Only a stone fence states that beyond its borders it’s not just an ordinary park but the old city cemetery. As in Germany people do not hesitate to walk with dogs or strollers or take slow health-improving jogging sets. And like the rest of Copenhagen the cemetery is simple and succinct in its lines and forms.
You can’t name this place in any other way — this is really a real necropolis, a city of the dead, one of the most formidable that I ever met. The unprecedented area of the cemetery is filled with bronze and marble angels and saints guarding the peace of the sleepers.
Big cemetery in Warsaw being rigorous and organized honestly resettled its inhabitants by categories and closed all the doors so that no one can violate the established order. Fenced off from the outside world by high walls it sullenly rolls withered foliage between the tombstones buried in the ground demanding silence. Even occasional visitors are required to comply with unconditional rules timidly following behind while the owner is showing his possession moving steadily along the damp alleys from one dead end to another. And as if the edification as a lesson not yet understood forced to return to the beginning where there is the only entrance and the only exit on his territory.
Verona is a nice Italian town with narrow sunlit streets, scurrying around cyclists and scooter drivers, constantly winking Italian men and lying on every corner cats and dogs. Tourists are numerous. Cafes for these tourists are even more numerous. As a conscientious tourist I touched the bust of that very Juliet who never ever was in Verona. The poor girl was occupied on all sides and all her naturally protruding parts where polished to a shiny luster.
Perhaps the attraction to cemeteries is my diagnosis. But it should be noted that more often they find me than I them.