Following a Snotty Finale

If you asked me the last time I cried, like REALLY cried, I would tell you just a couple of weeks ago when I was finishing up Les Miserables. With 16 pages to go, I was a hyperventilating MESS wiping my nose on a nearby shirt (like a heathen) and trying to flip through the ending without getting tears on the pages. Please laugh at this video proof- I think its hilarious. I beg of you to read this book yourself so you can see exactly why I was sniffling and sobbing, but I shall let you in on a bit of it to understand a little of how Hugo sets up the ending.

“During the last months of spring and the first months of summer 1833, the occasional passer-by in the Marais, shopkeepers, people idling at the doorways, noticed an old man, neatly dressed in black, who every day at the same time, towards nightfall, emerged from Rue de l’Homme-Arme, on the Rue Ste-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie side, walked past Blancs-Manteux up to Rue Culture-Ste-Catherine, and at Rue de-l’Echarpe turned left to Rue St. Louis” (1273).

This man, of course, is an aging Jean Valjean. After Marius and Cosette have been married, they live happily ever after at Marius’ grandfathers’ house. Valjean is allowed to visit every night if he so chooses. When Valjean discloses his true identity to Marius and does not have Cosette’s company, he finds himself an outcast in his family. Although he is allowed to visit Cosette once a day, he slowly begins to come less and less as Marius grows more protective. He eventually stops coming for fear that he does not deserve to keep her in his life as an ex-con and she does not care for him now that she has a husband. As a class, we mapped this path that Valjean walks from his home (which is near the modern-day historically Gay part of the Marais), deeper into the city to the Pontmercy's house.

Here we can see part of the path Valjean took! This is the Rue Ste-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie.

“Little by little, the old man ceased to go as far as the corner of Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. He would stop halfway, in Rue St-Louis, sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little closer. One day he stopped at the corner of Rue Culture-Ste-Catherine and looked towards Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance. Then he silently shook his head, as if denying himself something, and he turned back” (1274).

One of the intersections Valjean does not go past when he walks to visit Cosette and Marius, but turns back.

This part of the story completely broke my heart because Valjean’s sacrifice has left him with nothing and no one can truly understand him. “The local women said, ‘He’s simple-minded.’ Children would follow after him laughing” (1274). Imagining Valjean, a strong man in an aging body, make this long journey everyday until he is broken by it is absolutely heart wrenching. It is a popular street and the Marais has always been a busy part of town; I can very clearly see this white-haired man with folds in his neck and a bent back struggling to make his way through crowds to visit his only family, only to decide it is pointless.

When he is living his final moments, Cosette and Marius visit him full of love and guilt that they should not have stayed away. They share a beautiful moment where Valjean soothes all of their thoughts and holds them both as he passes on. Although he has suffered throughout his entire life, always placing especially Cosette’s wellbeing before his own, he continues to choose love and forgiveness. To choose light everyday is incredibly hard, and yet Valjean can serve as an example for all of us. Although I heaved hilariously ridiculous sobs, I also smiled. This ending truly is remarkable and one I could re-read for hours, so I am so appreciative of being able to visit the sites of Valjean’s lonesome walk, but moreover, the places where he decided to love from afar and to forgive without bounds.

From Words to Wanderings: Exploring the Musée de Égouts de Paris and Beyond

As I approach the final days of my Parisian adventure, I find myself reminiscing about the captivating moments that have enriched this journey. Among the array of remarkable places we've explored throughout this week, one place stands out distinctly in my mind: the Musée de Égouts de Paris, also known as the Paris Sewer Museum. In a city adorned with architectural marvels and historical sites, the Musée de Égouts de Paris may appear modest at first glance. Yet, when viewed through the lens of bookpacking, a term that has become my travel companion, it transforms into a treasure trove of literary connections. This is where the stories from the pages truly come alive, mingling with the tangible elements of the past and present. Just as a book holds the power to transport us to different worlds, the Musée de Égouts de Paris offers a similar journey, immersing us in the depths beneath the charming streets. It's not just a museum; it's a portal that bridges fiction with reality, reminding me that literature isn't confined to pages but has the ability to echo through the places that inspired its creation.

Walking through the Musee de Egouts de Paris felt like a journey into the very arteries of the city's past. As I strolled along the pathways tracing the flow of water beneath the city, I found myself transported to the pages of Victor Hugo's masterpiece. The vivid imagery of Jean Valjean's emergence from the sewers, burdened by Marius yet determined to find a way to safety, seemed to echo in the subterranean passages around me. The connection between these two experiences is profound. Just as Hugo's words brought life to the subterranean world in "Les Misérables," the museum breathed life into the historical significance of the Parisian sewers. Standing at the crossroads of fiction and reality, I could almost feel the weight of Jean Valjean's footsteps as he navigated this underground world. His emergence from the depths marked a metaphorical rebirth, shedding his past and embracing a new destiny. In a similar fashion, the Musee de Egouts de Paris offered me a chance to metaphorically rise from the depths of history, gaining a fresh perspective on the layers of stories hidden beneath the city's surface. The very emotions that coursed through Valjean as he carried Marius to safety seemed to reverberate within those underground passages. As I peered into the darkness that comprised the sewers, a sudden realization washed over me—an sudden realization of the monumental struggle Valjean had endured throughout his journey. The novel's depiction of the sewers as an intricate labyrinth, a place enshrouded in darkness, sprang vividly to life before my eyes. This newfound comprehension resonated deeply, reshaping my empathy for Valjean. While I had always comprehended the motivations and sentiments that steered Valjean's actions, standing in the Musée de Égouts de Paris prompted a profound shift in my perspective. It was as if I had traversed directly into the book's pages, sensing the gravity of Valjean's burdens, his fears, and his determination as if they were my own. This immersive encounter transcended mere words on a page; it forged a connection that was both visceral and emotional. The act of bookpacking, in this instance, elevated my comprehension of Valjean's character to an entirely unprecedented level, granting me an even more profound admiration for the intricacies of his journey through the novel's unfolding narrative.

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Musée de Égouts de Paris

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Inside of Palais Garnier

As my time as a bookpacker this summer comes to a close, I can’t help but reflect on this whole month-long journey. Embarking on this captivating bookpacking journey has been an extraordinary odyssey that has not only enlightened my perspective on literature and travel but has also fundamentally reshaped my understanding of the profound interplay between the two. With each footstep, I traced the paths etched by literary icons like Valjean, Cosette, Javert, Carton, Madame Defarge, and Darnay, and in doing so, I forged an intimate bond with their stories that defies the constraints of time and space. This expedition has magnificently unveiled the truth that literature transcends the mere confines of its pages; it manifests in the cobblestone streets, the majestic edifices, and the hidden corners that whisper its tales. From the iconic allure of the Eiffel Tower that towers gracefully over the Seine to the Tower Bridge in London, every facet of Paris and London appears as a living testament to its vibrant history. Each encounter, each vista, felt like a profound encounter with the echoes of the past. Engaging in the act of bookpacking has masterfully transformed these cities from mere tourist destinations into reverberating vessels that transport me into the heart of both fictional realms and historical truths. As I prepare to leave these captivating cities and take stock of the experiences I've experienced, a strong sense of gratitude washes over me. This expedition has not only been an adventure strewn with exhilarating discoveries and profound realizations but also a conduit through which I have come to understand the unparalleled capacity of literature to bridge the chasm between the past and present. Much like the transformation of Jean Valjean, my journey through Paris's labyrinthine avenues and literary tapestries has been transformative. It has kindled an even greater appreciation for the way literature can illuminate the corridors of history and weave us all into the shared narrative of the human journey. These precious moments, etched into my consciousness, will undoubtedly continue to reverberate as I move forward. They will be a steadfast reminder of the immense power that a synergy between literature and travel can yield. And so, as I take my leave of this captivating cityscape, I carry with me a newfound reverence for the captivating dance between words and the world, an enduring connection that has illuminated my path and will continue to illuminate the paths of bookpackers to come. Besides all that, I plan on continuing my bookpacking adventures on my own with novels of my choosing. This experience was new to me before this trip, but now I feel confident enough to be able to have an experience like this on my own.

Jean Valjean takes a swim: stepping into the shoes of a man trapped in sewage and courage

Paris has always had a certain charm for the millions of Americans that visit each year. For instance, It’s the city of romance, home of the Eiffel Tower. A place of deep history, of baguettes and croissants. A city of mean people, nice people. Cafes, existentialism.

How boring. I mean, Las Vegas literally has an Eiffel Tower too, and also the most convenient places to destroy your marriage. To find the real attraction of Paris, you have to dig a little deeper—below ground.

Not in the catacombs either, but in the sewers. The sewers of Paris proved to be one of the most unique, repulsive, and utterly fascinating experiences of my Bookpacking trip. For a first-time reader of Les Miserables, our excursion through the underground gave the book a profoundly cinematic feel. It became a novel I could more personally connect to, and I achieved Victor Hugo’s vision of a text that engages with the social by connecting with the individual.

The way Hugo kicks off this section of the book is already intense. In one simple sentence, he writes that “Paris pours twenty-five million a year down the drain.” Quite a lot of money even just in the abstract. But I wondered what it exactly meant to “pour” that much money down the drain—even as the section continued on, I don’t think I fully appreciated that number.

In comes my lover and my muse, Bookpackers™. When you walk through the literal pipes that Hugo talks about, the loss of money starts to make more sense. The idea that manure could be worth so much seems a bit questionable at first, but when you see the sheer depth and expansiveness of the sewer system, you suddenly understand the potential benefits that are being lost down under. You become as passionate about excrement as Hugo is.

Money is only the first lesson of this experience. Walking into the sewers, I had a frame of reference for what a good sewer should be, at least according to Hugo. He argues that “it almost realizes the ideal of what is meant in England by the word ‘respectable.’” In fact, he makes a bold claim: “It is decent and drab; well laid out.”

I’m not sure that I would use these words in 2023, but I get the premise. These sewers were logically designed, and honestly, not as gross as you’d think. It’s respectable in its efficiency, in its tangled pipework, and in its appropriate number of rats and roaches. When Hugo describes the sewers this way, it’s not that the sewers are pleasant by any means, but that they work in the way they need to, and that they are not desanitizing the outside world.

So I pretended I was Jean Valjean for a moment. I have Marius on my shoulders, and I need to wade my way through these dark, but organized tunnels. Jean Valjean’s thinking of going downstream and his paying attention to incline feels genuinely genius. It is a maze, but it is a maze with order. And that’s what makes the sewers such a great plot point.

Wall art of Jean Valjean carrying Marius on his back that I found in a corner of the sewers.

Even Hugo says it himself, “the sludge observes a decorum.” As I watched the water rush under the grating, I saw the delicate balance. Any misdirected flow could ruin entire water supplies and contaminate our very society as a whole.

It only got more dramatic from here. Putting myself behind Jean Valjean’s eyes, I tried to imagine the panic and stoicism and distraught and success he was bombarded with. Here is a passage in particular I found especially poignant:

“His first sensation was blindness. Suddenly, he could no longer see anything. He also felt that within a moment he had become depth. He could no longer hear anything … He slipped, and realized the flagged surface was wet … A whiff of foulness signaled to him what place he was in.: (1143)

This is close to what it felt like to a modern explorer of this museum curated experience. I could see most things, fortunately, but it was dark enough to be uncomfortable. I heard the voices and groans of my classmates, but not much from above. I stepped on wet surfaces, and yes, it smelled terrible.

It smelled so terrible that I gagged a few times. Even taking a sip of water (from my water bottle!) tasted gross. And then I thought about how Jean Valjean ate Marius’ bread down there, covered in the sludge. Something about these physical sensations humbled me—Jean Valjean was really in quite the pickle. To do all of this while being submerged in the sewage with absolutely no one else is just harrowing.

It was like I was performing his character, actually. We’ve seen Les Miserables as a musical and also as a movie musical, but what about a simple dramatic film? In this sequence of events, I can imagine an actor conveying such a powerful story of resilience and justice—here in the sewers, Jean Valjean is being guided by such a strong love for his adopted daughter that he’s doing whatever it takes to make it out alive. This is arguably the most physically descriptive description of Jean Valjean we’ve gotten: a man in survival mode.

There really is something so personally touching about this. Father issues, am I right? In the claustrophobia of the sewers, you can’t not empathize with Jean Valjean. The sewer sequence became something so humanizing for me after going down there myself. It was a small fraction of what occurred in the fiction, but it’s enough to capture the grandeur of the story.

Truly, Hugo poses an important question. What are the things we hide below the surface, tucked away and unobtrusive to our daily lives? That kind of sanitation is something we take for granted, and one we count all our blessings for among going down there ourselves. In a more poetic sense, I like to think that this section of the book leaves us with an important message. Social change doesn’t just happen on the barricades or in the streets, but underground. It happens in the dark corners of the world and the uncomfortable spaces, the ones few have the bravery to enter. We can pick the easier battle, or we can pick the one that really counts—can I say that I would always choose the latter? We take our comforts in life as givens, but perhaps we need to approach the boundaries of human experience to uplift the people we love in a way that is truly everlasting.

Thoughts on smiles

    For all their joie du vie, Parisians really don’t smile much. At least that’s what I was warned of, that fabled Parisian mean-spiritedness and cold judgment from nearly everyone I told about my Bookpacking trip. Regardless of whether they had been to Paris or not. “Avoid eye contact with anyone on the street. And whatever you do, don’t smile at strangers.” someone told me.

So, the first time I went to the grocery store checkout line I was prepared for the worst. I said my “bonjour” to the cashier. She did too, but she didn’t tone her voice up, or smile, or even raise her eyelids like I’ve been conditioned to do and to expect. She asked if I wanted a bag but I didn’t understand. I figured that this was the moment. I summoned all the spite I had and brainstormed the best ways to retort her inevitable French meanness.  

She repeated everything very slowly, and then understanding my blank stare switched to English. A man with his young daughter at the register across from me turned and asked, in broken English, if I needed any help with anything. Both of them with serene, hard-to-read faces but a nonchalant, genuine patience. I checked out my groceries and left. 

It’s true, Parisians didn’t smile on the metro, they didn’t smile on the street, they didn’t smile at me. It didn’t bother me as much as I think it bothers other Americans. But I thought it was true that they seemed cold and indifferent to one another. And even though I’m not the most talkative person myself, I missed the constant background chatter of London and the U.S. But I found myself greatly appreciating this version of politeness and social culture.

The past few weeks I’ve been smiled at less and also looked after the most than I ever have been by a city. People have gone out of their way to help me and each other more than I’ve personally experienced in any other city. I was a euro short at the grocery store and an old man who overheard silently reached over the register and bought my groceries for me. The lady who ran the boulangerie across the street from my apartment was never not frowning and spoke in a brash tone, but within days memorized my order. 

Everywhere I go, I see Parisians helping each other out. Like giving a supporting arm to people on the bus stumbling when the bus lurches forward. Not with loud English politeness or American enthusiasm. Instead, with a gentle sense of duty. And without expecting zealous displays of gratitude in exchange. 

Any Parisian reading this would be like… duh. Don’t get me wrong, I I was expecting the stereotype to be incorrect as stereotypes tend to be. What surprised me is how incorrect. It’s interesting to be in a place with different ideas of politeness, and I think that is why there is so much cross-cultural misunderstanding. I’m sure that to Parisians, American social norms are brash and superficial. The culture shock definitely made me reevaluate my West coast American culture from what I’d imagine to be a French perspective. It also makes me think about kindness. 

I’ve been thinking of the concept of what it means to be kind throughout reading and discussing Les Miserables because it is a question that seems to fascinate Hugo. What does it mean to be kind? And, what kindness do we owe to each other? One of my (unexpectedly) favorite sections in Les Miserables is the one that opens the novel, a lengthy life story of a Catholic bishop named Myriel. Myriel rejects the corruption of the Catholic Church that would work in his favor towards gaining comfort and wealth. Instead, he devotes every aspect of his life to service and acts of kindness towards others. Hugo criticizes the flashiness of other Bishops, how they use the guise of religion to further their own interests. It’s a conflict between superficial shows of virtue and Myriel’s genuine shows of virtue. But Myriel’s is far quieter. 

Parisians are quiet but they also seem genuine. I like how in the U.S. people talk loudly and smile at each other. But does a baseline performance of kindness make it hard to tell which is real and which is fake? I think so. Parisians don’t seem to appreciate a big American smile. They do appreciate that you say “Bonjour” and “Bon journée.” This practice of greeting store workers and them greeting you is a lovely acknowledgement that the worker and customer are both individuals worthy of an individual hello and goodbye. This simple action of recognizing humanity is far more important than a smile. Forget this step, and you might not be served. Even if you have a big warm grin. 

Not to imply that Parisians all act this way or are the epitome of virtue. They are certainly not. It would be dehumanizing to say they were. And this is surely a starry-eyed American way to see things. It’s not that Parisians are perfect figures of moral purity. Or that no one has seemed superficial or rude. It’s that the specific way that kindness is expressed through silent action without smiles, and little things like the greeting norm, is a reminder to me that kindness does not have to be a performance. In fact, it shouldn’t be at all. Perhaps kindness should be humble, and quiet, because it’s not something to show off, it’s simply what we owe each other.

The End of a Chapter

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

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

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

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

Such gorgeous art!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uncomfortable Stuff: Spirituality and the Universe

After going to the Grand Parisian Mosque, I couldn’t help but think about the comparisons between “Eastern” and “Western” religions. The Mosque was beyond beautiful: multicolored tiles, intricate sculpture and design, three different gardens, fountains, sunlight, greenery, and so much more. I think back to some of the churches we have gone to with a similar touristy appeal: they too were intricately tiled, sculptured, and painted. However, these places were silent, dark, high-ceilinged, somewhat mournful, and all indoors, for the most part. Some churches had outdoor spaces, but these were usually cemeteries or stone courtyards. The stained glass windows added so much color and brightness, but the spaces were still so enclosed. The mosque had doors, but all were open, and there were many archways in place of doors to signify a passage into a different part of the mosque. There was much to think about after going to the mosque, and much to compare with my own religious upbringing and with Christian institutions. 

Sainte-Chapelle

I think what struck me most was the difference in volume: the churches we went to were silent, and if you weren’t silent, they would shush you. Even with many people inside the churches, they were silent except for footsteps and whispers. It seemed as though if we spoke too loudly, something would shatter around us. In the mosque, it was so different: people were talking, laughing, children were screaming and playing and crying, the fountains were rushing, and, since it was all open to the outdoors, noises from the city drifted in as well. During prayer, I would imagine the muezzin calling for prayer floats over the ambient sound, and the empty space it leaves is replaced by the rushing water, footsteps, talking, singing, and praying. The difference was incredibly stark to me.

Stained glass reflection in the Eglise St. Germain

Growing up as Hindu, my experiences in religious spaces were much closer to the mosque than the church. Taking off our shoes to enter the prayer space, gardens and courtyards, outdoor designs with many arches instead of doors were all mirrored in my experiences. Our prayer spaces, in Hindu polytheistic tradition, included idols and statues of our gods draped in South Asian textiles, gold jewelry, flower garlands, and scattered bills and coins at their feet. We would ring a bell as we walked into the temple, or koil in TamilThe idols were usually white or black marble, and the priests would bathe them in milk and water and offer honey, yogurt, fruit, and plants to the gods. We would be given a small bit of food to eat as our gift from god, usually a handful of almonds and kalkandu, or rock sugar, along with saffron water. We would drink some of the water and put the rest on our heads. We would walk around the room with idols, saying our prayers, and do laps around the temple interior; some temples have the gods that represent the planets and moon, of which there are 9 in total, so we would walk around their altar 9 times. I remember making wishes to the nandi, or sacred cow that the god Shiva rides on, by whispering in the ear of the idol. The atmosphere of the temple was one of joy: balavihar is the equivalent of Sunday school, where we would learn stories and prayers and philosophy. I took math classes at the temple for a period of time. Children in traditional clothes were always running around, and the stone floors were covered in mismatched carpets and rugs donated by patrons. Whenever it rained a lot, there would always be a leak in the ceiling; there were free meals on the weekends; at some point, we would all sit down for a ceremony and sing songs and chants together while the priest bathed the idol in milk. There was never a moment of silence in the temple unless there were only a couple families worshiping. 

Minaret of the Grand Mosque of Paris

I have had an interesting relationship with my faith, and have ultimately settled on a spiritual connection to the universe as opposed to organized religion. It is hard, when raised to believe in god, to relinquish that belief. It is somewhat lonely to be left alone and responsible in the world; Hugo and Dickens both believe this too. The existence of some Higher Power or at least trusting the universe to do well by you is something that I need in order to feel grounded. I believe that everything has its own magic, and that includes me as well. It is up to me to take care of my magic and my spirit, but it doesn’t mean I have to do so alone. I have the universe at my side, and the power of everything around me as well. I believe in the power of breathing and grounding and spirit because these are things I’ve retained from my religious upbringing; I do not subscribe to organized religion or religious institutions, however, and I’ve slowly been learning more about my own relationship to What I Can’t Control and how to trust my ancestors to keep me safe. I think that so much of my cultural practice is also involved in religious practice, and I appreciate these things as well; I’m not going to stop celebrating Diwali or Pongal or other things. However, I do believe that the institution is harmful in most ways. I have good memories of my temple, but I wouldn’t force my children to ever go. I have a spirituality and a faith. I believe in the power of my own spirit and the spirits of those around me. I believe that surrounding myself with good energy and reclaiming what has been taken away from me guides me into new forms of spirituality. I believe taking care of my body and mind and being joyful and creative allows me to be more spiritual. I believe that having trust in the cosmic, universal power allows me to live a more grounded life, and I have taken a long time to come to terms with that. I remembered this even more clearly in the mosque: why do they have such gorgeous tiles, plants, fountains and more? And I remembered that so much of spirituality and faith is the relationship to our world and universe and I just breathed in the courtyard for a little bit. 

Part of the Jardin d’Eden in the Grand Mosque

Deck the Halls with Boughs of Hugo

Would Victor Hugo celebrate Christmas? This may seem like a silly question (who cares, Tori?), but our in-class conversations following our visits to many different churches in Paris have spurred interest in Hugo's religious beliefs. Les Miserables is a Christian-charged text- featuring biblically inspired characters, highlighting spaces of worship, and even directly talking about God- but the book itself feels more appreciative of spirituality than organized religion. He offers conflicting tidbits about Christianity and he talks critically of religion as an institution especially when he delves into the convent that Valjean and Cosette take refuge in. I also relate to this complex relationship with Christianity, but I choose to celebrate Christmas every year. If I invited Hugo to the Coleman family Christmas, would he come?

When first mentioning the sisters of the monastery, he declares “This book is a drama whose main character is the infinite. Man is the second character” (460). Coming from a man who is critical of the Christian church whilst writing at length about it, this is a particularly interesting statement. What is Hugo’s Infinite? Is it God or another force? Hugo uses the convent in Les Miserables as a vehicle for readers to understand his concept of the infinite. “This is not a place to develop certain ideas at unreasonable length; nevertheless, while abiding absolutely by our reservations, strictures and even censures, we must say that every time we encounter in man the infinite, well or ill understood, we have a feeling of respect. There is in a synagogue, the mosque, the pagoda, the wigwam, a hideous aspect that we loathe and a sublime aspect that we revere'' (Hugo 460). One can see from this passage that the Infinite is a feeling, not a person or a God. Like admiring the stained glass in the Place Saint-Gervais or appreciating the turquoise tile in the Grand Mosque, there is a certain kind of beauty that is appreciated by all- even if you are not affiliated with the religion itself; it is not just a materialistic notion of surface-level beauty, but also a moving feeling that one can only really ascribe to the Infinite. We can see that Hugo is a spiritual man, with both a reverence and distaste for religion, and he believes in the collective. I believe based on the text that he admires the common human struggle to search for destiny and he indugles in the goodness that is found in a unity. In many ways I can relate to this outlook.

I see many similarities between Christian education and the Convent of Perpetual Adoration in Les Miserables. Hugo discusses the complexities within places of education and religion in this section: “When speaking of convents- those places of error but also of innocence, of misguidedness but also of good intentions, of ignorance but also of devotion, of torture but also of martyrdom- almost always you have to say yes and no” (469). As Hugo describes here, organized religion can be both enlightening and ensnaring- traits I have observed in my time at Catholic schools as well. While I learned many amazing things during my educational journey, I also found that I was misled.

I grew up in private Catholic schooling where your education included receiving Catholic sacraments. On my birthday in second grade, I turned 8 and received my first communion! As a baptized and confirmed Catholic, I am now perfectly content as an agnostic. There are nuances and different schools of thought that rely on the devotee being knowledgeable and being given a choice, but what if that growing child is not offered a choice or cannot wrap their head around the huge big questions that either “side”- either organized religion or THE VOID- ask? As a kid, one cannot grasp an alternative when presented with a black-and-white teaching. This has led me to develop a respectfully critical and complex relationship with the Catholic Church.

 I have a specific memory of riding home with my mom after school and detailing one of my days in the sixth grade. I talked about what online typing games we were playing in the computer lab, that I joined in volleyball at lunch, and shared with her that I learned that abortion was absolutely and always wrong. My mother offered me another perspective. I am pro choice. I continued on to two separate private Catholic schools where I could receive an incredible education and get into schools like USC. Again and again I found similar stories: abstinence is the only option, gay love is wrong, etc. However confusing these teachings were to navigate as a growing adult, I cannot place blame on my schools for failing to show me the freedom of choices. These are the same institutions that helped me to learn my ABC’s and lead with the Golden Rule. I attended obligatory mass and prayed when asked to pray with slight frustration at the convenience of it all, but always washing these grievances down with the nectar of a brilliant education. I have nothing to complain about.

Do I reproach Catholic spaces after feeling partially betrayed by the teachings? Funnily enough, I feel no resentment, just resolution that I know what I know and that is all I know. I have my own thoughts and opinions, but I can still feel the Infinite everyday without a Bible or a rosary. With that being said, I think churches are beautiful and I can understand the magic in a space of worship without believing devoutly. During my time at USC I have wandered into several nearby churches just to feel the energy that they possess. I even recently visited my elementary school church (as pictured above) just to sit and admire that infinite. Seeing the spaces in Paris has been particularly exhilarating, as that aura feels even more palpable in historic spaces. After attending school-mandated masses twice a month for 12 years, I recognize that I do not believe in Catholicism, but I appreciate the beauty of the space in which people can observe the Infinite. Older now, I know that I can feel the infinite without pledging myself to a religion, just like Hugo.

To answer my earlier question, I think Hugo’s definition of the Infinite is an amalgamation of a lot of things. It is goodness, it is humanity, it is potential, it is peace but it is also the endless effort of trying. It is change. There cannot be goodness without darkness, so I believe despair to also be Infinite. Is religion not also fundamentally composed of the fear of being without love, salvation, and community? The Infinite is not limited to a church; it can be seen in the loving eyes of strangers observing a giggling baby toddle to her mother’s open arms, or when people who “can’t sing '' raise their voices to a choir during a concert set list. The Infinite is connection above all else.

Does celebrating Christmas feel strange if one is not religious? I believe that Christmas is a day to celebrate the birth of Christ, but more importantly, it is about feeling the Infinite. Like Hugo, religion to me is a complex phenomenon that I both have a true respect for but also a distaste and confusion. I too can understand that absolutism can be damaging, but moderation can be freeing. My family is not religious, nor am I, and we have always been comfortable in that. My family still celebrates Christmas, despite none of us being particularly religious. We don’t just put up a meager branch and do a quiet gift exchange. Our Christmas involves hosting the entire family but both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, a mountain of presents leaking from beneath the tallest tree into the next rooms, a crackling fire warming your back as you sit and listen to the four conversations being held at once. Christmas for me is about the sacredness of connection, not about the system of Christianity or even the belief in nativity. It is a moment of respect and scrutiny for religion and for tradition, but more importantly, it is about the energies humans bring to cultivate a connected space. Like in the stained glass in a church, the Infinite is felt in my home. In the same way that Hugo respects and indulges in moderation to the spirituality of religion to reach the Infinite, I think he would celebrate Christmas. If I could invite him, Victor Hugo would come to the Coleman family Christmas.

Who are the castaways?

A lovely little alley way in the Latin Quarter

I have become reflective in my last few weeks in Paris – the art of Bookpacking has begged me to draw new parallels and contrasts between my life and the lives of Hugo’s characters in Les Misérables. We’ve been tracing stories, people, relationships - and naturally, I’ve begun to see myself as part of them. I’ve learned how literature can be part of everything, rather than simply existing in a vacuum. We’re using Les Mis as a portal into a rich vault of history, geography, politics, and philosophy. More than that, we can use a book – like Les Mis – to understand emotions, motivations, and groups as collections of individuals. Hugo’s work – like Dickens – focuses deeply on the power of the individual. When we come across a group like the Friends of the ABC, I think that there is something so powerful in taking a step back and dissecting who these characters are and how we, as individual readers, can relate to their different aspects and values.

In reflecting on all of this, something rather obvious dawned on me. Here we are, a group of sixteen university students, wrapping ourselves in discussions on politics, philosophy, morality, we debate the nature of Hugo’s characters, his beliefs, his motivations; we consider the past and the present and the future and what we can do, as individuals, to inspire change… I can think of another group of university students who debate and challenge beliefs, politics, and the nature of the world: Hugo’s ‘Friends of the ABC.’ And then, I thought to myself that this might be an interesting lead into bookpacking!

ABC is a clever pun on the French word ‘Abaissés’ translating to the abased or degraded. The Friends of the ABC are a group of revolutionary activists. Hugo describes: ‘The friends of the ABC were few in number. It was a secret society in embryo, we would say almost a clique, if cliques culminated in heroes. They met in Paris in two places, near Les Halles in a tavern called the Corinthe… and near the Pantheon in a little cade on Rue st Michel called café Musain, which has now been pulled down.’

Friends of the ABC

What is so striking about them, to me, is their dynamic. Its members juxtapose each other, creating a welcome friction, offering a freedom of debate and intellectual challenge, completely opposing any idea of an echo chamber. They exist in difference. I find that this is not too dissimilar to the group I find myself in now. We all have different backgrounds, different stories, different opinions. We have different understandings and different values and yet and we can come together each day and openly discuss and debate and maybe not always agree – which is what is so amazing to me. Agreeing all the time is boring. Diverging opinions and stark differences are where interesting conversations are born.

Someone in class noted, that each member of the ABC ‘fulfilled a niche’, and I guess that is true. In being so different, they all add a new element, a new aspect of this vibrant, living, breathing being that is the ABC. As they are some of my favorite characters of the novel, please humor me and let me take you through the five main members.

First and foremost, we have our leader: Enjolras who ‘had only one passion: rightfulness. Only one thought: to remove any obstacle to it.’ An intensely dedicated man, Enjolras has the task of inspiring others. He is the focal point of the ABC group, defined by his passionate idealism and belief in the potential for change. He offers a sharp contrast to a character like Marius; while Marius is drawn to the cause due to his love for Cosette, Enjolras demonstrates a profound commitment to the ideals of the revolution. Then, we have Combefrerre; where Enjolras ‘represents the logic of the revolution, Combeferre represents its philosophy.’ I see Combefrerre as the embodiment of humanity and morality in the midst of the revolutionary activity. He is said to believe that the ‘good must be innocent’ and where his friends are excited by the violence of the revolution, Combeferre takes a pragmatic and peaceful approach. Courfeyrac seems to the character who plays the proletariat, having dropped the aristocratic ‘de’ before his surname, Courfeyrac wants to be a man of the people. He is lighthearted, altruistic, and like Enjolras, fiercely committed to the cause. Bahorel is perhaps my favorite of the group, if only because Hugo tells us: ‘he sauntered; to stray is human, to saunter is Parisian.’ And I absolutely loved that!

Finally, we have Grantaire, our token skeptic. Essentially a drunk, he is characterized by his deep cynicism and disillusionment – he offers the other members some push back and skepticism on the revolutionary ideals, raising questions about the viability of what it all represents. To me, he seems impeccably Parisian, tragically romantic, Grantaire sees the world through a lens of despair and while slightly depressing, this adds a beautifully French and poetic beauty to his perspective. I also think he is essential to the group not existing in an echo chamber, they need the rebuttal from him in order to facilitate conversations on the viability of the revolution and thus, be assured in their cause.

In order to bookpack the ABC, I took to the Latin Quarter - a part of Paris I’d barely touched until now. Hugo tells us that the main meeting spot for the group was the Café Musain: ‘The secret meetings of the friends of the ABC were usually held in a back room of Café Musain. This room, quite separate from the cafe itself, with which it was connected by an extremely long corridor had two windows and an exist with a staircase hidden from view leading on to the little rue des Gres.’

Having honed my bookpacking skills, I managed to map this out. Using google maps as well as a 19th Century map of Paris I was able to locate Rue St Michel as the present-day Boulevard St Michel. Then, judging by a fountain/ intersection both maps showed, right off of the Boulevard St Michel, I realized that what was ‘Rue des Gres’ must now be Rue Soufflot. Standing at the intersection myself, I was extremely disappointed to see that the Café Musain was now a McDonalds… Clearly I had to use some historical imagination here.

Contemporary map

19th C map of Paris

1968 Barricade

The Latin Quarter has served Paris as a hub for revolutionary activities for centuries. Home to La Sorbonne, the university of Paris, it is still writhing with young activists looking for change. Students as recently as 1968, were building barricades around the Latin quarter in political distress – the area has always been connected with idealism, determination, and social and political unrest.

We are castaways

I channeled my inner Bahorel during my time in the Latin quarter, and I took myself for a Parisian ‘saunter’. I let the alleyways lead my way and I walked, completely free of agency. Like much of Paris, it is so easy to lose oneself in the labyrinth of tiny streets - and so I did. I soon found myself in a gorgeous little enclosed street and on the wall I saw these cryptic words: ‘we are castaways.’ They took me aback for a moment, I thought who wrote this? Why? I immediately found myself contemplating the Friends of the ABC - I wondered how much these words would have resonated with them. They were at the forefront of a revolution begging change, begging to be seen, heard, and listened to. In a time of destitution, need and rigid class boundaries, the masses became societies castaways. The ABCs fought, and died, for the potential for this to change, the potential for a better world. And here I am now, in 2023, walking the same streets, seeing the same ideas expressed and wondering how much has really changed.

On a Search for the Zigzag

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

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

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

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

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

The entrance to the narrow side street.

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

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

Whose pink bike?

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

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

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

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

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

Exiting the special narrow side street.

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

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

A Few Steps in the Shoes of Jean Valjean

This quote from Les Miserables became our compass, guiding us along the very path that Jean Valjean walked each day, leading to Marius' grandfather's house – an experience that epitomized the essence of bookpacking. If I was ever asked to define bookpacking, I would recall this very adventure because I thought it embodied the true spirit of literary exploration. The eloquence of the quote's descriptive prose effortlessly transported me through time and space, bridging the gap between fiction and reality, and unveiling a seamless fusion of worlds. It bestowed upon me an acute sense of place, enabling me to navigate the novel's landscape with ease as if stepping into its pages. This rich and immersive experience deepened my understanding of the story's essence, infusing my journey with a profound connection to its narrative. Through the lens of this quote, bookpacking revealed itself as a transformative voyage, a pilgrimage of discovery, and a celebration of literature's enduring power to unite worlds.

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The starting point of my journey: the house of Jean Valjean.

Our bookpacking expedition commenced at Rue Sainte Croix, the very site that once housed Jean Valjean. As I cast my eyes upon the building, an initial disconnect tugged at my imagination; the bustling presence of a modern bank on the ground floor and the contemporary architectural style seemed to veer away from the world Victor Hugo had painted for us. Yet, determined to bridge the gap between the past and the present, I allowed Hugo's masterful words to serve as my portal, transporting me to a bygone era. In that transformative moment, my perspective shifted, and I found myself immersed in Valjean's world, perceiving life through his eyes, feeling the weight of his thoughts and emotions. As if walking in Valjean's very shoes, I embarked on his daily pilgrimage, retracing his steps while reflecting on the journey he once undertook. With every stride, the boundary between reality and fiction blurred, and I became one with the character, wandering the streets of Hugo's creation with a newfound depth of understanding.

As I meandered through the labyrinthine streets, an overwhelming surge of emotions washed over me, mirroring what I believed Jean Valjean must have experienced. Each cobblestone-paved alleyway and painted building exuded a distinct charm, and yet, beneath this beauty lay a profound undercurrent of sentiment. With every step, I delved deeper into the essence of this walk – a journey not merely through picturesque locales but a poignant quest to reunite with the sole soul Valjean held dear: Cosette. Hints of melancholy and solitude seemed to resonate within the very air I breathed, immersing myself in Valjean's shoes. As if pulled by an invisible thread of connection, I traversed the landmarks penned in the novel, meticulously following Valjean's every turn. This, I realized, was the essence of bookpacking – the fusion of fictional worlds with my reality, where the words of Les Misérables transcended their pages to manifest in the real world. If the book commanded a left turn, I obeyed without hesitation, feeling as if I had become one with Valjean himself, ceaselessly seeking his beloved Cosette amidst the bustling streets of Paris. The lines between the literary realm and my own blurred, forging a strong bond that transcended time and place, turning my bookpacking adventure into an immersive odyssey of empathy and understanding.

Drawing closer to Marius' residence, I found myself immersed in the profound emotions that enveloped Jean Valjean on this arduous journey. The weight of fear and nervousness he bore was palpable, leaving me contemplating the depths of his turmoil. I retraced the steps Valjean had taken day by day, and with each passing moment, I realized the gradual decline of his resolve. The once determined man, so desperate to see Cosette, now seemed to relinquish his grasp on hope with each successive endeavor. This realization struck me deeply, eliciting a whirlwind of emotions. I could sense the overwhelming sadness and loneliness engulfing Valjean's heart as he longed for his beloved Cosette. The journey became a metaphorical representation of the slow and agonizing dissolution of their connection. His journey, once fueled by unwavering determination, transformed into a tale of longing and loss, tugging at the heartstrings and leaving a reflection on the complexities of human emotions.

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Victor Hugo’s desk

Following the captivating walk through the footsteps of Jean Valjean, my bookpacking adventure led me to another insightful experience: Victor Hugo's apartment. Stepping into the very space where the brilliant mind behind Les Misérables once lived and worked was a surreal encounter that deepened my connection to the novel. The apartment exuded an eclectic charm with its contrasting colors and patterns adorning the wallpapers, a quirky touch that I was not a fan of. Despite my initial reservations, my focus soon shifted as I entered the room housing Victor Hugo's desk. It was in this very spot that Hugo immersed himself in worlds of imagination and creativity, weaving tales that have since left an indelible mark on the literary landscape. Observing the objects surrounding his desk, I tried to learn about insights into the man behind the masterpiece. The artifacts and mementos offered glimpses into his life, sparking my curiosity about how these very surroundings may have influenced his writing process. As I peered at the pages on his desk, I could almost envision Hugo himself, pen in hand, pouring his heart and soul onto the paper to craft narratives that would resonate across generations. The experience of being in the presence of his personal space enriched my bookpacking journey, allowing me to draw inspiration from the very essence of Victor Hugo's creative spirit. This encounter with Hugo's apartment not only enriched my understanding of the book but also served as a reminder of the power that spaces and environments can wield in shaping the creative process of an author.

Overall, I thought that these experiences were quintessential bookpacking experiences. I lived, breathed, and walked the book beautifully written by Victor Hugo. This experience has been influential in my understanding of the novel and I can’t wait to go on more bookpacking adventures like this one.

THE BOYS (AND I) ON RUE ST-ANTOINE

When I read Les Misérables earlier this summer, I thoroughly enjoyed each of the characters’ stories and how they all intertwined. I loved Jean Valjean’s fierce dedication to Fantine in taking in her daughter as his own, I loved Marius’ love for Cosette, and I admired Bishop Myriel’s kindness. However, it wasn’t until we began our bookpacking experience that I found my favorite character: Gavroche.

While we were still in London a few weeks ago, we had the privilege of seeing Les Misérables on stage at Sondheim Theatre. Immediately, little Gavroche stole my heart. He was played by a young boy with an incredible voice and a commanding stage presence. Almost everything he said was met with an endearing “aww” or an eruption of laughter from the audience, making him extremely lovable from the get-go in a way that I didn’t pick up on quite as much when I was reading. 

When I got home from the theatre, I was eager to revisit some of Gavroche’s scenes that I initially didn't think much of, and now that we’re in Paris, I get to walk the same paths that his little legs triumphed in Hugo’s ever-famous tale. 

When Hugo introduces Gavroche, he describes him as “a little boy of eleven or twelve who would have quite accurately embodied the description of the archetypal gamin if, with the laughter of his age on his lips, his heart has not been totally bleak and empty.” He goes on, explaining that “his father gave no thought to him and his mother did not love him. He was one of those children, most deserving of all pity, who have both father and mother and who are orphans. This child never felt so happy as on the street. The pavements were less hard to him than his mother’s heart.”

“Liberty Leading the People” at the Louvre

With this striking introduction of little Gavroche’s character, it is natural to wonder where Hugo’s inspiration may have come from in creating him. While it is not confirmed, it is almost impossible to deny that he must have gotten some inspiration from Eugéne Delacroix’s “Liberty Leading the People.” This stunning and powerful depiction of the 1830 July Revolution hangs in the Louvre, a sight that I was lucky enough to see in person last Saturday. It is widely theorized that Gavroche is based on the young boy in the foreground of the painting, and I can say, looking into his eyes in real life solidified that conjecture for me. The little boy wears scruffy clothes and has suggestions of dirt on his face, but his brave wielding of the handguns and his prominence in the painting shows his bravery and commitment to the cause of the people. Much like the Gavroche we come to know and love, he seems to fight with a selfless and generous heart and is far beyond his years.

The Elephant of the Bastille

In Les Misérables, Gavroche does not live with his aforementioned hard-hearted mother, Madame Thénardier. Instead, he often sleeps in the Elephant of the Bastille, an iconic structure placed by Napoleon in the center of the Place de la Bastille. In a particular scene, Gavroche invites two gamins – aged five and seven – to join in his resourceful (but uncomfortable) sleeping arrangements. This was the first point at which I got to walk the paths of little Gavroche around Paris. 

“The two children set off again, in tears. In the meantime clouds had gathered. It began to rain. 

Young Gavroche ran after them and said, ‘What’s the matter with you brats?’ 

‘We’ve nowhere to sleep,’ replied the older one.

‘Is that all? said Gavroche. ‘As if that was a problem! Is that anything to cry about? What ninnies!’

And tempering with his rather facetious superiority by adopting a tone of kindly authority and gentle protectiveness, he said, ‘Come along with me, bratlings!’

‘Yes, monsieur,’ said the older one.

And the two children followed him as they would have followed an archbishop. They had stopped crying. Gavroche led them up Rue St-Antoine in the direction of the Bastille” (Part 4.Book 6.Chapter 2). 

Our study center in Paris is on Rue du Faubourg St-Antoine, which is the Faubourg (suburb) continuation of Rue St-Antoine on the other side of the Place de la Bastille, so I am often in the perfect location to trace Gavroche’s path home with the little gamins. And, lucky for me, it’s rained every day for the past two weeks, so I got to feel a little closer to what those little boys felt in Hugo’s tale. During my lunch break, I decided to revisit the Rue St-Antoine, a place that we explored through the lens of A Tale of Two Cities a few weeks ago. Umbrella in hand, I looked for where Gavroche might have first encountered these two little boys, near Orme-St-Gervais. Typical contemporary Parisian storefronts line the streets. A Monoprix, a boulangerie, a patisserie, and endless townhomes and boutiques replace where the wig-maker’s shop once stood. I continued on my path, making my way to the Rue St-Antoine, then turning right and heading toward Bastille, just as Gavroche did. Just when I thought too much had changed to find any of the places that Hugo mentions along the road, I notice a man, sitting on a step, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette in true Parisian fashion. He sits under an archway, and I am reminded of the young teenage girl that Gavroche and the boys encounter.

“However, continuing up the street, he noticed, blue with cold under an archway, a beggar-girl of about thirteen or fourteen, so scantily clad that her bare knees showed.”

“‘Poor girl!’ said Gavroche. ‘Without even a pair of breeches, here, take this at least.’ And unwinding all that good woll he had round his neck, he threw it under the beggar-girl’s thin, purple shoulders…”

The man sitting on the step was far from a beggar-girl. In fact, he was the antithesis of her in many ways. He was well dressed, clean shaven, appeared comfortable under his umbrella, and seemed to be enjoying a leisurely smoke break outside. Even still, his presence under the archway made me question what it might have been like to be that young girl in far less comfortable conditions. In ill-fitting clothes, she sat there, shivering from cold and aching from hunger. Gavroche was like a savior to her when he offered his only source of warmth to help a stranger, even though he was suffering as well. This detail highlights Gavroche’s generosity and willingness to help those less fortunate than him – after all, he does have a place to sleep at night. 

The July Column

Finally, the boys (and I) continue along Rue St-Antoine, they bargain for a bite to eat at a bakery on the right side of the street, and I sip on my midday coffee. It’s almost as if I can hear their footsteps and little voices within the pitter-patter of the rain. Finally, the July Column is in view, signaling that I am a five minute walk from my classroom. For the boys, a 40 foot tall plaster elephant, which they will soon call home, marks the end of their journey down Rue St-Antoine. 

In this scene, though it is not Gavroche’s most heroic or significant moment in the novel, many of his lovable character traits come to life through his actions. He takes in the young boys with a mentor mentality (and a little bit of sass) and leads them to a place of shelter, and he gives up his own comfort to help a stranger.

Throughout the rest of his short life, Gavroche has several moments that speak to his valiance and selflessness, and even though his elephant-home and the cobblestone streets his little legs used to roam no longer look the same, his story still feels alive where the elephant once stood. By seeing him onstage in London and imagining him in real life as I roam Rue St-Antoine, I connected with this character more than I ever thought I would, and I think he is a great example of finding the joy in a less-than-ideal situation and putting others before himself. We can all be a little more like Gavroche.

Share the Wealth

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

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

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

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

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

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

One of the incredible ceiling murals inside the Palace of Versailles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Hand that Advances Students' Souls

“Callow youth, if we may be forgiven the expression, was spreading its wings.” (584).

This is how Victor Hugo begins his chapter on the Friends of the ABC. In France, there seems to be a tradition of student revolution. An association with students being on the forefront of change. There is almost an expectation in Paris that as minds grow, the passion and desire for change gets to a fever point. To be a student is sometimes to experience both an urgency that comes with knowing that this time in flux will come to an end after a few years and the idea of seemingly endless time to discuss and debate the state of the country and what needs to change. In Les Misérables, Hugo profiles this contradiction beautifully in his fictional depiction of the 1830 revolution, spearheaded by young people like Enjolras, who disagree on pretty much everything besides the overwhelming need for liberty and a better tomorrow. As Hugo puts it: “There was enthusiasm for the absolute, with infinite materializations of it envisaged…And nothing like dreams for generating the future. Today’s utopia is tomorrow’s flesh and blood.” (583) There is a feeling that a utopia is possible, which comes from being fresh to the world and its problems. And a general feeling of empathy in these students, who may not agree on Napoleon but agree on a passion for their country and what it could be for all its residents. While this desire for utopia can oftentimes be viewed as unrealistic and superfluous, like when students broadcast their message in the 1968 revolution and changed the general opinion of the movement in Paris, and is sometimes parodied, like in Wes Anderson’s The French Dispatch, there is something serious about this idea because of the passion behind it. Look past all the “rattling tray triple-tiered with double-espressos extended high” and the “highbrow/semiunreadable paperback” as Wes Anderson puts it, and there is something to be seriously admired in these students’ belief in a better world. There is something to take lessons from. This disagreement, this healthy debate, and the idealism that can be seen as either superfluous or beautiful, traditionally has found a home in cafes within the Latin Quarter, from the Friends of the ABC in a (fictional) Les Misérables to the point zero for the (real) 1968 student rebellion.

But where exactly was the Friends of the ABC located? Victor Hugo provides some clues: “They met in Paris in two places, near Les Halles in a tavern called the Corinthe…and near the Panthéon in a little café on Rue St Michel called Café Musain, which has now been pulled down.” (584)

Sorbonne University

On a particularly exciting day of bookpacking, we explored the Latin Quarter, from Shakespeare and Co. to the Panthéon. As we made our way through this Arrondissement, the abundance of tourists near Shakespeare and Co. became replaced by students clustered in cafes near the Sorbonne University. It wasn’t that hard to visualize Enjolras and co. discussing the pros and cons of Napoleon after some of us compared copies of Napoleon’s Civil Code in the many law book shops in the area. Being in the location where they would have stood, it’s fun to think about which character in the Friends of the ABC I would be or that student sitting in the café reading French literature. Maybe he’s got the view of democracy at all costs like Enjolras. Maybe he wants gradual change like Combeferre. The wonderful portrait Victor Hugo paints of all these members makes it easy to fit yourself or others into this group. And picture what niche you would fit into. However, he gives room for these characters to change their minds or carry multiple beliefs at the same time. That’s one of the most interesting parts of being a student: carrying a multitude of different beliefs at the same time, still figuring out where you belong. (“It is in the nature of undertows to create turbulence, hence some very peculiar combinations of ideas. People adored both Napoleon and liberty.” (583)) Marius certainly goes through many changes on his way to the ABC club. And the moment at the ABC club, when he praises Napoleon only to be shut down and argued against, only to make him ultimately question his beliefs, is one of the most telling moments of what it’s like to be a student. Your views are in flux because for most people it’s the first time you’ve been away from home for that long. There is a sense of freedom and anarchy; a place where you aren’t shamed for changing your beliefs. Hugo comments on how this process of change in college is natural: “Each individual was taking whatever step forward was his to take. Royalists were becoming liberals; liberals were becoming democrats.” (583)  Perhaps Victor Hugo sees himself in this constant thirst for knowledge and willingness to change, considering his own similarities with Marius (his father fought for Napoleon, etc.). Perhaps he sees himself as a student as well, at least in his state of mind.

The street leading up to the Panthéon.

Standing in front of the Sorbonne University made me see the Friends of the ABC in a new light. It made me think of the passage of time and the tradition of French students being activists and even revolutionaries. As I walked down Rue St. Michel where the Friends of the ABC would have met at the Café Musain, I realized that not much has changed, despite time marching on. In 1968, revolutionary students started out protesting the expulsion of other students but ended up demanding ultimate freedom on these very streets. Ripping up the cobblestones, yelling “Vive la France!”, making a barricade, and thinking about Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People. That feels awfully familiar. Maybe because it happened in Les Misérables as well. And happened in other revolutions, and again, and will probably happen again. And has happened again.

Taking in this view, it is interesting to think about what I would have done. Parisians certainly differ in the ways they respond to these revolutions. While there is this idea that Paris is used to revolution, so much so that “Innocent bystanders (old and young) stand on balconies and in open windows; wait on tables and eat/drink at the terrasses of the two cafés; pose for a tourist-family picture (T-shirt: “Liberty Junior High Boys Track”) (Anderson).” This is The French Dispatch’s take on the 1968 revolution. In Hugo’s take of the 1830 revolution, the people in Paris surrounding the barricades go on like every day. But there is also sometimes this sense of patriotic duty: that bystanders feel they must join in or help in some way. In a report on the 1968 revolution, an officer describes how older teachers joined in and those living in the buildings surrounding the barricades passed supplies to the protesters. Perhaps both can be true, as is often the case.

Inside the Panthéon.

There is just something so powerful about this street leading to the Panthéon, where Victor Hugo is buried. As the Panthéon looks down the Rue St. Michel, Victor Hugo, I feel, in some poetic way, looked down over the 1968 revolution, and every revolution to come in the Latin Quarter. The Panthéon itself was built as a symbol for the people of France. It was meant to be nondenominational and is a mausoleum. The walls are lined with mortal heroes throughout history. And although Victor Hugo didn’t want to be buried there, there is something so right about him being here, in a celebration of the power of individual mortal goodness and light, across from where students, again and again, demanded for history to turn towards goodness and light.

Sources:

Anderson, Wes. The French Dispatch . The French Dispatch of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun, 2021, https://deadline.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/The-French-Dispatch-Read-The-Screenplay.pdf. Accessed 2023.

Grimaud , M. Maurice. “Night of the Barricades .” Night of the Barricades, 1968.

Louvre Interconnections

My family and I have done our fair share of art museums, so when I found out we were visiting the Louvre I could not wait to see one of the most impressive art collections in the world! I knew before visiting the Louvre that it is practically impossible to see everything in one day but I wanted to test myself and see how much I could do. However, with over 400 rooms and 35,000 artworks I overestimated my ability to take on this immense, breathtaking palace…

I started off my exploration on the first floor and nearly spent a good 3 hours walking through the Galerie D’Apollon, the apartments of Napoleon III, and the Denon wing full of European and a few American paintings scattered throughout. I thoroughly enjoyed roaming about each of the rooms, admiring every intricate detail but I especially loved our exercise where we were tasked to find the characters in A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables portrayed in the paintings.

Walking through the Denon wing, I found numerous paintings that resembled the characteristics of Lucie, Charles Darnay, and Sydney Carton from A Tale of Two Cities and the characteristics of Jean Valjean, Javert, Cosette, and Marius from Les Misérables. And to my surprise, I discovered the paintings overflowing with themes of sacrifice, judgment, redemption, and love.

Suzanne au Bain by Théodore Chassériau

In a painting by Théodore Chassériau entitled Suzanne au Bain, I saw Lucie reflected in the angelic, sensual woman who is seen bathing in a river. Chassériau contrasts light and dark in his artwork to highlight the celestial woman and portray her as this divine, pure figure. The woman in the painting embodies Lucie, a compassionate and virtuous woman who is described as “a golden-haired doll” in A Tale of Two Cities (96). As soon as I was about to leave and take a look at the painting beside it, I noticed two men in the shadows covertly spying on the woman in the top right corner of the painting! Immediately I thought these two men resembled Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton – Lucie’s two lovers. Charles Darnay and Sydney Carton both fall in love with Lucie Manette in the novel, however Darnay ends up courting her while Carton continues living his life in despair. In the painting, the man on the right stares at the woman with admiration just like Charles Darnay would have, while the man on the left weeps by the tree similar to how Sydney Carton would feel. As I inspect the painting further, I notice the woman grasping a white cloth in one hand and a gold cloth in the other. Could this be the “golden thread” that metaphorically weaves together the characters in the novel by providing them hope in a time of political turmoil? I know this might be a stretch but I could not believe the ironic similarities between the painting and the novel!

Marat Assassiné by Jacques-Louis David

Then, I came across a painting by Jacques-Louis David entitled Marat Assassiné or “Death of a Marat.” The man in the painting is seen hunched to the side with a paper in hand and a stab wound on his chest. Upon further research, I found out the man depicted in the painting is Jean-Paul Marat, a prominent figure in the French Revolution who fought against the French aristocracy. Jacques-Louis David viewed Marat’s passing as an opportunity for political activism. In his artwork he attempted to convey the idea of making sacrifices for the greater good by portraying Marat as a martyr. This painting reminded me of Sydney Carton who sacrifices his life for Lucie and her family. Through this heroic act of selflessness, Sydney Carton finds redemption in his life which was once characterized by hopelessness and despair.

Le Sommeil d’Endymion by Anne Louis Girodet

Directly to the left of this painting, I came across Anne Louis Girodet’s painting entitled The Sleep of Endymion (Le Sommeil d’Endymion) which was overflowing with this theme of redemption! In the painting, Girodet perfectly contrasts light and dark to illuminate the man who is supposedly plunged into eternal sleep. Girdoet creates this dreamlike scene by using dark hues for the forest and allowing light to only pass through a small opening in the leaves. The light reflects off the man and produces this angelic mist that surrounds his body. The painting is symbolic of Sydney Carton’s spiritual resurrection where he finds redemption and fulfillment in sacrificing his life. In the novel, Sydney Carton embodies the Christian values of how humans can be recalled to life through sacrifice. Carton wants to be redeemed in the eyes of God and himself. This is exactly what I imagine Carton to look like after his death. In this painting, it almost feels as if the angel is thanking him for his selfless sacrifice and the angelic mist is representative of his spirit leaving his body, drifting up toward heaven.

St. Paul the Hermit by Jusepe de Ribera

For the characters in Les Misérables, I found Jean Valjean to be depicted in numerous paintings. In this first painting entitled St. Paul The Hermit by Artist Jusepe de Ribera the gaunt man is seen looking up to the sky with his hands clasped together holding rosary beads. The skull on the left is emblematic of death that awaits right around the corner. In the beginning of Les Misérables we are introduced to Jean Valjean who served a 19-year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread. The man in this painting reminds me of Jean Valjean who was left to rot in prison for committing a petty crime. He prays to God hoping someone can break the shackles that tie him down. After Jean Valjean’s release from prison, he adopts a new identity in order to leave his past behind. But as we know, “the past is never dead. It’s not even past” (William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun). Jean Valjean finds it challenging to reintegrate himself into society due to his status as an ex-convict.

La Robe Ensanglantée de Joseph Apportée à Jacob by François Joseph Heim

In another painting by François Joseph Heim entitled La Robe Ensanglantée de Joseph Apportée à Jacob, themes of judgment and rejection are illustrated. The man is seen kneeling before a group of people, while the people turn their backs and gesture to him to back off. This is synonymous with Jean Valjean and how society would turn him away from work and a place to stay. His past comes to haunt him as everyone refuses to trust a man with a criminal past.

Another painting that reminded me of the characters in Les Misérables was a painting entitled Daphnis et Chloé by Artist François Gérard. Two lovers are pictured sitting in the middle of the forest, entranced by one another’s presence. The love that pervades the painting reminds me of Marius and Cosette’s relationship. And the forest is exactly like the Luxembourg Gardens where Marius and Cosette first exchanged glances. Actually bookpacking to the Luxembourg Garden and peeking through the gates (because the gardens were closed due to dangerous winds) brought their love story to life! I could visualize Cosette and Jean Valjean sitting on a stone bench taking in the beautiful greenery and enjoying the sounds of the birds chirping in the trees. Even though gray clouds permeated the sky when we visited, I could picture the sun shining down on the grass and Cosette’s heart shining even brighter when she saw Marius for the first time.

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

Seeing this painting in the Louvre as well as visiting the Luxembourg Gardens visually solidified what their romance looked like in my mind.

Portrait d’un Gentilhomme Génois by Antoon van Dyck

And finally, I found Javert portrayed in Antoon van Dyck's painting of Portrait d’un Gentilhomme Génois. The stern nobleman is depicted clutching his sword, almost staring into your soul. This reminded me of Javert, who represents the embodiment of absolute law and order. Dyck utilizes dark colors in this painting to create a sense of foreboding. While reading Les Misérables, I felt this sense of fearful apprehension as I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting to see if Javert would ever capture Jean Valjean and throw him back in prison. Additionally, the black color used in this painting is essentially the absence of light. The absence of light is symbolic of Javert's lack of mercy for Jean Valjean even after he witnesses instances of Valjean’s compassion and kindness. As the novel progresses, Javert’s primary conundrum is whether to uphold the letter of the law as it is or see Jean Valjean’s acts as having the potential for redemption and mercy. Unable to resolve this internal struggle, Javert jumps into the Seine river and plummets to his death. Being able to bookpack and trace the route of Javert’s final riverside walk, supplemented my understanding of Les Misérables. Walking down the Seine river I tried putting myself in Javert’s head, imagining the moral dilemma that he faced. The torrential rain and loud thunder that rumbled in the distance truly set the scene for this tragic moment. While seeing the play back in London definitely helped me visualize what this moment looked like, walking in Javert’s footsteps allowed me to be fully immersed in his experience.

Tracing the route of Javert’s final riverside walk

Looking back at my first blog, I talked a lot about my struggles with reading Les Misérables and visualizing the story while bookpacking. After week three, I can confidently say that the combination of bookpacking, museums, art galleries and more has made the stories of A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables come to life in a way I never could have imagined.

Exploring Paris as a Lover of Love

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

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

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

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

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

My view through the garden gates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well-worn paths

On Thursday, our class went to the Marais to walk along the same path that Jean Valjean habitually takes in Les Miserables. In his old age his beloved daughter Cosette now lives with her newly wedded husband Marius in her father-in-law’s house. Jean is in exile: forbidden by himself and her husband to see her because of his status as an ex-convict. He takes a solitary walk through his neighborhood every day towards her house and stops each time he gets too close.

Jean Valjean would have passed through here on his walk.

“There he would walk slowly, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his head straining forward, his eyes fixed undeviatingly on a point, always the same, that semed for him starry and was none other than the corner of Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.” It’s a devastating passage to read. 

It’s also a highly specific one. Hugo left very direct instructions for how to follow the route. “From Rue de l’Homme-Armé, on the Rue Ste-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie side, walked past Blancs-Manteaux up to Rue Culture-Ste-Catherine, as at Rue de l’Echarpe turned left into Rue St. Louis.” Without being familiar with Paris it’s a dizzying puzzle to put together. It was a laundry list of words and a vague image of my idea of generic Parisian streets. 

But to actually be there made the dull list of words come alive. I’ve never felt so connected to the specific experience of a character. It’s not just that you’re seeing the streets. It’s different from watching a movie and seeing what the character is seeing, or reading an illustrated book, or even being familiar with the area that a character is written in. 

You’re immersed in the character’s experience with all your senses. As I walked over the cobblestone by Rue Pavee I would think for a second that Jean Valjean once stepped on the same stones. And then remember that he never existed. 

I would notice something interesting, like a stone accent on an old building, and wonder what caught his eye on the street. I smelled cigarette smoke and wondered if he did too. I zipped up my jacket and wondered if it was chilly or if he got some calm sun. We passed by an old stone church that he would have certainly seen. I wondered what he thought of the rough cream stone, or if there were people coming out from mass that he knew, or if he was so absentminded that he looked right through it. 

Place de Vosges. And a pretty neat Apple advertisement.

Aside from feeling connected to the novel, the same-ness of everything made me feel connected to the past. Jean Valjean may not have been a real person, but Victor Hugo was. After our walk, we visited Hugo’s former home in the Place de Vosges. It’s one of the quaint uniformly red-bricked townhomes surrounding a trimmed grass courtyard and walking path.

There was a lot to see in the museum from artistic interpretations of Hugo’s stories, to information on Hugo’s life and personality, such as his affinity for extravagant and colorful home decor. Next, we visited the Musée de Carnavalet, a museum about Paris. There was a painting I stopped at for a long time. It wasn’t a particularly interesting painting. I didn’t think it was all that beautiful. 

It was just the Place de Vosges square. Place de Vosges almost exactly as I saw it. But, it was painted sometime in the 1800’s. And yet, it was all the same: the fountain in the center of the square, the houses, the green wrought iron gates. There weren’t bistros, or stores, or tourists, or cars, the garden had been fixed up with benches and trees since. But the baseline of the view, little details aside, was mostly unchanged.

Places de Vosges, sometime before 1900.

That’s exactly what was so fascinating about it to me. That Victor Hugo and I, around 200 years later, saw the same thing. That people in the past, Victor Hugo or otherwise, saw the same view that I did feels really special. The past and the present feel much closer. The people of the past feel less like an idea and more like they’re part of my story.

I’m from San Francisco, which famously crumbled and then then burnt to the ground in an earthquake-fire combo in 1906. I’ve seen old maps of my city, and the layout has changed who knows how many times. Buildings are constantly being torn down and built up. The oldness of the city streets and buildings in Paris is still hard for me to fully comprehend.  

This “bookpacking” experience at this level of specificity would simply not have been possible. Now the Marais is filled with modern chain stores, and tourists, and neon lights, of course. But the facades of the buildings and old structures like churches seem unchanged. And most importantly, the layout of the streets is near identical. 

Marais side street. Seems straight out of 1830.

Valjean’s path was, for the most part, the same as how someone from that time would have seen it. As I say “someone from that time,” it’s hard not to include Jean Valjean. Walking along his path made him feel so real because the place is so specific, and the place is real. Every corner is accounted for. There’s not an once of fantasy in the passage. So it’s hard to confront that he is one. But in a sense he is real, because his perspective that I was so immersed in on the walk is representative of Hugo’s, and of many others who walked on the same street in the 1830’s and on.  

It feels like a gift from Hugo to leave all these clues. Their specificity makes me wonder if he hoped people would try this out. Likely not bookpacking in the way our class is doing but taking that walk. Or maybe it was something like an inside joke, a detail made for him and Parisians who would already have an image of those streets in their minds. The area in the Marais was blocks from Place de Vosges. He’s walked all these streets countless times. Why did he choose these specific streets for this scene? It’s a question we’ll never know the answer to, but it was fun to imagine the answer as I followed Jean’s footsteps.

Paris at arms: the Battle of Waterloo as seen through its uniforms, courtesy of Musée de l’armée

As I stepped foot into the Musée de l’armée, I expected a bit of a snoozefest. I’m not the biggest fan of military history at least as it relates to weaponry and battle tactics. I love talking about the consequences of war and the daily lives of people under war, certainly. To dig deep into the culture and economy of a society during war can reveal key insights into what went wrong and what we can do differently moving forward. When it comes to which artillery was used or who shot who with what rifle, I guess I find it hard to care if I’m being honest.

So taking this mindset, the Battle of Waterloo portion of Les Miserables did not initially capture my attention. There I was, in Los Angeles, over a hundred-and-fifty years out from the events of the book, secretly wondering why I should care. My bedroom was comfier than any Waterloo, and naturally, I would only get a few shreds of what Victor Hugo was trying to tell me.

In this dark moment, https://bookpackers.com (trademarked) whispered in my ear. “You think you don’t care about Part 2, Book 1 of Les Miserables?”

“No, not really.”

Bookpackers hissed. “Dear child, you know nothing of this world.”

This is a true story. In all seriousness, my naivete was in for a rude awakening, and this particular portion of the book ended up being one of the most transformative examples of bookpacking. By visiting the Musée de l’armée, I not only gained a newfound appreciation for Victor Hugo’s description of the Battle of Waterloo, but I understood his purpose and his rhetoric on a deeper level.

For example, the most immediate portion of this section that initially went over my head was Hugo’s description of how the battle progressed. In “Hougomont,” Hugo writes that “the English barricaded themselves here,” being the courtyard. “The French got in but could not hold their position,” Hugo declares.

While I admired Hugo’s analysis of the battlefield, I didn’t grasp his description on several levels. First of all, what did the French actually look like in this courtyard, and who were the real people involved? This is where the museum served especially helpful. On the simplest level, the museum gave me a way to picture the French army through their uniforms.

A detail like this might seem simple, but to me, this is exactly what Bookpacking (don’t forget the trademark) is about. By walking through the museum and seeing the sheer detail on this uniforms, from the perfectly aligned buttons to the weight of the fabric, I was able to recontextualize the French war effort. As I went back to the Waterloo section and reexamined the parts that confused me, I could suddenly picture what the battle might have looked like and how the French, no matter how regal in their attire, failed in holding “their position” in the courtyard against the English.

This renewed reading continued with Victor Hugo’s discussion of French honor. Once again, this was a topic that, although I could appreciate its importance, was not something I could really parse through. In two simple sentences, Hugo summarizes the results of the battle: “The end of a dictatorship. A whole European system collapsed.” For a reader like me, this is something taken at face value, assumed to be true by virtue of Hugo’s authority. But when I saw firsthand how these soldiers really fought and the legacy they were defending, I got a sense of the actual gravity of this moment, and how heavy of a decline it was for an army that presented itself in such a dignified way.

The uniforms I observed were not just useful for me to visualize the battle and the soldiers who fought it, but it helped me grasp the downfall of the French. Here stood these incredibly decorated, fear-inducing uniforms. These outfits exuded military excellence with a distinct stylishness. Yet, such arrogance could only go so far, and these uniforms that seemed so imposing became needlessly opulent upon a reread of the Waterloo chapter.

To me, this is what Bookpacking—trademarked, by the way—is about. It’s about uncovering literary beauty that is not immediately comprehensible to an American reader in 2023. To experience a plot at such an intimate level is something I’m sure I won’t take for granted as this class wraps up.

Is a Picture Worth a Thousand Words?

I’m not sure. But, here are a few watercolors I have done to focus on smaller elements of Bookpacking. I have used them to better understand our authors’ perceptions, spend time with specific details I would have missed with only one glance, and encourage myself to quietly reflect.

As Valjean Walks

Valjean in his last moments

There is something inherently tragic in Jean Valjean. A convict, on the run, who falls in love with fatherhood - his story is poetic, charming, and unfortunately, doomed. After spending ten years of his life bringing up little Cosette, Valjean has finally given himself a sense of purpose; hard to come by after nineteen years in the prison hulks. The pinnacle of life becomes his Cosette, and for a long time this is reciprocated – they are all each other have; Valjean is really all Cosette knows. When, however, she inevitably falls in love and begins to transition into womanhood, everything changes. She no longer needs Valjean, she wants Marius. For Valjean this means he has lost her, and letting her go is no easy feat.

Victor Hugo does something really interesting here; for so long he represents Valjean as this incredibly tough man – he has survived hell and come back from it [repeatedly]. And yet, when it comes to Cosette, Hugo gives us a very different portrait, we now see Valjean as a weary, sad, and irrefutably sensitive man. His inner monologue divulges to us that it is not Javert, or prison or even death that scares him, it is being without Cosette he fears, it’s being alone.

Rue Aubriot / Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie

There is a heart wrenching sequence in the latter stages of the novel where we see Valjean wilting away. An old and decaying man at this point, tired and burdened by the weight of his past, he walks solemnly, every day, in the direction of Cosette and Marius’ house. Eventually, he can no longer bring himself to finish his walk, and subconsciously he curtails it, every day Valjean’s journey becomes shorter and shorter.

Soon he barely makes it halfway and with a tear in his eye, he turns back on himself. To me, this signals closure, the end of an arch – we’ve cycled through the heroic, passionate and fearless phases of Valjean’s life and now we are here: watching him walk in solitude through the darkening streets of the Marais until he can no longer bring himself to do it.  

Hugo diligently maps out Valjean’s walk for us:

‘During the last months of spring and the first months of summer 1833, the occasional passer-by in the Marais… noticed an old man, neatly dressed in black, who every day at the same time, towards nightfall, emerged from the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, on the Rue Ste-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie side, walked past Blancs-Manteaux up to Rue St Culture-Ste-Catherine, and at Rue de l’Echarpe turned left into Rue St-Louis…He would come to Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire. Then he would stop.’

 … ‘Little by little, the old man ceased to go as far as the corner of Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire. He would stop halfway, in Rue St-Louis, sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little closer. One day he stopped at the corner or Rue Culture-Ste-Catherine and looked towards Rue des Filles Calvaire from a distance. Then he silently shook his head, as if denying himself something, and he turned back.’

Les Blancs Manteaux

Hugo literally gave me the directions to Bookpack Valjean’s journey- and so I did. Rather annoyingly, over time, street names change. So, with the help of google maps as well as some 19th Century maps of Paris, I was able to make connections. What was the ‘Rue de L’Homme-Armé’ is now the Rue des Archives. What was ‘Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie’ is now Rue Aubriot, what was ‘Rue St Culture-Ste-Catherine’ is now Rue de Sévigné. And finally, what Hugo describes as ‘Rue St Louis’ is now Rue de Turenne. Luckily for me, Rue de Filles-du-Calvaire kept its name, and the monastery of the Blancs-Manteaux still remains.

I started on the Rue des Archives and did exactly as Valjean would have, making my way up, meandering through the Marais. From the get-go this felt intimate and personal, this is such a powerful scene in the novel that to walk in the steps of our deteriorating protagonist felt almost like an invasion of his space, of his peace. Yet, delicately, I continued up Rue Aubriot, passed the Monastery of Les Blancs Manteaux [The white cloaks – Monks]. And made my way up to Rue Sévigné.

As I was walking, I thought to myself – I need to put myself in Valjean’s head, I need to feel his presence here… And, as if on cue, the rain came hurtling down. I knew it had been too easy before! The rain filled me with a sufficient glumness to continue on Valjean’s route. I turned left on Rue de Turenne and trudged on through the summer storm. There is something reflective about the Marais – with its narrow, cobbled streets, historical architecture, and quiet passages, I began to think of it more symbolically. To me, it seems as though the area echoes the passage of time that Valjean contemplates as he walks. You can literally see the history around you, you can feel it as you turn onto a teeny, tiny alleyway that seems as though it has been transported right from the 19th Century.

I started to make some more connections between the Marais and Valjean himself: there is a rich religious history, and you can see it in the ancient churches scattered about the Marais, perhaps this could link to Valjean’s journey to redemption – could it symbolize Valjean's desire for spiritual reconciliation? His inner dialogue as he walks seems like a spiritual contemplation on his past, his present and his future. Then I started to think about how the Marais has gone from a religious hub to the center of gay Paris; so, we notice a sense of transformation – also a crucial theme in Valjean’s arc. There is so much in Hugo placing Valjean in the Marais, and by walking in his steps, I felt like I could really connect to the intention behind it.

Eventually, I reached Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire and at the very same moment – the sun finally showed face. It seemed so perfectly timed that at the end of my journey, at the end of Valjean’s journey, the sun should replace the rain – shedding some light on the narrow streets of Paris. Now that I could look around without an umbrella whacking me in the face, I got to take in the quiet charm of the street. There was a sad, quaint beauty about it. Completely revolutionized by big name brands, the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire was a bittersweet climax.

Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire

I am not exactly sure what I expected to find waiting for me – was it Jean Valjean, hunched over, all dressed in black walking slowly towards me? Or Cosette and Marius, strolling hand-in-hand through the crowds? Perhaps just any sign of them, something saying ‘we were here!’ Yet, there was nothing, no-one waiting for me, nothing more to do. I felt oddly alone at that moment; the street was crowded and yet it was just me there. Now I understood Valjean – I spent all afternoon meandering through the Marais, trying to reach him and it was then, when I had come to end of it all, on the corner of Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire that I did. With nothing more to find, I turned around and walked back on myself.

Barbie et la Revolution!

I recently had the great pleasure of watching Greta Gerwig’s latest masterpiece starring Margot Robbie and Ryan Reynolds, unpacking the female experience in a satirical, comical, and, yet, very real way: Barbie. Barbie follows the story of Stereotypical Barbie, who lives in Barbieland, a utopia where Barbies are given all of the power and Kens are left to be an accessory. All of a sudden, Barbie starts to experience an existential crisis when the girl “playing with her” in the Real World also experiences an existential crisis. She eventually goes to the real world to fix the issue by finding the person playing with her, and learns about how women are treated in the Real World. Most importantly, she realizes what women in the real world think of her: how her idea that Barbie solved all women’s issues with their diversity was incorrect, and how women in the Real World see her instead as an unattainable and unrealistic expectation. While Barbie is figuring all of this out, Ken has learned about patriarchy, and decides to reweave the social fabric of Barbieland into a patriarchal society like he had seen in the Real World. Eventually, Barbie returns and sorts everything out, but the movie is packed with plot that I will leave you to watch by yourself.

I was startled by the similarities between Ken’s patriarchal takeover and the French Revolution as written by Dickens. Bookpacking includes going to locations and places of interest to the books we are reading ie. Les Miserables and Tale of Two Cities. However, I would say that the bookpacking adventures extend beyond the scope of seminars or class explorations. Seeing similarities to our books, literary or historical, in other forms of media or in other landmarks has added to the bookpacking experience as well. While Barbie is an experience I could have anywhere in the world, seeing it with my friends from this class, with the deep knowledge and awareness of Dickens and A Tale of Two Cities, was extraordinary. My bookpacking did not stop with the Place de la Concorde, and the revolution did not stop with Robespierre. The notion of western revolutions extended throughout this movie as well, and I saw almost perfect parallels between Barbie and our literary portrayals of the French Revolution(s). While the movie itself was far from radical, I think the plot itself mirrors that of Revolution like we study. 

Through reading A Tale of Two Cities, my understanding of the French Revolution has much increased; but at the same time, the French Revolution was, at its core, people fighting for rights they didn’t have before. The sans-culottes having little political and social power is paralleled in the lack of agency for Kens in Barbieland. Obviously, this movie wasn’t made showing brutal beheadings of Barbies or violent revolution, but Ken’s patriarchal “revolution” is the response to his lack of power in Barbieland combined with him learning about the power men have in the Real World. Similarly, the French Revolution is precipitated by the lack of power the French citizenry have in their society, combined with the knowledge that they could violently reform in the way that the American Revolution happened. (This story is much, much more complex than this: I am merely drawing parallels between the ideas of Western Revolution as seen in America, France, and other Western countries, and the media that is created in turn.)

The concept of the revolution devouring itself was mirrored in Barbie as well. The phenomenon of the revolution destroying itself from the inside played out in France, Russia, China, and more, and Barbieland was no different. Again, revolution followed by brutal repression and violence was not the aim of this movie, and I don’t mean to lessen the impact of these events. However, on a lighter scale, the Kens ultimately destroy each other with a seed of doubt planted by the Barbies. If anyone has been in the situation of experiencing an unsolicited serenade, you will understand the fragile masculinity so easily shattered behind their actions. The Barbies play off of this, turning the Kens on each other, and thus the revolution is devoured. 

Luckily, the Kens discover their “worth” and no Reign of Terror follows, but the idea of the leaders of the revolution being the ultimate end of the revolution is mirrored almost exactly in this film about dolls. Our class discussion really made me think about this, and I wrote my first essay on this: the circularity of time and how it forces the circularity of narrative, whether fictional or not. Barbie is obviously not a true story, and yet Gerwig’s portrayal of the rise of Kendom in place of Barbieland was startlingly similar to the way that the French Revolution began and ended. Ultimately, the Barbies regain control, and things return to as they were before, not too different from the return to monarchy in early 19th century France.

Tower dedicated to Napoleon in Place Vendome

This movie was meaningful to me in ways that were much bigger than the plot progression similarities to revolutions across the world, but I think that this was one of the things that stood out to me as I watched it. Gerwig managed to fit so much plot and information and morals into a 2 hour period, and I am still gathering my thoughts about it. The day we saw it was Thursday, July 27. The exploration that day had followed the path that the tumbrils took while carting Conciergerie prisoners to the Place de la Revolution, which was a shocking and haunting walk despite the throngs of tourists along the Louvre. Having had this adventure prior to seeing the movie was, I think, one of the reasons why the parallels were not lost on me. Our walk that day had followed the worst of the social upheaval that the revolution brought, the brief stint of Napoleon’s imperial rule, and the ultimate return to monarchical rule. The idea was to go to see Barbie to get out of the rain and lighten up a bit. And while this goal was achieved, the movie presented very real, very tangible ideas about revolution, intent and impact, circular time, women’s rights, patriarchy, the humanity in all of us, and so much more that should not be forgotten in the millennial humor and pink cartoon embellishments. Watching this movie was amazing not only because I have wanted to see it for so long, but because of the opportune timing in our bookpacking that I was able to watch it. I would say it added to my understanding of revolution, and added to my understanding of how both literature and history repeat themselves, from 1789 to 1911 to 2023.