Liberté, fraternité, ÉGALITÉ or death

When does a revolution end? How does a revolution end? Can a revolution end?

‘Revolution or what?’

In November of 2020 Le Place de Bastille was set ablaze before my eyes. That month, during a time of serious civil unrest and a general disillusionment with authority, President Macron passed ‘Article 24’, making it illegal to disseminate images or videos showing the face of a member of the national police. In the weeks leading up to this, France had been subject to targeted terror attacks and Islamic fundamentalism was seen as a national crisis. Shortly after, accusations of police brutality began to emerge.

This coinciding with the news of a second lockdown, France was angry. In the height of the Pandemic, there was already pressure building in the streets of Paris; we were under a strict regime of complete lockdown: masks were obligatory even in the streets, we were allowed only an hour’s walk within a one-kilometer radius of our place of residence and were subject to a ‘couvre-feu’ [curfew] between the hours of 6PM – 6AM. Any breach of these rules and you would be paying fines north of fifty euros.

The volatile ‘Pays De Greve’, [The country of strike / protest] as France has been less than affectionately dubbed, has somewhat of a reputation of public protest and strike. I had seen Le Gilets Jaunes [the yellow vests] during their demonstrations in Paris before, yet the protests during my first six months of living in Paris were utterly sensational. Usually happy to just watch the drama unfold from behind a screen, I thought to myself – No, this time I want to be part of the action. And how wrong I was.

Le Place de Bastille

Around 9PM on this November evening, me and my three roommates arrive at the Place de Bastille. Nervous, excited and in way over our heads, we think we’re ready. A hot red glow is ascending from the center of the swarm and a thick grey smog is settling in above us. Above the sea of protestors, half torn posters and ravaged French flags fly low. Rows upon rows of the Gendarme are trying desperately to contain the anger to the Place but the protestors are doubling in size and in anger. Eventually something in the atmosphere starts to change, the cries for political change are becoming increasingly lost within the chaos and screams for help. The crowds begin to break up as if under siege, and I realize we are being shot at by rubber bullets. The acrid smell of tear gas becomes thicker, heavier and I see fellow protestors being beat by police batons.

In the fiery frenzy, I turn to make sure my friends are still close by me. One of my roommates is crying; I quickly realize he’s been tear gassed and is desperately trying to remove it from his eyes. I go to rally the others and realize that my best friend has been hit by a rubber bullet and deep purple bruises are beginning to set on her arms and back. We come quickly to the conclusion that is probably best to bow out now and frantically, we try to escape the mob.

233 years have passed since the French Revolution and the storming of the Bastille. Yet, standing on the Place this quiet July afternoon in 2023 I can’t help but recall my own version of events. I look for any evidence of the protests I witnessed, and of those just passed, the marks of the fire, a flag, a broken poster – but nothing.

The remains of Bastille

It was something else that caught my eye – small bronze circles forming the shape of an obscure rectangle surrounds me – the remains of the Bastille. Far smaller than I had imagined, the perimeter of the Bastille encloses where we were stood. Straight away, I think to Dickens’ Madame Defarge: exasperated, furious, vengeful, and thirsty for blood. She would have stood right where I was, full of the desire to destroy. Looking back to the book, as her husband rallies the men to storm the Bastille, she tells him: ‘I go… with you… you shall see me at the head of the women.’ She is leading these women into the siege and exclaims: ‘We can kill as well as the men!’ And so, she proves as she stands firmly of the chest of the dying body of Sainte Antoine and gruesomely decapitates him. The storming of Bastille was a triumph for the revolutionaries – the seven prisoners were released, seven guards’ heads were placed on spikes and the governor, killed. From then on it was ‘Liberty, fraternity, egality or death.’

Had it not been for the hundreds of armed Gendarmes, huge police and military tanks, and the lack of a Bastille to siege that evening in 2020, I really wonder how the events would have unfurled. I can still feel the anger and passion that night, it was completely overwhelming, and I remember thinking that without the military confinement it could so easily have spiraled out of control.

There is still so much unhappiness harbored here in France, so much injustice unaccounted for, and so many people feeling let down by the government – there is a reason that France is the ‘Pays de Greve.’ Only a few weeks ago, Paris saw a very similar unrest. Nahel M, a 17-year-old boy in Nanterre was shot and killed by a police officer. In similar fashion to the US during the BLM protests, the French took to the streets in demonstration. Cars were set alight, the police were attacked, a moment of huge civil anger and fear manifested itself in violence all across the nation.

I remember reading Les Misérables earlier this summer only to look up from the book at a Sky News broadcast and see exactly what Hugo was describing superimposed on contemporary Paris. Fireballs were hurled through the streets and French flags were used as a symbol of the new revolt.

Paris summer 2023, Sky News

I called my friend who lives in the banlieues [the suburbs] – where the protests were especially potent - and I asked her to talk me through what was going on. She flipped her FaceTime camera around and showed me the streets below her apartment. The streets were pilled meters high with rubbish and the bins were literally on fire. Carcasses of burnt cars remained hauntingly on the streets and the remains of DIY weapons were sprawled across the pavements. People were either rushing to get safely home or running towards the heart of the movement. I could hear the rumble of chaotic chanting through the phone. Shops and cafes were boarded shut and public transportation was closed. My friend had been told by her university to not leave her apartment. A revolt was in full swing.

I then turned back to Les Mis and had to remind myself I was, in fact, not reading a news feed – no, Enjolras, Marius, Courfeyrac, they’re characters attacking the French aristocracy from behind a barricade in 1789. And yet, on the news the citizens are fighting the government, the police, the whole system. It was honestly chillingly uncanny to read Les Mis and watch the News in unison.

In the aftermath of all of these Protests, I find myself walking the streets of Paris today wondering to myself ‘did the revolution ever really end or are we just witnessing iterations of the past?’

Pockets of Stillness in Paris

The first time I came into my apartment in Paris I was struck by one detail: the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Although in many ways Emily in Paris is unlucky with her situation in Paris, all her problems seem to go away when she sees the large window at the back of her apartment. She opens it up and suddenly she feels overwhelmed by the beauty of Paris and the beauty of Le Marais where she lives.

View from the apartment window.

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.

A metro stop in Central Paris with style!

A little hidden Eiffel Tower view from the apartment window at night.

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.

Transformation of Perspective

I have always had an aversion toward literature.

At a young age, I was praised for my ability to understand mathematics and science however, it was evident that reading did not come naturally to me. Mathematics and science are often considered more rigid and structured subjects as they consist of formulas, theories, and concepts. Literature, on the other hand, requires and encourages you to utilize your creativity and imagination to explore complex themes and characters that may not be easily quantifiable. And while I was still a very curious, imaginative child, literature failed to captivate me.

I've always felt compelled to make an effort to enjoy books, but whenever I start reading, it feels like I am entering a foreign country with unintelligible characters and languages. While my peers in school passionately analyzed and engaged with the themes and characters in the books, I couldn’t quite grasp and appreciate the beauty of literature. Instead, acting, dance, and art fueled my creativity and created a world of excitement and intrigue that books couldn’t quite replicate.

The problem I have with literature is that it’s difficult to relate to a story when you can’t visualize what is happening. Authors could skilfully paint detailed descriptions of their characters and the settings their stories take place in; however, the images cease to come to life in my mind’s eye. I stopped reading for leisure because I couldn’t connect with the stories I was reading.

So you may be wondering, why on earth I decided to take a class where we are tasked to read Charles Dickens’ classic A Tale of Two Cities and Victor Hugo’s lengthy 1300+ page Les Miserables. When I came across Professor Andrew Chater’s immersive London and Paris Bookpacking experience I was immediately fascinated by the fusion of literature through cultural exploration. I knew this experience would transform my perspective on literature, and I could not wait to dive into the history of London and France during the 19th century and literally walk in the footsteps of these complex, nuanced characters. This visual expedition was the missing element I longed for when I read literature as a child! I knew this exploration would not be easy, but I was up for the exhilarating challenge to grow as a student and a person.

As I vigilantly peered out my window on my drive from Heathrow Airport to 19 Bedford Place, the variety of both new and old architectural styles immediately captured my attention. Alongside many centuries-old buildings stood contemporary masterpieces that loomed overhead. The coexistence of old and new architecture created an unusual cityscape that made me question how one imagines life in the 18th and 19th centuries when things don’t look exactly the same.

As our bookpacking adventures commenced, I kept this question in mind as we walked and stopped at numerous famous landmarks that offered a glimpse into London’s rich culture and history. We stood outside the gates of Buckingham Palace, which has served as the official residence of many British royalty since 1837. Buckingham Palace is a living testament to the fusion of the old and the new. It’s remarkable to ponder how the British monarch still exists in a world that is contemporary and progressive. While the British monarch has adapted to contemporary sensibilities, the palace itself, renowned for its opulence and luxurious decor, is still ridden with this idea of tradition which reflects the history of the various monarchs that preceded it. To my surprise, though, the current king of England, King Charles III, does not in fact live in Buckingham Palace because he claimed that “Buckingham Palace is so huge and impersonal and red, with carpets and curtains. It’s not his style.” Bummer! I really hoped to get a glimpse of his silhouette in the window…

Afterward, we passed by the Parliament and had the opportunity to visit Westminster Abbey which is not only a place of worship but a place dedicated to hosting many coronations, weddings, and resting sites of British monarchs and other noteworthy people in history. I diligently walked through Westminster Abbey and soon came across the infamous poet’s corner where Charles Dickens’ body lies. While his memorial plaque was a simple black stone akin to the other writers that lay beside him, standing where he lay made reading A Tale of Two Cities even more real in the following days as we explored Dickensian London.

Yet, as the days progressed, I noticed it getting tricker to really immerse myself in the story of A Tale of Two Cities when there was such a stark contrast between the new and the old. On the second day of our bookpacking exploration, I was met with frustration when we located Temple Bar. This original landmark, quintessential to A Tale of Two Cities, was not how it was described in the novel, in fact, it had been completely removed brick-by-brick! The reason Temple Bar was removed was because the city needed a bigger entrance for cars to pass through. Now stands a memorial sculpture of a mythological creature, the griffin, symbolic of the city of London. And although Temple Bar still exists today near St Paul’s Cathedral, it was upsetting that this was not preserved in the same spot it originated. The modernization of some parts of London impeded my ability to immerse myself in the novel and the history at the time of the 18th century. As we walked on to locate Tellson’s bank, I really tried stepping into the shoes of Charles Darnay and picturing what London was like without the distraction of tourist crowds and red double-decker buses. However, I struggled to imagine the aroma and sounds Charles Darnay might have experienced at a time when revolutionary fervor was on the rise.

On Friday evening, we had the opportunity to go inside Dennis Severs’ unique house located in Spitalfields, London. This unconventional museum was an immersive experience Severs called “Still Life Drama.” Before entering the home of the imaginary Huguenot family, we were informed not to use our phones to take pictures and to explore the rooms in silence. At first, I was upset that I wouldn’t be able to capture the inside of the house with my phone camera however, I quickly understood Sever’s intentions behind this. Immediately when I walked into the first room, I was overwhelmed by the rich smell of coffee and the sounds of horses galloping in the streets.

I didn’t know where to look first because there was just so much to look at! Every piece of furniture and object was meticulously placed to create the feeling that we have been transformed back in time to 18th-century London. The flickering candles scattered throughout created a sense of comfort in the home as if the Huguenot family still lived there. It was truly an incredible experience that allowed me to absorb the atmosphere and get a better glimpse of the way people lived during the 18th century through the 20th century. What’s unique about the imaginary Huguenot family house is that it leaves room for you to be imaginative and create your own narratives of the people who lived in these time periods. As I walked through the 18th-century section of the house, I envisioned Charles Darnay sipping coffee from a blue and white china teacup while Lucie fixed up her makeup by her vanity. The richness of experiencing the 18th century made it easier to envision how characters like Darnay and Lucie might have lived during this time. I left the Dennis Severs house with a deeper understanding and connection with the characters I was reading about in A Tale of Two Cities.

I could finally visualize the story that formerly failed to come to life in my mind’s eye. And as we begin our bookpacking adventures in Paris, I will take my experience in the Dennis Severs house to build a connection with the characters and places in Les Miserables.

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.

You Either See It Or You Don’t, Or, The True Meaning of Getting Hit By A Business Student In A Tesla Late For Their Midterm

It was a decisively tactile collision, not a dramatic burst of cataclysmic violence, but simply a moment of existing within my own body interrupted by a moment of impact. The side of the car door slammed against my side, and the sound of a sickening crack – my skateboard, not bone – lingered as the car drove away. My shoe landed several body lengths away from me.

If I were to try and make meaning out of this incident (to preserve the illusion that bad things have meaning or purpose), I would say I didn’t learn anything by getting hit by a car, but I did learn from my reaction to getting hit. Specifically – the slim difference between current reality and any number of alternate possibilities. The alternate reality of a couple of inches being the difference between walking away fine and being in a cast for months. These alternate possibilities are always around us: these moments of essentially random difference being a fork in the road decided by a coin flip.

In A Tale of Two Cities, an unnamed child ends up on the unlucky side of that coin flip, and dies after being hit by Monsieur the Marquis, a French nobleman caricatured as a cartoonishly villainous character, who shows more concern for his inconvenience than the child he has killed, blaming the people around him before flipping them a gold coin then leaving. On its face, this scene’s melodrama is so extreme as to be humorous. But it’s not the scene itself that is revealing, but the possible reactions to it. Specifically, whether the reader identifies with the marquis or the child designates how humorous the scene comes off, an identification dependent on age, wealth, and background. For someone that implicitly identifies with the Marquis, the insulation from that treatment obscures the brutally callous undertones of the scene. For someone who experiences callous disregard on a systemic basis, the humor is harder to find. But it is this obfuscation that I am interested in: not simply looking at what is in front of me, but analyzing what it means: how did these things develop, what things does it allow, what alternate possibilities exist(ed), and what might these things simultaneously be hiding and revealing.

It is this approach I am taking to bookpacking: not simply looking at what there is and expecting a revelation, but rather looking for the things that aren’t there but might have been, that exist in the periphery always just barely beyond the field of view.

This same methodology was on display at Dennis Severs’ house, described as “a still-life drama” – a preservation of a lived-in home of Huguenot silk weavers from past centuries. Inside the home lies intentionally quotidian details: beds with the indentation of the people who slept there, breakfasts only half-finished, books dog-eared halfway through. While dramaticized (and accompanied by admittedly tacky sound recordings meant to give the impression of people still living in the house), the house showcases the living conditions of past eras in ways that a museum cannot. Scattered throughout the house are a variety of quotes by Dennis Severs, most of which emphasize the importance of not just looking at the items in the house, but placing them in the context of the time period they are from: how a bedsheet covering a window might have been to help someone sleep, how the chamberpot on the bed exemplifies life without running water, how newspaper articles mean historical events were once the present.

I went into this house with no context and no understanding of its purpose or intention. When I heard the first explanation of what the house’s purpose was, I expected an interactive story-telling exhibit where I’d learn the details of Dennis Severs life spelled out across different rooms, maybe utilizing human actors or some sort of puzzle. The reality was much quieter. There’s no moment of sudden realization of who Dennis Severs was – only hints of what his life might have been like. But as it turned out, I now understand Dennis Severs in a way that I wouldn’t be able to just by reading a biography. The sum of our lives extends beyond our accomplishments, and it’s in the everyday that our life is defined. Seeing the teacup in his morning routine, the books he read, and the artwork he enjoyed represents him as a person rather than as a figure. I’ve always believed that to be more important.

The motto of the house is “You either see it or you don’t.” If you’re looking for a revelation, you won’t find it. The revelation I was looking for was that there is no revelation. The revelation is that you have to work it out. By doing the work of analysis, whether by understanding the perspective we come from or by looking at what appears to be meaningless details, we can gain a more thorough understanding of history. In turn, this allows us to craft (and it is a craft) more realistic alternative possibilities that expand the purview of what we can achieve. Only by studying the revolutions that failed can we imagine their corrections. Only by understanding injustice in the legal system can we imagine justice. Only by learning what it means to be imprisoned can we find what it is that makes us truly free.

Bookpacking is a route to those alternative histories. Walking through the streets of London and visiting the places in A Tale of Two Cities contains minutiae beyond the confines of the page. Were Dickens to try and capture every feature of every location would make the novel impossibly long. For this reason, novel writing is just as much an act of history as the making of a history textbook. Both make selections of detail to craft a narrative, putting some in, leaving others out. This selection is intentional and exists for the purpose of making a narrative out of the many possible ones that exist. But bookpacking doesn’t have this limitation and has details that exist outside of narrative purpose. The smell of a street, the material of a building, the weather of a particular day – these elements don’t always make it into the novel but in real life are unavoidable. And by looking at these details we are able to understand why Dickens made the choices he did so we can better understand his purpose. These unincluded elements can also be used to craft an image we wouldn’t be able to with Dickens’ history of the world alone, as if making new shapes with puzzle pieces not included in the box. Bookpacking thus transcends the limitations of language to add depth to a story in a way that traditional writing on its own cannot.

But these details don’t assemble themselves into new shapes on their own. Visiting the street where Doctor Manette lived doesn’t scream out some new information about the novel. Instead, we have to glean information from these details on our own. We can analyze the roads to see what degree of carelessness must have been needed to hit a pedestrian. We can watch the interactions of the public to see if Dickens’ characterizations of Britons is fair. We can see to what extent Dickens is understating or overplaying the dreariness of a certain building. Limitations of the difference in time between when Dickens was writing and the present adds to the workload of analysis, but does not devalue the practice of bookpacking as one tool to better construct alternative realities.

The revelation is that there is no revelation. Personal tragedies don’t always have meaning. If all you do is look at a room that’s all you’ll see. But every reality contains the makeup of a million alternate realities, some of which are millions of times better than the present. There is something in the makeup of the street, of the conversations in the air, in the weather of the city that – if you look closely enough, can be made into a revelation.

London's History and Hustle: My First Transatlantic Odyssey

This is the longest I’ve ever been away from home in my life.

The familiar comforts of my room, the aroma of mom’s homemade meals, and the predictable rhythms of daily life feel like distant memories. Instead, I now find myself amidst the ancient cobbled streets of London, the cacophony of languages in bustling marketplaces, and the overwhelming vastness of history and culture awaiting my exploration. Swapping the known for the unknown has been daunting, exhilarating, and transformative all at once. As I navigate this new landscape, I will pen down my adventures, reflections, and discoveries on this blog, offering a window into my journey of self discovery, cultural immersion, and most importantly, finding a home away from home. So, dear readers, buckle up and join me on this ride through time, literature, and the vibrant tapestry of two of the world’s most iconic cities. Our journey begins in London.

Inhaling the intoxicating aroma of newly tanned leather wafting from quaint vintage boutiques, absorbing the resonant symphony of passionate vendors peddling their wares, and feasting my eyes upon the veritable spectrum of items arrayed in tantalizing displays: Camden Marketplace emerged not merely as a marketplace but as an all-encompassing theater of sensations. It effortlessly whisked me away, translocating me to a Dickensian tableau where one could envision his richly-drawn characters fervently negotiating over a freshly baked loaf or a meticulously stitched garment. Amidst this historic reverie, however, was an unmistakable touch of the present: a delectable encounter with Nando’s signature spicy peri-peri chicken, tantalizing my palate and grounding me firmly in the pulsating heartbeat of contemporary London. And as for Wasabi Sushi? An exquisite culinary interlude that sang praises of the city's cosmopolitan tastes (also a good value).

Wandering the storied pavements of Regent Street and Saville Row evoked the sensation of leafing delicately through the pages of a time-worn sartorial journal, each facade and display window narrating epochs of evolving fashion. The Burlington Arcade, with its gracefully aged architecture and aura of timeless elegance, conjured visions reminiscent of scenes from the most cherished English literary classics. Meanwhile, the intricately designed edifices of Piccadilly Circus silently yet eloquently relayed tales of bygone eras, their stone and mortar embodying the old-world allure and narratives that have shaped the tapestry of this magnificent city.

The opulent splendor of Buckingham Palace, standing with regal poise, and the tranquil verdant stretches of Green Park provided a striking visual contrast to the ever-resonant annals of Westminster Abbey. As I meandered through the hallowed aisles of the Abbey, I was consumed by contemplative reflection on the myriad pivotal events its venerable walls have borne witness to over countless centuries. Candidly, my grasp of the intricacies of royal history may not be as comprehensive as that of an avid historian, which perhaps tinted my experience with a shade of underwhelming reverence. However, the sheer magnitude of standing in the presence of the final resting places of luminaries such as Sir Isaac Newton, Stephen Hawking, and the literary giant Charles Dickens, lent a profound gravity to the experience, bridging the chasm between history's legends and my own humble journey of discovery

Standing before The Old Bailey evokes an ineffable blend of reverence and wonder. At the venerable ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese’, I tried Fish and Chips for the first time. While the dish’s flavors didn’t quite meet my expectations, the establishment’s ambiance resonated with a warmth harkening back to a different era.

Experiencing “Les Misérables” amidst the opulent setting of London’s famed West End was nothing short of transformative. The theatrical tapestry unfurled before me, acting as a portal, drawing me deep into the revolutionary fervor of Parisian streets. Each act, each note, seemed to reverberate not just around the theater but within the very core of my being, eliciting a maelstrom of emotions that held both my heart and senses captive. To my genuine surprise, and perhaps showcasing a touch of my own naivety, every line was melodiously sung - a feature I hadn’t quite anticipated. As the curtain rose, I was acutely aware that this was my inaugural foray into the world of live musical theater, rendering the anticipation palpable and the subsequent immersion all the more profound. Yet, as the evening waned and the performance reached its crescendo, a charming drowsiness began to tiptoe in, subtly reminding me that even the most riveting of journeys can be gently taxing on a “first-time” traveler.

The subsequent days presented London in stark contrasts. The majestic edifices like the Bank of England spoke of its financial might. In contrast, the haunting ambience of Whitechapel Road reminded me of the darker chapters of London’s past.

Yet, Brick Lane was a revelation. The aromas of spicy curries, the murmur of Bengali, and the colorful fabrics showcased London’s rich tapestry of cultures. I couldn’t resist indulging in the mouthwatering Chicken Peshawari, a delicacy that amalgamated flavors so diverse, much like London itself. Honestly, it was way better than fish and chips.

As my London odyssey neared its conclusion, I found myself drawn to one final escapade — the illustrious Hippodrome Casino. Bathed in ambient lights and a hint of old-world opulence, the establishment whispered tales of high stakes, daring gambles, and the intoxicating allure of chance. Venturing into their poker room, the rhythm of shuffled cards and the hard clink of chips provided a symphonic backdrop to this dance of skill and serendipity. While Dickensian streets and grand palaces told of histories written in stone, here, stories were etched in the ebb and flow of fortune. It was a fitting culmination to my journey, reminding me that while London’s past is steeped in tradition, its present heartbeat thrives on vibrant, pulsating adventure.

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!)

Hidden Human Beings and Elevated Stone

The infrastructure of London serves to elevate and hide. It elevates the power of “the law,” the Royal Courts of Justice obtrusive and opulent as you walk along the streets of Holborn. Written into the stone of this building, home of the highest court in England, is the promise to “defend the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer.” By intertwining the punishment of “the wrongdoer” with the defense of the most vulnerable, the stone asserts the separation of these two icons, casting people into a binary of vulnerability or moral corruption. By defining the people the law is punishing as “wrongdoers,” rather than someone who has committed a “wrongdoing,” the stone inscription asserts that one side of this binary is defined by their “punishable act.” It sensationalizes the idea of the “wrongdoer” and, perhaps most sinisterly, I find there to be an underlying assertion that we are not all capable of being “wrongdoers.” These ideas are elevated and threaded throughout the city with sounds and visuals. I hear police sirens, the clopping of hooves, and see the shadow of police. I find myself thinking about those who have been labeled as “wrongdoers,” in both the Dickensian time and in our contemporary moment. As I walk through Soho Square, all I find myself remembering is the phrase by Bryan Stevenson, the idea that “each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

Then there is the hidden infrastructure. We move from one side of the street with noise and life, turning the corner to where people were incarcerated in Dickens’s time. Life becomes silence, dark brick eats the sun rather than reflects it, and walls close in rather than enclose. The alley that previously held a prison seems to hide the city from the alley. I think about all the people who were hidden here, reflecting on the idea that Tellson’s, an allegory for Britain, “had taken so many lives, that if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the ground floor had” (Dickens 57). If the law did not hide people away within its infrastructure, would we feel comfortable looking? Who is qualified to decide who deserves light and who doesn’t? Where do you place a culture within your heart when it shoves you on the other side of the dark brick wall?

Yet, as I pass through the alley and return to the street, I remember that I find the city beautiful. I found the Royal Courts of Justice beautiful, too. However, I find people the most beautiful. I feel sad for all those that had the city stolen from them. A siren passes, and I cross the street.

I think it is important to note that I do not find “the crime” a person commits to be relevant to my observations of police states. Within an infrastructure that elevates and hides, I also see that “the wrongdoer” is simultaneously hidden and elevated. Those such as Jack the Ripper are elevated, sensationalized, and meant to show us the “deep necessity of prisons.” There are tours throughout London of old prisons and the streets where Jack the Ripper murdered women. These stories being elevated turns a profit. However, the acknowledgment that those whom the law labels “wrongdoers” are disproportionately Black people, brown people, and “the children of the poor” is hidden. It ignores the idea that “crime” does not exist in a vacuum, that colonization is deemed “lawful” and therefore moral, but a colonized people merely existing, makes them “nearly twice as likely as white people to die either during or immediately after contact with police” (Fitzpatrick). We must be in a constant process of elevating our sense of humanity—of remembering who creates the law, who wields the law, and whom the law hurts.

Walking through the streets of London, I do not find it naive to believe in empathy nor to see “the wrongdoer” as a construct rather than a person. I am operating from a different vantage point. I am thinking of the bishop in Les Mis, who gives mercy and understanding freely and without hesitation. I think of Javert, who elevates the law above all and hides his humanity below. I think of Dickens, who worked as a child laborer to survive. I think of the trial of Charles Darnay and the sensationalized need for prosecution. I do not see myself as incapable of being a “wrongdoer,” or being deemed “a wrongdoer” by the state. Although there is complexity in empathy, and often discomfort in what it asks of us, I think it is far more encompassing than the idea that “we must have police and prisons.”

As I walked through Russel Square Park, I realized that although I could point any passerby in the direction of the old Dickensian prisons, The Royal Courts of Justice, or draw a police car from memory, I did not know where current prisons were in London. In my observation of what was elevated, I saw the gaping hole of the hidden. Reading the guidebook on UK prison and probation, “DoingTime,” I learned there are three major prisons within the city of London: Wormwood Scrubs, Isis, and Wandsworth. For those incarcerated, the journey to the prisons is “slow, noisy, and uncomfortable,” and upon arrival, people are subjected to a search that is described as “humiliating and intrusive.” Upon arrival into their cells, those incarcerated find that “most [cells] are filthy when you arrive as the turnover of prisoners is rapid and nobody has time to clean their cell when they are moved out […] the cells have a loo but there is little or no privacy and ventilation is poor or non-existent” (DoingTime). I read this sitting in Russel Square Park among tourists and dogs and locals rolling cigarettes. I read this an hour after reading A Tale of Two Cities. I think, too often, the idea of “progress” falls into the category of the elevated, and reality into the hidden.

When a self-declared “impartial law” locks away person after person at an alarming rate, we have to ask ourselves what problems prisons are truly solving. For the remainder of my journey, I will be elevating the wise words of Angela Davis within my observations: “Prisons do not disappear social problems; they disappear human beings.”

Sources:

Dickens, Charles. A Tale of Two Cities. Penguin Classics, 2012.

Fitzpatrick, Flora. “Guide: Police Brutality in the UK.” A News Education, 22 Dec. 2021, www.anewseducation.com/post/police-brutality-in- the-uk.

DoingTime. DoingTime, a Guide to Prison and Probation, 31 Jan. 2014, doingtime.co.uk/how-prisons-work/the-first-weeks-in-custody/transport-to-the-prison/.

London: A Synergy of Eras

I grew up between two cities. Huntington Beach, CA and Frisco, TX are the two towns that I have called home for each part of my childhood. While both are very different in culture, politics, and from my teenage perspective, things to keep me entertained (or lack thereof), these two cities are very alike in one way. In the grand scheme of things, they are new. Huntington Beach was established in 1909, meaning I was born there only 93 years after its founding, and it is known as a surfer’s paradise – a reputation that came after its initial boom in 1920 due to its the oil-rich soil. Frisco however, which was incorporated in 1908, feels far newer. Since 1990, Frisco’s population has grown from a mere 6,000 to well over 200,000, rendering 10 of our 13 high schools and the majority of our neighborhoods products of the 21st Century. This is not to say that my hometowns are lacking in history, in fact, they both have interesting origin stories that are indicative of America’s expansion out west. Rather, this is to say that I have never witnessed (or even pictured) a synergy of eras over 1000 years of history occupying the same physical space. That is, until I came to London. 

London gave me a nice, rainy welcome when I arrived here last Thursday. Traveling here was a whirlwind, to say the least, but I stepped out of Heathrow Airport, ready to explore this great city! For the first few days, I stayed in Kensington, which was my first encounter with the mashup of timelines that is London’s architecture. On one side of the street, a beautiful row of (nearly) identical white townhomes stood tall, reminding me of New York’s famous brownstones and overlooking the vibrant green space on the other side of the street. Just a few steps south, a staggeringly ugly Marriott that was built in 1969 adorns Cromwell road – a stark contrast to the classically beautiful townhomes. This was my first clue that I was in for a treat in comparing the many centuries of London’s architectural expression.

A street-view of the gorgeous Kensington townhomes.

The eyesore Marriott, directly across the street.

When the time came to begin my Bookpacking experience, I was anxiously awaiting the opportunity to explore London through the centuries, from my own perspective as well as Charles Dickens’ vivid descriptions in his novel A Tale of Two Cities. The next five days were a blend of following Dickens’ characters’ old stomping grounds around London as well as visits to many of the “touristy” parts of the city, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed. 

On the first day with the class, we began our journey to Piccadilly Circus, a hub for the West End of London. Many describe this busy roundabout as a London equivalent to Times Square, but to me, it felt unique. 

Piccadilly Circus

I wasn’t sure where to look when we emerged from the Underground. On my right, there was an 8500 square foot high-resolution electric billboard fastened to a 200 year old building. To the left, there was a hybrid-electric double decker red bus rounding the corner and an overwhelming amount of pedestrian traffic, jaywalking every which way (which is apparently legal here – who knew?). All of these moving parts swooshing around me made the circus a confusing blunder of new and old, yet a perfect stage to showcase London’s lively and tenacious culture. 

We meandered along and found ourselves on a road that brought us right back to a different time. All of a sudden, the street was quiet, and every shop was either an esteemed and royally endorsed tailoring shop or further around the bend, a gentlemen’s club that served the men of the 18th and 19th centuries with every libation and comfort that a noble man would expect. Additionally, they provided the perfect place for political discussions and proceedings to happen under the table, meaning many of Parliament’s legislations at the time were born among the smell of whiskey and cigar smoke. Here in the 21st century, those same establishments exist in their original state.  

Here we are, just a few hours into our first walking tour, and I am beginning to pick up on the intense commitment to tradition that exists here in London. The idea that Dickensian characters could have walked through the same streets that we did and could have been looking at the same tailor’s shops and gentlemen’s clubs with the same royal crests and elegant fonts made me think about the profound impact of English tradition, a tradition which dates back 1000 years. Soon, I began to notice blue plaques placed all around the city, all of which indicate a person or place of historical interest. While simple, this effort by the City of London to preserve historical tidbits of varying significance around the city for the public to indulge in is another example of their profound pride in tradition and preserving national history – an effort I, as a student and a tourist, appreciate very much.

Buckingham Palace

When it comes to England’s traditional tendencies, nothing is a more shining example than our next stop, Buckingham Palace. The palace is not only the King’s primary residence, but it is a symbol of the blend of modernity and antiquity in London. As an American, monarchies and royal families have always seemed like a thing of fairy tales. This is not to say that I think they are silly or childish, but more that they have always seemed like a thing of the past, and the British Royal family is an example of the “fairy tale” living on into the 21st Century. Pop culture has embraced many of the family’s prominent figures to be more like celebrities than rulers, with people obsessing over the breaking-news family drama or the color of Kate Middleton’s dress. As many countries in the world progressively move away from monarchy and toward democracy, the strength of tradition and the presence of the British Monarchy further feed into the blend of ages to be absorbed in London, as a somewhat antiquated form of government leads a contemporary society.

From my perspective as a person from a young suburban town, London is an overwhelmingly historically rich city, and it has way too many neighborhoods and intricate details to sum up into one post (or three). With that said, I have thoroughly enjoyed the deluge of information and historical knowledge that Bookpacking through London has given me thus far, and over the next few days and weeks, I am excited to absorb even more about what this amazing city has to offer.

The Infrastructure of Eavesdropping

Tucked behind the crisscross of commuters entering and exiting Russell Square Station there’s an old cobblestone alleyway I became very familiar with during my week in London. If I had a little time, and nothing to do with it, I’d wander over and sit on a bench by a row of sunflower stalks to get some peace from the crowds of car horns and tourists. The alley, like many London streets, is so narrow enough to see and hear dozens of people within a ten foot radius.

I love to people-watch. While reading A Tale of Two Cities I could imagine that Charles Dickens shared my invasive hobby. Once in a while, Dickens takes a moment to indulge in representing seemingly unimportant interactions of passerby on the streets and public spaces of London and Paris. There’s the rowdy spectacle and rumor of a crowd during a funeral procession, pseudonymous revolutionaries in a wine shop, a bureaucratic interaction with a clerk, to name a few examples.   

Places like these make me think that those bits of chatter is just as much an accurate representation of London public spaces as it is a stylistic choice. There are voices everywhere. But aside from snippets of dialogue Dickens’ narrative decision to wildly change perspective across social standing and values from chapter to chapter from a French Marquis, to a shady body snatcher, to a mild mannered corporate drone feels similar to this street where so many different people are unintentionally in association with each other. In the book it’s through sharing narrative space. Here it’s literal space.

This effect seems to be created by London'‘s infrastructure. Our group visited the old streets in the original City of London where Dickens would have walked and many of those seemed like only a few people could stand in them side-by side. You could imagine that Dickens would’ve had to squeeze past many conversations to get to the pub for a drink. It appears that through the years they didn’t get much wider. Streets like this are too narrow for more than one car to pass through so they often don’t bother. Instead there are people. Every corner appears to overlap and bend in towards each other. Voices bounce every direction off the close brick walls. 

A each other’s doorsteps, there were three businesses in this alley:

1. A standard English pub. Plastic wisteria falls over the windows. The middle aged American tourists and weary corporate workers who couldn’t get a seat drink in groups outside.

2. A no-frills artisan bakery with a line down the block of hipsters showing off, giddy teenagers talking smack about their classmates, and pastry enthusiasts such as myself.

3. A windowless experimental art gallery/possibly nightclub behind a freshly painted, heavily locked warehouse door (“INVITATION ONLY”). 

If this was in Los Angeles, these places would be separated by at least a few lanes of traffic, some sidewalks, and a fair amount of space between walls. The finance worker and the alternative gallery curator would never have to know the other existed. But here the businesses and clients in them all spill out over each other. There’s no other choice. 

A couple on first date couldn’t find a bench of their own so sat on mine. Over a cream puff, the scruffy-looking man recalled his experience growing up in state schools and recalled the anxiety of not feeling assimilated into the elite circles at his university.

“Wait, you went to state school too, right?” he said. “‘Cause it would be awkward if I just complained about all those people from those fancy schools and you ended up being one of them.” 

If you turned behind the bench,  a small construction crew installed a brand new door into someone’s flat. One of them told a joke, at least that’s what it seemed like, in Hungarian which inspired another to go off on an enthusiastic tangent I couldn’t understand. 

A group of young blue-collar workers in extremely expensive dry cleaned suits, holding beers compared notes on work and the economy “You never know what’s gonna happen these days.” one mused.

A neat man with his fingers dripping in silver rings glances over his shoulder as he turns the key to the gallery before he slinks in. He’s careful to only let the door open a crack in order to maintain the advertised secrecy.

These little streets appear remarkably Democratic, everyone regardless of class or identity or personality has no choice but to share a space. Each of these people were in the alleyway for mismatched reasons at mismatched establishments. They were from different economic backgrounds, used different slang, loved and judged the opposite things. And yet, I did not have to move an inch to observe all of this at once. 

It seems inevitable that one would overhear personal intimate conversations of people who they will never actually speak to, who they maybe dislike or disagree with, or don’t care about. It’s a remarkable thing that London’s antiquated infrastructure forced them all to stand within steps of each other. I don’t know what effect this has on London culture. It certainly doesn't stop division and resentment here. But perhaps it helps a little.

What I do know from experience is that hearing daily conversation is great insight to how someone experiences life. Even a mundane conversation about a pastry or a lunch break says a lot about what people are afraid of, or excited about, or what they value. And hearing others’ voices, especially unfamiliar ones, is a powerful reminder of people’s humanity. I think that’s why Dickens includes so many people in the narrative with such care so that the reader can “eavesdrop” on so many important lives. 

To sit on a bench in a narrow London street is a lesson in the multiplicity of a city and a culture. The seemingly singular identity “Londoner” means endless things. I think this is why Dickens takes care to include a wide range of perspectives and seemingly trivial voices from his novel to represent a city. I could imagine that any of his characters might be sitting right by me all at once before they go home to opposite sides of town.

What we take for granted: the advent of sanitation

Imagine yourself as a character in 1830’s Dickensian London. The Industrial Revolution is in full swing, and the city is smothered in coal smoke and soot; the river Thames appears as a gash of sludge spreading miasmatic fumes through the city. If you are a common citizen of the city, your lifespan is, at best, unpredictable. At this point, the Thames is mostly sewage, and the slow-moving river is a cesspit of bacteria and disease. Cholera, a relatively new illness, is the most prolific and has spread like wildfire, claiming lives indiscriminately as it blazes a path of death through the poorest neighborhoods of the city.

By 1866, London had experienced 4 major cholera outbreaks, along with outbreaks of typhoid fever and influenza. The disease was first “found” in London in 1831; I use quotations here because the leading theories of the day did not know cholera was a water-borne disease as we know it to be today, and it had before been a disease found only in the East. A scientific school called the Miasma Theory was dominant, where people believed disease to be caused by bad smells in the air. This had been the dominant school since the Black Plague, and no one questioned it. Cholera was only the latest in a long line of diseases caused by this “miasma”. 

In 1842, a man by the name of Edwin Chadwick connected the dots between cholera and living conditions. He was one of the first people to realize that cholera deaths were highest in areas where people lived in their own filth. As a social reformer, Chadwick published his notes, and was appointed to the Board of Health for the city of London in 1848 as the very first sanitary commissioner. While Chadwick believed correctly that cleanliness and separation of waste from people would stem the outbreaks, he too thought the bad smells from human waste were responsible for the disease. 

While the miasma theory was the dominant theory of the day, some scientists did believe other origins for disease, and germ theory as we know it today was slowly being formulated across Europe. It was a slow process: miasma had been the most popular theory for centuries at this point. It wasn't until 1854 that Vibrio cholerae, the cholera bacteria, was isolated. Even then, germ theory did not gain real traction until decades later. 1854 also marked the fourth and final cholera outbreak in London. Centered in Soho, specifically Broad Street, it killed over 600 people in the span of about a year. Scientist John Snow noticed the correlation between the location and the spread of disease, creating the map below to map his process, and published these notes with collected data of cases surrounding one particular water pump, the one on Broad Street. 

John Snow's Cholera Map

Here is a map of John Snow’s cholera mapping centered around the pump. This is one of the first examples of mapping to solve a scientific issue.

Closeup of the Broad Street Pump

This is a closeup of the pump and the cases that surrounded it.

Broad Street Pump

Before going to see Les Miserables in the Sondheim Theater, we visited the Broad Street pump, now Broadwick Street.

John Snow had previously written a paper in which he challenged the miasma theory, saying that cholera was not caused by bad smells but rather infectious agents in the water. This paper was largely ignored, until he published his addendum with solid statistical and geographical data tracking the disease. While the worst had already passed, John Snow famously and single-handedly ended this outbreak by simply having the handle on the Broad Street pump removed by Dr. Edwin Lankester. Unfortunately, the head of the Board of Health at the time, William Farr, refused to accept Snow’s germ theory over miasma theory. He understood the correlation, and allowed the deactivation of the pump, but introduced no other changes to the London water and sewer systems. 

In 1866, London experienced its final outbreak of cholera, where Farr himself collected data showing the epicenter of disease around the Old Ford Reservoir. Germ theory was well on its way to acceptance after Farr’s paper was considered conclusive, and Dr. Lankester was appointed the first Medical Officer for Health in the area of the 1866 outbreak. After the acceptance of germ theory, the worldwide cholera pandemic drew to a close. While epidemics in India and other parts of the world still existed, those in Europe specifically were never as bad as they were before, and epidemiology was changed forever. John Snow saved millions of people’s lives with his discovery of cholera as a water-borne illness. His work has earned him the title “Father of Sanitation Engineering”, among others, and he spearheaded the creation of the Sanitary City across the world. 

After his research, Snow was never appointed to any positions within the British health system, but his work has not been forgotten. As an environmental engineer, Snow’s work is seminal. When I consider the classes I take and the work I do as an environmental engineer, so much of it revolves around the work that John Snow contributed to science. In my environmental engineering principles class, for example, we learned about the creation of the Sanitary City. London was considered one of the first sanitary cities, and actions like narrowing the Thames, creating wastewater treatment plants, and reforming sewer construction helped speed this process up. None of this would have happened without the help of Snow and his work pinpointing cholera as a waterborne illness. 

 In a place like London, the fact that water purification is possible is sufficient; the Thames has more than enough water for the city. However, in a city like Los Angeles with no natural sources of water, we need to take John Snow’s research one step further. Wastewater reuse is a burgeoning field within environmental engineering, and so important at this point in time where we find ourselves struggling with freshwater supply. Desalination could be a great way to recover water, but it only returns about 50% fresh, potable water; the rest is a toxic and concentrated brine which is just disposed of. Wastewater reuse creates a brine as well, but the yield is much higher and creates a circular waste system where freshwater is available as long as humans create waste. I am fortunate enough to be able to contribute to this science in my lab: I create catalysts that convert carcinogens in treated wastewater. Sanitation science is about 30-40% of what environmental engineers study, and this whole field rests on the strong foundation of John Snow’s groundbreaking research and findings. His work not only revolutionized the way cities are planned and how disease is studied, but also helped create a field of work which only grows as our relationship with the environment worsens. 

Do You Hear The People Sing?

From Oklahoma to Jagged Little Pill, I am an avid lover of musicals: classical or contemporary, original or jukebox, Broadway or West End. As a performer myself, I have watched, listened to, and loved hundreds of musical theatre shows, ergo it is very rare when I do not know much about a production- the musical of Les Miserables is one such exception!

The Opening Set!

Truthfully, I’m not sure if it was initial inoffensive disinterest, given the massive success of the staged version (afterall, anything that is so universally lauded is rarely as GroUnDBreAkinG as hyped up to be), or if I just forgot about the tried and true tale when I began to dive deeper and deeper into the musical theatre canon, uncovering more new pieces. Regardless, I was ecstatic to begin learning about Les Miserables when reading this summer and quickly realized why this beautiful story is so appreciated. I can offer an interesting perspective on the stage production, having read the book first without exposing myself to the musical!

All in all, it is impossible to ignore the pure genius it took in crafting a stage production of such an intense, winding, and iconic story. To take a 1306 page novel from the 1860s and to condense it into a 2-act, 2.5 hour musical is a feat beyond belief! I was intrigued to see what the writers- Claude Michel-Schoenberg, Alain Boublil, and Jean-Marc Natel- focused on for the musical. When examining the stage production, I was pleased to find it was quite true to the text, with a slight shift in focus on Eponine that the book did not delve into and minor adjustments to the story for the sake of dramatization. In the Hugo book, the text is divided into 3 different volumes: Fantine, Cosette, and Marius. Because of this, I was expecting for Valjean’s and Javert’s supporting character cast to include these three, but I found that Cosette’s character was made less significant than Eponine’s- a perplexing shift from the original story.

I noticed immediately that while Cosette sings her brief “I Want” song as a child (“Castle on a Cloud”), her character does not sing another song that is her own; Her next three tunes are duets and trios with Valjean and Marius (as well as Eponine) while also centering around her adoration for a man. As Professor Chater raised in class, this is notable as it paints her character as a woman who cannot exist alone, but solely in relation to men. I thought this was fascinating because the writers of the musical imposed a similar tragedy onto Eponine, as she only sings about her frustration at being invisible to Marius; after all of her suffering to help him, she is killed at the barricades and passes away in his arms, ultimately dying for the sacrifices she has given to a man who pays her no mind. Eponine is also clad in men's clothes, as if her dressing like a man will aid in earning Marius' affection. Other minor alterations to the plot, including a complete dis-inclusion of Marius’ family and an inflation of Gavroche’s ties to all characters and shift in the sewer scenes, were prominent as well to the reader of Les Miserable, but none so highlighted as the discrepancies between the women in the text and on the stage. Ultimately, I believe this to be a symptom of the general state of musical theatre in the 80’s. Of course, this does not absolve these critiques, but in understanding the whole condition of gender across musical theatre history, this is not a uniquely Les Mis frustration, nor is this prioritization of the male perspective unlike the book.

Despite noticing these things, I loved the musical and I had a wonderful time viewing the production! There is nothing like taking in such a timeless piece that has earned its spot in the most legendary musicals of all time with such a high production value, especially for my first time seeing the show. I thought the score was incredible and the actors were very strong with standout performances by the actors portraying Jean Valjean, Javert, and Fantine.

As a theatre major who has trained in voice and taken many classes on theatrical storytelling (amongst other performance related aspects), I had a lot of fun drawing connections through the music especially! Prior to watching the show, I was familiar with a few tunes- such as “On My Own” and “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables”- but generally unknowledgeable of the score. I noticed immediately in “Prologue/Look Down” that both of these songs are referenced.

The first example of this is when the melody to “On My Own”, a song sung by Eponine in the second act detailing her tragic invisibility to Marius, is played beneath Valjean’s release from prison. In this instance, the melody plays as underscoring for when Valjean is ostracized for being a convict following his freeing from the prison hulks. He sings about being alone and continuing to be punished when all he did was steal a loaf of bread for his sister’s ailing children. I thought this melodic comparison was very smart because when Eponine sings this song, she focuses in on her loneliness and her preserving desire to help Marius despite his blindness to her heartache. Both of these characters have faced intense hardship and have been sentenced to lives of struggle under the law. These characters are also akin in the sense that despite their suffering, they are benevolent and caring figures who have simply been dealt bad cards; Where Valjean becomes a self-made millionaire while incognito, sponsoring not just Cosette but also the villagers of their towns even when he lives frugally, Eponine works to help Marius in any way she can- even foiling her own father to keep him and Cosette safe. As Eponine and Fantine sing to Valjean when he passes away, “To love another person is to see the face of God”.

“Empty Chairs at Empty Tables”, a ballad cried by Marius when he realizes he is the only Friend of the ABC that is left living after the battle at the barricade, is referenced when Valjean is shown kindness by the Priest of Digne when he is pardoned for stealing his silver. Like the Priest forgave the ex-convict and saved Valjean’s soul “for God”, Valjean reciprocates this generosity when he rescues a dying Marius from the barricade. A significant aspect of “Empty Chairs at Empty Tables” is Marius’ survivor's guilt when he believes he should have died alongside his friends for his actions in the revolution, which in turn is mirrored by Valjean’s belief that he deserves to suffer a life of punishment for taking advantage of an altruistic man even when he is shown kindness. Both men were shown divine kindness and in turn, grew to be better people.

Although these are just two examples of comparisons the musical makes, the story is peppered with analogies and references. I also enjoyed dissecting the production design choices; for example, when we were introduced to Cosette and Valjean’s house, it struck me that the gate between their lodgings and the street wrapped around only half of the area. By doing this, they left both a practical walk way and a playing space for actors, but more importantly, this was significant as it helps the audience visualize the giving nature of Valjean; his doors are always open, even when it can leave him vulnerable. This also helped to show the fine balance between the world of the poor and those living with a comfortable income. By walking past the divide you are automatically in the world of the peasants- notable as it shows the speed at which one can come into or come out of wealth. This also shows that Cosette and Valjean belong to both worlds.

What a pleasure it was to see this musical of such artistry! Although I have a few criticisms as a woman and a modern viewer informed with a well-rounded knowledge of musicals, I thoroughly enjoyed our evening at the Stephen Sondheim Theater and had so much fun tying together the references in the piece. I cannot wait to see what the rest of our class brings and I hope you’ll continue to follow me on this journey!

Bows!

Wigging Out!

*Warning: This post contains a spoiler for the play, Prima Facie. Thank you!

Jodie Comer gets out her case file and prepares for a day of legal trials. But wait one second, she’s almost forgotten something: her wig! This is not a fun wig: pink, curly, or super long; this was a very serious wig: one that George Washington might have had to avoid lice as he fought the British. This was a very serious wig. I lean over to my mom next to me:

“Wait, why is she wearing a wig?” I whisper.

My mom whispers back, “She’s a barrister.”

Prima Facie on Broadway.

I smile and nod like I understand but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“A British lawyer.”

Ahh, okay. That makes sense. Has Jodie Comer quit her acting career in favor of being a barrister? No, this is Broadway, but it might as well have been Temple Bar in London.

Prima Facie, now playing on Broadway, which premiered on the West End, deals with the British legal system in a way that prepared me for the conversations we had surrounding the Barristers in A Tale of Two Cities and our jaunt around the Temple Bar area of London. It stars Jodie Comer as a barrister who undergoes a profound change in the way she views the British legal system. Initially a barrister representing those that have harassed or sexually assaulted someone, she believes almost completely in the decency and fairness of the British law system. It is the same idea as what was brought up in one of our lectures, the unofficial doctrine that guides British prime ministers. In our lecture, I learned that the U.K. doesn’t have an official Constitution like the U.S. because those that are elected to the position of prime minister are supposed to share an understanding of protecting Democratic values and to be British for a second: being good chaps. Prime ministers are also elected by the majority party, not directly by the people in a vote. There is an expectation, a social contract essentially, that leaders will be good people, and therefore lead well. There is a similar expectation in the court. The wigs: the tradition of it all, the history of it all, is supposed to remove the individual from the process of finding justice and upholding the law. In the same way that citizens are supposed to believe in the inherent goodness of those in power, the wigs feed into the idea that those in the legal system are fair and will eventually come to justice. But wigs can be intimidating, as can the legal system.

When I think about how the legal system is portrayed in Prima Facie, I think about Mr. Stryver. It’s an on-the-nose name and shows Dickens tendency to sometimes just spell out what he wants to say (sometimes this is very refreshing!), but more so, it really speaks to how the Temple Bar and the British legal system are portrayed in The Tale of Two Cities. He’s a puffed-up man who runs over “weaker people” on the way to his office. He is also one of the leading barristers in London. He is all about the external: he wants others to view him as an all-powerful man, capable of getting the girl (Lucie) while barely lifting a finger. Is he a good chap or is the wig hiding someone who is so individualistic, he sometimes looks beyond reason?

Wig shop outside of Temple Bar!

Jodie Comer’s character in Prima Facie finds herself on the other side of the courtroom when she is sexually assaulted by another barrister. For the first time, she questions if the legal system is faultless; if it always is fair; if everyone wearing that wig is a good chap. For the first time, she sees the wigs as intimidating; the pomp and circumstance as scary. There could be a Mr. Stryver standing across from her: individualistic and only concerned with what directly relates to him, as Comer’s character was at the beginning of the play. When she loses the case against her coworker, her view of the legal system is broken. Yet she continues to be a barrister, and perhaps that is the only way that she can make sure other victims get justice. In her questioning of the legal system, she has become a stronger barrister.

As I walk past the wig shop and a solemn coffee shop where barristers take their well-deserved time off, I think about whether they are having similar epiphanies to Comer’s character. As a couple of smartly dressed Brits carry their cappuccinos past the wig shop, I think about the passage of time and how so much can change in who is represented in the legal system but so much can stay the same. Is one of the barristers sitting in the coffee shop in their robes a Stryver? Individualistic to a fault, consumed by their corrupt sense of what is just; or are they a Sydney, the long-suffering barrister? Sydney is sensitive, empathetic, and in touch with his emotions, but also insecure and consumed with his own suffering. When Sydney puts on the wig, he is still Sydney. When Stryver puts on the wig, he is still Stryver. And when the barrister in Prima Facie puts on the wig, she is still herself.

Legal London

At the end of the day, we bring our own biases, ideas, and understandings into the courtroom. We are individuals, with or without the wig. When we view the courtroom, whether it be in the U.S. or London, we want the people to be judging to be like the mannequins in the wig shop: neutral expression, serious eyes, understanding eyebrows, always pointed towards justice, but the reality is that we aren’t mannequins. We aren’t AI either. And who knows if the mannequins would be fairer than us humans? A mannequin can’t feel. Can’t understand. I look at the mannequin in the wig shop again: it looks cold, unfeeling, and well, a mannequin. We want barristers who can feel, who can change their minds, and change them again. Barristers who are real people under the wigs.

A Matter of Perspective

Much like Charles Darnay, until recently, mine was a tale of two cities. While born and raised in London, I spent the first two years of my life in Paris, only to return there for my first year of university. By twenty I had moved my life out to Los Angeles, confusing the mix even further. However, firmly European at heart, this is about me and the two cities I love most.

Having absorbed much of these two, very different, cultures throughout the course of my life I naturally felt very confident going into our first week of book packing London and Paris. While I definitely had a head start in the explorations of London, I came rapidly to the conclusion that I really am a Notting Hill girl through and through. I realized how much of my perception of London was based solely around my home turf. When, in fact, Notting Hill houses a mere 3.5% of London’s population. By day one it had dawned on me just how much of London and London’s history I had yet to explore. In all honesty, this week has humbled me.

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On our first day of exploration, we walked through a part of London I knew relatively well – the quintessential tourist’s side of the city. We hit Piccadilly Circus first and then walked down regent’s street, through Pall Mall and into Green Park. We stopped at Buckingham palace; where the flag was flying high – this was the first time I visited our new King at home. We then moved down towards the river, visiting Westminster Abbey, and passing by Parliament and 10 Downing Street. Having spent much time away from the UK in the past few years, the first day for me, was an opportunity to reconnect with the roots of this city. There is simply no better way to take in our history than to literally walk right through it.

Westminster Abbey had been a Year Four school trip destination, but it was far more appreciated this time around. As a creative writing major and an aspiring poet, Poet’s corner was especially exciting for me. I spent a few minutes looking around for Charles Dickens’ memorial plaque only to look down and realize I was standing right on top of him, comfortably nestled between Rudyard Kipling and Thomas Hardy. Having now visited the man of the hour, I was ready to begin my immersion into Dickensian London.

Day two had Fleet Street, the Inns of court, Temple Church, and Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese on the agenda. We emerged on Chancery Lane and made our way through the roaring hustle and bustle of London onto Fleet Street. As a Notting Hill native, I am used to the quieter and quainter side of the city, and this was quite the opposite. Our first stop was lunch at Dickens’ favorite Pub: ‘Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese’, also the believed location of the conversation between Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton after Darnay’s trial. As promised, we got to see a first edition of ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ and the chair ‘most frequented by Charles Dickens’. It was striking to see how fast the city faded into 18th Century London just by turning down a small alley and entering this pub. This was the first time the words contrast, and perspective played on my mind. We refueled here briefly before our afternoon exploration into the heart of Dickensian London.

Our next mission was to locate Tellson’s bank and the original site of Temple bar – two crucial locations in the opening chapters of Dickens’ ‘A Tale of Two Cities’. Both located on the teeming Fleet Street, it was challenging to imagine Dickensian London between the red buses and the swarms of tourists and corporate soldiers. In Temple Bar’s place, between the Royal Courts of Justice and ‘Tellsons Bank’, now stands the sculpture of the Griffin – the mythological creature we use to symbolize London. On the Tellson’s bank side of Temple Bar stands a closed ‘Child & Co’ Bank, which we might assume was the original inspiration for Tellsons.

Nevertheless, Temple Bar can still be found today, but in a very different part of London. Around the side of St Paul’s Cathedral on a small side street the reconstruction of Temple bar still stands, and it is quite spectacular. It felt almost as if a small fabric of Dickensian London had been unfurled under the newly sewn dress of the modern London I know. This seemed to be a continued theme in our explorations this week.

Just as I had been silently criticizing the busy Fleet Street, we were led into Middle Temple Inn, and everything seemed to halt. Suddenly there were no big red buses, no hordes of people and no rush of the city streets. It was all replaced by an acute sense of serenity. Just behind Fleet Street the Inns of court offered us a walk through 18th Century London. We passed through ‘Kings’ Bench Walk’ and the ‘paper buildings’ where Sydney Carton and C.J Stryver work as lawyers.  

This leg of our Book Packing experience was critical in my forming a new perception of London. It is easy to forget even the richest history when you are accustomed to a modern metropolis of a city, but these little sanctuaries that are the Inns of court forced me out of that perception and allowed me to take in the original beauties of my hometown. From then on I began to look for contrast – for those parts of London where the roots and results of modernization intertwine.

This theme of contrast was particularly salient on day three. We got to visit the Tate Modern (my favorite gallery in the world) and we spent an hour walking through their contemporary collections. There was one piece that really caught my eye: ‘reborn sounds of childhood dreams’ by El-Salahi. Contrasted to its yellow canvas, dark, abstract figures hold the center of the piece. There was something innately haunting in the piece – perhaps the menacing faces composed of hollow eyes and shallow cheeks, or the indistinguishable ghostly bodies, or perhaps because it took me to a place I hadn’t visited for some time – my childhood nightmares. This piece, reminiscent of post-colonial modernism, managed to transport me into a world similar to that of the revolution Dickens describes. Themes of destitution, vengeance, violence, and death came powerfully through and made me reflect on the French Revolution Dickens describes. Then, I turn around and am faced with a contemporary piece of aggressive installation art, blinding me with pink and purple strobe lights, pulling me back into the abrasive and flashy world that we live in.

On our final day, we began at Bank; the site of the Royal Stock Exchange and The Bank of England and walked only a mile or so down Whitechapel. We very quickly found ourselves immersed in the heart of the Bangladeshi community of London. Within the hour we saw the soul of old London and the heart of new London intertwine. This was my main takeaway from this week – how quickly things can change and how with a little bit of perspective London’s identity can deepen, encompassing its past, its present and its future.

London, Empire, and Identity: What does diaspora really mean?

My parents love telling me about their honeymoon in London. It was the 1980s, and as two Pakistanis aspiring towards social mobility in the West, my parents were enamored with the world that stretched around them and the people they could become. Their trip took them on a carousel around all of London’s most prominent attractions. They saw Buckingham Palace, strolled through Westminster Abbey, and took shopping sprees through the city’s iconic markets.

Fast forward some thirty years or so and there I was on the phone telling them about a month-long study abroad program I was interested in that would take me through London and Paris.

“What does Bookpacking mean?” my mom inquired in Urdu. I explained to her the premise—that we were going to read a couple books by some authors in the places they were written in hopes of better understanding the French revolution and the theories around social progress. How Victor Hugo wrote this massive story about a young man being chased down by a tunnel-visioned cop. The love triangle Charles Dickens depicted that takes place amidst revolution on the horizon. The power of empathy in alleviating social suffering and creating lasting change.

After orating all of this, we sat in silence for a few moments before my mom spoke.

“Okay. So which day are you going to Buckingham Palace?”

For my parents, the real value of such a trip was not the literary experience, but the act of simply immersing oneself in a different culture. My parents—and my mother in particular—were working class their whole lives. Such texts and academic circles were not accessible to them when much of their lives were spent caring for siblings and working in factories. My dad managed to get his degree in engineering, and subsequently a job in the U.S. a couple of years after their honeymoon. And so like millions of others from South Asia, they migrated across the sea to start a new life in America.

London, however, always had a special place in their hearts. Though they were never able to return to London, the U.K. remained their biggest impression of the English-speaking world. In my parents’ eyes, going to the very same place was an opportunity for me to not just deepen my understanding of the humanities, but to learn more about their history and the world in which they became adults.

Unfortunately, their histories were rocky ones. My mom became a refugee of war at just eight years old, when Bangladesh declared its independence in 1971. Her life from there was marked with poverty, sustaining on cheap meals of lentils and rice as she hopped from place to place. My dad’s life was a bit more stable, growing up on a farm in Pakistani Punjab. Even for him, though, several barriers existed in his path as the first person in his family to try and attain higher education. By their twenties, both my mom and dad settled in Karachi, where they met at the office they worked at.

My mom standing in front of the Queen Victoria Memorial right in front of Buckingham Palace.

Among all of this, the British legacy seeped its way into their daily lives. Between British standards of education and British division of the subcontinent, their lives were shaped so significantly by London that my parents today find this fact almost redundant to mention.

Perhaps this is what made the palace so significant for them. My plan was to make the trip down to Buckingham Palace within the first few days of being in London as it was the place that had started to stick with me, too. However, this version of the palace turned out to be far different from the one my parents observed. Queen Elizabeth passed away a few months before writing this, and the monarchy has slowly transformed from a steadfast, stoic cultural force into something more sensational and celebrity-like. The crown no longer has the same prestige as it did with my parents.

Still, its remnants reveal the power England once had. This massive building, enclosed with gilded gates and staffed by red-suited guards pacing the front, still captures the essence of the commonwealth. The majestic architecture and the countless tourists wanting to see it memorialized the bloody conflicts and English subjugation my parents and their parents endured, more so than the stunning grace of the United Kingdom.

It is thus the story of class struggle and empire that I wanted to learn more about. Their lives continued to be impacted by difficulty and inequality well after moving to America, as my mom had to learn the ropes of speaking English while her mental health suffered—merely immigrating could not erase her trauma, a sad realization for someone who was told that riches lay right across the ocean.

This is the heritage I stand upon, but it’s one I hardly understand in spite of its lifelong impact. As a college student, I have been granted access to circles that my parents could only dream of. I’m able to attend an elite university thanks to a need-based grant that covers my entire tuition and then some. I have the chance to learn about subjects like linguistics and political science which in spite of fascinating my parents endlessly, were never available for exploration in the same manner.

Even simpler though, as the child of Faiziah and Khaliq Rahman, what does it mean for me to live in the country which they always looked up to? How can I possibly understand the sheer depth of their lives when I’m so divorced from the context they grew up in? Rather than being an outsider looking in, I’m a native-born citizen in the Western bubble they aspired towards. So, when my mom was asking me about when I would go to Buckingham palace, she wasn’t dismissing what I was studying. She was actually directing my attention towards something with immense gravity: the opportunity for me to empathize with her.

The British Museum was therefore second on my list of places to see, both to expand my own historical knowledge, but to further develop my understanding of the enormous empire my parents experienced. Though I cannot relive my mom’s life—and nor would that be the solution—by visiting the British Museum, I could get a glance into the world power that watched over them for much of their lives. I only had one hour to go through the museum, but I had a solid goal. I wanted to see the South Asian exhibits and take a closer look at some of the artifacts that extend for generations beyond my parents.

Unexpectedly, the journey to those exhibits itself spoke volumes. The Great Hall lived up to its name with its massive plaza and glass sky, letting in the most calming blue light I could have ever imagined. The marble floors and white walls both sterilized and framed my experience to come. The raw size of the building and the extent of its collection made a haughty statement: to learn about the world, and to learn about yourself, this is the museum.

No wonder, then, that Britain has always been so influential on my parents’ ideals, culture, and goals. The world they grew up in told them that it was the West which housed their success, that the West held the keys to their best selves which could not be found at home.

A shot of the Great Hall ceiling I took. A very fortunate sunny day in London.

The Partition portion of the South Asia exhibit, occupying a small portion of that gigantic room 33, was the most pertinent one for me. With artwork of Gandhi standing tall and clips of the first Indian film to be nominated for the Oscar for best foreign film, it crafted a neat, but perhaps too simple narrative of the subcontinent: the end of the British project was spearheaded by a handful of leaders. Yet if the museum claims to be “for the world, by the world,” what seemed to be missing were the artifacts of more ordinary lives and the victims of the violence that followed Partition. Instead of learning more about the time period itself per se, I found a better grasp of the framework that encases the stories my parents and grandparents have told me. There exists a certain kind of reverence for London after all this time, and now in 2023, it’s clear why my parents were so in love with the place: it represented an upper echelon of society, and the only one which actively invited them in.

And for what it’s worth, I’m also entranced by London. Even I myself have always had a special adoration for the British and the West as a whole, which is as a place of fine culture and elite education that I unknowingly hoped could offer me a chance up the ladder as well. At the same time, though, I have uncovered a disconnect between myself, my parents, and the structures of power above us. In order for this system to work, we need to continue believing that it is the West that contains ultimate enlightenment, and it is the West that can provide us with meaningful ways to live our lives.

How much I play into this remains unanswered. Much like my parents, I gleed with childlike joy walking around London—I simply felt so undeniably refined. I can’t say that I fully grasp what Buckingham Palace represents or what it was like for my parents to leave Asia and step foot in the West for the first time. But maybe, I can experience some of the same emotions they had. London is the city of honeymoons and a gruesome empire, of international cuisine and enriching museums. And though I’m still as lost as I was before when it comes to my sense of self and where I come from, I do know what lies in front of me and the places I can go from here. Some of these places will continue the violence experienced by my parents, and their parents, etc. But maybe some of these places can be ones that inspire social good, places that acknowledge our individual histories and actively restore the pain of those before me.

Immersed in London's Literary Tapestry: A Week of Bookpacking Adventures

The exterior of Westminster Abbey, the final resting site of Dickens.

Already one week into the trip and there is so much to talk about. I had finally arrived in London and what a city this is. The Underground is so convenient and easy to use. The sights and smells were quite different compared to the United States, however, I was very excited to see what this week had in store for me. Bookpacking was something that I had never heard of before this class, so I was excited to try it. What is bookpacking you might ask? Bookpacking is exploring the cities from the lens of the novels. We will be walking through the streets where the author and the characters walked and we’ll smell the scents they smelled. Bookpacking is really about immersing yourself in the world of the novel to gain a better understanding of it.

During our first day in London, we delved into the essence of upper-class society, immersing ourselves in the world of Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities." We strolled through the opulent streets, passing by the exclusive clubs where influential men brokered deals. The iconic Saville Row presented itself with its array of skilled tailors, catering to the elite's impeccable tastes. As we approached Buckingham Palace, the grandeur of the royal residence left us in awe, symbolizing the epitome of power. However, it was inside Westminster Abbey where the lines between fiction and reality blurred. Witnessing Charles Dickens' final resting place, amidst the company of history's most eminent figures, was surreal and humbling. Standing in the same sacred space as the characters from the novel, we felt truly transported to the heart of Dickensian London, where power, intellect, and literary brilliance converged.

The following day deepened our immersion in the very fabric of "A Tale of Two Cities," as we ventured to places closely tied to the novel's narrative. The historic landmarks came to life as we stood before the Old Bailey and Newgate Prison, their presence evoking scenes directly from Dickens' masterpiece. Our lunch at Old Ye Cheshire Cheese on Fleet Street was nothing short of extraordinary, knowing that this was a favorite pub of Charles Dickens himself. The sight of an original edition of his novel adorning the wall added a touch of nostalgia and reverence to the experience. As we explored the locations of Temple Bar and Tellson's Bank, both integral to the plot, the connection between the novel and reality became even more tangible. The echoes of the past reverberated through the streets of modern London, subtly blending the bygone era with contemporary times. In these moments, we were transported back to the pages of Dickens' literary masterpiece, navigating the streets where his characters once walked. The historical essence intertwined with the vibrancy of modern life, offering a unique perspective on the timeless themes within "A Tale of Two Cities." Through a harmonious blend of history, imagination, and Dickensian phrases, we stepped into the heart of the book, embracing the past with a renewed appreciation for the enduring power of storytelling.

Inside of Sondheim Theater for Les Misérables

Throughout the week, our journey through historical London and our literary explorations were filled with captivating experiences, but the pinnacle of it all was undoubtedly witnessing "Les Misérables" at the Sondheim Theater. As it was my first time witnessing a live musical performance, I was simply blown away by the sheer brilliance of the production. The actors' voices resonated through the theater, bringing Victor Hugo's epic novel to life in a mesmerizing and enchanting manner. Having read "Les Misérables" prior to the show, I found myself immersed in the unfolding narrative with a profound appreciation for the intricate details. The familiarity with the book allowed me to follow the storyline effortlessly, enhancing my connection with the characters and their emotions. It was a surreal experience to recognize scenes from the novel, witnessing the seamless transition of Hugo's words into real-life settings and actions. The live musical brought out a ton of emotions as the characters sang and moved their way through the plot. As the final curtain fell, I was in awe of what I had just witnessed. This experience will definitely be one that I remember forever.

Another experience that was very interesting was the tour of Dennis Severs’ House. Stepping inside, I was immediately struck by the darkness and eerie ambiance that engulfed the place, evoking a sense of mystery and intrigue similar to a haunted house. It dawned on me that this was precisely how the characters in Dickens' novel might have lived. Every room within the house was meticulously arranged, exuding an aura of authenticity that brought the scenes to life. The meticulous attention to detail in each room immersed me in the characters' lives, making me feel like a resident of the house rather than a visitor. One aspect that particularly fascinated me was how the rooms were arranged chronologically, progressing through the years to showcase the changing times. It was a brilliant representation of the passage of time, allowing us to witness the evolution of history within the confined space of the house. Two of the most interesting things that I saw in the house were the computer hidden behind the wall and a Yankees cap outside of the last room. I was surprised when I saw the cap since Severs was from California.

Overall, this first week in London was way better than I expected. The city has amazed me at every corner, being so rich in history and culture. Bookpacking has been an incredible experience and has allowed me to immerse myself in a novel in a way that I have never done before. This unique approach to learning has enriched my understanding of both literature and history, intertwining the two in a way that captivates me. Seeing the settings and characters of Dickins’ novel come to life has allowed me to appreciate him more and relate more to the plot of the novel. I can’t wait to see what more this class has to offer in the coming weeks and make memories along the way.