Paris Shines On

It was a Wednesday in Paris, cool and damp, and I was later than I like to be when walking in the streets of a beautiful city. But the city was quiet under the light fog, and I had slept in. The street sloped down towards the river, and as I passed through the small, cobblestone square of Place de la Sorbonne, a muted siren wailed in the distance. It was an eerie sound, and coupled with the emptiness of the streets and the fog it made me think of the movie Silent Hill, as if there was something evil and sinister waiting just around the corner.

I continued to walk down the street, cutting across Rue des Ecoles, past the Musee Cluny, and took a right towards the bookstore. It was noon and I was running late to meet my friends at 12:30.

We were Americans, mostly, and all of us writers. We had come to write in the City of Light, where so many artists had come before us, hoping their words would somehow be carried through time to us. We met to discuss literature, to share our work, and hopefully to improve upon it.

By 1 p.m. police cars were screaming through the city as helicopters buzzed above. At first we thought the activity was in preparation for a local event -- perhaps a football match or a visit from a diplomat. But then the text messages started coming in as our friends and families in America woke to see the morning news. Paris had been attacked by terrorists.



The Eiffel Tower in fog -- Jan. 7, 2015.


We had never heard of Charlie Hebdo, but as writers ourselves we were deeply affected by the news. It felt like the world was crumbling down around us -- only weeks earlier The Interview had been pulled from theatres due to threats of attacks, now a room of journalists were executed because of cartoons. Where was freedom of speech?

We had forgotten that freedom comes with a price. When people are free to say what they want, there is a greater risk of offending others. And while violence should never be the answer, sometimes groups of people who feel their beliefs are being ignored or belittled resort to whatever it takes to be heard. We forget that the suffragettes lit fires and bombs, and the Bostonians destroyed private property by tipping tea into the sea.

But the French take their freedom of speech very seriously. On Friday the shooters had been found and killed, and by Sunday people were marching toward Place de la Republique bearing flowers, signs, candles, and pencils to leave at the makeshift memorials in honor of the artists lost. Despite there being 1.6 million people involved, the memorials were respectfully silent and calm. Yet the people still made their feelings known. Signs were hung on buildings and fences, notes were written on the sidewalks. Someone even climbed the monument and spray painted an X over the mouth of the statue representing Equality, writing next to it "Je Suis Charlie." Their messages, although silent, were heard loud and clear.



Place de la Republique -- Jan. 11, 2015.


It's been eleven months since then, and I had hoped I'd never feel compelled to write about Charlie Hebdo. Now, new attacks on the peaceful city have struck fear in the hearts of people.

My writer friends were shocked when I decided to go across the street for a cup of coffee hours after the Charlie Hebdo attacks, and refused to accompany me. Similarly, after the attack on Paris this past Friday, I received messages from people saying they were glad I was safe and wasn't in Paris anymore. When I responded to one friend that terrorism wasn't going to stop me from living my life, she said I was right, we couldn't let the terrorists win.

But that wasn't what I had meant. I care far less about "winning" some game with terrorists than I do about actually living. As the old Spanish proverb goes, a life lived in fear is a life half lived. In the days following the shootings at Charlie Hebdo I visited Notre Dame, Versailles, and the Catacombs as I had originally planned. After the most recent attacks on Paris I couldn't walk the streets to see the sights, so I settled for watching Midnight in Paris, Amelie, Le Chef, and Hugo. Paris still stands, and she is beautiful, and neither fear nor distance can mask her beauty or stop me from enjoying her.


Notre Dame the morning after -- Jan. 8, 2015.


There is inherent risk in anything a person does. I could just as easily be struck by a bus while crossing the street in my home town as attacked by terrorists abroad. But to live your life in fear of what might happen isn't truly living.

And while I can still remember the eerie silence of the foggy streets, the sound of that siren wasn't a warning or a sign; it had been merely a strange coincidence. It just so happens that Paris tests the Reseau National D'Alerte -- its air raid system -- on the first Wednesday of every month, and for the first time in years I had been out in the noiseless streets in time to hear it. And I intend to be walking the streets of Paris to hear it again. Otherwise, what is the point of living?



Paris Shines On -- Jan. 11, 2015.

Exhausted in Paris

The first time I travelled to Paris alone it was winter, but winter in Paris is not like winter in New England. There, the sky stays blue, the temperature is mild, and, should it snow, it is a sparkling flurry which melts before it hits the ground.

But this particular winter, the temperature was particularly mild, and for days I didn't even need to wear the light coat I brought with me. But at the end of the week the temperature dropped, and I found myself completely unprepared. I bought a scarf and gloves from the store near my hotel, but to no avail: I had already caught a Parisian bug.

The next day was my last full day in Paris, and I was determined to make the most of it. I could feel myself starting to get warm as I entered the Louvre. I rushed to see the classics -- Winged Victory, Mona Lisa -- thinking I could push through it, maybe defeat it all together. As I left my forehead was just starting to sweat from the fever.

I went into the metro and managed to get a seat. I was starting to feel a little better when I got out at Sacre Coeur. Everything I had read told me the view of Paris from here was fantastic. But nothing prepared me for the long walk up to the church.

The metro had let us out far below ground -- as I climbed the stairs I became more and more convinced the architect was a genius; a spiral stairwell prevents patrons from looking up at the great distance between themselves and their goal and simply giving up and going home. By the time I reached ground level I was practically panting. Nearly there, I thought. I was so wrong. 

Once outside, hundreds of narrow steps still separated the subway entrance and the church. I climbed and climbed. My whole body was begining to ache. I had to take a break halfway and let people pass. I made a half-hearted attempt to take photos along the way. But really, it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

And then, suddenly, I found there it was: Sacre Coeur in all her glory. I stared in awe at the church before turning to see the city below.

It was beautiful. And I was completely spent. But it had been worth every second of dragging my aching, fevered body up those steps.