Midnight in Paris

In the vibrant mosaic of the world, Paris stands out as a dazzling jewel, celebrated for its extraordinary blend of history, culture, art, and romance. This blog aims to navigate you through my week sojourn in this mesmerizing city. Stepping into the shoes of Victor Hugo’s iconic characters, I immersed myself in the beautiful labyrinth of Parisian streets. From the echoes of "Les Misérables" in Rue Plumet to the awe-inspiring vantage point of the Eiffel Tower, the journey encapsulated the city's allure through literature and heritage. Enriched with visits to landmarks like Les Invalides, Musee de l’Armee, the Arc de Triomphe, and the Latin Quarter, my adventure was a testament to the dynamic dialogue between history, literature, and modernity. Join me as I recount this exploration of Paris, a city where every street whispers tales of the past and every monument bears witness to its timeless charm.

As the first tendrils of dawn caressed the cityscape of Paris, the city gradually roused from its quiet slumber, transitioning into the symphony of daily urban life. Starting my day at the crossroads of Rue Plumet and Rue de Babylone, I found myself standing on the edge of an extraordinary adventure that would effortlessly marry the literary brilliance of Victor Hugo's "Les Misérables" with the undeniable charm of Paris.

Embodying the spirit of Marius, a significant character in Hugo's oeuvre, we embarked on an exploration that blurs the borders between the realms of fiction and reality. The essence of this unique sojourn is not merely in retracing the steps of a fictional persona but rather in understanding the profound historical, cultural, and socioeconomic contexts that breathed life into these characters.

The northward path led us to the grand edifice of Les Invalides. The monument's profound historical importance resonates in the echo of footsteps on ancient stone. L’Église du Dôme, with its splendid gilded dome, presented a magnificent testament to the architectural prowess of a bygone era. Our journey through time continued to the Tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte. This solemn visit offered a moment to reflect upon the narratives of power, ambition, and transformation that are etched into the heart of French history.

The Musee de l’Armee offered a continuation of this historical exploration. The Napoleonic galleries unveiled a panorama of strategic military planning, the rise and fall of empires, and the relentless human pursuit of power. The intricate design of the uniforms of the Grande Armée served as a visual representation of the strategic branding efforts of an era that is long past yet continues to influence our present.

Crossing the Pont Alexandre III, an epitome of Art Nouveau aesthetics, I was captivated by the dynamic blend of artistic creativity and structural precision. Our journey led us to the famed Champs Elysées, a bustling vein of Parisian life, leading up to the monumental Arc de Triomphe, a symbol of past victories, resilience, and the indomitable French spirit.

The narrative then segued into the Rue des Archives, tracing the path of Jean Valjean, another central figure in "Les Misérables," towards Rue de l'Homme Armé. This exploration highlighted the role of geography in literature, demonstrating how physical spaces can serve as powerful narrative devices.

A visit to Maison de Victor Hugo provided a personal encounter with the literary genius, offering a glimpse into the environment that shaped some of the world's most influential literary works. The exploration of Musée Carnavalet served as a fitting finale to the day's activities, rounding off the narrative with a comprehensive overview of Paris's history. A group dinner at La Place Royal offered a moment of camaraderie and reflection, punctuating the day with flavors of French cuisine and the sweet notes of shared experiences.

The next day, our literary journey ventured into the Latin Quarter. With every step through the cobblestone streets, I experienced the cultural and historical richness of the neighborhood. From the iconic Shakespeare and Co. to the historical St-Severin, The Sorbonne, and Rue Gay-Lussac, each location added a new layer to the narrative. The day was punctuated by a group entry to the Panthéon, a monument to the national achievements of France, further deepening my understanding of French heritage.

As the hustle and bustle of the city gradually quieted, I found tranquility in the beautifully manicured Luxembourg Gardens. Amidst the city's vibrant atmosphere, the gardens offered a serene retreat, a moment of solitude in which to reflect on the day's experiences.

As the sun set, giving way to the night, my journey led me towards the world-renowned symbol of Paris - the Eiffel Tower. Illuminated against the night sky, the monument shone with an almost ethereal brilliance. The ascent to the tower's summit was a culmination of the day's experiences, revealing an unparalleled panorama of Paris. The cityscape, dotted with lights, seemed to mirror the stars, each twinkle telling countless tales of the city's past, present, and anticipated future.

As I reflect upon my time in Paris, the overwhelming sense of awe, respect, and appreciation remains as vivid as ever. The day's journey provided not just an exploration of historical locations but a deeper understanding of the intersection between literature, history, and modernity. This journey was not only about retracing the paths of fictional characters but also about recognizing how history, culture, and societal structures shape narratives and identities.

From wandering through the labyrinth of Parisian streets as imagined by Victor Hugo, to observing the city from the peak of the Eiffel Tower, each moment provided insights into the complexities of Paris's identity. I was reminded of the seamless dance between history and the present, literature and reality. This journey allowed me to perceive the city not just as an architectural marvel or a bustling metropolis, but as a dynamic, living narrative, constantly evolving yet deeply rooted in its history, a narrative that Victor Hugo described.

Chapels and Snails

The Sainte-Chapelle is contrast. It is built by workers’ hands, but enjoyed only by the monarchy’s eyes. It is damaged by revolutionaries in the name of all that is wrong with France, yet restored in the 19th century in the name of all that is beautiful in France. When there is murmuring, there is a shout asking for quiet. There is a side of stained glass illuminated by the sun, then there is a side nobody faces. Even colors that aren’t complementary find a way to sharply contrast, red and blue emerging against each other as they fight and rest. It is a place Jean Valjean—the convict—would have been refused entry; it is a place Marius’s grandfather—the staunch monarchist—would have refused to enter. Yet, this is only what it is. 

The magic of the Saint-Chapelle is in what it does. There is a line in Les Mis when Victor Hugo describes perhaps the most profound character in the novel (yet the only character to “parish” in the musical) as someone who “knew when to remain silent, so also he knew when to speak. O wonderful comforter! He did not try to blot out sorrow through oblivion but to magnify and dignify it through hope. He said, ‘Mind which way you look at the dead. Don’t think of what perishes. Look hard. You’ll see the living light of your dead departed up there in heaven.’ He knew that faith is healing. He sought to transform the grief that dwells on the grave by teaching the grief that dwells on a star” (Hugo 19). This character is the Bishop, and this is what the Sainte-Chapelle does.

“Mind which way you look at the dead.” I sit facing the sunny side. I feel close to a current as I gaze up at the stained glass; I feel far from religion. I always feel the farthest when I am in the closest. I do not go into churches or chapels anymore—only for funerals. Suddenly, I see Death everywhere in the stained glass.  It is too beautiful to be absent of grief. There is loss within the reds and blues, acute and infinite. There is fear for all you have left to lose. How lucky is that? Death is everywhere. But, that means so is life. I mind which way I look at Death. 

“Don’t think of what perishes. Look hard. You’ll see the living light of your dead departed up there in heaven.” I have a headache from staring at the bright light, but I do not want to wear sunglasses and dim the colors. It reminds me of Jean Valjean’s passing. In contrast, I imagine him sitting in the light of candles. I imagine Cosette got a headache from squinting, from trying to watch his face through shadows. I hear her saying it is “too soon, too soon to say goodbye.” She does not say it is too soon “to die,” but refocuses on the “goodbye.” It is “too soon” for her to be without him. Her head already hurts from trying to see through darkness; the living light of her dead departed would blind her. I turn to look at the side without the sun. The colors are muted, but my eyes ease. There is a beautiful piece of poetry from one of my favorite songs, If We Were Vampires by Jason Isbell.  My eyes do not hurt as badly from light, so I put on the song. He sings, “If we were vampires and death was a joke//We’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke// And laugh at all the lovers and their plans//I wouldn't feel the need to hold your hand//Maybe time running out is a gift//I’ll work hard 'til the end of my shift//And give you every second I can find//And hope it isn't me who's left behind.” I feel the current run through my hands, but I do not try to catch it. 

“He knew that faith is healing.” The longer I stare, the more I become a part. I Flânuer my way through thoughts of religion and loss and the bishop and Cosette. I sit for some time with my head empty. I breathe and it is nice. I think and I feel angry. Cosette has so little characterization beyond perfection and that is not real. This chapel is visually perfect but it is not real. The Bishop is good and selfless and caring and healing. He is not a real man, but I choose to believe he is. Cosette is an archetype, but her asking her father to stay feels so real. The chapel is intertwined with the religion I resent, and I love it. It makes me choke up, and that is real. Death is everywhere, and sometimes I don’t know what to do with Life. 

“He sought to transform the grief that dwells on the grave by teaching the grief that dwells on a star.” There is contrast in everything, meaning Life and Death can only emerge against each other as they fight and rest. When I observe this contrast, I want to clarify that I do not mean I see it as existing on an axis or set of scales. They are not weighing against each other, nor are they unconnected in their opposition. I see contrast as hands holding—not forces pushing. I left the chapel thoughtful and tearful and content. 

That night, I walked through the streets. The characters of Les Mis were easier to imagine as I wandered in fading light through smells of piss. I imagined Jean Valjean walking, thinking of the Bishop’s gift as he tried to find peace and look over his shoulder. I jump at the sound of approaching footsteps. They are my own—I am walking through a tunnel and they are echoing. I continue, brought back from my mind, and I realize I have found my way into a garden. It is filled with tunnels and trees and leaves and even two snails, one named Enjolras and one named Gavroche. The Bishop is not in the garden. He, in his ethereal forgiveness, feels far removed from my realm of living. I am often sad and angry, and often for significant reasons. I am no prophet or mage. I am just a girl who went to the Sainte-Chapelle and loved it, and is now walking through a garden feeling at home and paranoid. I contrast myself and the Bishop.

Gavroche the snail slugs by. He has a piece of paper with him. He looks up at me with his little antennas, and I realize the paper is for me. I pat his shell and say thank you. He moves along, and I think of the magic of the Sainte-Chapelle. The paper reads, “There was nothing of the prophet and nothing of the mage about him. This humble soul loved, that is all” (Hugo 55).

My First Weekend in Paris

Paris, a city synonymous with romance, art, and history, holds within its embrace a myriad of experiences, each promising a unique narrative. During one transformative weekend, I sought to transcend the usual and embarked on a journey that bridged epochs, cultures, and imaginations. From the echoing halls of Versailles, a testament to man's ambition and artistry, to the vibrant pathways of Disneyland Paris, where dreams defy boundaries, I found myself oscillating between two distinct realms. This tale chronicles my sojourn through these contrasting landscapes, illustrating how the weight of history can beautifully intertwine with the whimsy of fantasy.

As the first rays of Saturday morning pierced through the Parisian mists, I found myself journeying towards the emblematic Palace of Versailles. This trip was more than just moving from one place to another; it was like flipping through a history book, with each page showing another part of France's rich and detailed past. The palace, in all its resplendent glory, stands as a testament to the visionary thinking and impeccable execution reminiscent of today's leading global enterprises.

The Hall of Mirrors, with its vast expanse and reflective opulence, wasn't just an architectural marvel. To my business-oriented mind, it mirrored the conference rooms where pivotal decisions are brokered, shaping industries and markets. Each shimmering chandelier, suspended with grace, evoked images of groundbreaking ideas that have the potential to revolutionize sectors. The meticulously carved statues, each telling its own tale, seemed to echo the tenacity and diligence that drive successful business endeavors. The sprawling frescoes, with their vast narratives, felt reminiscent of the mission statements and brand stories that underpin and guide modern enterprises.

Venturing outdoors, the gardens of Versailles unveiled a masterclass in planning and execution. The meticulously designed pathways, fountains, and groves, with their geometric precision and aesthetic appeal, echoed the blueprints of successful business strategies. They represent scalability blended with attention to detail, ensuring that each visitor (or in a business context, stakeholder) experiences a journey that's both vast in its offering and personalized in its touchpoints. The Grand Canal, stretching majestically, reminded me of the long-term vision that anchors and directs corporations. And as I wandered further, the Petit Trianon and the Grand Trianon showcased the importance of diversification and niche targeting, much like specialized business units within a conglomerate.

Yet, amidst the serene symphony of chirping birds and rustling leaves, I could almost hear the faint undertones of past discussions, strategies, and alliances being forged - echoing the very essence of entrepreneurial spirit.

Sunday beckoned with its own narrative, promising a deep dive into another dimension of enterprise: the enchanting world of Disneyland Paris, a brand that has captivated hearts globally.

As Sunday's first light permeated the horizon, a sense of jubilant expectation enveloped me. Transitioning from Versailles' dignified grandeur to the mesmerizing tapestry of Disneyland Paris, I felt like I was traversing through pages of a richly illustrated storybook. The château of Sleeping Beauty, aglow in mystic luminescence, emerged not just as an architectural marvel but as a symbol of timeless dreams and aspirations. Here, the playful silhouette of Mickey Mouse ears humorously contrasted with the ornate crowns I had marveled at in Versailles, while the electrifying screams from roller coasters punctuated the air, offering a vibrant counterpoint to Saturday's stately elegance.

There's something undeniably thrilling about stepping into a world you've only ever seen on the silver screen, and Star Wars Hyperspace Mountain offers just that exhilarating experience. As I approached the ride, the iconic hum of lightsabers and distant echoes of John Williams' score filled the air, setting the stage for the adventure that awaited. Boarding the spacecraft felt like joining the Rebel Alliance on a critical mission. As the ride began, the sheer force of the launch propelled us into a galaxy far, far away. Looping through space battles, dodging TIE fighters, and being immersed in a cosmic showdown, the sensations were a perfect blend of adrenaline and nostalgia. For those few minutes, I wasn't just on a roller coaster in Disneyland; I was a part of the Star Wars saga, living a childhood dream.

Main Street, with its charmingly paved pathways and old-world charm, evoked a sense of nostalgic warmth. Venturing further, the park unraveled its diverse universes. In Adventureland, I was met with exhilarating rides that promised tales of daring escapades, while Fantasyland's dreamy ambiance whisked me into a universe where fairytales sprang to life. Discoveryland, with its futuristic pulse, was a testament to mankind's unending quest for innovation and progress.

Nestled a short distance away was Disney Village, a vibrant hub pulsating with entertainment, dining, and shopping experiences. It was like a small world of different cultures, offering a mix of tastes, sounds, and views. And as someone who's experienced the magic of Disneyland in Los Angeles, I couldn't help but draw parallels and contrasts. While both parks shared that quintessential Disney charm, Disneyland Paris seemed to weave in a certain European finesse, blending the universality of Disney narratives with subtle regional touches, making it a unique experience in its own right.

In the span of just two days, I journeyed from the stately halls of Versailles, echoing with tales of monarchs and majesties, to the dynamic and animated pathways of Disneyland Paris, brimming with stories of heroism, dreams, and wonder. This juxtaposition underscored life's diverse tapestry, illustrating how seamlessly the profound lessons of history can meld with the boundless realms of imagination.

As the final echoes of my weekend in Paris fade into cherished memories, I'm left pondering the intricate dance of history and imagination. Versailles and Disneyland, seemingly worlds apart, converged in my experience to craft a narrative of life's diverse offerings. Paris, in all its multifaceted glory, serves as a reminder that even within the span of a brief interlude, one can traverse centuries, explore fantasies, and return with a heart enriched by tales spanning the profound depths of history to the boundless heights of dreams. This city, ever enigmatic and ever welcoming, beckons travelers to not just see its sights but to feel, reflect, and revel in the tapestry it weaves, blending the past, present, and the imagined.

The Pour Barricade of Rue de la Chanvrerie

We all know the Seven Wonders of the World, but one of the less celebrated miracles of Earth is the weather in Paris. I have been repeatedly taunted by the weather app as I have set out for our adventures umbrella-less only to find that the “10% chance of rain” has become instead a torrential downpour, comically complete with booming thunder and zaps of lightning. Under looming slate-colored clouds ready to drench us at any moment, we persevered in the face of fickle weather to bookpack! Today (the 4th) we have found the sites of two exceptional moments in Les Miserables: the bridge where Javert commits suicide and the Society of the ABC’s barricade where the revolutionaries fight for freedom! I will be focusing on discovering the barricade in this blog.

To begin, to aid in his storytelling, Hugo includes descriptions that point out where exactly the barricade was constructed by the young scholars. Hugo writes “-those who want to picture to themselves with reasonable accuracy the blocks of houses that stood at the time near Pointe St-Eustache at the north-east corner of Paris’s Les Halles, where today Rue Rambuteau begins, have only to imagine the letter N with Rue St-Denis running along the top of it and Les Halles along the base, and the two vertical legs representing Rude de La Grande Truanderie and Rue de la Chanvrerie, with Rue de la Petite-Truanderie running obliquely between them” (974). Interestingly enough, this is quite a ways away from the Latin Quarter where these revolutionary students would have lived. Below, you can observe where we have marked in our copy of the map used at the time of Hugo’s writing where this would be.

Here is the map from the 1800s that was used by Hugo at the time of Les Mis

Setting out in a light rain, we walked from the Seine to the barricade. Along this quick journey, the drizzle became an stormy shower, but nothing will deter bookpackers who are on the case! Although much has changed from the 19th century, there are still some roads that a modern bookpacker can use to identify the whereabouts of the barricade. We walked through the cobblestone streets underscored by the harsh patter of rain on umbrellas and the occasional clap of thunder looking for the location of our brave ill-fated heroes’ final battle. Using the Rue de La Petite-Truanderie and its intersection with both Rue Mondetour and Rue de la Grande-Truanderie, we were able to find where the Corinthe tavern and barricade were built and destroyed.

Screenshot of our destination today- check out those street names!

This 1848 Rue de la Chanvrerie barricade was not terribly tall, a less intimidating barricade when compared to the St-Antoine and the Fauborg du Temple barricades of 1932, but it was solid. It was first erected to be about 6 or 7 feet high, mainly from cobblestones and casks adorned with jagged pieces from carts (we can observe this on page 993). Hugo paints a vivid image as to its overnight improvement; “The insurgents under Enjolras’s supervision- for Marius no longer paid attention to anything- had made good use of the night. The barricade had been not only repaired but enlarged. It had been made two feet higher. Iron bars stuck in between the cobblestones looked like couched lances. All sorts of added debris brought from all around gave it a more intricately meshed exterior. The redoubt had been cleverly reworked into a defence wall on the inside and a tangled thicket on the outside” (1057). It is an impressive structure, with its two separate barricade walls, to envision. The two streets blockaded are pictured below!

Hugo describes this Les Halles area as being full of tenements, and calls them “dark” and “cramped”. This part of town was dirty and grubby, but the law kept a steady watch on it. Today it is an entirely different scene to behold. Les Halles features an assortment of small cafes overshadowed by an ugly Westfield mall & bustling metro station. Given that not much has been kept of the “Old France” and there are many new streets, it took a considerable amount of imagination for me to visualize what this battle would have looked like. When comparing this particular adventure to endeavors where our destinations still retain old monuments or other tangible, standing glimpses into the past, this location required considerable mental imaging to envision. With the rain pouring down, I closed my eyes and envisioned climbing those stone steps of the barricade to peer across at the guardsmen. I pictured Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac directing their fellow freedom fighters outside, while Javert awaits his demise inside. I thought of Grantaire drinking in his corner, accompanied by Pere Mabeuf’s ghost. I saw Marius’ unknowing kiss for Eponine as she died protecting him at the barricade. All of these moments from the story were from a past that no longer presses on the minds of the present, but continues to influence us to this very day.

Rue Mondetour! One of the intersecting roads to the barricade.

Within minutes of reaching the barricade, the clouds stopped their crying and Helios began to shine again. The stony streets glowed as the sun reflected her beams, the whipping winds slowed to a gentle breeze. The people folded their umbrellas, laughing at the impermanence of the stormy conditions. Just as quickly as a barricade is built, it can be torn down. How quickly a life can become a ghost, but what a pleasure it is to believe in something and to enact real, rippling change! “ You can hardly tell, an hour after a storm, that this fair beauty, the day, has wept” (Hugo 1093).

Foucault’s Pendulum: Revolution of One Kind or Another

Victor Hugo, a giant of the literary world, believed in the reason of man. Imbued with enlightenment fervor, he was a committed republican and opponent of the death penalty, ultimately believing that people can for themselves work towards the best version of society if given the chance. And while it isn’t certain whether Hugo’s view of history is teleological – the idea that history will ultimately, inevitably improve itself – or not, his belief in reason would suggest that it is. So it’s fitting that Hugo is buried in the Pantheon, a building that looks (and does) contain the bodies of many people that have shifted history in large ways. But even more fittingly – and certainly more subtly – is that Hugo is buried under Foucault’s Pendulum.

Foucault’s Pendulum lies in the middle of the main floor of the Pantheon, under the auspices of the expected romanesque statues and ceiling paintings. But the existence of the Pendulum inside the Pantheon surprised me. In the very center of the main floor of the Pantheon is a circular railing circumscribing a design painted onto the marble floor: a compass, surrounded by organic forms propagating outwards, encircled by a white stripe, then a black one, before a minimalist olive branch completes the circle. In the center – a raised glass dias inscribed with numbers. Most dramatically, a gold sphere swings back and forth, always on the verge of oscillation, attached to a string connected to the top of the pantheon, some 60 feet above.

When I first saw Foucault’s Pendulum, I stared at it for minutes without quite understanding what it was, or what it was doing in the Pantheon. The sign some meters away explained: in 1851, Leon Foucault set out to prove physically that the Earth rotates around itself, and gained approval from Napoleon III to set his demonstration in the Pantheon. The result is a science display fitting for an art exhibit. And while I don’t understand the exact science of how the pendulum relies solely on the Earth’s rotation to swing, I can understand some of its significance. That is, an object that spins with the Earth’s rotation has no choice but to spin. There is no possibility otherwise.

Likewise, history seems to have had no chance to happen otherwise, at least according to the opinions of many men buried in the Pantheon that believe fate was on their side. Ironically, history itself has largely proven that understanding of the world wrong, as many things predicted to happen haven’t, and what may have looked like a gradual sloping towards Utopia has regressed with the advent of Climate Change and the World Wars, among other devastating historical events. Regardless, I’m not currently interested in the debate over history as teleological or not, but rather the power that believing history will be on your side has.

But Victor Hugo’s tomb itself belies that sense of import, despite the Pantheon’s impressive appearance and selective entry requirements. His tomb lies in the crypt underground, and has the ominous, earthy feeling you’d expect of a crypt. Down a couple corridors lies a room with Victor Hugo and Alexander Dumas. In the same room lie two empty slots, bereft of any coffins. The room is nothing special. Many of the other coffins had flowers on them. Hugo’s did not.

But I did find this sense of history somewhere else: the Sorbonne, the historic site of the University of Paris. The building itself impresses the same sense the Pantheon does with its imposing archways, formal columns, and similarly Roman statues detailing the campus. It provides the sense of history in the making, that there –at this moment – is someone within those halls that might one day be buried within the Pantheon.

One group of students that believed that was the fictional Society of the Friends of the ABC in Les Miserables, a group that Hugo described as “A Group That Came Close to Becoming Historic.” The ABC society is described as a group of mostly student radicals who often met in the Cafe Musain, located near the Sorbonne and the Pantheon. Walking down the Rue St-Michel where this fictional Cafe was located and seeing as the ABC society did makes me understand how easily one could consider themselves as a historical figure in the making. I can imagine more clearly the discussions that might have happened in these cafes, arguments over the future of France over a cup of coffee. I’m certain that seeing the Pantheon and the Sorbonne and all the figures in chiseled stone statues changed the direction of these conversations; I can imagine an ambitious figure such as Enjolras asking another member of the ABC what it would take to have a statue built of them placed there, or discussing their desire to be buried in the Pantheon down the road. The fate of the ABC society was to start a barricade in the uprisings of 1832, where all of the major figures of the society died in the climax of Les Miserables. There’s a plaque in the Pantheon dedicated to the people who died in the revolutions of 1830 and 1848. Were the ABC society real, their names might have been displayed there. Enjolras might have gotten his wish.

Even when not bookpacking, I’m surrounded by the history of revolutionary Paris. The 1968 Paris protests began in-part at the metro station I use to go to class here everyday. In Les Gobelins metro station, high-schoolers assembled to begin the protests that eventually threatened fears of civil war or revolution. In a poetry book I was reading at a cafe, Jorie Graham described her experience in the student uprisings at the Sorbonne in ‘68. It’s hard not to be surrounded by revolutions in France, a fact as certain as the rotation of the Earth, or the oscillation of Foucault’s Pendulum, spinning and spinning, hanging from the long, long thread of history.

Storming of Versailles, 1789-

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

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

Palace of Versailles vs. gardens, to scale

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

Exterior of Chateau Versailles

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

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

Chapel within Versailles

Ceiling of a room in Versailles

Hall of Mirrors chandeliers and frescoes

Gardens to the left of the Palace

Gardens directly behind Palace

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

Vive la Logo!

King Louis XIV’s marketing is impressive! It is. If you go around Versailles, you’ll see a lot of gold, a lot of full ceiling paintings, a lot of busts of various aristocrats, and surprisingly, a lot of branding. It feels very modern in its love of branding. This branding is not King Louis XIV water bottles or Marie Antoinette earrings, though you’ll find that in the gift shop, but it is the logo of King Louis’ court: the Sun King. And what an amazing logo it is! King Louis rising with the sun. Ahh, the sun, the moon, and Louis XIV. Things that just go together as celestial beings.

It really takes the whole “chosen by God” mandate to new heights. The logo was even inspired by Apollo the Sun God, who in Greek mythology controls the sun’s movements during the day riding his sun chariot. Louis also liked Apollo’s association with the arts, as he saw himself as a ballet dancer. So, he literally is comparing himself to a god. Kind of a delusional view looking at it from today…but it’s still a good logo, though.

If I lived at the time, maybe in a different country and all I knew about the French monarchy was this logo I would be a believer. If you took away the “little” problem of all the starving peasants and ridiculous class hierarchies among many other things, you’d be saying “Long live the King” just based on that logo alone. The point is: every door, every ornate ceiling, contains this logo. You can’t escape it. After you make your way through the house, you go into the gift shop, and guess what’s there: Sun King earrings and Sun King spoons and Sun King tote bags and Sun King crowns. Not much has changed in the love of this logo.  It’s so over-the-top and commercial…I’ll take the spoon and tote bag please! 

All this logo branding is not much different from the Louis Vuitton’s and Chanel’s of modern Paris. While brands like Louis Vuitton put the LV logo on countless bags, King Louis XIV slapped his face with a sun on every door in Versailles. It feels like a very modern idea to slap a logo on everything to increase its’ perceived value. Both are branding associated with wealth and status.

There is appeal to the LV logo; there is a huge market. If I ever doubted the value of this particular branding, I must only walk back over the Champs-Élysées, where tourists wait in an impossibly long lines to have their chance to buy Louis Vuitton at a slightly reduced price than the U.S. Unlike the symbol of the Sun King, anyone with the means can buy Louis Vuitton; they don’t have to be born into a certain family. But most people don’t have the means.

Versailles is still intertwined with this idea of luxury and branding in a modern sense as well. With one look at the website, I found that the Chateau of Versailles officially partners with luxury brands like Saint Louis Crystal and Bernardaud today. And luxury brands like Jacquemus, who did their Fall 2023-24 collection on the grounds of Versailles, show the continuation of opulence and over-the-top wealth even within the grounds of Versailles. And the continuation of branding…

And what about royalty today? Can you not buy King Charles tea (I admit I bought some, it’s a rare edition!) or Queen Elizabeth hand towels in London? I’ve seen both. The English royalty are treated like commodities: to be looked at and to buy into the idea, maybe so much so that you pick up one of those hand towels. If you do, you’ll probably see the coat of arms at the top. Not as interesting branding as Louis XIV but it’ll have to do. The point is that at the end of the day it’s a business; it’s a brand; in the same way a Louis Vuitton or Chanel is a brand. So, to buy their merchandise, essentially is associating with this high-class brand.

I ruminated on all this as I left Versailles.

I thought I had left behind the Sun King logo in Versailles but to my surprise, it made another appearance in the Musée de l’Armée. I wandered through many unbranded Napoleon-era uniforms wondering where his special branding was. Where was the bee symbol so integral in his reign as a symbol of immortality? I didn’t even see his eagle symbol but maybe I missed the military flags of his reign. Where was his branding? My eyes started to glaze over. But then something pierced through the many uniforms: a bright light, a bright gold color. Was it Apollo? No, it was just Louis the XIV and his god complex. And there was the logo again! A huge sun, in gold, with King Louis and his babyface in the center. I felt a bit disgusted at this branding, I must admit. Here were the uniforms of those who went into battle under Louis, perhaps even died for his causes, and somehow, they are all made almost anonymous under Louis’ branding. It is like Louis is saying that they are not the important part, he is.

But as the monarch of strict absolutism, religious intolerance, and dismissing staggering inequality in the face of endless parties, it is only realistic that he would see these soldiers as meaningless in the face of his alleged God-given power. And of course, the logo’s all in gold. Because of course it is.

Sources

Brands. Château de Versailles. (n.d.). https://www.boutique-chateauversailles.fr/en/152-brands

Louis XIV 1638-1715. Palace of Versailles. (2023, February 17). https://en.chateauversailles.fr/discover/history/great-characters/louis-xiv

Napoleon.org. (2004, June). The Symbols of Empire. napoleon.org. https://www.napoleon.org/en/history-of-the-two-empires/the-symbols-of-empire/

A Tale of Two Wonders: Disneyland Paris and the Eiffel Tower

The last few days in Paris have been an absolute blast as I had the magical opportunity to visit two iconic places that left me in awe. First, Disneyland Paris, where dreams came to life, immersing me in a world of beloved Disney characters and thrilling rides that filled my heart with joy. And then, the breathtaking Eiffel Tower, a symbol of Parisian elegance, stood tall, offering panoramic views that left me speechless. Both experiences fulfilled lifelong dreams, reminding me of the enchantment of embracing childlike wonder and pursuing our dreams. Join me on this blog as I relive the joyous moments and unforgettable encounters that made my time in Disneyland Paris and at the Eiffel Tower truly extraordinary.

The castle at Disneyland Paris

Stepping into the enchanting world of Disneyland Paris was a magical experience that transported me back to my childhood wonder. The moment I hopped off the metro stop conveniently located in the Disney Village, I could sense the palpable difference in the atmosphere. The Disney Village's vibrant buildings and the joy of families and visitors from around the world added to the excitement. The park's layout, a charming blend of Disney's signature magic and Parisian elegance, was a delight to explore. What impressed me most was the bilingualism of the staff, making communication effortless. The multicultural crowd added to the sense of unity and celebration, with visitors from various corners of the globe coming together to revel in the magic of Disney. Walking through the park, I was struck by the beautiful blending of Disney's signature charm with the unique Parisian touch. The park's layout, though reminiscent of its counterpart in Los Angeles, had an air of elegance and grace, perfectly complementing the surrounding city's ambiance. One could easily get lost in the intricately designed landscapes and the immersive themed areas, each one offering a delightful escape into beloved Disney stories. Among the many delights of Disneyland Paris, the food offerings were an unexpected highlight. Exploring the culinary delights within the park was an adventure in itself, offering a delightful fusion of traditional Parisian flavors and classic American treats. From delectable pasta dishes to mouthwatering milkshakes, each bite was a tantalizing revelation of cuisine. However, there was one particular treat I really wanted to try – the iconic Mickey Mouse-shaped meringue. Unfortunately, it seemed that many others had the same idea, as it was sold out by the time we reached the bakery. This news made me even more sad since it implied that the meringues were as good as I was told. Overall, my day at Disneyland Paris was nothing short of spectacular. It was a whirlwind of laughter, excitement, and pure enchantment. The park's immersive themed areas transported me to far-off lands and brought beloved characters to life. The joy on the faces of children and adults alike was infectious, and it was heartwarming to witness people of all ages embracing their inner child and embracing the magic of Disney.

The Eiffel Tower lit up at night

As the sun began to fall over Paris, I anxiously made my way to the iconic Eiffel Tower, a symbol of romance and everlasting charm. Although I had seen its beautiful beauty from afar, today was the first time I would get to see it up close. As I approached the wrought-iron masterpiece, I felt a rush of exhilaration mixed with awe, as if the tower itself held the key to the city's secrets. My parents had imparted invaluable tips, advising me to time my visit just right, and as the daylight began to wane, I reached the tower, eagerly awaiting the transformation that would unfold as the night draped its veil over Paris. As dusk descended, the Eiffel Tower underwent a mesmerizing metamorphosis, transitioning from a striking architectural wonder to an ethereal masterpiece that seemed to touch the very heavens. The evening air tingled with enchantment, and as darkness embraced the city, the tower shimmered like a celestial being adorned with a thousand stars. The interplay of light and shadow created a spectacular sight that captivated me in a moment of pure wonder, surpassing the boundaries of language to elicit a profound sensation of awe. The fascination of the Eiffel Tower drew me in, and I excitedly booked tickets to go to the top, anticipating the panoramic magnificence that greeted me. Patience proved a virtue as I joined the line, my heart filled with anticipation. And then, at last, I reached the pinnacle of this architectural marvel. From this height, Paris unfolded in front of me, its rooftops, unique architecture, and culture became so much more apparent to me. I could see the grand Arc de Triomphe lit up in the night sky, serving as a symbol of the city’s storied past. I could see the Seine River splitting the heart of Paris, separating the rich history from the intricate modernity. I felt more linked to Paris than I had ever felt before. It was a magical moment as I gazed into the metropolis that had captured so many hearts. As I dragged myself down from the tower, I knew it would be an experience I would never forget. The Eiffel Tower had opened the door to Paris' fascinating history and vibrant present, and I was delighted to have been there to see its wonderful transformation from day to night.

This week and a half in Paris has been everything I could have asked for and more. Disneyland Paris brought back cherished childhood memories, immersing me in a world of Disney magic and joy. The Eiffel Tower, a timeless symbol of romance, captivated me with its grandeur, especially during the magical transition from day to night. These places allowed me to have fun experiences while revealing more information about the city to me. I feel more connected to this city and its rich past through these experiences. These encounters also provided a welcome diversion from my usual stressful days. They gave me moments of freedom that I could use to make the most of my stay in Paris. I'm hoping to have more encounters like these in the coming weeks.

The Art of The Flâneur

21,000 steps a day.

Of those 21,000 steps, I spend about 13,000 bookpacking through Paris. Sixteen of us go off into the Parisian streets tracing the trajectories of A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables while submerging ourselves in the history of the 18th and 19th centuries. Of the remaining 8,000 steps, I find myself sauntering around this beautiful city, not only admiring the elaborate and decorative architecture but the relaxed and chic nature of the Paris locals.

However, it took me a while to master the art of being a flâneur when I first arrived in Paris.

Charlotte and Lili enjoying their meal after a very long wait…

After a long day of travel on the Eurostar from London, I could not wait to get settled into my charming apartment and devour a quick Parisian meal before preparing for the 3-week journey that awaited. My roommates and I searched for restaurants near us and found the closest one to be 15 minutes away! Annoyed by its inconvenience, we rushed out of our apartment and down the residential streets of the 16th district. It was only 7:00 pm but everything appeared to be so quiet and serene. The only noise you could hear was the sound of the trees gracefully swaying in the wind. Where was everybody? We filled the silence with our American laughter but remembered not to be too loud so we wouldn’t draw attention toward ourselves. Upon approaching the restaurant, I was shocked to see how bright and lively it was inside. The restaurant radiated a vibrant but comforting atmosphere that welcomed its customers inside. This is where the action was! We were greeted by the host and swiftly seated to our table, but after ten minutes passed, and then fifteen, I quickly realized that this was not going to be a fast meal. As my impatience intensified I began to pass the time by trying to discern the French words on the menu without help from my roommates Lili and Charlotte. And while my Dad taught me a few words before this trip, I still struggled to comprehend the French language. The language, the routine, and the culture were all so foreign to me.

Growing up in New York City I am accustomed to the fast-paced lifestyle. The buzzing traffic, the hustle and bustle of the people, and the 24-hour routine are what keeps me going. New York City makes me feel alive as it hums with relentless energy from dawn to dusk. The city pulsates with productivity, urging its occupants to go go go. I’ve never not been doing something. And there has never been a moment where I am not trying to maximize my time. So as I was sitting in this restaurant I became restless because suddenly things have taken a pause. In New York City, there is no time to pause. Here in Paris, I had been instantaneously knocked off my fast-paced rhythm that I grew so comfortable to know. As we were sitting and waiting for our pasta, I thought about my strong-willed Nana who was born and raised in New York City. She would have walked straight out of that restaurant after ten minutes because it’s not customary for us New Yorkers to wait.

And that’s the beauty of Paris. Waiting and slowing down to savor life’s simple pleasures. The dichotomy between Paris’ serene, leisurely rhythm and New York City’s fast-paced rhythm was intimidating at first, but I knew I needed to adapt if I wanted to have the best Parisian experience for the next 3 weeks.

Every morning on my commute to Accent Study Center, I put my flâneuring skills to the test. I have to remind myself to saunter, not stride. There is no need to rush in the mornings because my roommates and I leave ample time before lecture starts. Every time I find myself speeding up in pace, I try slowing myself down and taking a deep breath. I attempt to walk down the streets guided by my senses. What can I hear, feel, see, taste, touch? My morning walks allow me to expand my capacity for wonder and discover new pleasures I might have missed if I focused solely on getting to my destination.

The black Scottish terrier that I pass on my morning commute

I pass a petite old lady, around the age of 70 or so, wearing a long black coat and high heels every day. She holds her head low as she walks her black Scottish terrier to the park that is located right behind our apartment building. I wonder what her life was like. What she was like when she was a little kid. If she has ever been loved or in love. I conjure up different narratives of who this woman is and was. If not for a city that encourages a mindful appreciation for life’s moments, I would not have noticed this lady or frankly cared about her.

What's different about Paris from New York City is that Parisian culture enables you to bask in the beauty of your surroundings and appreciate the little things. Paris has opened my eyes to the joy of the present moment rather than pondering over the past and anxiously awaiting the future. And while I will never be able to change the hustle, bustle nature of New York City, I want to implement Parisian leisurely rhythm into my life to find my own balance. A balance that allows me to recharge and indulge in the art of being a flâneur.

“A calm and modest life brings more happiness than the pursuit of success combined with constant restlessness.”

— Albert Einstein

Paris is a Gamin

One of my favorite chapters in Les Miserables is one describing the concept of the Parisian gamin: a term coined by Hugo for what’s essentially a street urchin, a la Oliver Twist. It’s to introduce one of my favorite characters, a gamin named Gavroche. I loved his incessant energy, his childlike self-importance, and his kindness hidden behind playful snark. Although he is small, Hugo sees the gamine as important enough to devote a wonderful chapter to describing the term. Why? Because, “The gamin embodies Paris and Paris embodies the world.”

Hidden places.

So to understand the city, and I suppose the world, I wanted to understand Paris through the perspective of a gamin. And as a gamin, a personification. Before I go on, I have to note that when I speak of gamins and Gavroche I speak of the fictional idea of the gamin and not the very real experience of actual homelessness in Paris. One is a concept and archetype of fiction and the other is a very different experience that is not representative of whimsy, or wonder, or any characteristic of the gamin that I will attempt to describe. 

Anyway, Gavroche is a child of the streets, “If you were to ask that huge city, ‘what is that?’ it would reply, ‘That’s my little one.’”.  Gavroche is something like a prince, he commands the crevices, and corners, and side streets. He lives in the limerance of the public street instead of inside: everywhere and nowhere at once.  

The latter is a feeling I often experience when traveling. Wandering into every store and bistro trying to get as much of a Parisian experience as possible despite my achieving feet. The novelty of every detail is exciting but also a reminder that I’m a tourist, I don’t quite belong. 

That sense only intensified when I was stuck in Saint-Germain during a vicious downpour without an umbrella. I was forty-five minutes away from my apartment and too far from the nearest metro station to avoid getting soaked. I spent about an hour hurring into any dry alcove, pretending I belonged in bistros I wasn’t a customer in, slipping into any open shop I could find until I was kicked out. Watching the street crouched on the ground and from behind secret entrances to dry alcoves made me wonder if this is how Gavroche experienced Paris. Darting from the public street to secret places only known to him safely out of sight. 

Watching the street from a dry spot.

But the gamin does not limit himself to the side streets. “Try to think of something that Paris does not have.” Hugo dares. It’s not unearned confidence. There’s an overwhelming sense of possibility here because there’s so much squeezed in one city block. Like Paris, the gamin feels boundless. Gavroche does not feel like he isn’t worthy of anywhere. Nothing is off-limits. Not even the giant plaster elephant monument Napoleon once placed at the Bastille (yes, it was real, look it up), without any reverence or fielty, he uses it’s interior as his secret hideout. This has a political undertone to it. “He sometimes has a home… but he prefers the street because there he finds freedom.” In studying the French Revolution it seems that French history often has patterns of trading discomfort for the pursuit of freedom and the mistrust of boundaries. 

The gamin’s sense of limitless is also reflected in the experience of the city streets. The winding quality of the streets, the way you can walk through a nondescript door into a massive courtyard or unexpected art museum that’s invisible from the street, the way I walked around the Marais for two hours and realized I only saw a tiny slice of it. 

Another sense of expanse in this city is the possibility of contradiction and contrast. Gavroche is uncivil and rough, he has a “hatred of the respectable citizen” and “fishes in the gutter” but he is also a respectable citizen when he spends a few sous to go to the theater. In the popular American imagination, Paris is a flawless postcard of uniform cream colored avenues and adorable terraces. It meets that expectation but as this is an actual city there are trashbags, and litter, and scaffolding leaned up against luxury boutiques and quaint apartment windows overflowing with postcard-perfect bougainvilleas.

It has a history of both great sophistication and ruthlessness: in school I was taught of much of French history as both a role model and a cautionary tale. It’s strange to stand around the Place de la Concorde near quaint bistros and a museum housing Monet and other quintessential markers of sophistication while thinking about how rivers of blood ran through the cobblestone. 

On that note of the theater, the gamin appreciates the finer things. Hugo said “Give a person the unnecessary and deprive him of the essential, what you have is the gamin.” In the downpour many Parisians were not worried about seeking shelter. Most preferred to get cold and soaked if it meant savoring their outdoor table at a bistro with their friends. I think in many other places they would grumble and get in their cars with the heat cranked to max or demand an inside seat. The street might be cleared within an hour. And there’s a sense of indulgence in nicheness and beauty for the sake of beauty.

Walking around Saint-Germain, I passed by countless art galleries and shops selling just one item: handmade pottery, door handles, combs, handmade custom wallpaper. All with limited hours and a nice clientele. Some were luxury but others weren’t at all. Things that probably aren’t as profitable as a supermarket or a Home Goods, but that indulge small moments of beauty and excitement.  

We can attempt to define the gamin but the gamin is so vast and contradictory that perhaps, like Paris, it is undefinable. But I think Hugo’s characterization of it it as a child with endless possibility and spirit because everything is unknown and in front of them might be a good place to start.

Fitting In

The rooftops of Paris, taken from Montmartre

There are rules in Paris. Rules for everything – be polite but definitely not too polite, be quiet, never wear sweatpants out, make sure your makeup is done by your 8am Metro, ‘faire la bise’ [the peck on each cheek as a greeting], don’t have dinner before 8pm, don’t sit on the grass, and never, ever, make eye contact in the streets. The Parisians have a certain grace about them; they are soft-spoken, gentle until aggravated, and completely in love with their city. There is a certain artform in being a Parisian. ‘Flâneurs’ at heart, the Parisians are never in too much of a rush, never stressed, never without a cigarette, and never not basking in the beauty of their home turf.

A Londoner through and through, I am used to a very different font of city. My city is all about rush, all about complaining, all about getting from A to B quickly. In London, I smile as I pass someone by on the street, I laugh loudly on the tube, I eat when I want and I wear whatever I want. In London most conversations begin with a complaint – ‘the weather is just awful today – there are too many tourists in the summer – the traffic is such a drag.’ This is bog-standard London; we really like to complain.

To me, London is a melting pot; my family are German, my left-side neighbours are Italian, the right -American. My school was sprinkled with different languages, different opinions, different people. My first boyfriend was Swedish, and my best friend was Russian. And yet, we were all Londoners at heart.

A map of Paris’ Arrondissements

Paris is different. Rather than a melting pot, I’d call Paris more of a salad bowl. There are lots of different people here but they’re very much separate. The system of Arrondissements does a good job in keeping it this way. My understanding of the various neighborhoods is as follows: the first and second are for the extremely wealthy to live and the tourists to visit. The third and fourth – ‘Le Marais’ – is for the younger people, full of bustling bars and cute shops; it is also known as the Jewish quarter, as well as the largest LGBT area of Paris. The fifth is the Latin quarter, the sixth is home to the existentialists. The eighth is the sanctuary of the fashion houses, the chicest shopping streets, and luxury hotels. The sixteenth is perhaps the most residential area, and where I am currently staying. It is a far more homely than the other areas I have mentioned, full of little playgrounds and vast apartment blocks. There are some nice restaurants, but the scene is mainly older and far more expensive. That was a very brief run-down of the city, but I think it serves to show something about Paris. Here, they like to keep things separate.

Paris in the rain

While I have lived in Paris, I never became Parisian. Not for lack of trying, I did everything I was told to do, but I am not from Paris and so I can never be. Edmund White writes about the ‘Flâneur’ and what it means to be Parisian and as I walk around the city I can see everything he wrote come to life. Intriguingly, he explains that Paris is ‘a mild hell so comfortable that it resembles heaven… The French have such an attractive civilization… that the foreigner is quickly seduced into believing that if he can only become a Parisian he will at last master the art of living.’ There is something uniquely beautiful and romantic in the idea of Paris. Paris is a dream, an aspiration. Paris is love, elegance, beauty and history, Paris is its monuments, its people, its food. And yet, to me, Paris is often unfriendly and cold and hard to become part of.

Something I have noticed is that Paris doesn’t change with the rest of the world. My mother lived here from 1990- 2001; 19 years later , I moved here. When she came to settle me in, she took me to all the same restaurants she loved at my age, and almost every time she would exclaim in pure joy: ‘Ah the menu never changes!’ Unlike her, I like change, I like watching the cities I love change. London is constantly changing; I leave for a semester in LA to come back and find everything different. My favorite coffee shop replaced by my new favourite nail salon, my favourite restaurant has become a cool new thrift shop and so on… Change is exciting!

A lone flâneur

As I reflect on this I realize that maybe it is my mind-set that has to change. I have a love-hate relationship with this city. Having lived here during the year of lockdown, I am used to a very different Paris than the one we get to explore during these three weeks. For me, Paris meant strict regimes, armed policemen, and curfew. It still feels wrong every time I walk out of my apartment and into shops, cafes, and bars. Gatherings were strictly ‘Interdit’ [forbidden] and here we are, a group of 17 walking around the now densely populated streets. The fact that we can saunter in and out of galleries and museums, take the metro, drink a coffee, and have a baguette in a café and really enjoy ourselves still feels so new to me here. And yet – Paris has changed! In the aftermath of the Covid years, things are different, and it’s exciting!

Maybe I will never be Parisian, but that does not mean I cannot love this city. I have realized over the last week how so much of my perception of Paris is based on a time where nothing was as it should be. My idea of Paris is polluted with the Covid years. There is so much to love here, and yes – it is different to what I know, it is nothing like London. But there is beauty in that too, and if I cannot see that then I am just as bad as the Paris I was criticizing. 

Paris: An Anthology of Churches

If there’s one thing that Catholicism is known for, it’s the incredible grandeur and utter beauty of its churches. Why else would millions of travelers visit famous Basilicas and Cathedrals every year, regardless of their own religious tradition? The answer is simple: stained glass and staggering architecture.

I grew up in the Catholic Church, and before USC, my 13-year education was made up entirely of Catholic schooling, so I have been to my fair share of beautiful Catholic churches. A few notable ones include St. Peter’s Basilica and the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City, the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception in Washington D.C., several of the Catholic Missions in California, and many smaller local churches with beautiful gothic influence. Even with this background, I have never seen a place with a density of gorgeous churches that could ever compare to Paris. 

Saint Gervais and Saint Protais Church

Thus far, we have had 4 days of exploration in France. We are averaging about 1.5 churches per day, and as a result, my camera roll is growing by hundreds of photos a day. Clearly I, as well as millions of other tourists, cannot get enough of the gorgeous stained-glass storytelling that decorates the walls of every church I pass.

On the first day, we visited a church in the 4th arrondissement called Saint Gervais and Saint Protais Church. (Note: arrondissement is like a district. Paris has 20 of them, and I am *finally* getting the hang of what’s where.) From the outside, this church looked large, but quiet and under-visited. There were hardly any people on the corner where it sat, and it had little-to-no signage that would indicate its significance, so naturally, I assumed it wouldn’t be very cool, because it’s hard to evade the grasp of Paris’ many tourists. As we entered the large red doors, I was blown away, not only by its high ceilings and beautiful stained glass, but the fact that a church this quiet and unassuming could be this beautiful. If anything, it made me anxiously excited to see what was to come in the higher-traffic churches ahead.

A scaffolded Notre Dame

The next day, we visited two absolutely amazing edifices: Notre Dame and Saint-Chapelle. Both sitting in the middle of the Seine, on the Île de la Cité, these churches have been visited by many for how gorgeous they are. Unfortunately, the devastating fire that engulfed Notre Dame’s roof in 2019 is still horribly felt in 2023. Several stories of scaffolding hide the flying buttresses and the spot where the gorgeous spire once stood. We could only take in this architectural masterpiece from afar under the circumstances, but its staggering face still draws dense crowds, happy to take a peek at whatever they can see through the construction. Across the Île stands a tiny chapel, incomparable to the side of Notre Dame, called Saint-Chapelle. I had never heard of this before, so I was completely surprised by what it had in store. I stepped into what used to be a private royal chapel and was met with the most incredible stained glass I have ever seen (and I mean EVER). In every direction, there was a Bible story depicted in extremely detailed glass, creating a kaleidoscope of a room when it is looked at from further back. Honestly, I was at a loss for words, and when I learned that it was built all the way back in 1248, I was all the more impressed. Also, for artwork this incredible to have been spared in all of the terrors and wars that have occurred in Paris over the last 800 years is absolutely remarkable. My least favorite part of the whole experience was having to leave. I could have stared at those vibrant, multicolored stories forever.

The breathtaking kaleidoscope of Saint-Chapelle

White flowers over unmarked graves

On Thursday, we made our way to the Chapelle Expiatoire. While this chapel could never measure up to Saint-Chapelle in its beauty, its history is uniquely poignant and powerful. The Chapelle Expiatoire sits humbly in the 8th arrondissement, looking almost like a typical Parisian corner, that is, until you step inside. A plot of beautiful white flowers separates two rows of largely-unmarked gravestones. This chapel was built on the site of a mass grave that was dug for the hundreds of beheaded casualties of the French Revolution, famously including Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette (who were eventually relocated to a more *exciting* place to be buried). On such an unassuming corner, it was haunting to walk over sites that housed horrific scenes of death without dignity only two centuries ago.

A large organ in the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prais

Friday’s exploration treated us to yet another incredible church. In the 6th arrondissement, the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés stands under a considerable amount of scaffolding (which is kind of a trend, im noticing). The inside, however, was filled with gorgeous ceilings, domes, and of course, stained glass. There is so much that can be absorbed by a slow stroll around an old church, and the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Pres was no different. Around each corner, I found incredibly detailed windows and statues, with everything complemented by the vibrant ceiling. 

In these four days, we visited too many Cathedrals, Basilicas, Abbeys, and Chapels to adequately explain them all without sounding redundant, but in less than a week, I have come to appreciate Paris as a true anthology of churches. On every square, there is yet another edifice, full of beauty, ready to be explored by passers-by. Each has their own unique origin, purpose, and story to tell its visitors, and at the same time, they all feel as though they are connected, creating a timeline of the influence of Catholicism and its incredible architecture on this great city. 

Beyond the Baguette

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

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

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

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

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

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

Passing the cafés and boulangeries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learning to Loiter

In Edmund White’s “The Flaneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris”, the author identifies the defining characteristic of Parisians: they like to loiter! “The flâneur is by definition endowed with enormous leisure, someone who can take off a morning or afternoon for undirected ambling. since a specific goal or a close rationing of time is antithetical to the true spirit of the flâneur”( White 2). White names “flaneurs” to be the continuers of a long legacy of French metropolitans to wander leisurely through the city. For centuries, flaneurs have mapped out Paris, learning as they walk through all of Her winding alleyways and observe her colorful inhabitants.

In our expeditions as a unit, I have taken in much of Paris, but I also recognize that this is not what White talks of when he references the lifestyle of the flaneur. A flaneur wanders, takes their time, and perhaps does not even have an end destination. Although I have greatly enjoyed soaking in Paris, and many different sides of Paris, with our outings, I know that I still have to learn how to loiter if I would like to access the most truthful Parisian experience.

Unfortunately since joining this trip, I have gotten pink eye (??? why), a sore throat, and finally a savage headache/cold combo! What horrid luck! Due to my illness(es), I had to take a sick day- in other words, I found fabulous flaneur freetime. With no goal in sight, except for a Farmacy*, I began my loitering. After leaving my accommodation, I bravely and resolutely decided to turn right with nothing but a dream. Immediately I began to people watch; I noticed a pair of tourists turn into a small neighborhood clothing store, an older man smoking a cigarette with his knees crossed surveying the street with a dutiful gaze, a van full of French militarymen (many of whom stared at me right back with a slightly different intention I can imagine) tumble by, and many more characters. I had left making the careful and conscious decision to abandon my beloved headphones in favor of hearing the chatter and hubbub of the streets. I listened to the melodic conversations of passing locals- from lovingly bickering parents to excitedly chattering girls who repeated “Barbie '' amongst a flurry of other words. I heard the small cars scooter by with putt’s and brrr’s, fellow flaneur feet scuff the pavement, and the cafes bustle on every street.

Although I could barely swallow, my eyes were tearing up, and my nose was runny, I was thoroughly content. To me, it was obvious I was not a local, so I was surprised when a middle-aged woman paused me on the street to inquire about something. She confidently purred “excusamoi” with the intention of asking a question but upon seeing my deer-in-headlights expression as I coughed out an American “oh! I-”, she cut me off with an eyeroll and a French scoff before brushing past me. Yes, I was mildly insulted, but I also was mildly pleased. Like a flaneur, I was a part of the community, of the crowd!

Baudelaire describes the flaneur with their relationship to the community; “The crowd is his domain, as the air is that of the bird or the sea of the fish. His passion and creed is to wed the crowd. For the perfect flâneur, for the passionate observer, it's an immense pleasure to take up residence in multiplicity, in whatever is seething, moving, evanescent and infinite: you're not at home, but you feel at home everywhere; you see everyone, you're at the centre of everything yet you remain hidden from everybody —these are just a few of the minor pleasures of those independent, passionate, impartial minds whom language can only awkwardly define” (1). These lines particularly resonated with me, as this concept is both so familiar and uncomfortable to me. It is widely known that humans need community and connection to live meaningful lives, but as an introvert, I know that I would like a balance of being seen and being alone. But perhaps alone means something metaphorical as well; can you drain your “social battery” if you become part of the crowd and lose your identity in favor of the flaneur lifestyle. If you are a part of the domain itself, are you present or more isolated than ever?

Anonymity gives us both great confidence in belonging and deep sadness in isolation. White comes to a similar sentiment with the following lines: “Imagine dying and being grateful you'd gone to heaven, until one day (or one century) it dawned on you that your main mood was melancholy, although you were constantly convinced that happiness lay just around the next corner. That's something like living in Paris for years, even decades. It's a mild hell so comfortable that it resembles heaven” (5). I can see how LA and Paris are akin in this ideology. Sometimes it feels as though a city can swallow you whole whilst deceiving you into thinking you are actually finding yourself. Like living in any city, I have no doubt that Parisians experience both great happiness from their home and also great confusion as the character of the city interacts with their identity. As a transplant, I cannot judge the flaneur lifestyle until I can fully understand it- which I sense would take weeks, months, or even years!

After a brief pitstop at a computer lounge and coffee counter, I marched onward to behold a beautiful Farmacy*. When I felt the relief flood my body, I knew it would be a while before I could truly embrace the art of the loiterer. I was happier to find my destination than to enjoy my sickly scamper through the city streets. The lights atop the shop made my eyes water- but was it the cold or was it… tears? Like a kid in a candy shop I surveyed my destination with wonder; such beautiful packaging and such intriguing verbiage that, again, I could not understand a lick of. Leaving hugging my Strepsils lozenges and my Sudafed with the gentleness and euphoria similar to that of cradling a newborn child, I thought to myself, “ I have lots to learn from the flaneurs”.

The only picture I took on my adventure!

*let the record show to continue the alliteration, I made the conscious decision to make this an F and not a PH

If Dickens Took The Eurostar

*Warning: This blog contains spoilers for A Tale of Two Cities :)*

The Beautiful St. Pancras Station in London

I woke up at the early hour of about 6 o’clock on Monday morning. I hurried around my room, trying to gather every last belonging and scrambling to pack (as I should have done the night before) to be sure to arrive at St. Pancras Station at 7:54am. To my relief, my Uber came just in time and delivered me safely to the check in area for the Eurostar, with just enough time to grab a quick coffee and a ham and cheese croissant. To pass the time on the train, I read the TV monitor affixed to the cabin’s ceiling, which was proudly telling me all about the Eurostar’s record-smashing top speed of 347km/hr, and I listened to my 35 song country playlist from beginning to end. We dipped below the English Channel, and just like that, we surfaced in France and rolled into Gare du Nord, my very first introduction to Paris. It took a total of 3 hours (with reliable Wi-Fi and air conditioning, of course) from my first sip of my iced vanilla latte at St. Pancras to my first breath of Parisian air. 

The Arrival Platform in Paris

Unfortunately for Dickens’ characters, this 267 mile journey wasn’t so blissful. In the beginning of his novel, A Tale of Two Cities, one of the main characters, Mr. Lorry, is on his way to Paris to oversee the operations of the Parisian branch of Tellson’s Bank. He rides as one of three passengers on a mail coach, which already seems to me like a less-than-luxurious way of travel, but unfortunately, riding in a seat on that mail coach would have been the best case scenario. As these characters trudge down Dover road to Dover, where they will meet their boat to take them across the English Channel, they are met with particularly muddy circumstances. You see, they actually have to walk, step by step, through the mud because the horses cannot carry the weight of the people and the mail through the sinking, soaked-dirt road. 

Dickens writes “With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints.” Doesn’t sound particularly enjoyable, if you ask me. He continues, “There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it has roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none.” 

Hearing this testimony in my head while also hearing the quiet snores of my fellow passengers on the Eurostar threw my perspective of the novel into a total time-warp. Obviously, I knew that Mr. Lorry and his co-travelers were not living in a time of automated vehicles or large reclined seats with drop-down footrests, but I failed to recognize the effects of the slow (and difficult) travel time on business proceedings at the time, as well as its effects on the French Revolution as a whole.

If Mr. Lorry could have made it from London to Paris in a matter of 136 minutes, the set-up of our story, which begins with a fateful piece of mail being brought to Mr. Lorry by means of interception on Dover road, would not exist. Also, the ease of travel that we take for granted now would have changed the speed of communication and the very connection of two of the most influential Western European cities, changing the history altogether, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Instead of letting this argument get out of hand, let's say, for instance, that everything else stays the same, but later in the novel, Charles Darnay could have taken the Eurostar instead of his painstaking journey to England. Would Carton have needed to take his place in the execution? Would he have made the decision to take his family to England and denounce his French surname if he knew going to England wasn’t really that far away? Would different lives have been saved? Or lost?

The Eurostar Information TV

Bookpacking has been an excellent environment to grapple with unanswerable questions like these. As we wander around places that held so much significance to both fictional and historical characters, we get to see the changes that have been made over the last 200+ years. On our journey from London to Paris, I found that speed is perhaps the most important thing that has changed since the days of A Tale of Two Cities (and indoor plumbing because…yuck), but the changes in communication and travel are of the utmost importance in the development and unfolding of a story as impactful as this one. 

Now, as I head off into the streets of Paris, I intend to find all the unique pieces of history that I can, while appreciating the speed at which I can do it.

Is it the best of times or the worst of times? I don’t know because I don’t speak French

The last few chapters of A Tale of Two Cities are not exactly meant to be funny, but I found myself giggling just a bit as all the events unfolded into an utterly chaotic finale. While Sydney Carton’s end was certainly notable—perhaps a little predictable, to unleash my inner critic—the death that really stuck with me was Madame Defarge.

Who is Madame Defarge? Is she the brutal commander of the Reign of Terror, or is she a victim of monarchy and elitism? Well it’s not a great question because the answer is both, and that’s what makes her death so interesting to me. She faces off against the headstrong Miss Pross, personal assistant to the somewhat hollow Lucie Manette. Madame Defarge rampages through Lucie’s former residence while Miss Pross attempts to block her, and after getting into a scuffle, Defarge dies by the bullet of her own misfired gun. Dramatic to say the least, but what really elevates this scene is the dialogue.

Across the span of these several pages, the two speak to each other in different languages. Insults, rages, snarkiness hurled in French by Defarge, responded to in English by Pross.

It’s a very extreme example of a language barrier, but it’s honestly the part of the book that I relate to the most. In Paris, I’ve been in countless boulangeries, chocolatiers, and cafes sparring with my butchered French. Sometimes I win, getting through a massive, two-sentence interaction in French without bursting into tears. Other times, the cashier gives me a sympathetic look, and I cave in.

“Parlez-vous Anglais?”

Sometimes it’s a oui. A lot of the time, it’s a non. And it’s the latter type of incident that reminds me of the bubble I grew up in, the kind that makes me appreciate what it’s like living in a country where you don’t speak the lingua franca. What I’ve even further discovered, however, is that a bit of humility can go a long way. I have often found a sense of camaraderie when the other person and I stumble upon some middle ground of Franglish and hand gestures. Coming from a country that is severely monolingual and often prejudiced towards others on that notion, there is a real beauty in such a connection.

Maybe I’m biased considering that neither of my parents are native English speakers living in America. My entire life, I have spoken both Urdu and English, helping to translate street signs and bank tellers for them. It is deeply painful to me that so many Americans have looked at my mom like she’s unintelligent because she doesn’t speak English fluently, when those same people can hardly communicate with the majority of the world.

The stereotype is that American tourists expect Parisians to speak English consistently and fluently. It is certainly true, but especially in a subtle way. I have noticed that as Americans, we tend to jump right into English without attempting any French. Not to get on a high horse because I’m sure I’ve slipped into this habit myself, but it truly is a bit disrespectful. Certainly, a lot of the Americans I know would be a bit peeved if my mom instantly started talking to them in Urdu.

My point isn’t to berate anyone because nobody is perfect. Rather, I would encourage failure. Someone switching right into English after you talk to them in French isn’t rude—it’s them appreciating the gesture and respecting everyone’s time. It’s okay if that happens. Really, it is. At a boulangerie I went to, for instance, I was stuck in a crisis of knowing how to order a flan. In shaky words, I asked the woman behind the counter, “Je voudrais un flan?”

She said something I couldn’t quite understand. And then she smiled.

“Would you like anything else?” I laughed and told her no. We finished up the transaction, and for a good twenty minutes, enjoyed my dessert in the bakery. As I got up to leave, she motioned at me.

“Did you like it?” She beamed.

“Yes, it was very delicious, thank you.”

She nodded and bid me farewell—a thank you and au revoir. I’m a sentimental person, but I found this little part of my day extraordinary because it was just one more example of the hospitality I have found in France, a country that is known for its terseness at times. I could also talk about the shawarma place I went to, where the cashier sat me down and immediately pulled a chair for me, even though he didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak French nor Arabic. Or, I could go back to the chocolatier, where I asked the woman if she spoke French or Spanish, and though knowing neither, understood my request for hot chocolate in seconds.

The point is that there are imprudent people everywhere, but the vast majority of Parisians—and pertinent to mention, people from non-European countries—are more than happy to share a piece of their culture with a person who tries their best to understand them instead of demand something, be it an experience or a product. To have a Defarge-Pross conversation is really not that terrible so long as there aren’t any guns involved.

I’m trying to keep these principles in mind ws we visit the different sites this class entails to understand our literature. In museums and cultural sites like the Bastille, I try to first engage with the French I see as much as I can, recognizing familiar words and piecing together a conjecture of what I’m being told. From there, I switch into English by translating on my phone and find out if I’m somewhat correct or totally off the mark. In any case, the effort I put into it proves rewarding because I get a more intimate experience with the place. I like to think of it as a French-first mindset, stepping into a place as a visitor and observer rather than someone entitled to be there.

Of course, such situations also remind me that I have a privilege in carrying an American passport. It allows me to delve deep into societies around me while retaining my membership in the West. The reputation Americans have abroad is fair because it’s true. We are exercising a certain kind of power when we take the availability of English as a given. Never mind just France—many of us avoid places outside of Europe because of language barriers and stick to the domains we know. Once again, so long as the other person isn’t Madame Defarge, a language barrier is not an impediment to a journey—actually, it’s an enrichment.

One of the many croissants I’ve eaten, a beautiful byproduct of the language barriers I’ve encountered.

Two Cities, One Journey

My European adventure has been filled with many highs and lows. For every breathtaking view and rich cultural experience, there seemed to be a restless night or a bout of sickness waiting just around the corner. It wasn't all picture-perfect moments; there were hiccups and mishaps, but that's real travel for you, or so I’ve been told. So, with mixed emotions and a suitcase full of memories, I found myself on a Eurostar train at dawn, saying farewell to London and setting sights on Paris.

After immersing myself in the hustle and bustle of London for 10 days, my journey on the Eurostar whisked me into a different world. London had its own charisma, a blend of historical gravitas and modern vibrancy. But for some reason, Paris felt more like “Europe”. Everywhere I looked, there were old buildings, cool bridges, and streets that felt so different from London. And the language? Suddenly, I was surrounded by people speaking French. It was like I'd stepped into a movie!

As soon as I set foot on the Rue Saint Antoine, the very heartbeat of Paris in 'A Tale of Two Cities,' I could sense the city's pulse. The past seemed to converge with the present as I sought the Ste.-Catherine Fountain. Standing there, one could almost hear the distant rumble of the Marquis' coach, which took the life of an innocent child. The streets whispered secrets, leading me to what might've been the wine shop of the infamous Defarges. Every cobblestone seemed soaked in history, pointing to stories of revolution, love, and sacrifice.

My next stop was the remnants of La Force, a medieval prison that once confined Charles Darnay. While the original structure of the Bastille might be lost to time, its spirit lingers around Place de la Bastille. Such places challenge the imagination, making the line between Dickens's fiction and Parisian history blur.

Next up on my journey was the Île de la Cité. Right at its center stands the iconic Notre Dame. Just one look from the outside and you can feel the sheer grandeur of its Gothic architecture. I truly wished I could've taken in its full magnificence. And just a short walk from there, was the Sainte-Chapelle. Honestly, its mesmerizing stained-glass windows felt as if they were capturing a piece of the sky.

Continuing with the class, the Palais de Justice and the Conciergerie took me deeper into the narrative of the Revolution. Walking the very halls where Darnay was tried, the weight of the stories the walls might tell felt palpable. The Conciergerie, with its somber history, was especially haunting. Here, Darnay awaited his execution, a fate so many faced during the turbulent times.

In the midst of Paris’s haunting stories, I found pockets of vibrancy and tales of grandeur. Strolling by Pont Neuf, the oldest standing bridge across the Seine, I felt a tangible connection to history. There, standing tall, was the statue of Henry IV, evoking tales of valor and kingship. The contrast between this and the darker facets of the city made Paris all the more intriguing.

Our class traced Sidney Carton’s fateful path, winding through Rue de Rivoli and Rue St Honoré. I've read about it, of course, but walking it? That’s an entirely different affair. As my feet moved almost instinctively along the cobbled streets, memories of Dickens' descriptions filled my thoughts. I could almost hear the foreboding echo of death-carts, and the whispers of those about to meet their end at La Guillotine. While some might just see streets bustling with tourists and shoppers, I was transported back in time, captivated by the raw emotions and tumultuous events depicted by Dickens. Paris, for me, became a beautiful tapestry of light and shadow, each thread telling its own story.

The Place de l’Odéon with its famed bookshops was a reader's haven. Dickens and Hugo's words were no longer just words – they were alive in the very air of Paris. And this was just the beginning.

The city of Paris, with its rich history and enchanting architecture, was proving to be everything I had dreamed of. By the fifth day, I felt like a budding Parisian, weaving through its picturesque streets, exploring every nook and cranny around my dormitory. On one of my morning walks, a little bakery nestled between aged stone buildings called out to me. The aroma of freshly baked goods wafted through the air, beckoning passersby. I was immediately captivated by a particular pizza, its crust golden-brown and tantalizing crispy, with a price tag that pleasantly surprised my student budget - just three euros!

While I had been brushing up on my French before my journey, I wasn't exactly fluent. So, armed with my smartphone for assistance, I asked the baker about the pizza’s ingredients. "Fromage," he replied. Cheese. Simple enough, right? Well, not quite. My first few bites were delightful; the flavor, sublime. But then came the unexpected crunch of nuts hidden beneath the layer of melted cheese. My heart skipped a beat, realizing the unforeseen ingredient.

Despite the initial shock, this experience was a testament to the beauty and unpredictability of immersing oneself in a foreign culture. Sure, there are challenges, like my minor nut allergy flaring up, but there's also growth. Swiftly, I headed to a nearby pharmacy to manage the mild reaction, grateful for the city's abundant amenities.

Taking this experience in stride, I've since updated my phone’s lock screen with key dietary notes in French. This way, I can communicate more effectively with eateries and hopefully avoid any future surprises. It's all part of the journey, learning and adapting, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

During my recent two week sojourn in Europe, both Paris and London have embraced me warmly. The locals exude genuine kindness and hospitality, the cuisine has been nothing short of exquisite, and there's an undeniable positive energy that pervades every street and alleyway.

The Sound of Silence

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

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

— Paris Study Center Employee

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

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

A Polish library I saw outside of a cafe!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorials and Museum: Agency after Death

As someone who fluctuates between completely resigned to the nothingness of death and unduly terrified of the oblivion of it, memorials and graves fascinate me. In particular, the way that our entire being is reduced to memories and representations causes me to take interest in the spaces memorializing death, whether graveyards, monuments, or statues. Because we lose all agency over the perception of us upon death, I try and approach these memorial spaces themselves as places of agency, envisioning whether the dead would like their place of rest, and try and return to them some sort of agency at least within my thoughts, while doing my best not to take their agency for myself.

If I were to be buried anywhere within the places we visited, it would be the parks. The frequent green spaces within the city were full of people picnicking, exercising, and enjoying the outdoors. I frequently went to Russell Square park to do my reading. The hedges lining the park provided a shrouded atmosphere and an isolation itself shrouded in peace. The statues in these parks were part and parcel of the fantastical atmosphere of these parks, especially when I didn’t recognize the subject of the statues. As if the statue could be anyone. Stepping into these parks felt like stepping out of time, or out of the city, to anywhere, at any place.

But the statues I did recognize were wonderful too: especially the statue of Virginia Woolf in Tavistock Square. I think she would be happy with her representation in this memorial. From shoulder up, she sits on a plaque with her name, with an expression that can’t be mistaken for anything but abject horror at the world. Partially due to her statue’s lack of pupils, you’re forced to wonder what she saw to give her this impression. I have to imagine she would wittily respond something about seeing the world as it is, and everyone else being the odd ones for not permanently having an expression of horror carved onto their face. The cut of her statue is also rough, as if the work was made to look like it was done carelessly, or suffered excessive weathering. I think both are apt. I also think Woolf would have been unhappy with a more conventional statue, and might have chipped into it herself. But the tragedy of death is that we’ll never know her answer, and the representation will have to stand regardless of whether she agrees with it or not.

London’s blue plaques are the most common memorials I saw, placed onto buildings and commemorating people of historical importance. The vast majority of the blue plaques are placed onto nondescript buildings, making the historical feel almost contemporary, as if the people from the plaques might still be there and don’t wish to be disturbed. Many historical places don’t even receive plaques, including the bar where Marx originally spread his ideas in London, now a nondescript bar with no physical inscription of its history, only passed down to those in the know. If I had to guess whether Marx would like that bar to have a plaque, I’d unconfidently wager yes.

The Karl Marx plaque stood out to me, plastered onto a nondescript apartment where anyone could have lived, a fitting placement. The plaque itself contains little information, only his name, birth and death, and the years he lived in the building. While most plaques contain title such as “philosopher,” “advocate,” or “scientist,” his is left blank. I imagine any description would be divisive, so the easiest answer was to leave it without title. Immediately next to it flies the UK flag, garishly large, and blocks the plaque from many angles. The flag might have been placed out of defiance, or might be unrelated to the plaque entirely. I’m not sure if one is worse than the other. My favorite blue plaque we visited as a group was the demarcation of the murder site of Nancy in Oliver Twist, inscribed just below the mention of the surviving fragments of the London Bridge and its creator, on the same plaque. For me, this plaque is a physical sign of how literature and stories create a discourse of their own that add to, and even define locations. It’s also a testament to how stories of fiction can be stronger than stories of truth.

We also visited Westminster Abbey, another site of memorial and burial, where many heads-of-state, actors, writers, scientists, and other notable people lie. My first impression when entering the ornately gothic church was that I would absolutely hate to be buried here. The place was crowded, and the abbey was arranged so that one could only progress through it in a linear fashion, like one long queue surrounded by the dead. Many of the graves were on the ground, so that the tourist hordes literally trod on their resting places. Death was turned to spectacle.

But being spectacle doesn’t mean the site wasn’t powerful or thought-provoking. The intricate tilework, gothic archways, and flying buttress-supported ceilings challenge the notion that death is a true democratizer – not just anyone could be buried here. The vast number of royalty buried there – most of whom were notable solely for being royalty – confirm that. Past the royalty by the end of the spectacle-death-queue was the poet’s corner – for me, the most interesting part of the abbey. There, lay Lord Byron, Dylan Thomas, George Eliot, C.S. Lewis, Charles Dickens, among others. Having read their work, I came here with the sense that I had some understanding of who they were. Seeing them as bodies under a grave made me recant that. I wonder if they chose to be buried there, or if they would like what their burial site has become. I think Charles Dickens would. The others, I think, would be unhappy.

The British Museum was a decisively different experience for me. While I might be able to appreciate the curatorial work that was done for it and the archaeological value of the items on display, I left feeling unsettled, and left after only 1 hour before I felt worse than simply unsettled. The controversy over the British Museum is not ground-break, and I don’t know if I have anything to add beyond my own subjective experience. But for me, the museum felt like a celebration of colonialism, or a continuation of it. Every room had items with plaques labeling them as from a country outside the UK, mostly countries outside of Europe. In fact, I couldn’t find an angle in the room that wasn’t primarily non-british items on display. Leaving the museum, I noticed a sign advertising “new acquisitions.” I couldn’t help but think of myself, being in the British Museum, as one of the “new acquisitions.”

Transitions

Bonjour, everyone! What an exciting week it has been as we journeyed from London to the magical city of Paris. The shift from one vibrant metropolis to another was truly a remarkable experience, and I must say, Paris felt like an entirely different world that I instantly fell in love with. The captivating vibes, the exquisite architecture, and the delightful bakeries adorning every corner had me enchanted from the very beginning. Transitioning from London to Paris after spending ten wonderful days in the former was an exhilarating change. The language barrier, though challenging, added an element of adventure to my daily interactions. Attempting to communicate in my rather unpolished French with servers and locals made for some amusing yet enjoyable conversations. Admittedly, mastering the language is still a work in progress, but the effort to immerse myself in the local culture has been rewarding. Beyond language, the architectural transition between the two cities was equally fascinating. Parisian buildings exude a captivating charm, seemingly infused with life and history. Each stroll through the city reveals a treasure trove of diverse and exquisite buildings, which has become one of my favorite pastimes during this trip. Best of all, the transition of food was my favorite. We went from the relatively lackluster British food to savory, buttery pastries and French food. So far, one of my favorite things to do has been to try out a lot of the local bakeries and find pastries that I really enjoy eating.

The obelisk at the Place de la Concorde seen with the Eiffel Tower in the background

In the enchanting embrace of Paris, a city steeped in history and beauty, we embarked on a journey of transitions, retracing the paths of the past while embracing the pulse of the present. Among the myriad of captivating experiences, one stood out as profoundly impactful - a walk along the route once traveled by prisoners and Sydney Carton en route to the unforgiving guillotine during the tumultuous French Revolution. As we stepped through history, each step evoked a mix of emotions, a tapestry of reflections on how times have changed and how this very place had witnessed the transformation of human existence. The culminating moment came upon reaching the Place de la Concorde, where the echoes of the past coexisted harmoniously with the vibrant present. In this place of poignant significance, the words of Charles Dickens' novel, A Tale of Two Cities, materialized before my eyes, and I could almost hear the resounding echoes of his prose, painting vivid images of courage, sacrifice, and redemption. I marveled at the transition of this once somber ground, now transformed into a captivating monument that embraces the spirit of Parisian life, with the iconic Eiffel Tower gracefully soaring in the backdrop. This juxtaposition of past and present illuminated the power of transitions, transcending eras and weaving together the tapestry of time. Each location we visited during our walk through Paris whispered the stories of its transformation, inviting me to immerse myself in the evolving history and cherish the richness of each moment. In these encounters, I discovered the captivating magic of walking amidst the footsteps of history, allowing me to traverse the ages, witnessing the beauty of transitions, and envisioning the unfolding narratives that have shaped the soul of Paris.

The beautiful arches of the Conciergerie

One place that profoundly captured the essence of these metamorphoses was the historic Conciergerie within the majestic Palais de Justice. As I ventured into the shadowy halls filled with mesmerizing arches, an overwhelming sense of awe washed over me, realizing the sheer scale of this historical landmark exceeded my expectations. At that moment, my thoughts began to bridge the gap between the past and the present, as I delved into the history of this place, interwoven with the echoes of Charles Dickens' timeless narrative, A Tale of Two Cities Enveloped in the walls of the Conciergerie, I found myself transported to a time when it was more than just a museum open to the public; it was a place of immense sorrow and despair. The very symmetrical archways that now stood in stately silence once bore witness to countless souls awaiting their fates at the merciless guillotine. The weight of history hung unmistakably in the air, and I could almost hear the whispers of fear and anguish that once filled these very halls. Yet, amidst this profound historical transition, I felt a stirring of empathy and compassion, envisioning the harrowing conditions endured by those who were once confined within these cold, unforgiving walls. Through the lens of Dickens' storytelling, I could vividly imagine Charles Darnay's experience, confined to this somber place for over a year, battling with the inevitable fate of his life. The Conciergerie had undergone a profound transition from a place of oppression and sorrow to a beacon of historical preservation, preserving the moving legacy of the French Revolution. As I contemplated this transition, I was struck by the significance of every stone and archway, each imbued with layers of history that had witnessed the flow of human existence. I marveled at how the places we visited were not just stagnant historical sites but living testaments to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of storytelling.

My week in Europe has been a remarkable journey filled with both physical and emotional transitions. Stepping away from the vibrant energy of London, I found myself embraced by the more relaxed and enchanting atmosphere of Paris. Although the adjustment is still a work in progress, each passing day brings me closer to fully immersing myself in the Parisian charm. Beyond the physical shifts, my perspective on history underwent a profound transformation as well. As I explored the present day locations, I couldn't help but envision the stark contrasts they held in the past, serving as witnesses to the passage of time. What once stood as a harrowing site of violence and despair has now transitioned into a symbol of unity and peace, illuminating the indomitable resilience of the human spirit. It's an important reminder that humanity possesses the remarkable ability to evolve and emerge from even the darkest chapters of our collective history. As I continue on this journey, I'm astonished by the ever-changing landscapes, each one a testament to the power of transitions and the infinite potential for growth and renewal.