Two summers ago, my family took a trip to Europe–first stop: Paris–for three nights (which is NOT enough time, BTW). We saw the Mona Lisa and the Eiffel Tower. We drank Bordeaux in outdoor cafes. We watched live jazz. We even stumbled upon Brad Pitt’s Paris premiere of World War Z.
And we visited Jim Morrison’s grave at the Père Lachaise Cemetery. This, I was not on board with. It was my husband’s idea. I thought we were crazy for spending precious time visiting some dead guy I had zero interest in. But my husband was adamant. And as much as I begged, he refused to let me stay behind and café hop. He insisted we all go together–and that we stop for flowers at the conveniently located fleuriste across the street.
Looking back, that’s one fight I’m glad I lost, considering I love The Doors…now. It’s true. I’ve only loved them madly for about eleven months. In my writing, I tend to do everything backward. Frankie loves estate jewelry, now I love estate jewelry. Darian lives in Miami, now I love Miami (I’ve never actually been there, mind you). During one of my two-hour-wine-driven-brainstorming-bubble-baths (THWDBBB for future reference), I decided Frankie needed to be a Doors fan. Why? Wine.
But even after the wine wore off, the idea stuck. So, guess what? I became a Doors fan.
And now, I’m dying to go back to Paris. Just to spend my precious time visiting a cemetery.