Comfort in a Cemetery

You can call it fate or perfect timing, whatever you want, but something put me in front of that cemetery today. Something told me to take the ligne 3 metro instead of the ligne 2; something told me to walk; something told me to go see what lies behind those stone walls.

That was when I realized how homesick I was feeling. Early today, I sat in my lecture class and couldn't stop thinking I was wasting my time. So, I left. I walked to the Musée d'Orsay and imagined the world of the French painters of the 19th century. I should've been born at least 120 years ago. That time was so alive back then in Paris: modernization, impressionism, realism, surrealism. After an hour and half lost among the paintings and sculptures, I headed back to Sciences Po for my next class. Turns out it was rescheduled for tomorrow, so I went to run errands in the 11ème arrondissement. That was when I found le Cimetière Père Lachaise, or rather it found me.

What are those walls hiding? Who are they protecting? I walked around on the cobblestoned walkways up and down a city of tombs and mini chapels. None looked the alike, but all were for the same thing: in memory and honor of the dead. Almost three centuries of families, the old French aristocracy, are buried here. Among them, several famous authors, musicians, philosophers, politicians, international figures. I rushed first to see Balzac. I spent a semester with my nose stuck in his novels. I felt comfort seeing him there. Then came Jim Morrison, Poulenc, Delacroix, Maria Callas, Gertrude Stein... For some reason, walking around the cemetery slowly faded away my homesickness. It was cold, but the sun was shining. I hadn't noticed the sun in weeks.

I found comfort in these resting places. These cold stones of solidarity and strength of families through the ages warmed my heart. They were there for my while I was missing my family more than anything. I was among the homes of thousands of families; families from all over the world. Even though death breathed through every stone, every piece of metal and glass, sucking the color out of any plant that touched those stones, I felt love. That's what is keeping this place together.

Oscar Wilde's tomb overwhelmed me. Adorned with the kisses of thousands (maybe millions) of women wearing shades of red lipstick, Wilde's tomb and memory certainly doesn't die over the years. Two teenage girls wrote their love oaths at the foot of the back corner of his tomb. It just never dies...

Ironically, the rotted remains of France dominated my homesickness. Thank you Paris, the city where nothing really dies forever.

Familiar Stranger

I met him tonight. I met his eyes in the darkness of the street as he locked up the bar. I knew it was him right away.


00h10 

Seconds before, the jingling keys in his hands turning the lock seemed to have prepared me for him. They told me in their light metal-ringing song that this is the one you had heard about.
Just the night before, the the old woman told me about him. It felt like come straight out of a fairytale story book. She told me his heartbreaking story.

Her, white as the Polish snow of her homeland. Him, black as the history of the country that forced his parents flee to France. Her, a tall, majestic dancer studying in Paris. Him, a bar tender trying to make ends meet. They meet at the bar and instantly fell in love. Every night, she would wait anxiously for midnight so that she could spend the first minutes and hours of her day with him. All he could think of was her. They could easily see themselves together forever. But tradition and family stands in their way. The old-fashioned ways of her homeland would never accept the new man in her life, much less the children that would come from their marriage. She flies back to Poland, occasionally coming back to visit him, but it's never long enough.  She has to make a decision: family or love? 


I smiled at him as I walked by. I thought of what Madame had told me the night before. What a crazy modern Romeo and Juliet story. He walked quickly passed me, and I wondered how he was feeling. Does he ever worry that he might never be with her? Is he happy? He hop-skipped twice as he walked off the sidewalk to cross the street. I guess that was my answer. If anything, tonight, he is in a good mood. Tonight, he is just any other bar tender trying to survive in the city. Tonight, he is just another guy walking down the same street as me.

Soft heart in a hard city

I didn’t recognize the song right away, but for some reason I just knew that’s what it was, as if I subconsciously wanted it to be that song. Like a sheep in a heard, I just kept walking, not thinking. I just want to get home. I just want to get home. That mantra had been playing on repeat in my head since I had left my apartment at 7 that morning. I just want to get home. But that voice. It pierced through my zombie state of mind

 and I just froze

in the middle of the corridor. Machines, not people, set on auto-pilot and always upset about something rushed by. They became a blur of black coats as my eyes tried to focus on the source of the music beyond the crowd. I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, yet it was so clear and strong.

Tears started sliding down my cheeks. I couldn’t figure out why. I wasn’t feeling particularly sad, just very tired. The voice continued to sing. I could see the guy now, a homeless man sitting humbly on the floor of the metro corridor. Armed with his guitar, amp and mike he attacked our ears and invaded our hearts.

I moved out of the way of the mob and closed my eyes. Then it hit me. Today marked one month since I’ve been in Paris. My first month alone in an other country. Today was also the first day I had to encounter the strictness of the French education system (I don’t know how you learn through their methods…). I realized how much I missed certain people back home: my brothers, my parents, friends. I wish they were here with me. I know how much they would love it too.

The voice kept poking at my heartstrings.

As overwhelming as those feelings were, I knew that overall, I am happy here. I’m meeting people from all over the place. I’m spending more time with my aunts, uncles and cousins who I don’t see enough. I feel like I’m really getting to know my family and in exchange, I’m getting to know myself a little better. These moments are priceless and worth every penny I’ve spent trying to get to Paris.

In one month, Paris given me a thicker skin, just like any city would. But, there’s something about Paris that keeps your heart throbbing.

He finished his song. Immediately I broke out of trance, realizing that I wasn’t the only one who had stopped. I pulled out a couple coins and tossed them in his guitar bag. I looked at the man in the eyes, smiled and said “Thank you.” Then off I went, my heart full and happy, no longer exhausted.