The Country Mice

Dear Reader, you are looking at what may be my favourite picture ever.

No, it’s not nice — but *I* didn’t carve it.

Your question: Where is this particular chunk o’ granite located?

And for the smarty pants among you, who is it?

I don’t actually know the answer to the latter question but I have an idea. And some smarty out there will be sure to tell us who!

Last visit to the cemetery. I promise.

Now, I like to think of myself as literary and literate as the next average gal walking down the street. I read my Chaucer, my Shakespeare, my Beowulf, my bp nichol, et cetera!

I also read James Joyce, Dylan Thomas, yada yada.

And I read Oscar Wilde along with the rest of my classmates.

But did I looooove the guy? I did not.

Yes, yes, tortured soul, brilliant writer, outcast, wit, talk of the town, penniless at death. I get all that.

But kiss marks on his tomb? Ick. I’m sorry, literati of the world, but I don’t get it.

And obviously the graveyard cleaner-uppers don’t get it either.

Sheesh.

And now, because a tragic love story makes the world go ’round, the story of Heloise and Abelard.

Just about a millennium ago, Pierre Abelard, a brilliant and outspoken French philosopher, was called upon to tutor the equally brilliant, much more pretty and twenty years his junior Heloise d’Argenteuil.

They fell in love, she bore a child whom she named Astrolabe, and then secretly married. The couple then disclosed the fact of the marriage to Heloise’s uncle but Heloise, not wanting to ruin Abelard’s career and reputation left Baby Astrolabe with Abelard’s sister and entered a convent.

Heloise’s uncle, however, believed Abelard was in fact trying to shirk his responsibilities by shutting Heloise away and tracked down Abelard and made him less of a man with a very sharp knife.

From here the story changes depending on which account you read. However, just about everyone agrees that both Abelard and Heloise retained a deep devotion to each other even though they saw each other only once more in their lives.

The pair wrote dozens of letters, often philosophical, but more often of their deep love and undying devotion to each other. Heloise became abbess of the priory where she lived the rest of her life and Abelard wrote and published essays and papers, neither of them distracted by the tiresome minutiae of life as husband and wife.

Through their famous correspondence of 20 years, their love continued to flourish, in spite of their separation, and they promised to remain ‘forever one.’

Six hundred years later, Josephine Bonaparte, so moved by their story, ordered that the remains of Abelard and Heloise be entombed together at Pére Lachaise cemetery.

And so here they rest for eternity, together at last, Heloise and Abelard.

A caveat: Some say Abelard became a monk, others dispute the notion. Some say the bones are buried in this cemetery, others say the remains are elsewhere. Whatever the facts, it’s a tale worthy of a thespian drama — and in fact, there is one.

It’s called Abelard and Heloise: The Musical.

As I believe I have noted elsewhere in this online indulgence of ramblings, I have a great affection for graveyards.

Frederic Chopin -- born in Poland (see the flag?), died in France. Both countries claim him as their own

Cemetery tours — that’s how I refer to the string of resting places I visit whenever I’m back in central Canada, although I’ve visited monuments to the dead in quite a few different countries.

So naturally my weekend in Paris simply had to include a couple of hours in Pere Lachaise cemetery.

Pere Lachaise was a Jesuit priest and confessor to Louis 14th, and lived in a small house on the edge of this plot of land in the late 1600s, early 1700s. The land was bought by the city in 1804 and approved by Napolean, so they say.

Outside the cemetery walls the sellers of lavender soap and miniature Eiffel towers also offer detailed maps of the graveyard, naming the little avenues delineating various sections of the 110 acres. As entrance to the cemetery is free, a couple of euros spent on a map is no great hardship.

The map does not list every family’s name or sepulchre but highlights several dozen in which the general public might be interested. Being that more than one million bodies sought eternal rest here, a map is a pretty good idea.

A visit to this place really is, in my case, homage to the English and philosophy professors of my youth, and to my parents who endured nearly two decades of misery as I plodded unhappily through endless music lessons (but now I’m thankful, Dad!!).

Now — hands up. Who remembers The Doors? Who remembers the lead singer? Who knew he was buried in Pere Lachaise? (Besides you, Ballycroy!)

I’d read a book about Jim Morrison’s raucous life and untimely end when I was living in Greenwich Village in the early 1980s. I also read about his burial (and resulting conspiracy theories) in a Paris cemetery, where his devotees light candles, splash beer and other yellow liquids on his grave, light up a few ah, cigarettes and in general pay their rock ‘n roll respects.

I also read that the Parisien authorities are none too thrilled about the spray-painted arrows declaring “Jim this way” and other mourning detritus.

Here lies Jim. Kind of ho-hum after all that build-up, wasn’t it?

No worries. Tomorrow I’ll regale you with the unrequited love story of Heloise and Abelard, separated in life but joined in death… Oh swoon…

So, we didn’t *mean* to go to Paris.

Perhaps that sounds a little disingenuous after the fact but it turns out Paris is only three hours away from Aix by train, the weekend was coming and we know what they say about guests after three days… and further, we were boosted by the Bowen Island chef de mission…

“After all, when will you be back there again?” quoth he.

Uh, this spring? (I don’t think he heard me.)

Les enfants were over the moon! Voltaire, Camus, and Sartre may be off their reading lists, but they knew a good opportunity when they heard one.

Even the students from the lycee were jealous — nothing like a deadly sin to enhance one’s travel experience.

So this is just a teaser, because the tour guide has got to get to sleep, but let’s just say we got our money’s worth out of our Metro passes.

And, Ballycroy, we missed Pere Lachaise by 15 minutes — going to try before our train leaves tomorrow.

Bonne nuit!

How lovely it looks, college Mignet. I don’t understand how any young man could not be absolutely thrilled to be passing his school days in its hallowed halls.

Or experiencing la vie scolaire where the student population outnumbers his Bowen school by about 800 per cent…

Three o’clock. Getting out a bit early today. Children in France routinely see their classes stretching into the later afternoon, often not ending until 5 p.m.

I guess when the dinner hour is not until 8 p.m. (slight adjustment for us prairie chickens) the late ending to the day is not that big an event.

I think of this place a couple of centuries ago, young women clad in black coming in and rarely going out, part but not part of the community outside…

So much rich and detailed history and so little time to absorb it…!

Okay now. Class is out, a great crush of humanity surges forth and a certain lad looks as though is he high-tailin’ it out and away, thank you very much.

Gotta go gotta go gotta get outta here before somebody tries to talk to me because I just wanna go home and get outta this joint…

Oh! Hi, Mum! Can I have a euro?

And then peace reigns again as we glide through the shadows with out friends.

Until the next day…

Such a pretty building.

I was walking along in a bit of a daze, having just bumped into a woman from Bowen Island.

What are you doing in my dream, I thought.

A nice place to stay, n’est-ce pas? Attractive stone walls, well sited in Aix, full of a certain indescribable charm…

Ah… those nuns! Such good taste!

Now let me give you a bit of geographical perspective, mes amis. The lycée my two canadiens are currently attending is across the big boulevard from this building. A 10-minute walk or less.

The lycée is also a massive stone building with beautiful stone archways and attractive wooden plank doors and a central garden.

The lycée is only, relatively speaking, 250 years old.

The lycée is also a former convent, albeit for the Benedictine order, lest there be any confusion.

That’s a lot of prayer in a very small area.

Of course, every building has a story…

Okay, Europhiles.

I’m very sorry to do this to you so please be forewarned.

The south of France is very pretty. It is also sunny and fragrant.

The coffee is strong, the baguettes are fresh and to nibble on a croissant whilst sitting in a cafe on the Cours Mirabeau is magnifique!

So what’s a poor Canadienne to do?

Why, send her children to school, of course!

Voila college Mignet. Former 17th-century Benedictine convent, now an international secondary school in the heart of Aix en Provence. (Homeboy is apparently in that muddle somewhere but I don’t see him.)

My dear friend Mary lives in the country outside of Aix and as the youngest of her three children still attends this school, she arranged for my two to attend for the time we’re here.

And you know they’re just *thrilled* about that!

Painter Paul Cezanne once attended this school as well so there are tributes to him in the area, including these brass plates in the sidewalk en route to school. No particular notice paid to the corner where he used to smoke with his buddies!

So after dropping off my little friends in the mornings I make various detours through the gorgeous little alleyways surrounding the centre of town where the school is situated.

Olive trees in pots. If only I had friends in Customs Canada!

Perfect time of year for fresh produce to be everywhere, even in the tiniest little places where you’d pick up a pack of smokes or a newspaper.

After 24 hours of travel and even more without sleep, the princess had a bit of a sore throat and fever. However, she managed to pull it off in her best French style, don’t you think?