Solo Female Travel: I spend the day in 14th Arrondissement, where I explore my last and wildest section of La Petite Ceinture, then onto Montparnasse Cemetery, where the poet Charles Baudelaire is buried. Followed by a sunset picnic in Parc Andre Citroen.

14th Arrondissement
La Petite Ceinture
Montparnasse Cemetery

15th Arrondissement
Parc Andre Citroen

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Spleen by Charles Baudelaire

I have more memories than if I were a thousand years old.

A cabinet of drawers cluttered with sheets of verses, love notes, trials, romances, receipts
and locks of braided hair
that hide fewer secrets than my sad brain.
It is a pyramid, an immense vault,
containing more corpses than a mass grave.
—I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon,
Remorse dragging itself in long verses
Like worms that attack my dearest dead.

I am an old sphinx ignored by the carefree world,
Forgotten on the map, and whose fury
drowns in a sea of a setting sun

Burial by Charles Baudelaire

If on a heavy and dark night
A good Christian, out of charity,
Buried your once-celebrated body
behind some old rubbish

At the time when the chaste stars
Close their heavy eyes
The spider will make its webs there,
And the viper her young;

You will hear all year round
On your doomed head
The pitiful cries of wolves

And starving witches,
The beats of lecherous old men
And the plots of the black thieves.

The Merry Dead by Charles Baudelaire

In a lush land full of snails
I want to dig a deep pit myself,
Where I can display my old bones at leisure
And sleep in oblivion like a shark in the waves

I hate wills and I hate tombs;
Rather than begging for a tear from the world,
Alive, I would rather invite the crows
To bleed all the ends of my filthy carcass.

O worms! black companions without ears and without eyes,
See a free and joyful dead person coming to you
Living philosophers, sons of decay,

Go through my ruin without remorse,
And tell me if there is still any torture
For this old body without a soul and dead among the dead!

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