Now Emily is certainly not a role model or someone to follow closely while in Paris, but I can certainly relate to this feeling. After a long day of traveling, to see the large windows and to step out onto the balcony, to hear Paris, was refreshing. As someone who is naturally somewhat of a loud talker and extroverted, coming to Paris meant learning how to embrace moments of silence, and to simply listen to the sounds around me. I also found some surprises in the process.

Like Lucie looking out her window in London, and the cacophony of voices she hears coming towards her, I take in the various noises on my street: Rue de Vaugirard. I hear people talking in the café across from me, bikes going by in the wonderful bike lanes that are added to the street, and the metro rattling by underneath me. I hear the children playing in front of my apartment. Living like a local in Paris means understanding that it’s a city, not just an idea. Hearing the sounds of construction, of buses going by, the meow-like texture of the ambulance noise, reminds me that this is a big city no matter how romantic and special it is known to be. This is the first time I have understood Paris to be a city in the same way I have understood New York or Washington D.C. to be a city, because it is the first time I’ve been surrounded by working people in Paris rather than tourists or those whose livelihoods revolve around the tourism industry.

Another revealing moment of stillness came a few days later. I had gone onto the porch to take a phone call but had decided to remain there because of how lovely it is at night. I take in all the Parisians talking, arguing, eating, smoking, and think up stories for all of them and make assumptions about their relationships with each other. I feel like the movie character Amelie, the quirky Parisian who lives almost completely removed from the world around her and prefers to live in her imagination. Of course, there is a key difference: Amelie is French and knows French. When I hear conversations drifting in and out on my porch, I can’t understand it, so I have no context whatsoever for my imagination gone wild. And I kind of love it. Everything seems possible.

The first time this boundary turns sour happens that same night. Seated cross-legged on the balcony, suddenly I see a dog run into the café on the corner. It passes through the tables and chairs, weaving through the smoke from the cigarettes, and goes up to a man sitting at the café. Why is this dog not on a leash? I think. Is the dog homeless? I am now following this dog’s every move. Another woman joins the scene (new character!) and approaches the man seated. She asks him a question in French. He answers and the dog goes up to him. He pets the dog. Of course, I have no idea what this woman has said or whether this dog is his dog, so I remain in a state of not knowing, which, for the first time in my listening, bothers me. I want to somehow help the dog, but I don’t even know if he needs help.

That same night I look out on the view and see something I hadn’t noticed before in the three or so days I’ve been there: the Eiffel Tower, lit up at night. In case I forgot that Paris was in fact not like New York or any other city. I felt renewed in my thirst to learn more and to be more patient in my not knowing or understanding.

The first time I take the metro, I am frustrated. The silence is frustrating. No one is speaking around me. It is so quiet that I entertain myself by counting the number of stops until I transfer lines. 12.. 10..5…3...oh, It’s time to get off. The transfer of lines comes as a welcome break from the silence as people converse or talk on the phone. I itch to talk to someone: the guy next to me looks friendly? Or what about that old woman across from me? I remember the rules: don’t smile at anyone or make eye contact, do as the Parisian women do. But can I at least talk to other members of the program? No, I quiet these thoughts. No reason to draw attention. No reason to alert the pick-pocketers that you’re American. I get off at my stop relieved at finally being able to escape the silence, which to me felt out of my comfort zone.  

The next time, the next day, I get on the metro with a different perspective. Having practically dragged myself out of bed and to the metro, I welcome the silence this time. It feels nice. I use the time I’m on the metro to steady myself and to refresh myself for the day ahead. The silence is a time to reflect on the goals I have and what I want to focus on during the day. For the first time I understand journaling. Maybe I should get back to that? No, I’ll just stick with my metro ride for now, baby steps…. I look at the Parisians around me: they’re not talking but they’re doing other things: sharing a book, watching Gossip Girl, resting before the day. I think again about Lucie: she is not loud nor extroverted; she’s not as interesting as Éponine or even Cosette, who she is most compared to in our class, but she does understand that there is power in stillness; in domesticity; in embracing the quiet moments. In class, we talked about the scenes of domesticity in A Tale of Two Cities, how it stands out in a book that moves at breakneck speed. As readers we need this moment of stillness to understand why Lucie must fight so hard to protect her family and life. After this metro ride, I still don’t relate to Lucie, but I understand her. I also understand the value of silence.