Does blood glisten in the sunlight? I don’t know, I’ve never seen it. But, as I walked through bustling Paris on a gloomy Thursday afternoon, I imagined that if I were standing on those same cobblestone streets about 229 years ago, and the sun were to have granted a bit more of its warmth, that blood would be glistening.

I stood before the Place de La Révolucion (now renamed Place de La Concorde), where the guillotine once commanded Paris menacingly during the Revolutionary period. If I held myself still enough (and tuned out the aggravating motorcycles), I could almost hear the thunder-like growl of the death-carts we read about in A Tale of Two Cities:

“Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrels carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in one realization, Guillotine” (Dickens, 384).

How chilling it must have been, to see the crowds gather around the guillotine. What did the condemned hear in their last moments? Were there shouts of anger in the crowd, of fear? Were people chanting, singing? Were fists thrown up in the air? Did children wince? Did the sounds of the falling blade echo throughout? Were there ever moments of silence, of stillness? Did the blood glisten on the platform?

The unsettling feeling in my stomach was the same there, at Place de La Concorde, as when I walked through the Conciergerie, where prisoners (like Marie Antoinette) were held and tried before being sent to the guillotine. Did the captives write or sing? Were the poems of hope or of desperation? Did candlelight keep them company in their bleak cells, or did darkness sweep over the halls? Were cries hushed, or did weeps echo through cells? Did the falling blade haunt prisoners in nightmares, or was it during the day that the chants of the Revolution terrorized them?

Seeing these disturbed locations not only stimulated my curiosity for more individual accounts of the Revolution, but made the final scenes of A Tale of Two Cities come to life. To walk the path that Sydney Carton might have taken in the death-cart, sitting beside the frightened little seamstress, was moving. And what a long journey! I imagine that hearing the death-carts rumble throughout that long of a ride must have been mind-numbing for the poor seamstress.

I walked through the streets of Paris, picturing how the same roads might have looked in the Revolution. What could that apartment have looked like? What was in that place before that shoe store? What about that boulangerie? And that other boulangerie? And the next boulangerie…

I hadn’t realized that there would be such an abundance of boulangeries in Paris. I knew the French took their baguettes seriously, but I hadn’t known that bread was such a staple here. It seems like there is a boulangerie on every block, on every street, of every arrondissement in the city!

I’ve visited a couple different boulangeries throughout the week, and the verdict is in: French bread really is that good. You can visit almost any random boulangerie and expect to find delicious baguettes… but enter into one that really speaks to you, one where the native Parisians are popping in to buy a loaf or two, and you will be amazed at the quality of the baguettes. There is something about the crunchy exterior and soft, chewy inside that just makes us appreciate the simplest delights in life.

As I crunched on my Thursday evening baguette (this one had peppered ham, butter, and cheese), I thought about the baguette as a symbol of France for me. Why is it that when I picture Paris, beside the Eiffel Tower, and past the cafes, the old street lamps, and the croissants, there is always a baguette?

My curiosity led me on a deep dive into the history of French cuisine, boulangeries, and restaurants. I discovered that during the economic crisis around the time of the French Revolution, bread, because of its affordability, was a staple food for the French peasantry (not surprisingly). While the aristocrats were indulging in luxurious and excessive sweets and meats and fruits, the poor were scrambling to find bread. In Les Miserables, we see the motif of bread used as a symbol of social inequality, like with the scene of the two poor, starving Parisian children sharing the loaf tossed in the water by a wealthy child who refused to eat it.

By the end of the Revolution, the aristocrats who were executed or fled France left behind chefs and other kitchen staff who then became unemployed. It is thought that some of these chefs began opening their own culinary establishments– some of the first versions of modern French restaurants! These establishments typically served simple meals, meant to “restore” health and nutrition (from the French word “restaurer”). No longer was bread the only food that the commonfolk could eat. People from different social backgrounds could come together in one establishment and restore their health with a hearty soup. The new restaurants were certainly a more egalitarian approach to cuisine than before the Revolution.

I imagined myself as a Revolutionary, entering into one of these first modern-type restaurants in Paris. Could I have felt, in those establishments, the liberté, égalité, and fraternité? Were there sounds of laughter or sighs of delight? Did the Parisians feel empowered, sitting together and discussing thoughts of La Guillotine, or their children, or if they had bread that day? What was the spirit like inside those restaurants?

For me, imagining this warmer side of late 18th-early 19th century France was a nice contrast to my envisioning of the chaotic, violent side that I often see represented in the museums and Conciergerie I’ve visited and books I’ve read. I’ve learned this week that the spirit of the Revolution– its motivations, its damages, its victories, its legacy– is far more complex than I had initially known. As I continue on my Paris journey, I hope to unpack more of these random bits of history that spark my curiosity. Every little detail is coming together to paint a larger, more intricate, beautiful picture of France.