The Best Tour We Never Understood by Li Ruan

Acquiring my Green Card, officially known as a Permanent Resident Card, in the early 1990s was a significant event in my life. The credit-card-sized plastic ID provided a tangible advantage, ensuring smoother travel to and from the United States. It instantly reignited my old desire to visit France, a dream kindled during my teenage-to-college years in Beijing. Enamored with French literature in Chinese translation, I embraced the notion that French culture epitomized elegance, grace, romance, and all things glamorous. In my mind, French, albeit incomprehensible to me, was the world’s most beautiful language, with Paris as a universally must-visit destination.

After settling in the US, amidst rumors of French snobbery, my admiration for its culture persisted undiminished. However, during the preparation for my visa to France, at the outset of planning the trip, my enthusiasm rapidly waned. The website of the French Consulate in New York was entirely in French, a language too perfect for me to grasp. Their response to my email inquiry, also in French, further disheartened me. “The must-see country doesn’t welcome my visit!”—the verdict drove me to join the ranks of critics of French national arrogance.

Over the years, stories from friends about unfriendliness in the classy country buzzed in my ears, each one disturbing me. One particular incident lingered in my memory. In a Paris café, an American friend fluent in French ordered a Sambuca, only to receive a blunt offer from the waiter, “Go to Italy.” Anecdotes like this, coupled with my own fears of mistreatment in the haughty country and my self-esteem and pride, cemented my determination to never set foot in that elite nation.

For more than three decades, my vow endured as strong as a diamond until this spring, when my husband surprised me with the first trip to Europe after the pandemic, beginning in Paris. Armed with stereotypes and low expectations and chaperoned by my husband, I embarked on a nine-day, intimidating venture to the fashion capital.

To my astonishment, Paris greeted us with overwhelming kindness and hospitality at every turn. From our hotel to Metro stations, taxis, restaurants, markets, bookstores, museums, and beyond, the reception was nothing shy of good-naturedness. Parisians with flawless English or none at all extended their tender hearts to us. One of the most cherished memories unfolded in the renowned Père Lachaise Cemetery, lovingly referred to as a “garden” by the locals.

After leaving the most-visited grave of Jim Morrison, my husband’s primary objective, we set out to find the resting place of my favorite French singer, Édith Piaf, on the far opposite side of the grounds. Navigating the labyrinthine paths in the sprawling 100-plus-acre garden proved daunting, especially with our language barrier—my husband’s 2% knowledge of French, and mine, zero.

Most people we sought help from spoke little or no English yet patiently tried to assist us in their own way. Wandering through the varied, uneven-patterned roads among nearly 100 regularly and irregularly laid-out burial divisions, we constantly found ourselves lost. Even Google Maps consistently mixed up orientations, exacerbated by a poor internet connection. As we made our umpteenth stop for directions, a lady sitting on a nearby bench, searching through her canvas bag, shone as a beacon. Since my husband was exhausted from his limited French, it became my duty to solicit her aid in English.

She didn’t understand me, merely catching the name “Édith Piaf.” Putting aside her task, she explained to us with a soft voice like a melody. To enhance our understanding, she adopted animated gestures and facial expressions, except they confused us further. Through much guessing and some presumption, my husband speculated that our destination was not very far. We said “Merci” to the lady and prepared to leave. To our surprise, she abruptly stood up, her body language and verbal cues indicating she was ready to usher us.

She was petite and round-faced, and small pinkish flushes adorned her fine cheeks. Light-colored eyes peered out from behind a pair of slightly oversized eyeglasses. Her short, blond-gray bob fluttered in the thin breeze, contrasting with the heavy red sweater that covered a long, deep brown winter dress. Though she seemed to be in her late 60s to early 70s, it was her bright sweater that attracted my attention. Despite our protests and her apparent unfamiliarity with English, she confidently shouldered her canvas bag and grabbed a plastic one, taking the lead on our journey.

Her musical voice outpaced her delicate, brisk steps, leaving us enchanted and enriching our promenade. Yet, listening to that foreign language for 20 minutes without comprehending a word made me light-headed. We sympathized with her as she negotiated the rough surfaces in her low-heeled shoes. Notwithstanding our requests for her to attend to her own affairs, she stayed focused on explaining and making sure that we followed her.

After a series of detours, she steered us toward a division on the far right. Her hand pointed out a tall tombstone in the distance, where we saw a handful of moving figures. Our final stop beckoned us, we thought.

Upon arrival, the peculiarities of the headstone piqued our curiosity. It resembled a monument, with an Egyptian-like face positioned at one end of an elongated body flanked by lengthy straight wings. A half-height glass wall fenced the tomb, covered with scratched shapes of hearts and lips, blending with graffiti.

“Strange! Piaf picked this style,” my husband heard me murmur. He lowered his voice, informing me with correction that it was not Piaf’s tomb but rather Oscar Wilde’s.

Exuberantly, the lady circled us around the site twice, her hand directing our gaze as it shifted between various elements.Clueless about her charming narrative, we were eager to unravel the mystery behind her excitement. My husband attempted to Google Wilde’s tomb, only to be thwarted by the shaky Wi-Fi link. Eventually, he managed to piece together an incomplete story from her storytelling and the noisy glass—Wilde’s admirers kissed his headstone while his detractors mutilated the private part of the figure. This clarified the purpose of the fence and elicited thrills from the lady.

Although feeling compelled, I enjoyed watching her laugh and joined in her laughter, even if we laughed for different reasons. While the impromptu jaunt to Wilde’s burial place brought us delight, it wasn’t our central aim, nor was it part of our plan.

My husband exchanged looks with me, “Did we ever ask her to bring us here?”

I repeated “Piaf” to her, and she immediately led us back to the bumpy walkways. In the pleasant spring weather, we continued roaming, passing a plethora of uniquely designed tombstones that amused us and plenty of small green lawns where grass and flowers gently swayed.

Self-determinedly, the lady added countless stops—at the sites of French Communist Party leaders, famous European politicians, businessmen, and entertainers; you name it, none of whom we knew. Our initial assumption was that she wanted us to learn about these individuals because of their association with Piaf. Apparently, that was not the case. Her inclusion of the extra sights and speeches prompted us to contemplate how to politely break away from her leadership.

Grateful for her warm heart and hard work, we occasionally wondered about her true identity. “Is she simply a nice person or a professional tour guide?” we mused, having seen some along the way. It wouldn’t have surprised us if she had been a guide. Above all, having a human GPS like her, visitors could benefit in navigating Père Lachaise—a perpetual home for over half a million French and international residents, including hundreds of notable personalities. We made sure to have a tip ready for her.

Another fifteen minutes passed before she halted at a white marble gravestone, launching into yet another lively, tireless monologue. Once again, her excitement left us bewildered. The tomb belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Henri Salvador. The same question arose within us: “Where does Piaf fit in with them?” Relying on his partial understanding of her description and better comprehension of the inscription on the stone, my husband explained Mr. Salvador to me. Born in the French Caribbean, he was a well-known artist and comedian popular on French TV around the 1960s, and the lady was his fan. Just like before, the Salvadors appeared unrelated to Piaf. I had to mention “Piaf” to her, and she promptly took us to the higher ground behind the grave, where some visitors were rambling.

My first notice was Piaf’s smiling face engraved on the marble slab, surrounded by

fresh flower bouquets. “La Vie en Rose” played softly in the background, which is my favorite song by Piaf.

“It took us over three hours to get here. I’d like to stay longer.” My husband nodded at me in agreement. She seemed also to understand and agree since she fell silent, stepped away, and left us alone.

When we were about to depart, a tourist group approached, following a tour guide holding a lollipop sign. The lady proudly smiled and resumed speaking. “Look, they’ve all come to see my Piaf.” That was my guessed interpretation of her shortest speech.

From our vantage point, we could see the general vicinity where we had spotted the lady. Had she taken a beeline, bypassing the additional attractions she had spontaneously included, we should have reached our goal sooner. Clearly, her curated itinerary unveiled a picturesque garden—more than just a graveyard—with scenic hills, magnificent sculptures, and diverse domestic and overseas visitors. My gratitude and doubts toward her were in equal measure.

The moon-colored sun turned silverier as it set, and a breeze rustled through the tall, dark chocolate-hued tree branches. The lady signaled for us to hurry, continuing our exploration with her. We resolved that it was time to bid farewell to her and the cemetery.

When we offered her Euros as a token of our appreciation, she graciously declined. Her reaction embarrassed us as if we had insulted her. Swiftly, we switched to a repeated term, “Merci,” the only gratitude we could express verbally. After hugging us and waving goodbye for what seemed like an eternity, she strolled toward the gate about 100 yards ahead. While walking, she turned back and waved at us a couple more times. Soon, her tiny frame disappeared behind the thick-walled entryway, then from our view.

We could finally let out a long sigh. Laughing together, my husband stretched out a brief, crispy sentence: “That…was…the…best…tour…we…never…understood.”

To avoid catching up with her, we remained in the middle of the brick pathway, watching the tree trunks darkening as the sunlight dimmed. The early spring air grew cooler, with more people leaving than arriving.  

A few minutes later, on our way to the exit, a distinctive red sweater suddenly drew our focus. Slowly, it moved closer to us from the stone gate. The lady reappeared, filling us with both delight and perplexity.  

“Has she changed her mind about the tip?” My hand extended into my bag, preparing to retrieve the money.   

She paused a few feet away, her words flowing again like a song. With an “au revoir” gesture, she receded from the solid wall. My husband deciphered her long sentences as directions to the nearby Metro station. “So sweet!” I was deeply touched.

How fortunate we were to encounter such a warmhearted lady in the garden of remembrance! In just an hour, she unwittingly dispelled my 30-year-old misperceptions of her culture and the citizens in her home, the City of Light.