Ding ding

Every day in almost all, if not every one, of the gated cemeteries of Paris, there is a time when the guards walk the widest boulevards and ring large, hand held tea bells.

They elicit a ding that echoes into shaded corners and between statuesque memorials. The familiar sound is one I regret but do not disavow when the guards especially call out my way.

On the one hand, the romantic, archeologist in me loves the noise. These bells signal a formality, a familiarity, a plodding record of time that, for the evening, this place is closed. It often reminds me of medieval cities, once walled and also walled off for the evening by some sort of ringing reminder. In Chinese towns and cities of yesteryear, there were also night clock men, who walked the town ringing a bell at each hour of the night. And I am a jealous sketcher--wanting to eke out every last moment with those residing in Pere Lachaise. But when the doors of one of the 5 gates closes, and I look back, I see green canopies over the gates and the sun. It's summertime in Paris, where the sunset is around 9:30pm. I realize that those who reside in Pere Lachaise might well be heaving a sigh of peace, that at last they can rest in peace for the remainder of the day--away from the 1 million visitors that stream through each year.

But I also feel that gated walls separate as much as they protect. In a necropolis like Pere Lachaise, nestled amidst the bosom of Paris and very well sharing party walls with city apartments, there could be so much more. So much more.