When I go to a restaurant, there's a 95% chance that I will order the same thing I ordered last time. And when I went to Paris a couple of months ago at the end of a business trip, the things I wanted to do most were repeats of what I did 15 years ago.

July 20, 2008, was my last day in Paris - I went to church in my old ward, Paris-Lilas. I regretted that I hadn't made it to Versailles or Pere Lachaise, the latter being a large cemetery filled with the famous (and not-so-famous) dead. I decided I could afford a speed tour after church and before my 4pm flight. I had already checked out of the hotel, so I had my luggage with me. Bad idea on cobblestone. I eventually abandoned my suitcase and hid it behind a gravestone.

I scurried to the site of Chopin's grave, snapped a couple of photos, and then followed the crowd to what must be the top attraction at Pere Lachaise: Jim Morrison's grave. It's a boring one (as graves go), but you somehow feel you have to make a stop. 

On the way back to my suitcase, I passed this headstone that caught my eye. Valerio was his name and he died in 1988. The text says,

Il aimait Stendhal, Pavarotti, Gamine, les Pink Floyd
Mais à 29 ans. . .

Stendhal - I looked it up - was the pen name of a French author. And I know Pavarotti and Pink Floyd. "Gamine" is the feminine form of urchin or waif, a mischievous kid, but I'm not sure who it refers to. Wikipedia says it might be Audrey Hepburn but could be several others - or maybe a pet name for his girlfriend.

In any case, I had just run past hundreds of graves with nary a thought of death and I suddenly found myself sad for the passing of this young man.