36 Hours in Paris: Jim Morrison's Grave

Well, I am proud to say that my visit to Jim Morrison's grave ended with the police asking me to cease and desist (or at least, I assume, since he was speaking French). 

I first heard about people's fascination with Jim's grave in high school when one of my teachers visited Paris over the summer. She said there were bottles and syringes and used condoms everywhere (I went to public school, and this is how teachers talked). So I was excited to see the seedy-ness for myself.

So last week I decided on a whim to spend the weekend in Paris to See Bruce Springsteen and (what is left) of Jim Morrison. As I wrote on Facebook, I stayed out too late the night before my flight, slept through my alarm and woke up in a panic. Without any time to pack, I threw a portable record player and a Doors album in my bag, a toothbrush and a shirt.

Arriving at the cemetery on Sunday with two great friends I met in India, we wandered around for an hour trying to find him because my friend who had been there before "would know it when I see it." We eventually found it by asking people with tattoos or band t-shirts, who all had come for the same reason.

We found his modest plot covered in photos and flowers, with a gate so no one could "disturb" his resting place.

I got out my record player, put in the batteries, took out the LP (live set) and dropped the needle. We cracked a beer and lit some cigarettes. Here's to you, Jim!

People took photos of his grave and of our little set-up. People thanked us, and talked to us about music. Then, I got a little too courageous and played Light My Fire at full volume.

Eventually the police drove by and told me to cut it out. Nastasia asked in French why we would have to stop if it was making people happy. Rules are rules, he said... good thing he didn't spot the beers.

So the party was over. But now I can say, I went to Jim Morrison's grave and had the 5-0 called on me.