Vividly.
From excruciating pain to inexpressible joy sprinkled with serendipity, this joie de vivre moment rejuvenated my mind and soul. It reassured my belief in the kindness of family and strangers, refreshed my belief in God's provision during unusual circumstances, it reframed beauty and blessing in the everyday, and it emboldened me as a world traveler.
For where are we without God? Where are we without the support and love of our families? And where are we, really, without the warmhearted souls all around us who open their lives in big and small ways to make ours just a little bit more comfortable.
