3:05 Leaving Versailles

After spending the afternoon at the Palace of Versailles, I caught a train back toward Paris. This was the view looking out the window as the train left the station. The clock shows 3:05.

A young woman sat alone on the bench with what looked like an art portfolio resting at her feet. She had her head slightly lowered, holding a white tissue or handkerchief up to her face.

Versailles has its own École des Beaux-Arts (School of Fine Arts), so seeing an art student here made perfect sense. I was surrounded by artists that day, and loving it.

Riding the Metro

Riding the metro back into Paris after Versailles. The fluorescent lights, the metal handrails, the mix of locals and visitors — this was how most people moved through the city every day.

I was heading toward Père Lachaise with The Doors still playing in my headphones. The train was relatively quiet on this late afternoon run. A few passengers sat lost in their own thoughts, while others stared out the windows or at nothing in particular.

This was the everyday Paris most tourists never really see — just regular people on their way somewhere, sharing a car for a few stops.

Break On Though

When the shutter on my film camera clicked for the last picture, it was loud enough in the quiet metro car that people noticed.

The woman sitting across from me looked directly at me, while the young man on the left also turned his head. In 1994, the mechanical sound of a film camera was still very noticeable in public spaces. Also, most people probably weren’t used to being photographed by random strangers on the train.

When I lowered my camera I made eye contact with them and smiled, and they smiled back at me. There is not picture of that, just the one in my mind.

As I hurtled under the city with these strangers, “Break On Through” played in my headphones. The lyrics felt fitting:

“You know the day destroys the night…
Night divides the day…
Tried to run, tried to hide…
Break on through to the other side.”

I was moving through Paris one stop at a time, feeling that same pull to push past where I had been.

Coming Up from the Metro

I came up from the metro into the bright afternoon light and noise of Paris. Cars and buses filled the streets, and people moved quickly along the sidewalks.

The Doors were still playing in my headphones as I climbed the stairs. “Take It as It Comes” started playing — a song about accepting whatever life brings you, staying open, and not overthinking the moment. As I stepped into the energy of the city, the lyrics felt right:

“Take it as it comes, specialize in having fun… Time to live, time to lie, time to laugh, time to die…”

I was getting closer to Père Lachaise, moving through Paris one layer at a time.

The Trail to Jim

This was the very first photo I took inside Père Lachaise.

“Père Lachaise” means “Father Lachaise” in English. The cemetery is named after Father François de La Chaise, who served as the personal confessor to King Louis XIV of France. It was opened in 1804 and is one of the largest and most famous cemeteries in Paris.

As soon as I walked in I saw this. People’s tombstones were completely covered in graffiti. “JIM” was scrawled across one stone, along with arrows and messages that were barely understandable or flat out incomprehensible. It was clear that fans had been marking up the surrounding graves to help people find their way to him for a long time.

Family Mausoleums

There are roughly 70,000 to 80,000 graves and tombs in Père Lachaise today. However, because many of these are large family mausoleums that have been passed down and reused across multiple generations for over 220 years, the total number of people buried here exceeds one million. Some of the most well-known people buried here include Oscar Wilde, Frédéric Chopin, Édith Piaf, and Marcel Proust.

I kept walking deeper into the cemetery, following the graffiti that had been painted across these old stone structures. Almost every mausoleum I passed had Jim’s name or an arrow scrawled on it.

But I was only there to visit one grave.

Jim I Love You

The graffiti was definitely starting to get on my nerves.

At first it felt cool — almost exciting — like the graffiti at Windmill Lane. It showed how deeply Jim had connected with people. But this was different. These were real people’s final resting places. Family mausoleums and headstones were being covered in names, messages, and drawings. It was starting to feel disrespectful. Almost creepy.

As I kept moving deeper into the cemetery, following the trail of graffiti, “Riders on the Storm” came through my headphones, and it felt fitting:

“Riders on the storm…
Into this house we’re born…
Into this world we’re thrown…”

The further I went, the more intense and surreal the whole experience became.

He's buried over here

The graffiti was getting more and more direct. Arrows were painted on the stone, clearly pointing the way. “JIM” and “JIM MORRISON” were scrawled across multiple mausoleums, along with messages guiding people deeper into the cemetery.

I couldn’t help but wonder — how drugged up or out of touch does someone have to be to mark up other people’s gravesites like this? I didn’t know the answer, but someone had definitely done it. This was way outside of anything I was expecting to see or experience.

I followed the arrows.

The Stone Carver

I had been walking deeper into the cemetery, following the graffiti, and it was starting to weigh on me. The further I went, the more it felt wrong — people’s graves being marked up like they didn’t matter.

Then I saw him.

An older man was sitting quietly on the steps of a mausoleum, carefully hand-carving a headstone. No spray paint. No rushed messages. Just slow, deliberate work with a chisel. He was creating something permanent. Something beautiful. Something meant to last.

In that moment, everything shifted. After all the chaotic, disrespectful graffiti I had been walking through, this simple act of craftsmanship felt like a balm. It calmed me down. It gave me a sense of peace. Someone was still honoring the dead the right way.

I stood there for a minute and just watched him work.

Maria Carita

This photograph has always stayed with me.

The headstone being carved belonged to Christophe Carita, who had died just three years earlier in 1991. Below his name was Maria Carita, born in 1978 — right between the ages of my two younger sisters.

“Épouse de” means “Wife of” in French. So the stone appeared to be marking Maria as the wife of Christophe. But in 1994, Maria would have only been 16 years old. If she truly was his wife, she would have been married at just 13.

I stood there watching the man work and wondered what had happened. Had Maria also died? Was this a family tragedy? There was so much mystery in that moment.

After walking through so much chaotic, disrespectful graffiti, this quiet scene felt like a deep breath. The man was not desecrating anything. He was honoring the dead — slowly, carefully, and respectfully carving names into stone so they would be remembered for generations.

Every time I look at this image, something in my soul stirs. It remains one of my favorite photographs from the entire trip.

Jim's Grave

I finally reached it.

After walking through the cemetery and following the graffiti deeper and deeper, I turned a corner and there it was — Jim Morrison’s grave.

I wasn’t alone. Several other people were already gathered around it. One young man about my age was smoking a joint as he sat on the ground. The grave itself was covered in flowers, notes, and small offerings left by fans.

On the bronze plaque were the words:

JAMES DOUGLAS MORRISON
1943 – 1971

And below it, the Greek inscription: KATA TON DAIMONA EAYTOY

It translates to “True to his own spirit.”

The Hippie Chick

She was sitting right there on the steps of Jim’s grave, smiling like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Her blonde hair was in braids, and she had this easy, carefree energy about her. While I had been walking through the cemetery feeling more and more uneasy about all the graffiti, she looked completely at peace — like she belonged there. Like this was exactly where she wanted to be.

It was strange in the best way. After everything I had seen leading up to this moment, her smile felt like a small burst of light. She wasn’t crying or being overly dramatic. She was just… there. Happy to be sitting with Jim.

I raised my camera and captured the moment.

Twentieth Century Fox

She looked like she belonged there.

The Doors were still playing in my headphones, and “20th Century Fox” came on. As I watched her sitting there so peacefully, the lyrics felt perfect:

“She’s the queen of cool…
No tears, no fears…
She doesn’t have time for elementary talk…
She’s a Twentieth Century Fox!”

Even the guy sitting in the background couldn’t help but smile at her.

She wasn’t performing or trying to look a certain way. She was just there, comfortable in her own skin, sharing space with Jim. I raised my camera and captured the moment.

Through the Crystal Ship

I had been carrying filters in my camera bag the entire trip, and this felt like the perfect moment to use the star filter.

I placed it over the lens and loved what I saw. The light on the bronze plaque and the flowers exploded into long, glowing rays. It gave the image a dreamy, psychedelic effect — almost like the light itself was drifting.

The Doors were still playing in my headphones, and “The Crystal Ship” came on. The song felt right in that moment:

“Before you slip into unconsciousness,
I'd like to have another kiss,
Another flashing chance at bliss,
Another kiss, another kiss.

The days are bright and filled with pain,
Enclose me in your gentle rain,
The time you ran was too insane,
We'll meet again, we'll meet again.

Oh, tell me where your freedom lies,
The streets are fields that never die,
Deliver me from reasons why,
You'd rather cry, I'd rather fly.”

Standing there at his grave, the combination of the star filter and this song created something that felt beyond just a photograph. It felt like a small window into something else.

Light My Fire

Even in death, Jim was still drawing a crowd.

People were gathered all around his grave — sitting on the steps, on neighboring tombs, and on the ground. Some were smoking, some were talking quietly, others were just sitting in silence. It felt less like a cemetery and more like a gathering. Jim was still entertaining people, still pulling them in, still creating a kind of energy even though he’d been gone for over twenty years.

“Light My Fire” came on in my headphones. As I stood there watching everyone around his grave, the lyrics felt perfect:

“Come on baby, light my fire,
Try to set the night on fire.
The time to hesitate is through,
And our love become a funeral pyre.”

Even from the grave, Jim was still lighting a fire in people.

I Looked at You

I walked around to the back of the grave to get a wider view of the scene.

From this angle, I could see everyone who had gathered — some standing, some sitting on the steps and neighboring tombs, some just quietly taking it all in. The flowers, the notes, the small offerings, and the people who had come here for their own reasons. It felt like a strange little community had formed around this one spot.

The song “I Looked at You” came on. The simple, direct lyrics felt fitting as I stood there looking at everyone gathered in front of me:

“I looked at you, you looked at me,
I smiled at you, you smiled at me.”

Even in death, Jim was still creating moments of connection between strangers.

Another Fan with a Camera

A woman tourist approached the grave holding a camera. She stepped up to the front of Jim’s grave, raised her camera, and took her picture.

Overcome with Emotion

After taking her photograph, the woman stood there for a moment, still holding her camera. Her expression had completely changed. Whatever she had felt when she first approached the grave had now fully caught up with her. She looked overcome — as if standing at Jim’s final resting place had suddenly become very real and very personal.

In the middle of all the noise, the graffiti, and the people moving around, she stood quietly with tears in her eyes. It was a powerful, human moment.

Sharing a Laugh

Meanwhile, just a few feet away from the more emotional scenes, a small group was sharing a laugh.

One man was smiling broadly while sitting on the edge of the grave, relaxed and comfortable. Next to him, another person sat close, both of them looking light and connected in that moment.

The Hippie Chick and Her Friend

After watching me leave a message on the stone, the Hippie Chick and her friend asked if they could borrow my black Sharpie marker to leave their own.

I handed it to them, and they both knelt down together. Right above where they were writing, someone had already scrawled “PEOPLE ARE STRANGE” on the stone.

As I watched them, The Doors song came to mind — especially these lines:

“When you’re strange,
Faces come out of the rain.
When you’re strange,
No one remembers your name,”

In that moment, we weren’t really strangers anymore. We were just three people, brought together by the same music and the same man, each quietly leaving something behind.

A Better Angle

I stepped back a little and reframed the shot horizontally. I liked this composition much better — it gave more breathing room and showed the two of them together in the moment.

The Hippie Chick’s friend leaned in closely, carefully writing her message on the stone with my marker, while she watched and held the cap. It was a quiet, focused exchange. After everything I had walked through to get here — the graffiti, the intensity, the uneasy feeling — this small, deliberate act felt gentle and respectful.

I pressed the shutter again.

My Message

I knelt down in front of Jim’s grave and used my black Sharpie marker to write directly on the stone:

“Rest Easy,
Man
Peace”

with a small peace symbol.

It felt like the right thing to say. Simple. Honest. After walking through so much chaotic, disrespectful graffiti on other people’s graves, I wanted to leave something clean and respectful for Jim. Just a quiet wish for him to finally be at peace.

I didn’t write a long message. I didn't even want to write my name. I didn’t need to. Those few words said enough.

One Last Look

It was time to move on. I could have stayed longer, but I still had more of Paris to see.

As I walked away, I turned back for one last look. Through the openings between the old gravestones, I could see other people still gathered at Jim’s grave, having their own quiet moments with him.

I liked this view. These stones were free of graffiti, and it felt more respectful. After everything I had walked through earlier in the cemetery, this felt like a calmer, more dignified way to say goodbye.

Walking Out

It was time to leave.

Ahead of me, I saw the two girls walking toward the exit too. I put my zoom lens on and took two pictures of them walking, side by side, slowly making their way out of the cemetery.

The Doors were still playing in my headphones, and by now the album had reached its final track — “The End.” As I followed behind them, Jim’s voice filled my ears:

“This is the end…
Beautiful friend…
This is the end…
My only friend, the end…”

It felt fitting. I had come here to pay my respects and I had. The girls continued walking ahead, and I followed behind them, all of us heading back out into the world.

The End

I turned the camera vertical for this last frame, and it immediately felt like the stronger composition.

The curving path creates a natural leading line that draws the eye through the image and follows the two girls as they walk away. The scattered autumn leaves add texture and movement along the ground, while the tall trees and old mausoleums on either side frame the scene and add depth. The light path against the darker surroundings creates strong contrast, and the girls are positioned in a way that follows the rule of thirds, giving the image balance and breathing room.

This photograph feels quiet, cinematic, and complete. It captures the feeling of walking away after spending time with Jim — not dramatic or heavy, just a peaceful, natural exit. Of all the images I took that day at Père Lachaise, this is one of my favorites. It feels like the right way to end my time with him.