Paris: Une Affaire du Coeur
Thomas Jefferson wrote in his autobiography, "So ask the travelled inhabitant of any nation, In what country on earth would you rather live?—Certainly in my own, where are all my friends, my relations, and the earliest & sweetest affections and recollections of my life. Which would be your second choice? France."
There is something beguiling about France—something indescribably alluring. I've always been drawn to it. In seventh grade, when I was given the choice between studying French and Spanish, I chose French: it's a language of beauty. I loved the way the words felt in my mouth. I could listen to spoken French for hours. And that love of the French language led me to my first ever trip to Europe as a junior in high school, where I visited Paris and Normandy. There, I fell in love with the relational culture of the French—with their bonjour's and merci, au revoir's, with their finicky hand shakes and chocolat chaud for breakfast.
During the spring of 2016, I finally returned to Paris while I was studying abroad in Oxford. On a whirlwind trip with my then-boyfriend, now-fiancé Ryan and my friend/roommate Kayla, I attempted to communicate my love for the City of Light to them in less than 48-hours. In understanding Paris, it is essential to have time to watch and listen and feel the pulse of the city—it's a matter of the heart. And on that particular trip to Paris, I felt the ineffable weight of history pressing my heart.
Our journey began on Montmartre, a hill in the 18th arrondissement. From the era of the Gauls who settled France, to the Romans, to the Church of Saint Peter, the history of Montmartre has always been tied to religion. The climb to Sacré-Coeur is steep—enough so that we couldn't engage in conversation between puffing breath. It forced us into meditation, into reflection. By the time we reached the basilica, we had entered into that space of sacred thought, the kind Sacré-Coeur conjures in its breathtaking beauty. I felt a kinship with the centuries of pilgrims to this holy site dedicated to the heart of Jesus as I walked in their footprints.
Paris is a city constantly at war with itself: history clashes with the modern world. Outside the basilica, soldiers with machine guns patrolled the grounds after the recent terrorist attack in London. The plan for the basilica was announced in 1870, along with a national vow:
"In the presence of the misfortunes that have befallen France and the greater misfortunes that perhaps still threaten her. We humble ourselves before God and uniting in our love both Church and Fatherland, recognize that we have sinned and been justly punished. And to make honorable amends for our sins and obtain through the infinite mercy of the Sacred Heart of Our Lord Jesus Christ pardon for our faults, as well as the extraordinary help that alone can deliver the Holy Pontiff from his captivity and put an end to the misfortunes of France, we hereby promise to contribute to the construction, in Paris, of a sanctuary dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus."
Outside the basilica, France continues to be at war, to widen those gaps between its people. But inside, I watched Muslims and Christians reverently circling the pews in an image of unity and love.
The Louvre was originally a fortified castle. Philippe Auguste ordered its construction on the outskirts of Paris to protect the city and house important prisoners. However, as an urban sprawl developed around it, the kings of France found themselves staying there more and more. François I declared it his official residence, a royal palace, and it remained the backdrop to political power in France until the 1800s.
It is difficult to disconnect the history of the Louvre from its modern state. It is unlike any other museum: its artwork is not only its massive collections, but also the architecture of the building itself. There is something to be said of the grandiose designs of French kings: the ornate marble pillars and walls, the delicately carved flowers in archways, the gilded ceilings painted with scenes of breathtaking beauty. The Louvre is steeped not only in the history of art, but also the history of France itself—and it's that intersection that compels me to return time and time again.
Like the Louvre, the Musée d'Orsay was not always a museum. Once, the Gare d'Orsay was the head of the southwestern French railroad network. The rail station could not keep up with modernization, and it became a mailing center, then a film set, then a hotel. In its current form, the Musée d'Orsay retains that openness that comes with attracting throngs of travelers pulled in different directions. The architecture, a palace of organic lines and glass walkways, lends itself to pondering the artistic.
In September 1888, Vincent Van Gogh wrote to his sister, "Often it seems to me night is even more richly coloured than day." Influential painters reinvent the way we see the world—they draw upon some unique lens through which they interpret the night sky, or a room of ballerinas, or a forest picnic. It is only fitting that works like these are housed in a building that has reinvented itself, too.
L'Arc de Triomphe looked as if it has always been there. It imposed itself over the arrondissements, parting traffic around it like the Red Sea. Perhaps it is the spirit of Napoleon who still demands the citizens of the world recognize the glory of the Grand-Armée.
The walls of the monument are inscribed with the names of 558 French generals—glorious death in battle is indicated by an underline. Wrapped around the supporting columns, the names of the major battles of the Napoleonic wars are carved in permanence. L'Arc de Triomphe represents that dichotomy of France: a place of immense beauty whose history is often steeped in bloodshed.
Notre Dame, the last stop on our journey, shares in this dichotomy. In 1163, the first stone was laid for the cathedral, and it was built as a staggeringly breathtaking parish church of the kings of Europe. But the cathedral bears the scars of its bloody history: the vandalism of rioting Huguenots in the 16th century, statues beheaded by the Cult of Reason during the massacres of the French Revolution, stray bullets shattering centuries old stained glass windows during World War II.
The cathedral is both progressive and firmly planted in its roots. On the roof is a beehive, part of an environmental restoration project—perhaps a nod to the Pope's views on environmental stewardship. When we visited, Ryan and I sat on brightly colored see-saws beneath the shadow of the flying buttresses, childlike joy tugging at my heart on the grounds of the sacred site.
That Paris, the one that struck my heart in 2016, came back to me when I read this quote by Anne Rice: "Paris was a universe whole and entire unto herself, hollowed and fashioned by history; so she seemed in this age of Napoleon III with her towering buildings, her massive cathedrals, her grand boulevards and ancient winding medieval streets–as vast and indestructible as nature itself. All was embraced by her, by her volatile and enchanted populace thronging the galleries, the theaters, the cafes, giving birth over and over to genius and sanctity, philosophy and war, frivolity and the finest art; so it seemed that if all the world outside her were to sink into darkness, what was fine, what was beautiful, what was essential might there still come to its finest flower. Even the majestic trees that graced and sheltered her streets were attuned to her–and the waters of the Seine, contained and beautiful as they wound through her heart; so that the earth on that spot, so shaped by blood and consciousness, had ceased to be the earth and had become Paris."
I hope to return to Paris soon—though I know it won't be the same, as each time, it moves my heart in curious and unique ways.
