My memory already had failed me twice that morning in July. It took us more than an hour. Even at eleven the old streets of Avignon were bustling with activities, all related to the annual theatre festival. My wife and I were tempted to think that all citizens had received special instructions to wear an appropriate costume that day, be it a rococo dress, a Donald Duck suit or some Lady Gaga showpiece.
They all tried to convince us that, later that day or in the evening, they would be on stage somewhere in the city and would be even more impressive then. Does anybody know how many stages there actually are in Avignon? And why everybody who is on stage there will always claim to be off stage? Our destination was the grave of John Stuart Mill. Now, a decade later, it turned out that the cemetery no longer was in the exact location my memory was telling me that it should be. We were lucky: the digital maps on our mobile phones knew where to look.
On entering the old and vast cemetery the same cycle of mental torture repeated itself: being sure you know where the grave is to be found β repeating to yourself that you remember it well but β¦. This was my third memory lapse that morning. Are there any cemetery apps yet? Again we were lucky: the cemetery staff the one member present was most helpful and gave us a copy of a simple drawing.
Of course, it is the grave of Harriet Taylor, his wife who was buried here first, in The white marble is hers, her grieving husband selected it to do justice to her greatness. He remains a guest under that same stone. We walked back to the old city, desperately in need of lunch. We took the Porte Thiers. Soon we were surrounded again by theatre lovers from all over Europe, and the joyous fuzz of every French individual promoting his or her own show.
Everyone who appears on stage has a small poster printed, making their announcement. Masses of all these posters are mounted on cardboard and then tied, all with the same simple brownish cords, in endless strings on fences, along the pavement, so afterwards they can easily be removed. This festival of posters is an important contribution to the theatrical anarchy of Avignon summers.
