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map-generator.net If individual travel days needed to be summed up using a single word, my third day in Paris would be described as Macabre . First Stop:  Cimetière du Montparnasse Statue in Montparnasse Cemetery by Christopher Levy I started my morning off with a brisk, but purposeful stroll through the Montparnasse Cemetery.  I confess, I rather enjoy visiting historic cemeteries.  I experience a macabre delight when gazing at the creepy faces of the statues guarding the mausoleums or when reading the more unusual names listed on the tombstones.  I even keep a list of names I like:  Verity Noble.  Gastone de Montague.  Desire Perineaux.  Ida Mae Butterfield.  Victoire Hope Wintingue.  This morning, however, I was on a mission that involved more than the reconaissance of unsual names. Built in the early 19th century, Montparnasse has become the eternal resting place for some of France's most intellectually and artistically gifted souls.  On this e

  I don't do surprises.  There are just too many unknown variables associated with surprises - and they stress me out.  In fact, I have never been good with surprises.  Most children eagerly anticipated Christmas, but not me.  I would look at the gift-wrapped boxes artfully arranged beneath the Christmas tree and feel angst.   What could be inside that slender, rectangular box with the velvet bow?  Is it a watch?  Pencil case?  What?  What is it?     I was fairly young when I began staging elaborate reconnaissance missions to determine the contents of the Christmas boxes beneath our tree.  I would wait until my mother was fast asleep and then snake into the living room on my belly, wiggling to a shadowy corner to unwrap each gift with the stealth of an elf.    Even today, as an adult, I am not good with surprises.  Whenever I buy a friend a gift, I am filled with this prickly anticipation.  What will they think of my gift?  Is it generous enough?  I literally have to

map-generator.net Several months before my trip to France and Italy, I entered into an email exchange with a series of press agents and academicians in an effort to obtain a private, curator-guided tour of Marie Antoinette's Private Apartments within t he Château de Versailles.  After providing my writing credentials and answering a questionnaire as comprehensive as any CIA screening, I was told a curator would be made available to take me on a tour of the apartments.  I was instructed to "reestablish contact a week before" my arrival in Paris to "receive a rendezvous time."  I printed the email and hung it on the bulletin board in my office, grinning like the Cheshire Cat each time I looked at it.  In fact, I spent the months leading up to my V isite Officielle imaging myself walking in the hidden rooms and corridors once traversed by my beloved queen, Marie Antoinette.  I felt like Alice in Wonderland - a humble human permitted entrance into a