In the middle of a mass of sprawling family mausoleums in eastern Paris, Jim Morrison (presuming he is actually dead at all…) lies under a nondescript plaque surrounded by stoned hippies. Naturally, we had to stop by.
A railing keeps the hippies from getting too close. Photos are dutifully taken, and, strangely, a cat lurks, mingling with the visitors.
He didn’t look like he ate much. He had no collar and was the only animal we saw. He stayed watching us, a funny little spirit, and we asked “Jim?…Jim, is that you?”