France

Paris, autre fois

Everybody who's anybody is buried at the Cimetière du Père- Lachaise. Colette, Proust, Honoré de Balzac, Oscar Wilde, Molière, Edith Piaf, Sarah Bernhardt, Gertrude Stein, Jim Morrison and so many more. Not only that, but a decayed gothic splendor of ornate iron filigree, crimson and purple stained glass, stone cherubs, fleur-de-lys, and gargoyles, and wandering paths overgrown with ivy creepers. A beautiful necropolis. Cats prowl through the catacombs with an unknowable, and slightly sinister, intent that's best left in the shadowy precincts whence it issues. What better resting ground for these luminaries of literature, art, music, and philosophy, or for contemporary travelers to contemplate all that is possible within the human imagination?