I went to a cemetery to see the grave site of the the Spanish painter Francisco Jose de Goya y Lucientes,
who had died and been buried in Bordeaux. It was one of my last days there and I wanted to do something
besides wander the city center, looking at and listening to people. Why not wander the town cemetery
and look at the dead.
I liked Goya, but I was no devotee. My knowledge of his life and work extended one day's worth
of a high school art history course. A visit to a grave seemed like it should
hold more weight than just being a bored and curious tourist--it should be a
pilgrimage, packed with reverence and meaning and grief.
I looked up tram directions and went anyway.
The cemetery, Cimetiere de la Chartreuse, is vast and packed with material
memory. It must have extended over at least 10 city blocks. Divided into
smaller blocks of its own, it was organized impeccably yet kind of a mess
- there were no directions or maps, and many of the grave monuments were
falling apart due to wear. The wind had scattered flowers, fresh and dry and
tied with ribbons, away from graves and across the paths. I stepped around them
carefully. As a cemetery tourist I learned two things about you when you die:
your name and how much money you and your family had to bury you.
I took a picture of a few monuments, of some flowers, and finally of Goya's
grave. I hadn't meant to wander so much, but the place was huge and it took
me a long time to find it. By the time I did find it I was hot, sunburnt, and
wanted to get out. I navigated my way back desperately, and nearly successfully,
until I was stopped by a tall man with a long white beard, sunglasses, and a
suit. He was the only other person I had seen in the cemetery in the hours I
was there.
Recognizing my unfamiliarity, he inquired: Parlez-vous francais?"
"Oui, un peu."
He informed me it was not right to take photographs in a cemetery, and that
I should leave immediately. I apologized with every French apology-related
word I knew, and got out of there. I hadn't meant to stay, or even take photos,
I was just lost and hot and bored, and now embarrassed.
I was no pilgrim, and this was no pilgrimage.