Two Weeks & Twenty-Six Cents

When I was younger, two weeks could seem like an eternity. What about for you? Did the two weeks leading up to Christmas drag on forever? And what about the two weeks before your 16th birthday? Or the two weeks leading up to the end of the school year? Weren’t the hours endless? Of course, there are exceptions to this prolonged waiting period; e.g., the two week break I used to get during the Christmas/New Year’s holidays when I was in secondary school felt like it only lasted a couple of days. 

Back in October of 1998, I found myself unemployed for an indeterminate amount of time. (Kind of like right now. Except, right now, I “kind of” have a return-to-work date even though it keeps getting extended.) I worked in the box office at the Century Center for the Performing Arts Theatre; an off-Broadway performance venue where the most recent production, Stupid Kids, had closed early (October 4, 1998) and there was no replacement waiting in the wings.    

I took a Greyhound bus from the Port Authority in New York City to Nashville, Tennessee. At that point in my life, taking the bus was the only way I could afford to take the trip. It was an adventure—a 24-hour adventure 😳. (And one that I didn’t relish repeating for the return trip. I’m just sayin’.) It took roughly three more hours by car to get to my ol’ Kentucky home. But I got there…with no responsibilities and no plans.

During that visit, I felt very creatively fertile. Every morning I made a pot of coffee and perused old journals, searching for those soul bearing moments that might make a good country song. Some days I didn’t change out of my pajamas: no shower, no real clothes, just focus and flow. My parents would leave for work, and I would pour the first cup and sit down in front of my mother’s computer and start transforming adolescent thoughts into lyrics, hoping I might be composing A, if not The, Next Big Hit for country radio.

While stardom was something that eluded me, mostly due to my own lack of motivation to chase it, that time in my life is a warm memory cloaked in fuzzy slippers that is at once comforting and melancholy. 

Two songs figure prominently in my memories from that visit: “26 Cents” by the Canadian country group, The Wilkinsons, and “Wide Open Spaces” by The (no longer Dixie) Chicks. While both were favorites before, they became touchstones for me...and my mom. And remain so to this day.

Two weeks had expired when the time came for me to return to NYC. The Century Center had a new tenant. I was employed again. Memories fade. And while mine is pretty solid (ask anyone who knows me well), I don’t recall a flying-by feeling. In my memory, time marched at a steady pace—not too fast, not too slow. I remember feeling free and dare I say, happy. That’s not a feeling I always feel when visiting Kentucky.

At the Greyhound station in Nashville, my mother gave me an envelope. She asked me not to open it until I was on the bus. I was extremely curious what was inside, but I waited—like I used to have to wait for my grandparents to arrive on Christmas morning before I could unwrap anything. Once the bus started moving, all deals were off. I opened it.

In my hands I held a lined piece of notebook paper where, in her perfect left-handed cursive, my mom had written the chorus to “26 Cents.”

When you get lonely, call me

Anytime at all and I'll be there with you, always

Anywhere at all

There's nothing I've got that I wouldn't give

And money is never enough

Here's a penny for your thoughts

A quarter for the call

And all of your momma's love (9-16)

Below that she had written her own message of love and encouragement. And at the very bottom she had taped a penny and a quarter.

Cut to August 3, 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic has left me unemployed, isolated, afraid, and with limited access to my fremily (that chosen family of friends) for nearly 20 weeks. 

I was supposed to take a trip to Kentucky in June for a wedding that got postponed to August. When I changed the flight I decided to add an extra week to the stay. I mean, why not? I had nothing better to do. And sure, after 23 years in New York City, country living in the southern part of the United States is something that I can only take in small doses. A week teeters between just enough time and an overstay. It all depends on how I let outside factors affect me. But weighing the options, a large back yard and a pool seemed pretty charmed even if I might have to deal with Trump-supporting politics. And lest I forget, momma’s hugs and home cooking would be beneficial perks.

My mom might be the one person in my family that I allow myself to be vulnerable enough with to have very frank discussions. I push. She listens. Sometimes she has advice. Sometimes she doesn’t know what to say. I often wonder if I make her uncomfortable with my statements or questions; if I’ve pushed too hard or too far. I probably over share. But she keeps smiling at me, hugging me, loving me. I don’t know how she does it—(This must be where All of your momma’s love comes into play)—but I’m grateful that she does.

For two weeks the days were filled, each turning to night without me seeming to realize it was happening. 

My mom and I took three-mile walks almost every day. In that freedom of companionship and exercise, we talked about many things: the pandemic, people’s reaction to it, people’s inability to respect others and wear a mask, other frustrations, the fiction I’m writing, the soap opera Santa Barbara, my love for the soaps in general. We talked about the past, the present. We questioned the future while also looking forward to it. We huffed and puffed and challenged ourselves while sweating through our shirts. 

We played card games almost daily: Rummy, Five Crowns, Karma. We laughed. We quibbled. (One is prone to quibbling and deep sighing when a winning streak seems to be consistently elusive. Trust me, I sighed. I sighed so much.) We ate Milk Duds. We ate the fresh blackberries that we picked from the garden. Picture it: Arlington, KY. 2020. Me picking blackberries in a garden. But I digress.

The inevitable question: “What would you like to have for dinner?” was usually asked before we had even decided what we wanted to eat for lunch, and was usually met with an exaggeratedly humorous response along the lines of, “We haven’t even eaten lunch.”  But the duck, the chicken, the steak, and the pork chops were all worth the early decisions when they made their way from the grill to the table to my mouth. 

Sitting side-by-side on my parents’ sofa, my mom and I battled for the win playing Words With Friends. Books were completed and new ones started. Homemade ice cream churned in the garage, its hum becoming white noise until it stopped. Hours were spent cavorting in the pool: sliding into the refreshing coldness, tossing a volleyball back and forth, sitting on the bottom, attempting to keep a frisbee in the air—fifty-four times was the record between my sister and me. 

We found family relics that I thought had been inadvertently discarded by me long ago. I had resigned myself to the sadness of their loss, accepted I would never see them again. Yet there they were in a storage tub in a large closet in the basement of my parents’ house. I was overwhelmed at seeing again this bonanza of sepia-toned pictures and daguerreotypes; images of family members I couldn’t possibly know and that no one still alive could provide information about. I was beside myself to once again hold the hand-written document noting the births and deaths of the family from which my own maternal line started five generations prior. My excitement was contagious and my mom caught it. 

We consumed hours of television: The Golden Girls, Friends, Santa Barbara. We watched Jurassic Park and Scream.

Sleep came. And, for the most part, it cast us deeply in its shadow. Morning brought a new day, a fresh pot of coffee, a mug of hot chocolate, and a question of what to have for dinner.

We washed, rinsed, and repeated our way through two weeks. And even though those two weeks 

contained the same amount of minutes and hours as any other two-week period, they seemed to fly by. I guess it really does when you’re having fun.

As we get older, time no longer marches at a glacial pace. It speed skates. There is no way to slow it down. Our task it to enjoy every moment. That’s all we can do.

As we said our goodbyes outside the small regional airport in Paducah, Kentucky, I thanked both of my parents for the welcoming opportunity to freeload at their house and told them I loved them. Mom always gets the last hug. That’s the way I want it. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a penny and a quarter and placed them into her hand. She looked down at what I’d given her and continued to smile even as her eyes filled with tears. History repeating. A full circle moment. 

Now that I’m back home in NYC, a two-week period of self-quarantine begins. That’s because I’ve returned from a state with increased rates of COVID-19 transmission. Time in isolation is rarely fleeting so I’m betting this two weeks will inch along like an airplane sitting on the tarmac, 24th in line for takeoff.

“Who doesn’t know what I’m talking about?” The Chicks ask in “Wide Open Spaces.” Who doesn’t indeed. 

Mad Dash To Terminal F

I wanted a glass of wine. That had been the plan all along: get through airport security, find my gate, buy a single serving bottle of Pinot Noir, enjoy.

That didn’t happen. It seems that LaGuardia Airport, unlike JFK, doesn’t have small kiosks near the gates that sell individual bottles of wine along with their sandwich boxes and protein bars. Maybe it has to do with international flights as opposed to domestic. Obviously, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a United Airlines thing. Maybe I just missed it. I convinced myself that as hot as it was in the waiting area, a bottle of wine would’ve probably put me to sleep. I changed my plan to having a glass in flight.

With an on-time departure from NYC to Chicago's O’Hare (connecting on to Paducah, KY), I was finally starting my vacation; my first since July 2017, and boy did I need a break from NYC. I don’t often enjoy the waiting or the traveling. I’m more of a hurry-up-and-get-there kind of person. But one can’t really hurry when he is at the mercy of the airline and the flight time. 

The flight was smooth and actually arrived early into Chicago. I was annoyed (surprise!) by one of the flight attendants so I didn’t bother with that glass of wine. 

Good ol’ Chicago, where winter weather in January threatens to derail my plans every time I travel through it during that month. And this particular day was no exception as the clouds discharged their wintery goodness gracefully and steadily onto the ground.  

I turned off airplane mode on my iPhone as soon as we landed and was immediately greeted by the text:

Your flight to Paducah is cancelled. 

Of course! I should have bothered to have that glass of wine. Hindsight's 20/20.

I didn’t so much process this information as feel my face heat up with anger…then contort with frustration and disappointment. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in Chicago for a night (been there, done that, didn’t have a toothbrush or clean underwear). I had booked this particular flight on a Sunday evening so that I could wake up at my mom and dad’s house on Monday morning, starting the vacation without a travel day. If I was going to have to spend the night in Chicago then I would be on the same flight to Paducah on Monday that I would have been originally been on had I departed from NYC on Monday as I had initially planned. However, the best laid plans are out of our control when Mother Nature decides to get involved. Don’t be fooled. I’m not that zen.

I could see from my updated electronic boarding pass that I had already been rebooked on the next flight into Paducah, which was scheduled for departure the next day after 2pm. I went directly to Customer Service to see if there was an earlier flight. If I had to stay in Chicago, I at least wanted to get out of her as early as possible the next day. The customer service representative told me that the flight on which I had been rebooked was the first flight departing for Paducah the next day. Then he said something interesting. 

“We have a couple of flights to other locations tonight. Are either of them close to you?”

He mentioned a town in Missouri that I hadn’t heard of before and a town in Indiana. I knew the Indiana option was out of the question but when he turned his computer screen around so that I could see the destinations, my heart leapt in excitement. The Missouri town was Cape Girardeau. He didn’t know how to say it, or at least not the way I’d grown up saying it, so it didn't register until I saw the words.  I knew Cape Girardeau was close to where my parents lived. I called my mom immediately.

Mom: “Hi,” she said, her voice colored with disappointment .

Me: “How far is Cape Girardeau from your house?” I asked with no preamble.

Mom: “About an hour and 15 minutes,” she responded with no real change in her voice.

Me: “Can you pick me up there?”

Mom: “Yes.” The color now tinged with excitement.

Me: “I might be able to get on a flight tonight to Cape. I’ll call you back.”

The flight was already boarding and was scheduled for departure in 30 minutes. You know that joke book title: Fifty Yards To The Outhouse by Willy Makit and Betty Won’t? Well, my joke book title that night was Mad Dash To Terminal F written by Will Power and D. Termination.  

I ran. I ran like Rhoda Morgenstern running through the streets of New York City on her wedding day back in 1974 on an episode of the sitcom, Rhoda. I had a carryon bag in my right hand and I was holding my winter scarf in my left. I didn’t start out holding that scarf, but it’s so long, and kept getting tangled between my legs, that I had a vision of Carrie Bradshaw on the Sex and the City episode where Carrie slips on water that has dripped from a wet umbrella and goes splat! right in the middle of Dior in Paris. I couldn’t have that! Falling and embarrassing myself was not an option.

So, carry on bag filled with laptop and magazines in the right hand (praying the handle didn’t break ‘cause that shit was heavy) and scarf pulled across my body held tightly in the left, I flew past the people strolling along to their gates--or toward that glass of wine I so wanted. I was a vision leaving a gray and blue streak in my wake. 

I was running like my life depended on it. I’m in fairly good shape and yet still I was gasping. I made a right then a left then another right. I was looking for the escalator. Found it. Took it down. Ran past all the people letting themselves be glacially-paced along on the moving sidewalk. People looked over their shoulders as I approached. Peripherally, I could see them watching me as I passed. I stepped on to the up the escalator on the other side of that long space, taking a moment to catch my breath before starting to climb its moving stairs because they weren't moving fast enough. To the right then the left then hugging the curve connecting me to another terminal. All the while looking at the overhead signage for Terminal F. Was I getting closer? It didn’t feel that way. 

I was a man on a mission; determined to make it from Terminal C to Terminal F with breath-catching time to spare. 

As I approached the gate the customer service representative had told me the flight to Cape Girardeau would be departing from I noticed it said Quincy, IL instead of Cape Girardeau, MO. Two lovely women confirmed that this was indeed the flight to Cape but that it made a small layover in Quincy first. I couldn’t have cared less about the layover. I was just glad to be in that line.

I could barely breath. Gasping for air, trying slow my heart rate, I called my mom and told her I was going to be on the flight, providing her with the pertinent flight information. I was euphoric even as I panted. I had made it to the gate with a moment (though not breath-catching) to spare before scanning my boarding pass. The gate attendant marveled that I was in “good shape” as she hadn't thought I would make it from C to F. I showed her, wheezing and coughing, trying to keep composed.

All of those who had been on the receiving end of my disgruntled-passenger-with-a-cancelled-flight texts received the following from me…

I ran from terminal C to terminal F. I made a flight that goes to Quincy IL then on to Cape Girardeau MO. Hope my luggage gets on board. I’m a sweaty mess but I’m on the plane.

…as I sat, sounding asthmatic, buckled-in to my seat on the airplane. Relief was beginning to calm my anxiety. We hadn't taken off but we were supposed to. I was still apprehensive.  Then I realized the plane I was sitting on was the same size as the one that flies to Paducah. The same size plane for the flight that had been cancelled because of "weather" before I had even had a chance to connect to it. The same size plane that was about to take off, in the same weather, toward Cape Girardeau. And it did take off and land and take off and land again. In the weather. I still don’t (and may never) understand why the plane heading toward Paducah couldn't fly in the weather, but I digress.

My gasping cum wheezing had turned into a cough. As my heart rate slowed back to normal my breath kept catching in the back of my throat. I felt as if I had dislodged something. I felt like an undiagnosed upper respiratory problem had chosen that moment to present itself. I could not stop coughing. I was seated on the aisle in the 11th out of 13 rows and we were just sitting on the tarmac while the plane was being de-iced. I had to have some water. I unbuckled the seat belt and made my way to the front of the plane.

“I am so sorry" I began, speaking to the flight attendant who eyes widened in shock at my standing in front of her, "but I just ran from terminal C to terminal F and I can’t seem to stop coughing. May I have some water?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes remaining wide with shock, her voice stern as she continued, “but you need to sit back down.”

I get it. The doors were already closed. Okay. But were weren’t moving. We didn’t even have an estimated time for departure at that moment. But I sat back down, assuaging her fear that (even though the plane was sitting still except for rocking of the high-pressure wash of the de-icing fluid), I wouldn’t be knocked down by the “turbulence.” She brought me a glass of water. The cough persisted.

There would be no beverage service other than water on the first leg of that flight due to its short duration. No wine for me. There would be no beverage service at all on the second leg of the even shorter flight. One should always take advantage of his opportunities for wine when he has them because as Cinderella says in the musical Into The Woods, "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor." 

I finally made it to Cape Girardeau after midnight and found the welcoming arms and smiles of family members waiting for me, happy at my arrival...at last.

It took until Tuesday evening for my luggage to arrive. And it took until Wednesday evening for me to finally get that glass of wine I had so desired at the beginning of this scenario…before it turned into the adventure it became. 

The cough lingered for about three days.

Fashion Forward: Le Musée des Arts Décoratifs

Fashion. I love it. Some might say I'm a slave to it. While I like to wear what's "in," I'm also a sucker for something classic; or vintage. So I don't think I'm exactly a slave to fashion. Others might call me a label whore. I can accept this title. There are brands that I like (Louis Vuitton, YSL, Hermès) and brands that I find look good on me (Michael Kors, Marc Jacobs, Vivienne Westwood). If I can afford to buy the label, I'm going to buy the label. I've even been referred to as a fashion victim. Well, I have to say that while I have been known to buy the brand because of the label (LV, Hermès), I'm not one that's willing to shell out the money to buy the label just because it's the label, especially if it doesn't look good on me (or the bag doesn't fit my needs). The point is, everyone buys clothes. We're all drawn to certain things. I enjoy cultivating my style in the garden of designer labels when I can. I haven't always been able to do that. And I don't consider my desire to wear labels or my ability to afford them (Gucci platforms, YSL mini bag) a negative attribute. I work. I save. I purchase. Sometimes I have buyers remorse even if I've finally purchased the very item I've been saving for. Money is tangible. Joy from the purchase is not. Ultimately, I find the joy and have no regrets for spending the money.

Fashion trends are dictated by the designers (or Anna Wintour). We're all aware at some point in a season of that one item on everyone's Must List. Maybe it's a bag. Maybe it's a shoe. Maybe it a certain leg width for denim. For spring, I read that the bomber jacket was a must have. After reading that bit of information, wouldn't you know I saw bomber jackets everywhere. It made me wonder what underground syndicate tells every fashion house We want bomber jackets to be the It thing for spring so make one. 

Fashion changes. Sometimes gradually; sometimes from season to season. (Christian Dior used to change his silhouette with every season effectively outdating what was in a woman's closet every few months.) It can be based on the shifting mood of the times. Or can shift the mood of the times by creating something altogether new. 

Style is what you do with that fashion. I prefer to buy things that are on trend with a bent toward the classic. That's my style. I don't want my clothes to be dated by the next season. Something that is in the center of the fashion zeitgeist this season might need only the right accessory to keep the look fresh year after year. 

I do like to find out what has been deemed the hot color of the season. Again, does that syndicate tell everyone This fall we wants lots of cordovan but for spring we want emerald? I incorporate the color either in nail polish or a piece of jewelry or a shirt that has that color in it. Something that allows me to participate without going overboard. And let's be honest, a shirt with cordovan in the print is still going to work for autumn no matter the autumn of what year. Deep red is an autumn/winter color. It's a classic. Emerald will always work for spring/summer. Be smart about what you buy. Have fun, but be smart.

This fashion lesson was brought to you in honor of my visit to the Musée des Arts Décoratifs today. The museum is celebrating its 30th anniversary with a panorama of fashion spanning three centuries. I was in heaven. It's a shame you can't see my halo and wings. I didn't take a selfie. Sorry. 

According to their website there are "300 items of men's, women's and children's fashion from the 18th century to today." I saw them all. Corsets, panniers, breeches, waistcoats, vests, bustles, trains. From Charles-Frederick Worth (consisered by many as the first couturier) to Jacques Doucet, Paul Poiret, Jeanne Lanvin and Madeleine Vionnet. And what French fashion exhibit would be complete without Coco Chanel, Elsa Schiaparelli, Christian Dior and Yves Saint Laurent? 

I was mildly intrigued by the gowns and menswear of the early 18th century. They're beautiful. There's no denying it. Especially when viewing the details. It's easy to imagine Marie Antoinette and the ladies and gentlemen of the period wearing those clothes. We've seen the images a hundred and two times. We can't imagine how long it took to dress with all those layers. Forget about doing it alone. And forget about a quickie in the antechamber. Beautiful to admire, but yawn. 

Then there was the room filled with dresses I would expect to see in Scarlett O'Hara's closet...although not in her window. 

The changing of the silhouette becomes extremely interesting when you can view it all at once. The corseting and bustles to no bustles to finally no corset--women had to, and still do, go through much more than men when it comes to fashion. Although women have so many more choices than men when it comes to decorating their bodies with the beauty of clothes.

It was upon entering the room showcasing designs from around 1903 and forward that I came alive. These were dresses designed by names I recognized.

1. A selection. This is where my halo started forming

2. Elsa Schiaparelli (she loved shocking pink). To your right is a gown by American designer Mainbocher

3. An Elsa Schiaparelli pink jacket, again in shocking pink. To the right, a blue haute couture gown by her rival, Coco Chanel

4. The room where I got my wings 

5. The "New Look" by Christian Dior

6. Yet another gorgeous Dior

7. This Pierre Balmain is reminiscent of a few gowns I saw in photos from this year's Met Gala--Manus x Machina

8. Hubert de Givenchy coat

9. Again with Dior. The gold outfit to the left belongs to Chanel

10. Cristóbal Balenciaga

11. Both of these pieces are from the mind of Paco Rabanne

12. Both purple and yellow selections are Yves Saint Laurent

13. A Christian Lacroix that might have felt at home in one of the previous rooms

14. That ensemble on the right is the creation of Vivienne Westwood

15. A Raf Simmons dress for the House of Dior

16. The back view of the Dior on the left. The gown on the right is Riccardo Tisci for the House of Givenchy

Regardless of where you spend your money on your clothes, find your style. Figure out what you like, what makes you happy. Pick up a Vogue magazine once in a while and check things out. See what's in your closet already that looks like something you saw in its pages. Have a good time. Fashion should be fun.

Fashion is fantasy. Style is how you express the fantasy. Find your fantasy. Be yourself...confidently. I dare you!

Mon voyage se poursuit. Au Revoir

Une Fondation et un Cimetière

I was nearly overcome by tears as I descended from the 4th floor terrace of the Fondation Louis Vuitton. The sky was overcast, the sun fighting to break through the haze. The air was crisp. I could hear the water gently rolling down the man made, stepped waterfall, the birds chirping, the various languages one hears in a museum full of the melting pot of people gathered to admire its contents. I was truly happy and surrounded by beauty. Hence the near trickle of tears that nearly dampened my cheeks as if it was a smaller version of the waterfall in front of me. 

The structure of the Fondation Louis Vuitton is itself a piece of art. If you're reminded of the Sydney Opera House when looking at the above pic you're in good company. I was too. Maybe that's because of the curvature. The curved glass portion of the upper levels of the Fondation are designed to look like sailboat sails inflated by air. The Opera House calls its roof "shells". Both look aerodynamically designed with wind in mind. 

Commissioned by Bernard Arnault, chairman and CEO of LVMH (Moët Hennessy • Louis Vuitton) the Frank Gehry (American) designed building is glorious and modern. Its design strikes a contemporary and artistic pose on the outskirts of an historic Paris. Although the metropolis of the business district can be seen from the second floor terrace, that image of glass towers is not the image so often associated with Paris. Which makes this contemporary structure all the more rapturous.

My wish would have been that the sun be a shining today and that I wouldn't have needed a jacket. That was not in Mother Nature's plan. As much as the sun fought to shine through the clouds the clouds proved a stronger opponent than the power of the rays.

However disappointed I may have been by the rain, I'm not sure I can say that it didn't create the perfect atmosphere for strolling through Père Lachaise Cemetery.

Two days in a row I roamed among the dead as they rest. 

On my last visit to Paris in Septembre 2015, I twice attempted a visit to this cimetière. My plans were thwarted both times so I was determined to make it this time. 

Cemeteries are like cities of the dead, don't you think? There is a design to the layout much like a city. The tombstones are monuments much like buildings. There are often flowers and in most cases grassy space--like parks. There are roads on which to drive or walk. It's a city of the dead. 

It's peaceful in a city of the dead. Think about it...one doesn't often hear raised voices or loud music in a cemetery. As I said yesterday, the dead are so respected. And they can't even appreciate it. They're dead! But I digress.

The cobblestone streets running through Père Lachaise were dappled with green grass growing between the stones, which were wet and slick from the pouring rain. The downpour shook loose the flowering buds in the trees mixing them with the rain as each fell to the ground, a mix of flurry and fury. 

To my right just after entering I saw the sign outlining the locations of the notables buried within the walls. Edith Piaf is there. Chopin, Georges-Pierre Seurat, Jim Morrison. Sarah Berhardt is there as well as Molière. These were a few of the names I recognized. I must confess though that it wasn't terribly important for me to see any of their graves. Maybe I would have felt differently if the rain hadn't soaked through my shoes to my socks. But I'm not sure it would have mattered even if the sun had been shining down on me. I just wanted to be inside the walls, see the burial markers. 

They are quite grand, most of them. Some reminded me of phone booths in their shape and height. Some of those had broken doors and revealed a space just large enough to kneel and, most likely, say a prayer for the dead. Not that they need the prayer. They are dead after all. 

Père Lachaise is quite congested with graves. There's barely a space between markers. It seems there are strict limitations to who can be buried there now and the lucky families can purchase in perpetuity or for 50, 30, or 10 years. Leasing for 30 years is a popular option these days. (You can lease your burial plot like you're leasing a new Fiat.) However, if the lease isn't renewed, or the 50, 30, or 10 year time previously purchased not extended, then the bones are dug up, moved to a modern day catacombs, and the grave sight sold or leased to another family. Moral of the story: death may not be the final resting place in Père Lachaise so if you want to stay there...pay up.

The day was filled with beautiful monuments although two quite different versions of beauty--the new and the old. The new modern structure of the Fondation Louis Vuitton was contemporary, if not futuristic. While the oldest structures in Père Lachaise (my favorites) were grand on a smaller scale, mixing centuries of styles and motifs, harkening back to many other times. I do love vintage.

Mon voyage se poursuit. Au Revoir.

Les Catacombes De Paris

"Halt, this is the empire of the dead."

I have a fear of death. I'm fairly certain that it is the ppain connected with dying that scares me most--drowning, burning, the agony of disease. Dying alone. That's a huge part of the problem. I know...we all die alone; death is a personal passage; a solitary journey. I get that. Even when someone is holding your hand you're still alone in that final sleep. 

A few days prior to this trip to Paris, I was lying in bed, awake with anxiety, trying to fall asleep. I kept repeating the word "death" over and over. I was trying to get comfortable with it as a word, take some of the darkness and mystique from it; challenge its power.

It is fitting--if only to me--that on my first full day in Paris (on this, my second trip) that I spent some time underground, communing with the bones of many a Parisian's past. 

The descent began via spiral staircase. Spiraling down into the depths of the city's underground. Roughly 60 feet.  Dimly lit, narrow passageways, well worn and slick from moisture and travel, were the path to follow as I felt myself sloping gradually deeper below the surface. The only life was that of the others around me doing the same thing.

It was cold. Chilled to the bone now takes on a new meaning. I felt my teeth trying to chatter. I forbade them to do so, daring them to defy me. I won. I felt my body tense, waiting for someone to jump from one of the dark crevices to scare me. But this was no haunted house or set for a horror film. This was concentrated ground.

Aside from those walking this passage with a companion (and talking while doing so) the journey was silent and serene. Even those holding conversations were kerping them at a low volume. Isn't it amazing how much respect is given to the dead? Oh that we might treat each other in life with as much courtesy and respect. Imagine what your subway ride might actually be like.  

To ogle at stacks of bones might seem an odd thing to do, but the history behind their stacking is fascinating.

In the 18th century it seems health conscious Parisians were looking to improve the city's sanitary conditions. Their bright idea was to empty the church cemeteries, moving the bones to what had formerly been limestone quarries underneath the city. It took decades to complete the process. Ceremonial processions of carts of bones were led by priests to the newly repurposed quarries, now catacombs. In places, the bones could be found stacked five feet high and up to 80 feet deep. Talk about sharing space. And for that matter, can you even imagine the uproar it might cause today to even suggest moving bodies from the cemetery? I don't even want to think about the backlash and sense of entitlement that would present itself.

Death is cold yet I wonder if the ancient ghosts feel the warm presence of the bodies passing through, gawking at their bones as they lie, en mass, in rest. 

"Happy is he who is forever faced with the hour of his death and prepares himself for the end every day."

86 narrow steps twist to the surface. I wasn't any worse for wear--the chill warmed; the damp spots from the drips that fell on me from the limestone ceiling dried--just different. Walking between stacks of bones, staring into empty holes where once sat eyes that saw the Paris of another century, isn't something I do every day. 

In the remnants of death it seems we're all the same. That we might recognize that while we're alive. 

Mon voyage se poursuit. Au revoir.