Père Lachaise

Even celebrities, like all us mere mortals, eventually fall to their demise and end up underground. Which means it turns out that the best place for celebrity sightings in Paris happens to be a graveyard: Père Lachaise (pear lah-shez), to be exact.

A cemetery in the 20^th arrondissement of Paris that claims Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, and The Doors lead singer Jim Morrison as some of its most happening and popular residents, Père Lachaise will probably remain one of the most exclusive hotspots in Paris: you have to be dead just to get in. So I thought, what better way of commemorating the one day of the year that people dress-up and party as les morts vivants (lay mor veev-ahn : the living dead), ghosts, and celebrities alike by visiting the one place in Paris where ghosts and celebrities (and even the ghosts of celebrities) party in equal and eternal harmony?

My Halloween may have been spent grave-spotting the hipsters of heaven and hell, but my mind was elsewhere. Last weekend, I received some frightening news that startled me from my proverbial tombe (tome: grave): one of my closest friends from childhood is—happily—engaged. Several acquaintances from high school and college, according to Facebook, have tied the knot, but this is the first of my truly close friends from way-back-when to step-up into that next oh-so-adult phase of life, at least as far as setting an actual wedding date goes. And of course, I'm more than happy for her as she and her super-talented boyfriend make one of the most sickeningly cutest couples I've ever seen. Though somehow I can't help but feel a little blindsided by the fact that not only are my brothers happily busy building families of their own, but now it seems people my own age are getting into that stage of life where they're ready to admit they would rather spend the rest of their lives with someone rather than alone. I thought 35 was the new « adulte » (ah-doolt: adult), not 25. Or has Sex and the City been lying to me this whole time?

Since I'm busy living my fantasy of croissants and grave rubbings of the rich and famous in France, I've missed the very real reality of my niece's birth and will now miss not only the birth of my nephew, but the wedding of one of my meilleures amies (may-ure amee: best girlfriends) as well. And this even though we long ago pinky-swore we'd be each others bridesmaids back when we were running laps around the track in high school.

This reflective thought process has somehow lead to the unsettling reality of my own mortality. No matter how hard I try to stop it, I've been having haunting thoughts this past week about just how fragile my own life really is. As extatique (ek-stat-eek: ecstatic) as I am to be in Paris, I can't seem to shake the sudden awareness of how easily everything could be put to an end. Forgetting to look both ways before crossing the street, accidentally tripping down the stairs, overdosing on cocaine while partying in a hotel room (ok, maybe this last one is more Jim Morrison's fate)...these morbid thoughts that I've been more or less so good at avoiding for the past 25 years have suddenly started sucking the life-blood out of me. But it all culminated in one horrifying thought this afternoon, as I went to see one of the best views of Paris from my friend's 16^th floor appartement (ah-pahrt-eh-mehn: apartment) that overlooks the Parisian skyline. 

As I looked down from her balcony to admire the picture-perfect view of Paris, I had one of my very first terrifying fear-of-heights experiences. Just as quickly as I was captivated by the view of the Eiffel tower from 16 floors up, my mind became captivated by a different thought: what if I slipped and fell 16 floors down? This morbid cogitation left me more terrified than I've been in ages that not even seeing a bunch of five year-old zombies on le metro (luh meht-roh: the subway) on my way home could shake my feeling of vertigo.

I'm not sure if this sudden awareness about the fragility of life is just a coming-of-age process for twenty-somethings everywhere or if the ghosts of maids past are haunting me in my bedroom during my slumber, but this sudden new fear is not one I'm ready to accept. Hopefully my mind is just trying to get into the festive spirit by psyching me out for Halloween, but I can't help but feel like there's something I'm supposed to be learning out of all of this. Because just like every celebrity singer, writer, and everyman in Paris before me, eventually all good things come to an end, and all that's left is some dirt and a rock with a name chiseled on it.

While I'm more than aware how blessed my life is that I can enjoy the view of Paris on Halloween from 16 floors in the clouds, maybe it's time I really start thinking about who I want to enjoy the view with. Someone who would catch me long before I start to fall... After all, if history has taught me anything it's that high school friends always succumb to peer pressure, so if my high school friends have started to take the plunge, it probably won't be that long before I jump in after them. It's just that sometimes that can be the scariest fall of all, but certainly not life-threatening. N'est-ce pas (nes paw: right)?