From Degas to Dalida

On our way back from Les Puces  in St Ouen - huge and a little overwhelming - we found that we had time to walk through a part of Paris we'd yet to explore: the area behind Montmartre, the bit looking the opposite way to the stunning though Eiffel tower-less panorama from the terrace in front of Sacre Coeur.

How brave were we to leave intramuros behind and to venture beyond the périférique  to take in the assorted bric-a-brac and collectibles in the markets.  I have never seen so many chandeliers nor so many huge ones. You could warm a room with the wattage they'd take to light up completely.

Anyway, back to behind Montmartre and a scruffy little street market where apparent bargains were to be had. We had an uncertain moment not knowing whether to risk overtaking a woman, dragging a shopper trolley, whose profligate sneezing and hawking was uninterrupted by hand nor handkerchief. What if she'd deposited a generous portion of her germs all over us as we ambled past?  Would the hand gel we so liberally used all weekend have offered an adequate defence?

She finally stopped at a stall and we carried on unimpeded by uncertainty and followed a slight incline upwards towards our goal, where others had already found their eventual or unexpected end - the cimitière de Montmartre. I am a complete fan of the ancient and architectural graveyard and have spent many a happy hour in the company of Père Lachaise but, somehow, I'd never either located nor visited his smaller but equally fascinating rival. It seemed almost appropriate a destination given the demise of neighbours on both sides over the last few weeks.

We were immediately fascinated to see that a road bridge - apparently constructed well after the cemetery was inaugurated - effectively bisects the hallowed ground, and wondered whether it would be better to have one's monument beneath the bridge or not. It certainly affords some shelter from the elements.

A helpful information board indicated the whereabout of the more famous residents and we chose a random few to pass an hour or so.  First off the tomb of the songwriter and musician, Michel Berger who died suddenly in 1992 at the age of 44. It was hardly what you would expect for one so feted, so unexpectedly taken, whose life work still regularly punctuates the airwaves and is endlessly reinterpreted: a flat surface with no headstone covered with what looked to be astroturf. 

Degas, the artist, was allocated a longer span getting to 83 when he departed in 1917.  He was born  Hilaire-Germain-Edgar De Gas and was associated with the impressionist movement.

Max is a big fan, or so he says, of Dalida. So off we trundled to a suitably over the top monument including a life-sized statue of this French naturalised Egytian/Italian singer whose life was almost as big as her career but not as enduring, and whose brother continues to live off her ongoing success. Dalida died of an overdose at the age of 54, leaving a note saying her life had become unbearable. Her memorial is, controversially, within a few metres of a public convenience. 

Though we had chosen some, to us, well-known names, it is as interesting coming upon unexpected celebrities of their time and thus we lit upon Miss Bluebell, the dancer and choreographer and Adolphe Sax, the Belgian inventor of the saxophone. We also learned that Emile Zola has been granted access to and so moved to the Panthéon, and that Hector Berlioz was originally in a less conspicious area of the burial ground but now surveys all from a spot overlooking the roundabout near the entrance.

So in death there is life and history and fascination. Max has determined that he will have a monumental sepulchre when his time comes. He tried to persuade me that I should enthuse at this possiblity but I, despite my continuing interest in necropolises, just want my ashes scattered to the wind. Not quite yet though - I still have to visit the cimitières at Montparnasse and Passy.