German Girls and Cemeteries
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German girls have a liking for cemeteries: I've (somewhat accidentally) done my research. When I lived in Paris I'd often ask a girl, shortly after I met her, if she cared to go for a stroll in Cimetiere du Montparnasse, located across the street from where I lived on Rue de Campagne Premiere.

I recall strolling through the cemetery on a cheerful May day with a Mexican girl, met in a Sorbonne French class -- a mild look of perplexity crept into her face; she said: "A little strange, I think, coming into a cemetery." I skirted this comment by saying I'd brought her there to see the cats -- the magnificent, half-wild, cats that live in all the Paris cemeteries and subsist off of hand-outs. She liked cats and accepted this as a reason for being there, but still couldn't get past the impression that being taken for a stroll in a cemetery by a boy she'd just met was "weird."

British girls, Spanish girls, Italian girls: they often greeted my cemetery stroll invitation with a quizzical look and some of them never lost the look for the duration. In addition to the cats, I'd fall back on a visit to Baudelaire's resting place as an excuse for being there or say it was a shortcut to a café on the other side: I didn't want these girls to be uncomfortable.

French girls, on the other hand -- whether they be Parisian or not -- generally seem to have, so to speak, seen it all at the moment of birth: nothing astonishes them. The somewhat distant look of placidity on their faces wouldn't alter in the least when I'd inquire as to whether they cared to stroll among the sepulchers: no surprise or dismay would flicker in their eyes; neither would enthusiasm. The cats? -- Oui. Ils sommes tres charmant. The tomb of Baudelaire? -- Pourquoi pas? And they'd be inherently sophisticated, like all good French girls; and keep their thoughts to themselves, like all good French girls; and be unaffectedly sweet, like all good French girls; and make out on a bench without the least trace of reserve in a nondemonstrative manner, like all good French girls. But the fact we were in a cemetery meant little to them: they could take it or leave it.

But German girls are another matter: ask them if they'd like to promenade in a cemetery and their eyes ignite! Perhaps they've been keeping their opinion of me somewhat in check before this question; after this question, it's as if I can do no wrong! German girls can't wait to get to cemeteries! And once there... They become blithe and animated, chat up a storm, ask questions, talk of themselves: now that they've decided they definitely like me, they want to get the getting-acquainted stage out of the way as soon as possible and proceed to more engaging activities.

There was one German girl in her early twenties, with such an engagingly cute little girl face that all took her for sixteen at the most: she'd be stared at in the Metro by junior high aged boys as if she was a girl in their math class they wanted to grope. And this girl -- I recall it as clearly as if it was yesterday: she's seated before me on a headstone in Cimetiere du Montparnasse, wearing a short pink dress with white fringes -- and lacy white half-gloves that leave the fingers exposed -- and a white ribbon in her long flaxen hair; and her blue eyes are flat out spinning in delight as she grasps the back of my neck with both hands, stands up, and fastens her lips on my neck and begins sucking with all her might from between gently scratching teeth: I don't think I've ever been hickeyed so quickly. The contrast between her innocent doll face and take-charge hunger was priceless. And I distinctly felt I owed it to the fact that being in a cemetery awakened her.

There was another German girl, inordinately fond of wearing capes and of an artsy and career-minded disposition (she wanted to be a producer), who I met through friends. One evening, at a rather tepid party that we were both bored at, she was busy lecturing me about my propensity to stay up all night and sleep during the day -- saying that eventually I'd have to give it up in the interests of making a living; that I couldn't be irresponsible forever: she seemed to be annoyed at me for some reason -- while also liking me in a begrudging manner -- and was digging at me in this oblique way. So, because the party was so stupid and she had little interest in it and because I'd had enough of being dictated to and also because I liked her despite her artsiness and lecturing nature, I asked her if she'd like to go for a stroll inside Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise, located a short Metro ride away. Well, she altered in an instant -- all of her subdued hostility melted away; attentive warmth swept into her features; her eyes grew interested and kind. But then a thought occurred to her: it was after dark and the gates to Pere Lachaise were closed: how would we gain entry? So I told her we'd need to locate a van parked close to the wall of Pere Lachaise and climb on top of it to reach the top of the wall; then I'd drop to the other side and assist her down. She began laughing so excessively that she drew stares.

So we say our good-byes, hop the Metro to Pere Lachaise, and begin strolling around its walls. We find a delivery truck parked close enough and I assist her in ascending it. And my, what a priceless memory! This girl, always overdressed and seeking to project a complex-mystery-woman image; this girl, a somewhat pretentious devotee of gallery openings and avant garde films; this girl, so utterly finicky about her clothes and very protective of her capes (frowning when they become unevenly distributed on her shoulders and brush the ground as a consequence, yanking them up with alacrity verging on alarm); this girl, I say, is climbing onto the top of the cab of the truck with her precious cream-colored cape dragging along the grille and getting soiled and she doesn't care! A childlike look of mischief and joy is absolutely beaming from her eyes! She's far too preoccupied with getting to the top of the wall that circles the cemetery to care about striking mystery woman poses, being artsy, or spouting lectures! The escapade at hand -- prospect of strolling inside Pere Lachaise after dark -- has thoroughly banished all predilection to posture and be self-righteous from her personality! Why? Because she's German and therefore adores cemeteries: her pedigree runs deeper than putting on silly art-girl acts!

So we climb onto the top of the wall -- conveniently about two feet wide -- and I drop down the other side into the cemetery. She requires assistance to descend and this requires that I grasp her in places that I haven't been allowed to have a hope of touching before. She's a very fit girl -- athletic build with a hint of voluptuousness -- and my palms thrill to the sensation of the satiny cushions of her behind. Once she reaches ground, her dress and cape are caught between our bodies and have been lifted higher than her waist and she's laughing herself dizzy. She backs away and her dress and cape fall into place and she says with a grin, "I don't think you're going to see that again until we leave!" (She's referring to the boost I'll need to give her when we climb one of the tombs to reach the top of the wall from this side.) But she's only teasing: I get to see the engaging sight of her behind again shortly thereafter, and plenty else besides. And I know for a fact that I owe her kindness and familiarity to the fact I had the sense to invite her for a stroll in a cemetery; barring that, I never would've broken through her subdued hostility and confirmed that posturing artsy girls are capable of having fun, if they happen to be German and are in a cemetery.

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(Of course, now that I've made bold to declare German girls have a liking for cemeteries, some German girls who read this will conclude I'm an imbecile, it not being true of them. So be it. Fact is, every time I asked a German girl if she wanted to visit a cemetery, she embraced the idea with rapt enthusiasm: I can hardly be blamed if it was purely coincidental.)

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Visit Online:

Cimetiere du Pere Lachaise
(A virtual tour: click on the white dots
on map to move about.)

Cimetiere du Montparnasse
(Another virtual tour: click on "Vue
panoramique" under the photo at top.)