The Incredible Journey: 4 April, 1994
Tuesday, January 4, 2011 at 12:00PM 
In 1994, I did what most white South Africans my age saw as a right of passage. I went on a tour of Europe with a schoolfriend and her girlfriend. I was in my early 20's.
These are the letters and faxes (this was before everyone had email, Children) I sent home. They are all real. I couldn't make this shit up.
The trip started in January 1994. To read the posts in order, go the Itinerary Post.
4 April 1994
Paris
Letter
Dear Family,
Dad - thanx so much for your letter! It was a lovely surprise and I got it just as we were leaving. We extended our trip by a day so it was real luck that I was there to receive it.
The B's [friends of my parents, who let us stay with them in Paris] have been extremely kind and generous. Unfortunately, we arrived very late - +/- 11pm. We underestimated the distance from Calais, forgot about the time change (1 hr forward) and got lost 4 times. We couldn't phone because every phone booth we fond was for phonecards only. Anyway, we ate and went to bed.
On Saturday Mr B lent us his phonecard, guide of Paris, bought us train tickets, gave use more tickets, and walked us to the station. Mrs B made us a picnic lunch, and we were dispatched to Paris. We saw Tour Eiffel (mindblowing), then Place d'Etoiles to Louvre by foot. Lunch in the Tuilleries, walked to Notre Dame, then home by RER [Paris trains].
On Sunday we went cycling around the park of the Chateau [Versailles] and saw the Hameau, etc. In the afternoon we went back and saw the 1st floor section. Unfortunately the grounds and 2nd floor section were closed by the time we got out.
TONS OF TOURISTS! (Les Japponais!)
On Monday we went to La Defense which was amazing. Then Sacre Coeur, Cemetiere de Pere Lachaise and Beaubourg.
At the cemetary we saw a large group of Italians searching for Jim Morrison's grave. They walked into a central part, saw some young people and shouted "Ou est Jim?" It seems that's what everyone goes there for. I'm proud to say we also took the time to see Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Marcel Proust and Chopin. The B's have never been there!
Beaubourg is a fascinating area but Centre Georges Pompidou is yukky.
I bought sunglasses the same shape as my glasses (but bigger) which fit quite well over them so I can drive without getting headaches.
Today we gave a speech at Mrs B's English class about South Africa. Only Carrie and I went - Varla packed the camper.
Just as we were about to head off for Bordeaux, Mrs B said the coast near Rennes is beautiful, so we are on our way there instead. They think we are mad changing our minds at the last minute. They are FAR too uptight.
Mrs B's daughter is studying for exams. 3000 take the exam for 600 places! She has 4 months to prepare. Much pressure.
We are approaching Rennes now, so I must navigate. Excuse writing - bumpy road.
Oh yes, camper cost £702.50 plus £90.00 for spares [My father probably asked me the price in his letter. Prices of things always fascinated him]. Next time, I CHOOSE the car to buy.
Love you
Post Script
I have to add more detail to this letter.
First, my adult impressions of Paris are here.
Second, I'd like to tell you more about our trip to Pere Lachaise. It was an amazing experience for me.
We came out of the tube and found ourselves at some minor side entrance. There was no gate or staff or anything. So we started to walk around the perimeter to find the main entrance. Instead we stumbled on a small store which sold maps of the famous graves and assured it was OK to use the side entrance.
It's strange to be in a place that is a tourist attraction and yet also is a cemetery and should be respected as such. I was therefore shocked and irritated by the Italian students running through the place, laughing, and yelling "Where's Jim?" in French to anyone they saw.
Some of the graves were very grand, and others quite modest. A few were recent, but many were hundreds of years old and in awful, depressing disrepair.
I don't believe in cemeteries and this is part of the reason why. If something is old enough, give money to keep it in good nick. Otherwise, sell the lot again and bury someone on top. Land is precious. No new cemeteries should be built, anywhere. When I die, get rid of me as environmentally consciously as possible. My body is probably too full of chemicals to let me degrade into the earth, so just burn me. No casket, no urn, no bullshit. Spend the money on getting drunk and telling stories about me. No physical memorials. My time is done. Continuing to take up space is unethical and pure vanity.
But I digress. Back to Pere Lachaise.
Jim Morrison's grave was very weird. Firstly, I was annoyed that idiots had sprayed graffiti on graves around his and some of them had been broken. There was a girl standing there crying, and some other fuckwit sitting on a neighboring gravestone smoking weed. It was a very strange atmosphere and I couldn't help but feel that, if Jim could manifest, he'd tell them all to fuck off.
Jim Morrison's grave
Oscar Wilde's grave was a totally different experience. It's a huge mausoleum/statue thing. But that's not what was interesting about it.
When we got there, there was a young man at the grave site, who was with a female friend. He was asking her to take photos of him at the grave. He looked really, really sick. He was holding up a sign that said: "You can keep your Keats and Yeats... SUGAR!"
Being the year it was, I couldn't help but wonder if he had AIDS.
He was crying, and it felt like we were intruding, so we took a quick picture of the grave and hurried on our way.
Oscar Wilde's grave
Chopin's grave was unique, too. Singularly beautiful, and obviously well looked after, it was surrounded by a small group of people who can only be described as cultured. The visitors seemed to be wealthy, and were quietly paying their respects, whispering to each other.
I felt like his music should have been piped from the gravestone. But maybe the cultured people would think that was tacky.
Chopin's grave
Because Carrie and Varla weren't particularly interested, I went by myself to find Piaf's and Proust's graves.
Again, each experience was unique.
At Piaf's gravesite were two sets of quite elderly people, who stood before it in utter reverence. Piaf is an icon of French culture, one of those celebrities that an entire country claims as their own. I felt a real respect and sorrow from the people there.
Proust's grave is hard to find because it is in a row of completely nondescript gravestones. There was another man picking through the rows and we looked up at each other and smiled, knowing we were looking for the same thing.
When I finally found the grave I wasn't sure if I felt respect or wanted to tell him that he put me through hell studying his books at University. Still, you can't take anything away from the man who gave us an understanding of associative memory through a sweet biscuit (la Madeleine).
I felt strongly that the experience I had at each grave at Pere Lachaise said a lot about the celebrity in question:
- Jim's fans were a drug-fueled, disrespectful rabble who showed disproportionate displays of emotion (the girl who stood there crying was too damn young to have been born when the Doors were a hit)
- Chopin's fans were upper class, well dressed and well behaved
- Oscar Wilde inspired a gay man who was ill, and yet still had an amazing sense of humor
- Piaf still commanded a deep devotion, the amazing but tragic little bird who inspired and altered her country
- Proust's humble grave and scant visitors showed that he is, after all, an acquired taste.
Pere Lachaise cemetery was one of those amazing experiences that you sometimes have when you travel. You go somewhere, thinking you'll just be there a little while, and that it won't be a big deal. But in fact you end up being utterly drawn in and entertained while your perspective shifts and, in spite of yourself, you learn something.
The trip started in January 1994. To read the posts in order, go the Itinerary Post.
Reader Comments (3)
Perfect.
Deeply flattered, for you are the travel writing guru. Reading your journey home from Sydney during the volcano fiasco was amazing. At one point I realized I was feeling anxiety - I was right there with you!
Originally the plan had been to do my parachute jump and that was going to mark a formal passing of 15 months of anxiety and grieving. By showing that I was game for adventure again and confronting something that was frioghtening and a challenge I had set that up in my mind as something that would demonstrate a return to form if you ilke.
Of course it transpired that it was the journey home that brought out my true resilience and sense of determination. Looking back on it it was quite exciting and woke me up to some of the positives about myself which had been a bit dormant. At the time, when I was walking away from the Virgin ticket desk in Sydney and the whole flight to Istanbul and sitting on the floor of Tirana airport and on the phone to my mate in Milan, it was hellish!