#8 A moment from Paris

I love cemeteries. They remind me of speeches at weddings—everyone is suddenly the most adored person who ever lived. Father of the bride, beloved mother, cherished beyond reason. Cemeteries are exactly the same. It’s oddly warm and comforting.

Yesterday I went looking for the entrance to St Vincents in Montmartre—right next door to the apartment—and reputedly the teeniest little sweetheart on the face of the earth. I was confidently told—incorrectly—by ChatGPT that the entrance was a little green gate, well hidden in the ivy, in the middle of what is a solid one hundred metre long, twenty foot high, stone wall. ChatGPT is a snivelling, sycophantic, lying, slippery, evasive, weaselly, patronising, overconfident, under-informed, hallucinating, fact-mangling, truth-bender.

Of course there was no door. No gate.

Anyway, I found it on the other side of the full trapezoid-shaped city block.

I was the only person there. Utter peace. Have I ever told you that I think souls are like sponges? When they are sad, neglected, or simply weathered by the passing hours, they dry out. They become hard, brittle, and almost moisture-repellent. Then, some kindness happens—some unexpected joy—and they drink it in like water. Become soft and supple again. Mine heaved a sigh and plumped up. Quel beau silence. Apart from a kindly caretaker who handed me a laminated map.

I found Maurice Utrillo’s grave—poor troubled soul that he was—now lying there perfectly peacefully after such a hell of a life. I wandered on quite happily up and down the slope, taking photos of green patinated statues, reading inscriptions, marvelling at how much some families spend, enjoying the quiet, letting it all sink into my bones before I went ballistic tourist again.

And then—bam. A family grave piled with fresh flowers. Already full of names, and now one more

A yellow ribbon draped over the top, printed with: à ma petite marraine. To my little godmother.

It was the petite that did it. The child had grown into the adult, and the godmother had become the little one.

I blinked away tears.

I followed that up with a soul-plumping five hour non-stop chat lunch in a florist shop with Heather Stimmler, author of Secrets of Paris. She has a rapier-like mind full of fun and knowledge and integrity and wit—if you aren't on her email list you should be.https://secretsofparis.com/.

Today I take a perfume-making class. In French.

Toujours je t‘attends.