The End of a Chapter

When I picked up my cardboard Amazon delivery box this past April, I was shocked by its weight. I knew Les Miserables was long, but I was not expecting to see a brick of a book inside the package that day. I remember snapping a photo of the book next to my hand, for size reference, and texting it to my mother. “How am I going to read all of this before July?” She responded with laughing emojis.

I wasn’t sure if I could do it, but I did finish reading Les Miserables before July. It took countless hours, lugging a heavy tote bag to and from campus in the sun, and sometimes listening to the audiobook at the gym. Tuning in to the Battle of Waterloo section on leg day is definitely a unique experience!

After finishing the book, discussing it in class the past few weeks, and “bookpacking” it throughout Paris, I feel confident in saying that the challenge of getting through over 1,300 pages is well worth it. Les Miserables is slow sometimes, and melodramatic, and relatable, and touching, and annoying, and rewarding. I yawned while reading this book, I found myself biting my nails at moments of suspense, and I nearly came to tears by the end of it. Victor Hugo leaves the reader with some beautiful messages about humanity, hope, and transformation. There is so much history to unpack, so many emotions to let yourself feel, so many characters to opine about within this novel.

Initially, before arriving in Europe, I wasn’t sure what to expect from “bookpacking.” Reading Les Miserables at home for the first time, I couldn’t understand how the experience of rereading it in Paris could be so different. I had initially thought we would just be visiting historical sites that related to both novels, and so I was pleasantly surprised when I read the syllabus and discovered we would also be visiting so many exact spots of important scenes from the books.

Such gorgeous art!

I’ve now spent about three weeks in Paris and my appreciation for this city has grown with each day of class and excursions. I’ve determined that Paris is not my favorite city I’ve ever visited– it can be dirty, some parts are underwhelming, some of its people are cold and judgmental, there are lurking pickpockets… But Paris also has lush gardens, adorable cafes, and incredible art and culture. The narrow cobblestone streets, magnificent palaces, and the Seine are all gorgeous. And the rich history and activism of this city is truly impressive. Plus, as a foodie, it has been a delight trying all the lovely pastries, cheeses, and crepes. So while I have my criticisms about certain parts of Paris, I appreciate all the beauty I’ve been lucky to see and the culture I’ve been exposed to. I’m grateful to have spent these weeks in such a brilliant city.

Seeing the locations from Les Miserables and A Tale of Two Cities was my favorite part of this program. Being able to see the spots of Temple Bar and Tellson’s Bank, the Manette’s home in London, the Conciergerie where Darnay is held, Sidney Carton’s death cart ride to the Place de la Concorde, Javert’s last walk along the river, the sewers where Jean Valjean carries Marius… has been so much fun. The feeling of reading a scene in a novel and then seeing the exact place the author wrote about is so exciting! It truly makes the book come alive in a way that reading it at home cannot.

When I was first learning how to properly “bookpack,” I found the process to be much more enjoyable than I had expected. “Bookpacking” is an experience that requires an active imagination, an awareness of the senses, and curiosity. I was surprised to discover that, to me, “bookpacking” feels like tapping into a childlike imagination. As a child, I would entertain myself for hours, in silence and alone, just with my imagination. I could stay in my backyard for hours, until the sun set, creating imaginary worlds and dialogue and characters– oftentimes with no props or playmates. A child’s brain is amazing in how vibrant, innocent, and creative it can be. “Bookpacking” feels similar to that experience, except the worlds and characters are already created, you just have to open your mind up to see them in front of you.

I love the experience of being able to reconnect with that childlike imagination. In exercising that skill, I transported myself into the characters and scenes. Without seeing it in person, I would not have known how long the path the death carts took actually was, making Carton’s final scene in A Tale of Two Cities all the more chilling in the historical context. Without seeing the Luxembourg Gardens, I would not have truly sensed the magical feeling of the setting, making the budding romance between Cosette and Marius feel so much more lovely. Without visiting the sewer museum, I would have never guessed how deep and disgusting those tunnels were, making Jean Valjean’s journey with Marius on his back all the more courageous. Reading the novel on its own is wonderful, but seeing the book come to life does make the characters, their relationships, and their actions so much more profound.

“Bookpacking” has left me with new questions, too. Why did Victor Hugo reference certain nonexistent maps? Why did he characterize Cosette the way he did? What would Hugo have thought about the activists of Paris today? And how have I seen elements of this novel in my own life? Who do I know as the ABC group? Who in my life loves me as deeply and unconditionally as Valjean loves Cosette? How have I seen personal transformation? How do I feel about violence, about religion? How do I define justice and goodness?

As this trip comes to a close, I reflect on what I will take with me from Paris to Los Angeles. Although I may not have time to read a new novel in the coming months (I expect most of my reading will be LSAT preparation books), I don’t want to give up the magic of exercising my imagination and looking for characters from A Tale of Two Cities and Les Miserables in the people around me. I will take with me the experience of flaneuring through parks and past boulangeries and patisseries. I will remember the importance of compassion, forgiveness, hope, and change, thanks to both Dickens and Hugo. And, of course, I will take with me lovely memories of munching on crunchy baguettes with my classmates and giggling around the sparkling Eiffel Tower at night. Thank you, and au revoir Paris!

On a Search for the Zigzag

It’s a sunny Monday afternoon in Paris, and our class is on a search for the zigzag. More specifically, we’re looking for the twists and turns of the path that Jean Valjean and Cosette take in Les Miserables as they try to escape from the sight of Javert, who is chasing behind them:

“Jean Valjean had immediately turned off the boulevard and plunged into the narrower streets, striking off in a different direction as often as he could, sometimes abruptly retracing his steps to make sure he was not being followed” (Hugo 405).

The fifth arrondissement of Paris is charming and calmer than I expected. We’re tracing the “labyrinthine routes in the Mouffetard district” (Hugo 405). Tan, yellow and white buildings line the narrow, cobblestone Rue Mouffetard. On my left I pass the smell of kebab and fried goodness, and on my right, the cigarette smoke from Parisians at a bustling cafe. The sun is friendly on this Monday afternoon– I watch a butterfly dance through the warm air before me and into vibrant, stretching vines hanging from a window above.

I’m exhausted today, from hustling through class excursions and not getting enough sleep. Maybe it’s better for the experience this way– was little Cosette sleepy too, when Jean Valjean pulled her from bed and brought her on the zigzag course?

Rue Mouffetard is darling, but as I stroll through I can’t help but think how so many of the streets in Paris look alike. Maybe it’s because I’m a tourist, but I had thought that after being in Paris for nearly three weeks I would understand the arrondissements a bit more. Did the Paris streets look alike in Jean Valjean's time as well? If so, I couldn’t even imagine how difficult the zigzag chase must have been– and at night! Have we been through this street before? Have we passed that park, that tree, that lamp before?

The entrance to the narrow side street.

We dip into a tiny side street, and I instantly see tall Jean Valjean holding Cosette’s hand. The entrance to this street is almost missable in the daylight and certainly missable at night. With the cobblestone beneath me and the slim slice of sky above– this is the perfect street for a zigzag chase!

A pink bike rests on the right side of the street, across from a thick bush. I watch the breeze sway some long vines that almost entirely cover the side of another building on the left. I feel peaceful. I think about the pink bike, and its story. I imagine that it’s waiting for a little girl to come home and take it for a ride down a cobblestone zigzag course.

Whose pink bike?

This narrow street is bright but (nearly) fully in the shade. I try to imagine how it might’ve looked for Jean Valjean. Was the street pitch-black, or did the moon shine one one side? “There was a full moon that night… Still very low on the horizon, the moon divided the streets into great blocks of light and shadow” (Hugo 405).

I imagine myself as little Cosette, holding tight onto Jean Valjean’s hand. Was the silence chilling? Were there any lamps lit along the course? What did she think (before Valjean told her the Thenardiers were coming for her) the two of them were doing? Where did she think they were going? Maybe she thought the zigzag was something fun and exciting, as young children do, unaware of danger or fear in the air. Did she recognize any dark streets of Paris? What kinds of thoughts were going through her head?

Maybe these curiosities are too much for Cosette’s simplistic characterization. Perhaps all she truly felt was Valjean’s hand around hers: “And anyway, being with him, she felt safe” (Hugo 405).

As I “bookpack” this narrow street, something in the relationship between Cosette and Valjean is illuminated for me. Hugo tells us that Cosette felt safe with Valjean as they scurry through these dark and narrow streets of the fifth arrondissement. In such a simple description, Hugo so poignantly reveals this magical feeling of being a child and feeling totally protected and guided by a loved parent. He shows us such a genuine sensitivity to this childlike feeling of seeing a hero in a parent: “He trusted in God as she trusted in him” (Hugo 405).

Suddenly, in my envisioning of myself as Cosette, I see my own little self. I’m there, in that narrow side street at night, holding the hand of my own father. All the chaos, the uncertainty, the Big and Bad of the world, is far away. In the darkest of nights, in the most desperate moments, there is that hand reaching out, offering safety, guidance, comfort. Our zigzag path is unknown, but for little me, he knows exactly where he is taking us. There is darkness, there is the moon, and there is his hand holding mine, and that is enough.

Exiting the special narrow side street.

I make my way through the other end of the narrow street, back into the sun, back to zigzagging. We continue tracing the possible path from the book, and I think about what Hugo’s childhood might have been like. Did he see a hero in his father as a young boy? Did he miss that feeling, as a matured adult writing Les Miserables? Did Hugo see his own daughters in Cosette in any way? What did he want us to see in that description of Valjean and Cosette at night?

The farther I walk from that narrow side street, the less I see Cosette and Jean Valjean. I’ve lost them now. They’re somewhere in the zigzag, across a bridge, through an alleyway and over a wall, hiding somewhere. I’m left strolling the streets of the fifth arrondissement and feeling nostalgic, missing the warmth of a guiding hand.

Exploring Paris as a Lover of Love

The Eiffel Tower is all the more lovely when she sparkles at night.

After two weeks in the city, I hate to admit that Paris does not stand out to me as “the city of love.” Parisians don’t smile in public, they’re stone-faced as they walk through the streets, and never speak on the public transportation. Take your lover on an evening walk and you’ll have to pinch her nose when passing the hot, sour sewage smells, and yell “You look lovely tonight!” over the sound of the rumbling motorcycles and angry Parisian drivers. Paris is fun, it’s historic, it’s artistic… but it doesn’t strike me as the most romantic city I could imagine.

And yet, I see love all around Paris. I see the couple on the metro holding their bodies close to the grab-pole, and each other’s bodies even closer. At the cafe table beside me, two young lovers stare deeply into each others’ eyes over half-sipped espressos. An elderly pair heads out of a boulangerie with arms interlinked, strolling through the quiet rainy streets. In a city that often seems gray and cold, these sweet moments of love make Paris shine a bit brighter.

When I pass by little pockets of peace in the city, like the Luxembourg Garden, it becomes clearer to me how love can flourish here.

Although I was disappointed upon discovering the Luxembourg Garden was closed the day I passed by (dangerous wind alerts?), a peek through the gates proved the Garden itself was anything but a let-down. The skies were gray on the day I saw the Garden, but I could imagine exactly how the scene must have looked in Les Miserables: “One day the air was warm, the Luxembourg Gardens were suffused with shade and sunshine, the sky was pure as if the angels had washed it that morning, the sparrows were twittering in the thick of the chestnut trees. Marius had wholly opened his soul to nature, he was not thinking of anything, simply living and breathing” (Hugo 636).

My view through the garden gates.

Just looking into the side entrance, I could see the most vibrant, tidy green lawns, neat gravel paths lined with storybook-type trees, and humble wooden benches surrounding an enchanting fountain. Among lawns peppered with pigeons sat happy bunches of colorful flowers and stood elegant, classical sculptures. I tried to just “live and breathe,” in that moment, as Marius did.

No wonder Marius and Cosette first exchanged glances in this magical spot! Looking through the gates of the Garden, I could almost see Cosette and Jean Valjean sitting peacefully on a bench as Marius saunters by:

“She said to Jean Valjean, ‘How delightful this Luxembourg Garden is!’ Marius and Cosette appeared to each other as if in the dark. They did not speak to each other, they did not greet each other, they did not know each other. And like the stars of heaven, millions of miles apart, they existed by gazing at each other” (Hugo, 808).

What an ideal setting for a romance! How might I have felt as Cosette, taking in the beautiful Garden, and then catching Marius’ eye? I imagine, in the silence of the exchange, the intense heat traveling to her cheeks, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, butterflies in her stomach. That glimpse must have utterly disturbed the serenity of the Garden! With just one simple yet impassioned glance– pluck out all the flowers from the lawns! Watch the sculptures come alive and jump into the fountains! Belt among a choir of birds in the trees! Explode the sky with fireworks! And then… be pulled back to earth with the sound of Jean Valjean’s voice.

The Luxembourg Garden is all that I could have imagined it to be. The setting is just as I pictured it while reading Les Miserables (just a bit cloudier and windier that day). How sweet those interactions must have been between the two young lovers, in such a darling garden.

On my metro ride home from the Garden, I watch as a man reaches for his lover’s hand. She slips her fingers into his and rests her head on his shoulder, and the metro hums along through the tunnel. As I watch this interaction, I wonder if the Metro Man has the same feeling Marius felt when he first met with Cosette– the passion, the pure bliss of being in the presence of one adored, the feeling of the rest of the world melting away… I don’t know the Metro Man or his lover, but for my own delight on that ride home, I imagine that they feel the same innocent magic that lived between Marius and Cosette.

Being able to enjoy, from a distance, these little moments of love among the people of Paris is a delight for me. Paris is not my “city of love,” and I’m comfortable with that. While I don’t find this the ideal place for a romance, I can appreciate how others might. The city is full of romantic, mysterious, intimate pockets of peace that can be just the right places to spark feelings or initiate special glances. Observing such sweet human interactions and imagining the relationships of Les Miserables in characters of the present is part of the excitement for me. Not only do these wonderful moments of the book come alive when I “bookpack,” but Paris itself becomes more magical to experience.

Beyond the Baguette

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.

Passing the cafés and boulangeries.

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.

The lady at the boulangerie by my apartment and I are becoming friends.

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.

London: A Time Capsule City

In the sharp silence of Dennis Severs’ home, the creaks of the floorboards in the basement resonate throughout the home’s five floors. I take a slow, broad step into the first room, hoping to reduce my pedal impact. To my surprise, the dimly lit kitchen is elaborately decorated with an incredible assortment of tools, hyperrealistic foods, ornaments, and tiny sugar mice. Two ducks are suspended upside-down in the corner of the room, oyster shells lay empty upon the counter, a variety of blue and white china teacups sit politely atop the shelves, and a cleaning to-do list is slowly peeling off the wall. The room smells of musk and all is still, besides the flicker of candlelight. Atop the table in the middle of the kitchen is an impressive display of fruits, half-written notes, and unfinished drinks. As I walk through the room, I hesitantly remind myself not to get stuck observing any single beautiful item.

This is unlike any museum I have ever visited. I pass through each room slowly, almost holding my breath, carefully containing my excitement. I walk through the rest of the house entranced, almost devouring every antique object with my eyes. I take in the first bedroom: the thick, vermillion curtains enclosing a messy bed, the scarlet pigment held inside a clam shell on the vanity, the white bonnet left behind on a chair, the torn-open envelope. I make my way into the next room: the lemon peel hanging on the side of a bowl, the boots neatly tucked in the corner, the barks of a dog in the distance, the smell of tobacco. And the next room: a steaming coffee pot forgotten on the bedside table, a remarkable array of china and dolls and animal figures above the fireplace, a faint smell of flirty perfume.

What extraordinary attention to detail! What opulence! It seems as though the family that once lived in this lush home has just stepped out, the moment I stepped in. The wooden chairs are still pushed out from the tables, the toast has been left half-eaten, the bedsheets remain untidy. Time has stopped in the eighteenth or nineteenth century, and I’ve just had the wonderful privilege of stepping into this home and taking in her beauty.

Temple Bar (moved to its new location) from A Tale of Two Cities!

There is something magical about time capsules like that. Maybe it’s just my love for history, but I find such joy in seeing the rare places that preserve the past so well. Walking through Dennis Severs’ home was an amazing experience (my favorite of this week) and although I know it is just a recreation of an imagined family’s home, I couldn’t help but feel that magic linger even after I left the house.

While exploring different areas of London this week and “bookpacking” through the spots mentioned in Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities, I noticed something particularly unique about London’s magic– its relationship with the past. Walking through where Tellson’s Bank and Temple Bar once were, dining at the black booths of Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese (where Dickens sat!), and finding the Manette’s home in Soho Square not only made the book come alive but also transported me to the past.

The feeling is all the more fervent when facing such beautifully preserved architecture, cobblestone roads, and quaint pubs. To see traditions like high tea still so commonly practiced and old-fashioned phrases still used in conversation is a culture shock— but an enjoyable one. In London, certain elements feel stuck in the past, and still others feel completely modern. This city’s connection with tradition and history is unlike any other I’ve seen. Even my recent trip to Rome, where I saw the ancient ruins and preserved churches, did not evoke the same feeling of “living” with the past the way London did. The bookstores, the cuisine, the poshness of it all! What a treat it must be to live in a city that cherishes such lovely history.

But… observing London’s relationship with its past isn’t entirely a delight. Along with the magic of protecting old buildings and traditions, I found that there is an uncomfortable, dark cloud of English history looming over the city. England’s past of colonialism and imperialism is hard to miss in contemporary London. After passing by a poster advertising the British Museum’s most recent collection of other country’s cultural artifacts as “New Acquisitions,” I was left with an icky feeling. Seeing people scramble outside the gates of Buckingham Palace like little mice, watching the guards protect the luxury of distant royalty was also strange to me. Certain statues commemorating racist, imperialist figureheads still stand proud in the middle of the multicultural metropolis.

What can we make of London’s complex connection with the past? On one end, some architecture, traditions and cultural practices are far too magical to let go of. On the other hand, memorializing and displaying certain symbols of oppression of other groups is a serious hindrance to societal progress.

Should the British consider a reevaluation of their preservation of history and traditions? I don’t believe that exploring new, progressive approaches will necessarily sacrifice the magic of the city. Some things should be learned, but not celebrated. But, of course, some parts of history are easily understood, and yet others may seem trickier when interpreting their value in contemporary society.

A clear answer as to how the English might approach this reassessment is not something I’m not confident I can give. As an American, I’ve seen this discussion arise in my own country time and time again. I am interested to see how the United States and England will engage in this conversation in the coming years, as more people feel empowered to challenge oppressive and outdated narratives.

In total, this week in London was unique. I leave the city with mixed emotions, grateful to have been able to step into the past of the Dennis Severs’ home and the Charles Dickens’ novels, yet confused by the lingering shadow of an exploitative empire. We wait and see what London will become. Historia magistra vitae est! (History is the teacher of life!)