I spent last weekend in Paris and at some point I found myself alone in the train station of Montparnasse. It was freaking cold, Monday, most of the museums were closed, my family was already gone and my friends were at the office working. Suddenly, an illumination! Serge Gainsbourg is buried in Montparnasse. So I went to visit him. His tomb is full of souvenirs, plants, metro tickets, cigarettes, teddy bears. I wonder what would Charlotte feel when she goes there to visit her father, if she ever goes.
I was touched by some kisses on the grave of (Paul Sartre and) Simone de Beauvoir. I was unable to find Camile Saint-Saëns and Marguerite Duras. I was not expecting Porfirio Díaz. Samuel Beckett is rather alone. While I was looking for Man Ray, an old man and two young girls asked me if I was Italian because of my accent while speaking French. They were those kind of people -- like me -- who do grave tourism with their camera at hand.
And I found Cortázar as well, together with his love Carol Dunlop. That is a name I fall in love with when I heard it the first time, as I fall in love recently with two other names: Eliette (von Karajan's wife) and Constanza. Some names are just pure femininity.
The last tomb of my tour was Jean Seberg's, another girl impossible not to fall in love with. Poor girl. And tomorrow is Jean Luc Godard's 80th anniversary. I will definitely watch again A bout de souffle!