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Morrison's Grave

By Martin Rots

     My wife and I were in Paris a few years ago and decided to visit Jim Morrison's grave at Pere Lachaise cemetery. It was a long way from the Left Bank where our hotel was to the cemetery. When we emerged from the Metro, it was pouring rain. We looked around, got our bearings, and found we were right in front of the cemetery.
     We crossed the street, turned into the wind and made our way along the cemetery wall until we reached the stone gatehouse. No one tried to stop us and we walked right through the gate. We followed the pavement and came upon a stone building with a map of the cemetery posted on its wall.
     Pere Lachaise holds the remains of a lot of prominent people including Edith Piaf, Oscar Wilde, Alice B. Toklas and of course, Jim Morrison, who used to frequent the cemetery in his final weeks. Land is at a premium in Paris and the cemetery is crowded with headstones. Morrison's final resting place is the most popular among visitors and they come from all over the world to visit.
     We wander through the headstones trying to follow a map from the guidebook but all we find is other Americans as lost as we are. We band together, consult guidebooks and maps and after much discussion, go in the wrong direction.
     It starts raining harder but we don't care. We are all on a mission and we won't be deterred by rain or bad directions. We find more Americans and feel stronger as our numbers increase. We quickly bond as strangers in a foreign land are prone to do. Maps are again consulted and the group, unable to come to a consensus, breaks up and goes in different directions.
     Unfazed, Candy and I chose our own path and move out through the downpour. By some miracle, ten minutes later, we stumble upon Morrison's grave. There is no one there but a grim looking, very short woman in a uniform. She is there to prevent vandalism, but she appears terminally bored.
     The headstone is nothing special. There used to be a bust but it was stolen years ago. They've cleaned up the graffiti and the adjacent graves all seem to be employing some sort of extra security measures to thwart the fans. They really pack them in here and there isn't much room to gawk.
     Before long, we're joined by a young Irishman from Belfast. It's his birthday and he has chosen to spend it with the Lizard King...or at least what's left of him. The rain lets up and we talk while the guard keeps an eye on us. He's a big Doors fan and he takes our picture with our camera for a souvenir. I take his picture and offer to send him a copy when we get home. For some reason, he's reluctant to share his information with us. I give him our email address and tell him to write. He seems interested in a copy of the photo of him at the grave but we never hear from him. He tells us he's going to spend the day there.
     Ten minutes was good for me.
     I was ready to get out of the rain and have something to eat. We found a café by the Metro station, had lunch and dried out for a while. While I sipped my second Stella Artois, I looked through the rain at the cemetery walls and thought how bleak it looked, how confining a place to spend eternity.
     Spread my ashes someplace without walls.