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When I die

When I die, don’t let anyone fool you. I’ve simply moved to Paris. I've found a tiny apartment in one of the older sections of the city and am looking forward to spending my days walking the ancient alleyways and sipping fabulous coffee in a sunny café.

Paris became my true home when I found myself there back in 1970 – just after graduating from the University of Pennsylvania. There was something in its history, its people, and its lifestyle that suited me perfectly. I felt eminently comfortable – at ease – at home. No matter the time of year, there was always joy to be found in Paris. A light, a movement, a view – I was never bored.

Of course, the French can be unreasonably unfriendly, opting to look down their nose at strangers in every sense of that word. But they can also be extraordinarily welcoming, if you chance upon the right ones, which I was lucky enough to do.

My Parisian friends are long gone due to age and economy. But no matter. I have my memories.

And so do you.

I love you all so much. Next time you’re in Paris, look for me. I’m there.

Oh! And as for whatever you wish to do to commemorate my move, I would like whatever physical remains you have on hand to be placed on a highly flammable funeral pyre high on a hill in a forest. Invite all my friends, at my expense, to come together to celebrate my life. Serve plenty of food and strong drink. And have Durufle's Requiem played/sung on the oppsing hill. Oh, how wonderful! I will be happy.

PS This is probably only legal in India. Ok.


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