LOVE HER MADLY by THE DOORS. Story by Rijn Collins.

Paris, 1989. Paris, 2006. Paris, 2014.

I love the city, don’t get me wrong. But Paris does not love me, and isn’t afraid to show it.

On my first visit I was a teenage exchange student. I made the unforgivable error of wearing ripped stockings and a Sex Pistols T-shirt. In Paris. Did I not care about fashion? I was seventeen. I cared about cherry beer and the vampire Lestat. The Parisians also sneered at the accents of my host parents who, being Belgian, spoke fluent French.

On my second visit in 2006, I was frail, pale and heartbroken. It’s really not the best city to visit after a breakup. I was so pale that when my sister saw a photo of me in a lovely 1950s dress that I thought was très chic, she questioned the white stockings. When I told her they were, in fact, my bare legs, she gave the kind of guffaw only a sibling could produce.

Parisian men seemed entranced by my fragile state. One grabbed my arm at Montmartre and physically dragged me to his easel. Another followed me from the metro to my hotel. When I whirled to confront him, he ducked behind a parked car. His excuse? Madame, you attract me.

No, Paris has never made me feel that comfortable.

On my third visit, eight years later, I went to Père-Lachaise Cemetery. I could tell you it’s because my little goth heart loves cemeteries (it does), or that I admire the work of Colette and Oscar Wilde (I do). But honestly? I went there for Jim Morrison.

I bought The Doors album Thirteen with my first full-time paycheque. Jim was mysterious and maddening, a petulant poet. He was a magnet to lost, boozy souls, which included many of the men I dated, and some of the women. They were impressed that I’d travelled on State Road 30 to Santa Fe, New Mexico, right where a young Jim saw the accident that would produce the song ‘Dawn’s Highway’. These people were also devoted to Bukowski, Burroughs and beer, and I kept attracting them well into my 30s. I wonder now why I didn’t just stop telling the story.

It was, yes, a Jim fanatic who led me to visit the grave. We had parted ways in volatile fashion before my trip. He’d expressed a lifelong desire to visit Jim’s grave. I wasn’t sure whether a casual photo of it would be a peace offering, or a taunt. I was, truth be told, quite fine either way.

Jim’s grave is the most visited in the cemetery. People swarmed around it, swigging from bottles and reciting lyrics into the Parisian sky. It was just as painful as it sounds. The stone was littered with mementos of their pilgrimage; pages ripped from notebooks, locks of hair, photos in tiny frames and withered joints.

‘Love Her Madly’ was their last single with Jim. Released in March 1971, he left for Paris the week it was released. The city was meant to be the new chapter, but instead it was his last.

On this trip to Paris I was with Hilde. We’d met as members of an international feminist punk collective in the 1990s. We caught up on each of my trips to Europe; red lipstick and Riot Grrl anthems in Berlin, Prague, Brussels and Amsterdam. She is one of my favourite people. She knows the tenderness and the temper within me, and smiles at both.

After the cemetery we wandered along Boulevard Voltaire to get lunch. We entered a lovely bistro with chairs on the cobblestones. The maȋtre d’ took one look at my tattoos and waddled over so fast he almost tripped.

“Nous somme fermés! Nous somme fermés!” he shrieked. We’re closed. Hilde and I stared at the other diners, all of whom were clearly mid-lunch. “I don’t think you are”, I told him. He shooed us with a moue of disgust so ferocious it could have sucked up a napkin. He was so hostile it became humorous. Hilde and I started cackling, a pair of witches bent over the cobblestones in mirth. This only made him angrier, which made us laugh more.

We ended up walking home in the rain, letting it soak us. It would have looked quite romantic, but I’m sure rats were hiding in the shadows.

I love Paris madly, don’t get me wrong. But she does not love me, and isn’t afraid to show it.

Stereo Story #805

Rijn Collins  narrated this story, backed by our band, at our Write Around the Murray concert in September. Rijn will be narrating two stories at our Queenscliffe Literary Festival show on Saturday 26 October.