Thread by @ClaireBerlinski

Yesterday, @BronwenDickey, was a beautiful, melancholy autumn day. I went to the Jardin des Plantes to find your brother's bench. For friends of @csdickey, it's a bit (but not very) hard to find, so let me explain exactly where it is.

I didn't know where the Vivarium was. (I was confused; I thought it must be the hothouse.) In fact, the Vivarium is *inside* the ménagerie, opposite the flamingos.

Also, the benches aren't numbered .... so I spent several hours wandering around the park ... which was lovely--

--as you can see. The garden is gorgeous this time of year. It's gorgeous every time of year, but in October, especially with a bit of help from climate change, they're extraordinarily lovely: a bit like Monet at Argenteuil. Or Renoir's chrysanthemums. Or a Caillebotte painting.

I wandered around for about an hour, admiring the garden and inspecting all of the benches, looking for @csdickey's name.

I'd never realized before that on many benches, there's a plaque, just like the one you commissioned for your brother, @BronwenDickey. Odd to think how many benches I've sat on, never once wondering what--or who--I was sitting on.

I'm not the only one who didn't realize it.

As I walked past the benches, I stopped to ask people if they'd mind standing up for a second so I could see the inscription on the plaque. This caused some confusion.

"Excusez-moi, Madame, cela vous dérange-t-il de vous lever juste un instant?"

Elderly woman enjoying the bench: "Hein?"
"Je cherche un ami."
(regard perplexe)
"Sous votre cul."

"Excusez-moi?"

But as soon as they realized that yes, this *did* make sense, they were touched, and some joined me on the hunt for @csdickey. They thought the story of his plaque was "très beau." They wanted to know all about him. Was he mon mari? No. How old was he? "Trop jeune."

One man looked at me sadly and whispered, "Il est mort du coronavirus?" I said no, it had been sudden. "Tant mieux," he said.

I reflected a moment on this, then said, "Eh bien, ce n'est toujours pas un résultat optimal."

"Bien sûr que non," il s'empressa d'accepter. "Mais au moins ... "

Anyway, at last I realized--thanks to one of those middle-aged French women who sits on the benches in the park and knows *everything* about Paris--that the vivarium was actually inside the ménagerie.

(By this point, I'd looked *sous le cul* of a good fifty park-goers.)

But it costs money to enter the ménagerie, and I didn't have cash on me. I wondered if, for the second time in my life, I'd have to break into a zoo. Fortunately, I didn't have to:

When I explained to the gatekeeper that I'd come to visit my friend's bench, he saw I was sincere. I was carrying a white rose, and I'd come by myself. So he let me in for free.

(I felt a bit as if I'd broken in, mind you. I promised just to visit the bench and leave, but anyone who knows me knows I'd be incapable of failing to stop to enjoy the lemurs.)

His bench is exactly where you said it was: juste en face du vivarium. It's a perfect location.

This is what you see if you sit on it: The flamingos.

I forgot to take a photo of myself, but I took many of the bench. This gentleman was sitting on it when I arrived. I told him not to get up--Chris would have wanted him to enjoy it.

He of course asked about Chris, and I told him the story.

Of the bench, he said, "C'est un beau geste. Il sera immortalisé."

And he will. Everyone who sits there will always be happy: You can't be anything else, right there, watching the flamingos and the children.

After I left, I went on to inspect the animals:

You couldn't have chosen a more beautiful location.

As I walked home, I tried to remember the words. I couldn't remember them all, but many came back.

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.

Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l’or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur ....