Visited Pere Lachaise cemetery. Famous for the graves of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde. I knew immediately where the hippies on my train were going - arms loaded with blue roses.
But my favourite is the story of Victor Noir. He was a journalist, shot and killed in 1870 at the age of 22 by Napoleon Bonaparte's great-nephew. His bronze effigy lies, full size, in a dapper suit and top hat on its back on the top of his grave. Legend has it that any woman who strokes Victor's amply endowed crotch will quickly become pregnant. You can tell it has been well-stroked because there is a gleaming spot on the crest of the crotch (can you have a crest of the crotch?).
Well, apparently at one time, a fence had to be erected to keep the ladies away because all that rubbing was reducing the size of Victor's larger than life package!!! I might say he has quite a cheeky grin, eternally.
Walked to the Parc de Belleville (alas no sign of those triplets). This a poorer, predominantly North African neighbourhood. Fantastically chaotic with street markets and people everywhere. The park was a real oasis, set high on a hill above the mixture of old architecture and the new high rises you associate with an immigrant community.
Caught the metro back to the moneyed extreme of Galleries La Fayette. It's bigger and more glamorous, but it really is just Chadstone.
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