The Spirit of Jim Morrison

Our hotel is a block away from a famous French cemetery where Jim Morrison from The Doors is buried. Dakota is a huge fan of the Doors so this was a must see. Yesterday morning we made our pilgrimage to the gravesite.  The overcast, grey sky and raised graves made for a spooky yet beautiful stroll.

We meandered through the cobblestone paths, eyeing the tombs for both recent and ancient dates, stopping to gawk if a grave had abundant trinkets left beside it. Moliere, Chopin and equally impressive names that do nothing for me decorated the stone outhouse-size tombs. We were there to see one gravesite and that was Jim Morrison. He turned out to be resting in the Southeast corner of the graveyard boxed in between tombs on both sides and in front, so we could ogle the tomb only from a diagonal angle. An additional barrier was a gate placed in the only path allowing an approach to the tomb. Needless to say, grave diggers didn’t predict accommodations for The Doors’ post-mortis pilgrims. Horizontal James Douglas Morrison appreciated our efforts, though. He must have…because he lured us back to his grave three times on this trip.

Back home, in Grand Rapids, there is a popular hotdog joint called Yesterdog right around the corner from our home in Eastown, a hip section of the city where you’re more likely to see a shock of neon pink hair than blond, where band reharsal’s muffled bass is heard from upper apartments, where artists set up their easels on the coffee-shop corner and where the cracked sidewalks emote wisdom. The walls of Yesterdog are plastered with cheesy snapshots of patrons posed in front of famous places around the world wearing Yesterdog t-shirts. Because we lean on the side of dorkiness, each of us packed our own Yesterdog t-shirts and Dakota knew exactly where he wanted his picture set. While waiting behind a small group for our turn to step up beside the grave, Cody stripped off his winter coat and sweatshirt, and pulled his t-shirt on over his head. Our turn came, Cody posed, I snapped and we were done. Cody redressed and we left the cemetery. But the spirit of Jim Morrison had other plans.

Our next stop was the chateau at Versailles. We rode a subway and a train to get there so I killed the time by reviewing our photos from the cemetery. When I found I hadn’t yet deleted the photos I had uploaded to my laptop the night before, I figured this was a good time to do it, that is until I became distracted and deleted all of the pictures on the camera, including the very ones we had just taken at the cemetery. “Oh no, you guys,” I announced “I just erased all the graveyard pictures we just took.” “WHAT?” Cody and Scott yelled in unison. Scott was not happy, “Why were you messing with them right now? I told you I would show you a fast way to delete them on your laptop!” All I could say was, “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I should’ve been paying attention to what I was doing. It’s only a block from the hotel; we can go back and get the picture again.” So that was the plan. The next day – our last day in Paris – we would return for another photo with James Douglas Morrison.

The chateau at Versailles was huge (seriously, everything is so much bigger in person here!) and every inch, floor to ceiling, was bedecked with artwork, furniture, wall murals and mirrors to speak wealth. King Louis XIV built the monstrous palace to display the richness of France.

Unfortunately, at the time, France was not too rich and the chateau was meant as a feint to any enemies, a way of communicating to them, “If I am rich enough to build this huge estate, imagine how much money I put into my army! You definitely don’t want to fight my country!” Louis XVI stayed there as well, and while his people starved in the streets, he kept up the façade by living and entertaining in the gigantic castle (Hmmm, spending exorbitantly without the means to back it up…that sounds vaguely familiar). Throughout the hour and a half guided tour, Elle slept on various benches throughout the palace...while I felt a strong comraderie with our fellow English-speaking tourists. Finally, communicating was effortless. If after only 3 days in France, I felt this thankful for similar people (keep in mind these weren’t Americans, just English-speaking people), I couldn’t imagine how isolated and desperate I will be in Ghana for anything remotely familiar. I’ll probably run and embrace anyone who’s white. That outing plus dinner took the rest of the evening and we returned barely able to make it to our beds before crashing exhausted.

In the morning, the spirit of Jim Morrison beckoned us back to his grave for another photo. I could barely believe what happened next. Again we stood behind a group of people waiting to get close to the tomb. Again Cody stripped to his Yesterdog t-shirt. But this time, a young woman, mid-20s approached and asked incredulously, “Are you really from Grand Rapids, Michigan?” “Yes…” Cody and I answered in unison. She smiled, “I went to Forest Hills Central High School. I love Yesterdog!” SHUT UP! Here we are halfway around the world in a cemetery in France and this mustard and ketchup-splotched t-shirt has brought together random strangers from Eastown, Grand Rapids, Michigan, United States.

Our next stop was Le Musee do Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. None of us are art connoisseurs in any sense of the word but we all wanted to say we at least saw the Mona Lisa. But before we even boarded the subway headed to Louvre, Scott froze and demanded, “Where’s the stroller?” Cody and I frantically looked down into our empty hands, then into eachother’s empty hands. Guess who we went to see one more time, good ol’ Jimmy! And he had kept Elle’s pink stroller with multi-colored hearts safe for us.

The Louvre was…well…huge; too huge if you ask me. We took a visitor’s map, each of the four floors (2^ieme etage, 1^ieme  etage, 0 etage and -1^ieme etage) designated with its own color, but map-reading apparently does not grace our gene-pool because we wandered for nearly 4 hours searching for the 5 masterpieces we had actually heard of. I think Le Louvre needs an “Express” room, in which those few world-famous pieces that every idiot knows are displayed. Then an art-ignoramus like me, who really doesn’t give a damn, can find that one room, see the Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, The Consecration of Napolean, The Wedding at Cana, Ramses II and The Slave, snap a photo to send to Yesterdog, and get the hell out of there, leaving the rest of the labyrinth to those art-lovers who can actually appreciate it.

I did pick a favorite Greek statue, though. I liked him because I could relate to the obvious issues he's having with his cell phone service. Cody chose a favorite too but he didn't say why...I'm thinking it has something to do with the elongated, tubesock boobies (We are classy folks, really).

We never made it to the French Paintings on the 2^nd floor. We all had thrown in the towel by then. We had enough patience left only to find the SORTIE sign and head out into the rainy cold (we had bought two umbrellas for notoriously rainy Paris but had never put them in the back pack). Last night at dinner, we all agreed we are ready to head to our next destination, Norway. Even if the spirit of Jim Morrison keeps calling us back.