Gratitude and Farewells

The past four weeks have been such an incredible experience. Traveling to Europe for the first time, taking the longest flights I have ever taken, seeing so many wonderful places and sites and buildings. What a blast this month has been!

When I arrived in London, I was excited, but I was also quite nervous. Would I make friends with the people in my class? Would I have enough time to attend lectures and excursions, complete my academic work, do my remote tasks for my job, and still have time to go places and see things? And the answer, thankfully, was yes.

If I had to sum up the past four weeks in one word, it would be gratitude. I am so fortunate to have been able to have this experience at this time in my life, and there wasn’t a single day that passed that I didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for my circumstances. It has been so much fun to study A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables in the cities they take place in. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would get to experience something like this.

Reflecting on the 1832 barricades while standing in Les Halles, traversing the sewers thinking of Valjean and Marius, zig-zagging through the 13th arrondissement like Valjean and Cosette, storming Versailles like the 18th century peasants, walking along Fleet Street and visiting Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese as Dickens would have done, visiting the Palais Garnier–there were so many immersive adventures that I never would have been able to do in one trip, let alone one lifetime, if it weren’t for this experience.

Along with that, we were able to visit the Louvre, the catacombs, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Luxembourg Gardens, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, and so much more. I’ll stop listing them for the sake of your eyes, but you get the jist.

Since I was in middle school, I have wanted to study abroad, and I have dreamed of visiting Paris since I was in single digits. This experience exceeded my expectations, and I hope the younger me, with keychains, notebooks, and postcards of the Eiffel Tower, is happy with what I got to see.

I have grown and learned so much over the past four weeks, and this was truly an experience that I will never forget. I haven’t quite had the time to process this month in full yet, as I have flown back to Los Angeles and immediately moved into my new apartment, so nothing has quite set in yet. When it does, I know it will be incredible. Until then, all I can leave you with is my gratitude and farewells, and a grand feeling of appreciation for this opportunity. Thank you all for coming on this journey with me. Bon Voyage! À la prochaine.

Paris, Underground

I have gone underground countless times in Paris, which is a sentence that surprises me to be writing. Most of the time, it was for my daily commuting on the Métro, but we also ventured through the sewers and the catacombs, both of which were many, many stairs underground. (Ironically enough, I am writing this blog from the top of the Tour Eiffel, possibly the highest point in the city that one can be.) From top to bottom, Paris has life bubbling at every point, especially under the surface. Let’s dive in, shall we? (...Get it?)

Some of the stations have this lovely architecture at the entrance!

The Paris Métro has been my primary way of traveling around the city. Every morning, I take a 40–45 minute commute to our study center. I begin my day underground, surrounded mostly by local Parisians on their morning commutes as well. The Métro is pleasantly quiet, and it has grown to be a lovely part of my day.

Underground, we travel through tunnels, the train gliding along tracks lit with dim lights. Around me, people are reading novels, listening to music, chatting softly with each other. The announcements on the train warn patrons of pickpockets and to keep their bags close to them. The speakers emit a beeping sound to warn that the doors are closing, and I laugh to myself as the noise is in perfect harmony with the Olivia Rodrigo song playing in my ears.

We are all on our way somewhere. Some have luggage, some have briefcases, some have backpacks. Some are with partners, with children, friends, pets. Others, like me, are on their own. But we are all traveling as one.

Long walkway in the sewers

Next to us, above, below, and around us are the sewers. We visited the Musée des Égouts de Paris, the Paris Sewer Museum, and, yes, we walked through the sewers. Not through the sewage water itself–I don’t know if any of us have the constitution for that–but through the tunnels that are above and around them, all connecting to each other. And, if you haven’t guessed it already, it smelled.

In Les Misérables, Jean Valjean saves Marius’ life by taking him through the same sewers we walked. They traverse underground, out of sight of the soldiers, Valjean carrying an unconscious Marius on his back.

We found a mural of Valjean carrying Marius through the sewers! Was so much fun to stumble across.

Hugo describes how Valjean sees daylight and, after a confrontation with Thénardier, escapes the sewers. He explains that this location is somewhere between the Pont d’lena and the Pont des Invalides, along the Seine across from the Gros-Calliou. Miraculously, the Musée des Égouts de Paris is located in almost this exact location. It may have been on the other side of the Seine; we were not 100% sure, but we were close enough that it felt too accurate to be a coincidence. I have to imagine that, when putting together the museum, the choice of location wasn’t lost on them. I like to imagine some diehard Les Mis fan was a part of that decision-making process.

The sewers were dark, smelly, and confusing. It felt like a maze–I never knew what awaited me at every turn (despite the clearly labeled signs for museum visitors). At some parts, you could look down through a metal grate and see the sewage water flowing below. Those parts, allegedly, were the worst smelling. Almost everyone came back from that section plugging their noses; I saw several people nearly gagging. (I had never been more grateful to have a poor sense of smell–I didn’t think it was that bad!)

Through the stench, darkness, and confusing turns, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what Jean Valjean must have been going through down there. I was disoriented, and, for me, it was relatively well-lit, and they gave us maps! Not to mention, Valjean was carrying Marius on his back, facing exhaustion, and trudging through the water at times. Emerging from the sewers and seeing the outdoors must have felt like its own rebirth, a final saving grace.

The sewers certainly weren’t my favorite, but they did not leave me as unsettled as the catacombs did. The Paris Catacombs lie approximately 20 meters, or 65 feet, below ground level. By the time we reached the bottom of the staircase, I was incredibly grateful that I was not claustrophobic. We walked through dimly lit tunnels for about fifteen minutes before hitting the entrance to the catacombs which featured a warning overhead that spooked us, to say the least.

Suddenly, the enormity of where we were hit me. I read somewhere online that there are more people’s bones in the catacombs than there are living people in Paris currently. I don’t know how true that is, but the number of remains that have been moved and stored there is astronomical. It took us thirty minutes to walk through the publicly accessible areas of the catacombs, around corners and through tunnels; it felt reminiscent of the sewers.

Some of the bones were arranged in designs. Many had plaques that said which cemetery or what event the remains in that section were from. This was, for me, possibly the most interesting way to get a sense of the history of the city. Centuries of Paris history, told through millions of people’s bones stacked together 65 feet underground.

When I emerged from the catacombs, I had never been more glad to see daylight–and not just because of the 112 steps I had just walked up. Seeing the outdoors after being underground, whether it’s from the Métro, or the sewers or catacombs, always felt like taking a breath of fresh air, in more ways than one. So much life and death and history exists below the ground in Paris, and what a way to exist within this world.

Naming the Revolution

The French have a certain way about them when it comes to protest. Every other week, it feels like you hear about a strike in Paris from this group of workers or that group of activists.

In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo writes ad nauseam about revolution and protest and riot and insurrection and what it means to advocate against a government or power structure that you don’t agree with. He often refers to the specific revolutionary events in the novel by their year. “Our 1789,” he writes, or “their 1776.” There are so many that he resorts to naming them by the year.

The monument at the Bastille (Thank you to Julia for the picture!)

To me, this city seems to just breathe revolution. Everywhere we turn, there are reminders of what these streets have seen. Every day on my transit journey to our morning class, I transfer from the Métro line 12 to line 8 at the station called Concorde. Just above me is La Place de la Concorde, formerly known as La Place de la Révolution. This is where, just a couple hundred years back, the guillotine stood during the Reign of Terror. The day we visited, it was pouring rain outside, and it seemed to fit the mood of the horrors that took place in that square. (Though I suppose this isn’t too remarkable–we’ve been hit with rain nearly every day during our first two weeks in Paris.)

Then, on line 8, just one stop before mine, I pass through Bastille–yes, that Bastille. The same one from A Tale of Two Cities in which Dr. Mannette was imprisoned for eighteen years. The same one that was stormed during the French Revolution and destroyed. Now, in its place stands a monument in remembrance not of the Bastille, but of the July Revolution of 1830, yet another one of Paris’ infamous revolutions. Don’t worry–the French celebrate Bastille Day every year on the 14th of July. We visited the Bastille on one of our first days in Paris, and I was stunned that such a historic location was just a few blocks away from our study center. The outline of where the pillars and building stood is painted on the streets surrounding the monument. It doesn’t look like much without context, bursitis so interesting to see in person.

Other stations on the lines I take include Assemblée Nationale, École Militaire, Invalides, République, and the aptly named, Liberté. So many references to government, revolution, the military–and these are just the ones I recognize. It’s all reminiscent of when I visited Boston, and all the streets were named things like “Revolutionary Way” and “Freedom Drive.” I laughed at how on the nose it was then, and I’m finding myself having the same reaction here.

The city seems to scream, “Remember what happened here! Remember what we fought for!” I’m not quite used to that. Much like London, the visible reminders of how much history the city has seen is almost overwhelming. It is no wonder that revolutionary spirit is still alive and active in Paris after all of these years: Parisians are constantly being reminded of the resilience of their people.

Not a coffee drinker, but I had a café crème at a café in the Latin Quarter. Felt like a true Parisian student!

In the Latin Quarter in the 5th arrondissement of the city, the student life of Paris thrives. There, we passed the Sorbonne, a building which has historically housed many Paris universities. We visited the Pantheon, passed by many shops, and located where the Café Musain would have been. Seeing the cafés lining the streets around the university, I couldn’t help but think about Enjolras, Marius, Grantaire, and the rest of the Friends of the ABC, sitting around tables, discussing strategy, politics, and their lives. Deep in the Latin Quarter, students across time have held protests, discussed politics, and made strides towards progress and revolution. To be in the streets where, in 1968, students lined the streets with barricades, or where, for centuries, young, progressive students talked about what they wanted the future of Paris to look like, was thrilling. I could practically see Enjolras sitting in the cafés, or rather I was imagining him as the young men I saw sitting in them.

Revolution stays alive in Paris, not just because of their naming of it, but because of the young people. It is a joint effort. Without the constant reminders in the streets of revolution, the youth would have nothing to base themselves on. Without the youth, it is unlikely that future progress and new ideas could be fostered to the extent that they are today. The students are the future, for better or for worse, and what a better place for them to conjure up new ideas than in a city full of revolutionaries.

Share the Wealth

Opulence isn’t a term that I was familiar with before this trip. Actually, the first time I heard someone say it in class a few weeks back, I had to Google it, quite humiliatingly, to confirm what the word meant. My life hasn’t exactly been filled with opulence. I have been fortunate in my life to travel to some pretty impressive places within the states–New York City, Boston, Chicago, and, of course, Los Angeles–but the grandeur of these cities is nothing compared to that of Paris thus far.

French opulence hit me like a train. Metaphorically speaking, of course–I was not the child run over by the Marquis St. Evrémonde–but I have been astounded by how much old wealth I have seen on display here. We have been inside numerous churches and historic buildings, but two have stood out to me like none other.

First, the Sainte-Chapelle. Standing on the Île de la Cité, the Sainte-Chapelle is made of two levels: the lower and upper chapels. The lower chapel is a wonderful site with its gold pillars and beautiful, blue ceiling, but it is the upstairs level that really blew me away. The walls of the upper chapel are lined with gorgeously colored stained glass, several meters tall, covering the entire perimeter of the room. Words can’t begin to describe the magnificence of the space. I was taken aback, to say the least, and I spent close to thirty minutes just sitting in the chapel, jotting down notes on my phone so I didn’t forget what my thoughts were at that moment. And what I thought was this: No wonder there were so many revolutions. No wonder the French peasantry fought back. Look at what the aristocracy was hiding from them!

The Sainte-Chapelle’s upper level, depicted in the photographs here, was not always open to the public. As per its original intentions and for many years, only members of the royal party and their close associates were allowed up there.

“Well, I thought, maybe if the king and queen had let the working class up here, they wouldn’t have chopped their heads off! ”

Or maybe, overwhelmed with rage, they still would have. I don’t know. What I do know is that I sure would have reconsidered.

One of the incredible ceiling murals inside the Palace of Versailles

I had similar thoughts during our day at the Château de Versailles. The grounds were envisioned by King Louis XIV (that’s the fourteenth, for you plebeians), also known as the Sun King. The grounds of Versailles consist of a massive castle with around 2,300 rooms and nearly 2,000 acres of gardens surrounding it. In the palace, every new room I entered contained perfectly curated matching furniture, or vaulted ceilings with magnificent murals, or statues and painting and mirrors and chandeliers, or sometimes all of these things all in one. And, outside, the gardens were expansive. Acres of pristinely organized bushes, trees, flowers, fountains. They were my favorite part–and would have made for the greatest game of hide and seek of all time.

The “Hall of Mirrors” — I think it should be rebranded as the “Hall of Chandeliers,” but what do I know?

A lot of us kept talking about what it would have been like to be a part of the storming of Versailles. To come upon this palace as an 18th century peasant, where we were struggling for food and water every day, and see this spectacular mansion and acres of perfectly trimmed gardens. We would’ve been pretty pissed, too. Or maybe, we would have been like the mender of roads from A Tale of Two Cities, in awe of the beauty and proclaiming our allegiance to the King and Queen. (Probably not, at least in our case, but it is certainly worth considering.)

But throughout it all, I couldn’t help but wonder… What was the point of such luxury? A mantra kept repeating in my head on a loop: It’s too much. It’s so extravagant. Why? Who needs all of this? It’s so much. It’s too much. It’s so–You get the point. I was bewildered by the opulence.

Nowadays, I feel as if we don’t see as many concrete displays of wealth such as these. Sure, the rich still have their mansions and properties, but it is nothing to the extent of Versailles or Sainte-Chapelle. Instead, I find that we see wealth and opulence displayed in other ways. Submarine trips to see the Titanic, for example. Or the mere idea of space tourism, the monetization of the universe and another opportunity for the wealthy to colonize more foreign lands. Even in my closer circles, the individuals around me at school and work, the ways in which wealth is displayed is not that of impressive houses, but rather impressive experiences. Numerous vacations around the world, be it ski trips or sightseeing or beach destinations. Instagrams flooded with pictures from their travels abroad, from their vacation homes or road trips or Spring Break trips to Cabo complete with a caption mentioning sunsets, tequila, and/or a singular word in Spanish meant to show your appreciation for the culture. My point being: experiential wealth.

I have begrudged the displays of wealth that I have seen on social media. Now, I am certainly one of the lucky ones to be on a trip like this. My Instagram now also has photographs of London and Paris, and, when posting them, I felt a sick sense of satisfaction knowing that, for the first time, I had partaken in something that I had always wanted to do. No, not to visit these places, but to post about them on social media. It almost felt like a rite of passage, to brag about my experience, about how fortunate I must be to get to have these adventures. Displaying my wealth in such a grand sense. Showing off the places I have been, the sights I have seen. Much like building gorgeous churches filled with stained glass, or acres and acres of gardens and palaces to show off one’s wealth, because you simply can, because why not?

Just a small part of the incredible gardens of Versailles. This photo, among others, was posted to my social media. In a fun turn of events, I am displaying King Louis XIV’s good fortune by showing off my own good fortune. I wonder what he would think of that.

The Sound of Silence

As I travel through Paris, everything is quieter. The streets are quiet, the trains are quiet, the cafés and restaurants and bakeries are quiet. The music playing in public spaces is quiet. The conversations between friends, families and lovers are quiet. The parks are quiet, blissfully so, with children on playgrounds and their parents gently reminding them to be careful. Even the torrential downpours of rain seem quiet – if not quiet, then gentle. Calm, serene. The pleasant sound of rain sprinkling down on the rooftops and the sidewalks, and the whispers of thunder rumbling overhead. Everything is quieter here. And I love it.

“English, but particularly American English, is a loud language.”

— Paris Study Center Employee

I am a naturally quiet person. I am soft-spoken, both literally and figuratively. More often than not, when I am talking to someone, I have to repeat myself because they couldn’t hear me. When asked to raise my voice, I struggle to, and I feel as if I am shouting. I don’t like loud noises, I don’t yell, and I don’t like yelling. I am just quiet.

I’m unlike my family in this sense. I don’t know that I would call anyone in my family soft-spoken, perhaps with the exception of my grandmother, but I do know that the majority of them would call me as such. The majority of my family speaks American English primarily, and Americans, as I am learning, generally speak louder than Parisians. Much louder, actually. We were told this on the first day we arrived in Paris and were, let’s say, reminded by the Paris center staff to keep our volume in mind as we travel around. Americans are just louder. Our culture is loud and boisterous (and a tad obnoxious), and I imagine this translates into our traditions of speaking as well.

A Polish library I saw outside of a cafe!

Half of my family are from Poland, speak Polish, and are equally as loud in Polish as in English, if not louder. While there aren’t any ways, officially speaking, to linguistically distinguish between “loud” languages and “quiet” languages, Polish, in my personal opinion, feels like a loud language. It is a language chock full of sibilants–loud, noisy fricatives, hissing sounds like “s,” “z,” “sh,” and “zh.” The air whooshes past your tongue in a frantic state, and it fills the whole room with sound. In Polish, it is not uncommon to have two sibilants back to back. S-z. Sh-ch. I awkwardly trip over the sounds as I try to pronounce some of these words. The point being, another loud language.

French speakers here in Paris are different. They speak in soft whispers. When I walk into a café or bakery, I am greeted with a gentle, “Bonjour,” and suddenly I feel like the loud one. It is an interesting shift in perspective from constantly having to raise my voice to be heard. When I am telling a story, I get louder with excitement, and I have to remind myself to be quieter. Eavesdropping is nearly impossible here, in my few days of experience, and it tells quite the story about the city.

Ironically enough, one of the loudest places I have encountered so far was the Sainte-Chapelle, a gorgeous chapel on the Île de la Cité. The reason being, of course, the tourists. The main floor was covered in signs reminding visitors to be quiet. Despite this, there was a loud chatter when I entered, and one of the workers (quite loudly) shushed the crowd multiple times in the ten minutes I was on that floor. I kept quiet and to myself, appreciating the art on my own.

The lower floor of the Sainte-Chapelle, where there was a loud hum of noise. I felt like shushing them myself.

(Shushing, by the way, is a sibilant. The “sh” sound pierces through, hissing loudly and obnoxiously, and can be sustained, unlike if you were to try to shush someone by going “bbbbb” or “ggggg.” Just a thought.)

What makes Paris quieter must have to do with the easygoing nature of the city. No one is in any rush to get their words out, so there is no need to speak loud enough for everyone to hear you. There is also, of course, the stereotypical culture of judgment in the city that contributes to this, for how could you gossip about the person across from you on the Métro if you weren’t speaking quietly?

I love the serenity; it brings me a sense of joy and peace as I amble through the streets. At the same time, I do miss the hustle and bustle of other cities I have been to. I miss the loud, boisterous laughter, the excited conversations that one gets to overhear, but there is something so unique, so special, about walking the streets at night and being able to hear a pin drop from a hundred feet away. The sound of silence is unrivaled after a long day.

New to London

Buckingham Palace - the flag was raised, meaning the King was home!

Exploring London for the first time was a delight! I found myself in a (mildly) strange land where I knew the language, but not the culture – it was an interesting dichotomy, one that I was excited to unravel.

Monday found us in the heart of London, focused on highlighting the power structures in Britain and the visible evidence of them within the city’s infrastructure. As can be imagined, we saw sites such as Buckingham Palace and Big Ben and Parliament Square, but we also got a look into the more behind-the-scenes, if you will, examples of power structures in London. As we strolled down streets like Pall Mall and Savile Row, home to traditional gentlemen's clubs and tailoring services, I was interested to learn about the way these more ordinary places were often sites of covert political agreements and discussions. Not an official signing into law, of course, but agreements, handshakes, and negotiations between wealthy men that had a say in the politics of the times. These underground power structures likely decided a lot of political decisions, and it was fascinating to see such wealth so casually on display.

This first day also found us exploring Westminster Abbey. I wasn’t sure what to expect–I didn’t even know it was a church–but the high, vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, and immense history blew me away. In Poets’ Corner, I stumbled upon name after name: Lewis Carroll, Lord Byron, T.S. Eliot, Handel, Shakespeare, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronte, and, of course, Charles Dickens. I couldn’t help but be reminded of the power structures in place–the fame these writers achieved to have their names forever cemented in such a historic place.

Inside Westminster Abbey

"Defend the Children of the Poor & Punish the Wrongdoer"

Tuesday plunged us into the Second Book of A Tale of Two Cities. We stood outside Old Bailey, the oldest criminal courthouse in London, and the words engraved on the side of the building sent a chill down my spine. There we stood, where Darnay was on trial for treason, and later we ate lunch just down the street at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, where he went after he was acquitted. Sitting in the small pub that Dickens frequented, everyone around me eating fish and chips–I felt truly immersed into Dickensian London. Later that day, we reached the former site of Temple Bar, where Tellson’s Bank was located, and the stuffiness of the area could be felt in the air. We went through a winding path, and suddenly found ourselves in the Temple and adjoining areas. No longer were we on the busy streets of London; we were in the quiet, serene gardens, the Temple Church, and surrounded by gorgeous brick buildings. This was a different kind of power displayed here – one of tremendous wealth, yes, but in legalities rather than the political sphere. That being said, there is no doubt that the men of the Middle and Inner Temples also had political sway back in the 1800’s.

On Wednesday, we saw a lot of cool locations: the Globe Theatre, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the London Bridge and Millenium Bridge. We tracked down Temple Bar, which had been relocated near St. Paul’s Cathedral, and our imaginations flourished as we tried to picture how the severed heads used to be placed on the structure. (Yes, heads.) The highlight of my day was eating a meat pie, not on Fleet Street, but at Borough Market, a massive outdoor food market. The market did not have many seating options available, so I sat on the curb of Stoney Street, eating my pie, feeling akin to a Victorian child. To my shock and awe, it was pretty decent.

Temple Bar - Where do you think the heads would have been placed?

Bloomsbury, the neighborhood we were staying in, was Thursday’s adventure. Seeing first edition copies of A Tale of Two Cities in Jarndyce, copies that were pasted together using the chapters that had been published in magazines, was quite spectacular. The flow of the novel–its cliffhangers and sometimes seemingly unrelated chapters–made so much sense when seeing that novel that had been, quite literally, pieced together from its separate parts.

Charles’ Dickens desk, at which he wrote A Tale of Two Cities

That day, we also explored the Charles Dickens Museum, his former house on Doughty Street, a mere thirteen minute walk from our flats. Standing in front of the massive wooden desk at which he wrote A Tale of Two Cities, among other novels, was a memorable moment for me. The power that desk held overwhelmed me. The people it has seen, the works it has contributed to. The dark, brown wood, strong and holding up over time, contained so much history in it – much like London itself.

The sheer amount of history that the city held within its boundaries quite honestly overwhelmed me a bit. I have never traveled outside of North America, and, for most of my life, the oldest buildings I’d ever seen were the skyscrapers of Chicago, most of them rebuilt after the fire in 1871. My first few days, the city’s layout reminded me immensely of Boston–my only frame of reference for a city like London. The buildings were shorter than I was used to, the streets were winding, and, yet, there remained a certain liveliness and newness to the city as well. The nightlife in Soho, the South Asian community on Brick Lane and in East London, and the endless outdoor markets with all sorts of crafts, cuisines, and cultures to discover–these all gave the city a lovely modern feel to it. By the end of this first week, I almost felt as if London was a tale of two cities on its own – the old, and the new. Seeing Dickensian London felt old to me, of course, but in the context of the city’s history, it may as well have been the newest thing there.