Going to Versailles was something of a dream: I can say with certainty that it was one of the most memorable experiences of my life, but maybe not in the way the Sun King thought it would be. Walking through hall after hall, room after room, filled with grand portraits flaunting unspeakable wealth, velvet-covered walls, classical statues of French monarchs going back to the 11th century, and more was astonishing. As I wandered from floral jacquard cushion to floral jacquard cushion, I did not need to remind myself that King Louis XIV spent most of France’s wealth on such an ostentatious home. 

What impressed me even more than the palace itself were the extensive gardens. The map of Versailles left an impression: the palace, scaled on the 11x17-ish map, was around 3 inches, the legend took up the bottom 4 inches, and the gardens took up the rest of the map. Even the excessiveness of the palace paled in comparison to the reflecting pools, swathes of forest, fountains displaying marble tableaus of Greek mythology, pillars, vast flower beds, palatial staircases, and labyrinthine hedges of the gardens. 

Walking through the literal maze of foliage in the gardens made me really think about how I would have felt if I was a peasant at the storming of Versailles. I imagined myself in tattered clothes, hungry, angry, and bloodthirsty, ready to drag the King and his court out of their ivory tower to pay for their crimes. I imagined myself holding a pitchfork and torch, ready to avenge generations of my family that suffered under the absolutist tyrants who called themselves Kings of France. I imagined the legions of brothers, sisters, children, parents, friends, and lovers who died of starvation when families were too poor even for a proper burial. I imagined all of this and then I imagined how I would have felt standing at the gates of Versailles, seeing the Sun King branded in gold in front of the biggest building I’d ever seen. I imagined walking through those crushed velvet halls, seeing riches beyond my wildest comprehension, more food than I’d probably eaten in my life, and I imagined how unspeakably angry I would have been at the King. I’m not saying the Reign of Terror and indiscriminate violence born of paranoia and bloodlust is justified, but the violence of the revolution can be traced back directly to the violence of the Ancien Regime against the working class. 

It made me think a lot about the different locations we have also seen bookpacking: I remember when we met by the Pont Neuf, and the huge department store by the bridge. It was filled with luxury clothes and brands, with an equally massive Louis Vuitton store opposite it. I remember on the Champs Elysees, the street was lined with luxury stores and boutiques flaunting wares only the very wealthy could buy. When we were in Versailles, it was brands like Louis Vuitton that were donating to the upkeep of this palace. How ironic: the great palace of the Sun King, being donated to by everyone from household name brands to the most inaccessible high fashion brands. These are brands that have fashion shows in the Hall of Mirrors for the elite to attend. These are the brands that bring the term “luxury” to a new level, selling things that the common person won’t ever buy. Some of these brands are so exclusive, we probably don’t even know the names. It reminded me, in such a sick way, of the extraordinary wealth of the Parisian nobility circa 1789, exclusive and wealthy parties in palaces surrounded by filth, poverty, and hunger. While these extremes may not be visually replicated, the sentiment stands strong. Wealth and excess in Paris is surrounded by suburbs full of people who have been gentrified out of their old neighborhoods, refugees, immigrants, and communities of color. Nanterre was the site of the horrific murder of Nehel Mezouk, a 17-year-old French Algerian murdered by police in June. 

Paris retains its reputation as a revolutionary hotbed, but Paris remains a location where the ends of the capitalist spectrum are expected to exist in harmony. With a president who does little for the most affected, actively perpetuating systems of oppression, no wonder the Parisian sentiment is so often one of anger and revolution. So much of Paris is filled with people who have only their fists and voices. This is not to say that Paris is the only city that faces systemic inequality; this is so far from the truth. From Los Angeles to Beijing to Tehran, inequality faces anyone oppressed by the dominant systems. Paris just happens to be a city in the western world known for its tumultuous nature, and a city that so many of the world’s refugees have fled to. Sri Lankan Tamil refugees fleeing from genocide, Pakistani refugees fleeing political disruption, Sudanese refugees fleeing war, and so many more communities have found a home in Paris and its suburbs, allowing for a vibrant community. However, this also means that the Parisian and French governments have waged a war on these communities, spreading hate, racism, and Islamophobia through the city and country. All of this and more was swirling through my head as I walked through the unimaginable wealth displayed at Versailles.

Many have said that the French Revolution never really ended: we know that the revolutions kept happening in 1830, 1832, 1848, 1871, 1968, and more insurrections sprinkled throughout. The Parisian students, workers, and marginalized communities have created a French tradition of revolution and of fighting back against that which pushes them down. Paris is far from perfect, and the most influential Parisians retain the most wealth in the city. However, Paris has created a precedent for itself that the downtrodden citizens can literally fight the system, and that is somewhat of an empowering thought. Versailles was an emotional trip: there was a lot to think about, and even more to compare to today’s world. I don’t know how much we have learned since then, but it doesn’t seem like a whole lot.