As I come into the Gare St. Lazare train station from the region of Upper Normandy, I see Sacré Coeur from the train’s rectangular glass window. I first stumble into the huge shopping complex there, follow my instincts to go up, up, and onto the flat, concrete rooftop with a panoramic view of the city’s quenching landscape. With escalators as my guide, I am slightly distracted by tables of spices on the third floor of the shopping center. After pinching my nose shut, I complete the ascent to the empty space above the modern mall overlooking the cityscape spotted with historical landmarks. Very nicely, there are few tourists here. If I please, I can sit down for a coffee/tea or a dessert (or both) at the rooftop café. To the contrary, I sit down on the roof itself and read for an hour above the busy-bee streets.
Back down in the winding streets moments later, I find a café, lounge in the sun, and occasionally feel in unison with the quick movements around me. I am envious of the people. And I sense a hollow apparition, or shall I say, a vacancy in the gestures of the people walking past, of the people bearing the bureaucratic burden of French life. But at the same time, they appear entirely satisfied with something. Something vague, something obscure … noticeable yet not quite discernable.
It is at this point that I open my eyes to find in front of me a tea shop that sells only Japanese green tea. At Chajin, I see unique canisters for holding tea and all sorts of accessories for green tea drinking. Tucked away near St. Lazare station, I learn here of Japanese green tea and its superiority to Chinese green tea. I discover some of its health benefits as well—that is—if I drink enough of it daily. While learning methods of prolonging and enhancing my life by drinking green tea, I am impelled to visit two of the important cemeteries in Paris. At both, I find two eccentric details of the city of Paris: dominoes and cats.
In Le Cimetière du Père Lachaise, among the infamous collection of well-accomplished Western individuals, is the framing of the American poet Gertrude Stein through the apparatus of the toy domino. Lining the grave of Gertrude Stein—and her lover Alice B. Toklas—I curiously gaze upon a toppled display of dominoes. This display reflects the chaos of her syntax through the act of a falling domino and the repetition of such an act. From one word to the next, knocking over its sense, destroying its meaning, the dominoes—a sign of chance, game, and repetition—bring me to thoughts of her poetry or prose and the confusion it arouses. In the same way, the dominoes there on her grave bamboozle me. Why are there toppled dominoes scattered on her headstone? And what does it have to say about the making of Americans?
From one cemetery to the next, I zip from metro stop to metro stop until I arrive at Le Cimetière de Montmartre where approximately fifty cats roam the cemetery. With neither apparent nor hidden reason for this, there are bowls of water and dishes of food carefully and haphazardly placed between the tombs. The felines surprise me as I wander through the two layers of the cemetery. From the second layer, I see a bridge running over the headstones below and through the headstones at my level. This juxtaposition of the living and the dead is a striking sight. Amidst the hustle and bustle of a modern urban center are the disquieting sepultures resting in an observant silence of the incessant movement of automobiles.
On my final night, I sit on the stone steps near the entrance to Sacré Coeur; stereotypically, I am sipping a full-bodied red wine, nibbling French cheese, and tearing off pieces of a baguette in a salute to the importance of these three foods to the country of France. Despite my reservations of such a touristy gesture, I cave into it and enjoy both the night air and view of a modern and medieval cityscape.
Written by Andrew Hill
Photograph by Franz Golhen
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