Jim Morrison's modest grave in the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris still brings fans.

Paris was having a heatwave and I was wandering the unevenly cobbled sometimes shady lanes of Père Lachaise Cemetery, trying to find the legendary graves of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde, aided by two Russian women.

I found myself in the company of two lithe blondes, a Russian mother and daughter, who were equally enamored with the Lizard King. The daughter shared that she played drums in a band and they were going to a Queen concert later that night. I had my eye on her mother but the daughter seemed to think, since I was from SoCal, that I was going to be the father of her children and keep her in the lap of luxury. They were following a Google map to Morrison's grave, so we walked together, me in my fantasies and they in theirs.

The grave was modest and tucked between monolithic tombs. With the helter-skelter angles of some of the ancient graves that had settled into the sloped grounds it would be easy to miss Morrison's final resting place. But unlike the other tombstones, his was festooned with momentos  from adoring fans. It would be creepy to be in the cemetery on a cold, dark, wet Blue Sunday. The mother and daughter were model material, and I thought of the lyrics of that song: I met my own true love one, on a Blue Sunday. She looked at me and told me, I was the only, one in the world, now I have found my girl.Then I went in search of Oscar Wilde's tomb. It was on the far side of the cemetery and I was in need of a guide because the Russian ladies had wandered away when I didn't show proof I was a multimillionaire American in need of a Russian hottie. Suddenly an old Frenchman showed up. He seemed to like me, so I explained, in bad French, what I was seeking to find. He was amiable and led me there, all the while I thought it was a coincidence that he was also on his way to the tomb of the man who wrote, "A friend stabs you in the front," but mais non - he was just being neighborly, and once we arrived he bid adieu. The tomb appears to be an attempt by a shabby artist to replicate a Babylonian ruler's crypt with its winged weirdness. It's surrounded by an eight feet tall plexiglass panel, to cut down on the many lipstick kisses applied to the megalithic tomb's stone. Even so, the plexiglass has quite a few lipstick marks. But why? Was it because of his wittiness, or what? Most people of his time saw him as a degenerate. Nowadays he would be a conservative.

My daughter had married a young French film director the previous day, and I had the hot afternoon was no longer thrilling me. My last visit to Paris had been overly long, and this one was overly short. But that's probably just as well because the temperatures were way above normal and I still hadn't recovered from my troubled arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport, where I'd almost not made it into the country due to my passport having been stolen. The fully booked flight on United could certainly be blamed for keeping me from sleeping during the ten hour flight from San Francisco. Losing a passport is serious, especially when the French TSA apparently aren't used to passport cards, which turned out to be my salvation when all else failed. And who took my passport? I have my theories. It had forced me to spend over half a day at the U.S. Embassy to get an Emergency Passport, which I thought I needed to board my flight out of Paris, and get back into the United States. Both of these assumptions were incorrect, but I'd never lost a passport before.

The second party was was a somewhat lavish but casual affair. Cheese platters (fromage) arrived, with the champagne.

The wedding had been held in the stylist second floor of a Marie, not far from my Airbnb, Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, and my daughter's and son-in-law's apartment. It was administered by an assistant mayor of the 19th arrondissement, and his secretary. The assistant mayor wore a three color French flag banner from his right shoulder to his left hip and he was in a jovial mood. The half-hour ceremony was entirely in French, and most of the forty guests and witnesses were French, so I only understood some of the language. At a certain point my daughter and son-in-law stood and were asked if they were willing to wed and they each said, "Oui" and that was that. Then the pronouncement was made that the lovebirds were officially wed and the guests mingled and posed for photos on the marble staircase and tossed rice on the newlyweds as they came from the building. In most ways it was like a justice of the peace wedding, but it had a nuance of something more stylish. 

It was probably just fine because my daughter and her fiancé had lived together for nearly fourteen years in Paris. Why get married? I heard at least one of their friends remark later at the first of two parties. The first party was in a bar a short distance from the Marie building and I tried to fit in and chatted with some of my son-in-law's film friends. Perhaps it was bad form to try to learn how I might sell my 21 Days in Paris screenplay, but what else was I going to talk about with strangers? I spoke little bad French and they spoke little bad English. Like most parties there were superficial conversations going on. Kudos to the French people I met because they were kind enough to listen to me going on and on.  My son and his wife were also there and some friends of my daughter's from New York. People were mingling; noshing on slices of cured meats, fromage, and sipping wines and spiked cider. A few kids were going stir-crazy. The following day there was a party in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, and I have to say that everyone should spend time in this lovely park. I was lodged in an Airbnb just a block and a half from an entrance to the park, and I'd already taken two walks in it. I imagined myself living in Paris next to the park and how pleasant it might be. I was having a make-believe life in Paris. Oh-la-la.

You can see surreal things in any park. For instance, on my first walk in Parc des Buttes-Chaumont I found a lovely young woman sprawling on a tree limb, several meters off the ground. She gave me a flirtatious glance and then whistled to her Gypsy boyfriend and pleaded for a cigarette. And here I thought she was an earthy Mother Nature type. So I snapped a quick photo before her boyfriend arrived, though if she'd been alone she might have been my segue in Paris. Not that I need intrigue in a city enamored with l'amour. I'd previously spent more time in Parc de la Villette, which is also in the 19th arrondissement, and while I was there there were many outrageous sculptures beside the broad sidewalks. That was before the pandemic, in October of 2016. It would have been an ideal time to travel from Paris to Menton on the Côte d'Azur. But, alas, that trip will have to wait until later this year, or next year, such as the Lemon Festival (Fête du Citron) in February. My time in Parc de la Villette gave me lots of ideas for my novel and screenplay. The promo for 21 Days in Paris is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dsjHFUvpO8

Paris was in the mood to party when I was stuck in the U.S. Embassy trying to get a new passport. Grandstands were set up along the Champs-Elysées. But I'm not a big fan of fireworks.

Kudos to my son-in-law, Gregoire, for spending half the day with me at the U.S. Embassy, helping me get a new passport. It was probably a waste of a day because  my passport card would have sufficed. TSA people aren't deep thinkers; if I flashed my old man American smile and showed that passport card I probably wouldn't have been hassled and have to hear a stupid woman at the Newark, NJ airport police station say, "We don't who you are, sir." It was a philosophical question that needed me to reply, "Does anyone know who they are?" My recommendation, unless you have a gigantic head of hair, is to never used the photo booths in Paris, or even the one at the U.S. Embassy. My photos showed me as being a creature from another world. It appeared that my face was melting or on my way to becoming a deep sea creature. My lips were far too low on my face, and had a fishy look. 

So after the horrendous morning and afternoon at the U.S. Embassy, I was happy to go exploring a bit further. My bucket list included a stop at the I Love You Wall, which is easy to get to. Just hop a Métro to the Place des Abbesses stop. Le Our des Je t'aime is a must see, even though the middle of a sweltering afternoon isn't as romantic as a sultry early evening before its locked up. The garden is pleasant and it doesn't take a romantic rocket scientist to imagine sitting on a bench in that garden doing a little French kissing. More tongue please. Merci. 

Sacré Coeur de Montmartre offered a spiritual reprieve from somewhat stressful short visit to Paris. I was just warming up emotionally to the City of L'amour and wanted to kiss and make up, but my time in Paris was coming to a close.

My son-in-law and I walked up steep stairs and narrow cobbled streets to the top of the Montmartre hill to take in the view from the Basilica of Sacré Coeur. We joined a crowd entered the cool, dimly lit church, hushed by a church priest, and told to remove our hats. You see, it's bad form to be in a church with your hat on. Now, this isn't the case in a Jewish synagogue, where men wear yarmulkes and women wear head scarves. Does God care what we wear inside a man-made building? Nope. I suspect if we wanted to wear nothing but fig leaves it would be fine with God. I will leave you with Les Champs-Elysées by Pomplamoose. Will I be going back to Paris later this year? Maybe so. I found an unused Metro ticket in my wallet, and it states it's good until December. Voila.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7B4CLQGxHmI