Spending my Saturday night listening to my collection of country music (currently playing: Brooks and Dunn's Hillbilly Deluxe. Ohhh yeahh.), and since I can't bring myself to write about anything uniquely Parisian in this context, I'll wax poetic on something a little more universal: death. More specifically, how I want to be commemorated in stone once I'm stone-cold dead, inspired by the sights of Cemetière Montmartre.
Here's how I don't want it done:
Here lies Emily (Insert hot husband's name here); may she rest in peace while
forever scaring little children and anyone remotely suspicious of clowns.
It's Russian dancer Nijinsky's tomb, so I guess the clownish costume is kinda appropriate, but can't you just imagine a pair of Parisian lovers out on a midnight stroll through the otherwise tranquil cemetery getting the bejesus scared out of them by the strange little man with the sunken-in eyes chillin' on a tombstone? 'Cause I totally did, and it was three in the afternoon.
Oh, and I definitely do not want anything like this:
Here lies Emily (Insert hot husband's name here) beneath a pile of rocks.
I'll hopefully have contributed something to society worthy of a commemoration a little more refined than that (fingers crossed).
This is more of what I'm looking for:
I'm referring to the tomb on your right, not Edgar Degas' poor excuse for eternal housing on the left, nor the phallic symbol between them. This tomb is home to Contesse Marie Potcka, Princesse Soltikoff. Here's a better angle of the the wonderful (and I'd say absolutely necessary) gilt-work.
I deserve a tomb fit for a princess, right?
... right?
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