Death-styles of the Rich and the Famous

A group of us were finishing up lunch in the outdoor cafe, when Pat suggested that Nathalie, a french woman from Brazil visiting for the holidays, and I find the famous cemetery where Eva Peron is buried. I pointed directly behind her, “you mean, that cemetery?” Giant stone crosses and towers poked over the gray cement wall that quartered off several blocks of the city. Elaborate mausoleum roofs and the tips of statues peered over at us. We had had several glasses of wine, so walking amongst a few thousand dead bodies seemed like a terribly fantastic idea. So, we finished the bottle and wandered to the entrance.

For a couple hours, we took photo after photo, trying to capture the immense detail in the stone and marble carvings. The overcast sky above us glowed ominously as we wandered without direction, circling mammoth tombs, not quite sure which way we were heading, or if there was even a reason to head anywhere. Each direction held a piece of art made for the deceased, worthy of a museum – or at least, a photo from an awed tourist. You might even suspect that the dead are getting big headed with all the photo-shoots they're doing. I can see them posing in their graves now, “Yes, yes. Get my good side. Don't I have a lovely bone structure? Am I model skinny yet?”

Now, I didn't know this, but it should be common knowledge: a cemetery is a great place to charm a woman. Basically, you're starting at the bottom of expectations. The relationship can only go uphill from a cemetery... unless you're Stephen King. Yet, there's nothing like making a woman feel young and alive, than the juxtaposition of dreary tombstones, ancient death dates, and playing tag through a maze of sacred grounds. Plus, when she gets goosebumps, guess who takes the credit? That's right, you stud. High five a statue on your way out.

The main attractor to the cemetery is the famous, Eva Peron. I had read there was a great uproar about allowing Eva to be buried in this cemetery, because of her humble background. This cemetery is meant for the high class, the powerful, the important. It's the Bevery hills of death, or should I say, the Beverly Kills... or Maliboo... the Haunted Hampton's... mmm... no, no I shouldn't say. Anyway, being the savvy tourist that I am, I lead the way through the labrynth of death, and I could absolutely not find her. Nathlie, proved her french citizenship with the conclusion, “Eet juz wazen't meant to be.”

Now, to answer the question on everyone's mind, “Did you see any ghosts?”. I can only say that there were silent creatures that lurk the grounds, feeding off souls of the living – and they're super cute and furry. Cemetery cats. They seemed almost too comfortable in this setting, as if they were meant to be the watchers of those passed beyond this world. They round the corners and glide in and out of the small openings in the older tombs, making themselves at home.

One day, in the distant future, like one hundred years from now, I'll pass on. So, I've added one last tick to the list of things to do, become famous enough to be buried in the Recoleta Cemetary in Buenos Aires. Looks like I'm going to be marrying into the president's family soon. I'll send you a gold plated email when that happens.