So this Friday I went to my first French party, which was hosted in the 16th arrondissement by a friend of a friend of a friend. When I arrived, the host and his friend kissed my friend and me on the cheek and introduced themselves. Everyone who came to the party went around the room to “faire la bise” and introduce himself or herself to the other guests. I was pleasantly surprised by how friendly everyone was despite the fact that I was a friend of a friend and that I speak with an accent. I spoke to most people completely in French, and was told that I speak well… Youppie! The atmosphere was very laidback and most of the people knew each other from a local business school that they attend. Overall, it was a great time and a great start to my weekend!

On Saturday I met some fellow GSP friends at the Quai Branly museum and later went to the catacombs with some Reid Hall friends. I found the arrangements of the bones in the catacombs very aesthetically pleasing, and actually much less disturbing than the narrowness and depth of the passageways. I visited Montmartre for the second time with some friends and watched street artists fire dance and ride a unicycle. This weekend I also went to two rather famous and decadent restaurants. I tried my first gourmet pastry at Les Deux Magots, the café where Hemmingway used to write. On Sunday I indulged in Angelina’s famous hot chocolate, which, because of its richness, I savored for an hour even though I only ordered one cup. Needless to say, this past weekend in Paris has been sweeter than a dream!

What I found that night was something that I would later revisit during a guided tour of the 14^th arrondissement with Myriam Sfar, our Global Scholars Program tutor. While the long and spacious boulevards satisfied a certain image I had of Paris, one conditioned specifically by paintings like Monet’s Boulevard des Capucines, there was also a more prominent yet reserved side of Paris—one that hasn’t yet made the ‘must-see’ tourist guide list. As Myriam would later explain to us, the 14^th arrondissement is also home to a ranging multitude of logement sociaux—social, or public housing. While some seem like scenes of a bygone world—artists’ quarters in picturesque streets—there is also an increasingly present assortment of government housing that does not exactly fit in, aesthetically or architecturally, with the rest of Paris. Their blown-up scale and efficiency-driven design mark these buildings as anomalous beings within the Parisian skyline—some more than a dozen floors higher than the Parisian norm of 8 floors (I counted!).

However, there does seem to be an effort within the current plans for social housing to create less sterilized and mass-produced models in favor of more hospitable ones. The height and size limits seem to have been reduced in favor of more personalized architectural models. What this points to is the ranging variety of social classes within Paris intra-muros, or central Paris.  This city is home to Parisians, Frenchmen, and immigrants, all of whom experience the cosmopolitan Parisian experience in an individual yet increasingly universal way through interlinked experiences and global connections.

“Not really sure.”  I replied.

“You should go walking, and see the sights.”

And that, readers, is where the difference between the US and France begins.  (Besides the fact that this conversation was held in French, of course)  I’m a Florida girl, where the only time I walk is to get from my house to my SUV.  In New York, there is definitely a walking culture, but I’ve never been told by many people (as I have here) to just walk.  Many of the New Yorkers I know have never even visited the Statue of Liberty.  There is a participation and pride in French culture that is tangible.

There is much to do and see in New York, but the architecture here is so much more romantic, fun and free.  New York is always telling us to hurry, that time is almost up, but Paris invites us into her warm embrace, telling us to listen to the slow beat of her heart.  Here, I walk slowly, and soak in the sights. There are two chairs in my dorm room, versus the one back home, encouraging guests.  The other day, a woman in the street took 10 minutes to teach me how to use my map and find Reid Hall.  The stores close early. Hurry up and finish your work, the city says, so you can spend more time getting to know one another–and getting to know me.

There are more general differences.  The supermarket, or supermarché, is the same size as a small convenience store back home. The coffee cups are the height of my thumb, the Coca-Cola bottles are slimmer, the milk is unrefrigerated. Despite these differences, much is still the same.  Some of the staples of a major city can still be found here–the homeless man, or SDF (Sans Domicile Fixe), at the corner, people jumping over the turnstiles at the subway, men cat-calling at girls.  And if you squint your eyes while walking through the subway tunnels, you can almost pretend you’re still in New York.

On a global level, France is extremely diverse–far more diverse than expected.  The French have a saying that they do not talk about race, religion, or money.  I did not even have to leave my dormitory to realize how different the perception of race is here.  In the US, at least where I’m from, race is constantly talked about, but we mainly speak about African Americans, Caucasians, and Hispanics.  Here, we don’t really talk about race so much as culture.  Granted, I do live in international housing, so perhaps my experience is skewed, but I now have friends from Russia, Afghanistan, Cambodia, Egypt, Sao Tome and Principe (Yes, this is a place.  Google it.), and more.  We cook together, sharing dishes from our parts of the world, and talk–we’re always talking–listening, learning, and laughing.  Paris is certainly a fantastic place to live, but the people I’ve met here are what have made it so special.

Moving through the building’s crypts, we naturally hoped to pay our respects to these most illustrious of French citizens. As Columbia students, the words and actions of these men have shaped our academic careers. Imagine a Contemporary Civilization course without talk of Rousseau, a European history lecture without a discussion of the French Revolution, a chemistry class without analysis of Marie Curie’s theory of radioactivity. It can’t be done.

But while we could have simply visited the Pantheon, passively absorbing the grandeur of it all, we couldn’t help but examine the mausoleum’s purpose a little more critically. Like a museum, the Pantheon’s “collection” is curated. Induction into the Pantheon is perhaps the greatest honor that any French citizen can achieve, and for that reason, careful consideration goes into the selection of each honoree. Certain inductees, of course, speak for themselves. Who can deny the significance of men like Leon Gambetta and Jean Moulin in French history?

The presence of other names, however, lends interesting insight into the French historical memory. Specifically, we noted the recognition of Toussaint L’Ouverture, Louis Delgrès, and Aimé Césaire. While certainly “great” men, their backgrounds as French colonial subjects complicate their inclusion in the Pantheon. Delgrès and Césaire were born in the French Départements d’Outre Mer of Guadeloupe and Martinique, respectively, making them technically “French” — but they were also leaders in the anticolonial movements of their homelands. In his Discours sur le colonialisme, Césaire went so far as to compare French colonialism to Nazism. L’Ouverture, a leader of the Haitian Revolution, unfortunately did not live to see Haitian independence from France in 1804.

By inducting these champions of colonial independence into the Pantheon, France clearly recognizes the injustice of its own colonial history. At the same time, however, something seems to tarnish the goodwill of this action. To a certain degree, by commemorating these men in the Pantheon, France lays claims to them. Carved in huge letters on the building’s facade are the words, “Aux grands hommes, la patrie reconnaissante,” implying that now, after their deaths, France is a “fatherland” to men who were, on the one hand, shaped by French ideas and values and, on the other hand, decidedly opposed to its intrusions into their homelands.

Of course, issues of colonialism are always fraught with tension and uncertainty. But looking at the plaques commemorating these great leaders of decolonization movements, we couldn’t help but wonder: how would they feel about such an honor?

* * * * *

Our tour of the dead of Paris continued a few days later when we descended into the Catacombes de Paris, only a few métro stops away from our rooms in the 14^e arrondissement. The catacombs hold the remains of more than six million people, many of them disinterred from other overcrowded cemeteries and transferred there. After descending from the dizzying spiral staircase, we began our subterranean journey by reading about the tunnels’ origins as underground stone mines. Before long, we passed into the ossuary itself. The narrow passage is lined with stacks upon stacks of human bones, topped with hundreds of skulls. Despite our initial unease of being so close to human remains, the sheer number of bones in the ossuary soon desensitized us to their presence, allowing the shock of the macabre to quickly wear off.

Perhaps those who established the catacombs as a tourist attraction were prepared for such an effect, for the maze is dotted with carvings, from classical and French sources, that comment on death and human awareness of it. Some recommend a more Stoic approach: wake up each morning with the knowledge that you could be dead by nightfall, and go to sleep each night remembering that you could be dead by morning. Christian carvings urged us to remember that it is not God who is the author of death, or that for the impious man, death is the end of hope. Such references and the sheer age of the catacombs reinforced one of our first perceptions of Paris: it is so old. Coming from the United States, and particularly from New York, we are not used to the constant reminders of a long, rich, and varied history that abound in Europe.

We decided to adopt a line from the Roman poet Horace as our unofficial motto for our experience this semester. “Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum,” he wrote. “Vis chaque jour comme si c’était le dernier.” “Live each day as if it were your last.”

Parisian graffiti art can be found in the most picturesque and idyllic corners of the city. I found colorful sketches and spray painted tags on old buildings in Montmartre. I ogled art deco-inspired cartoons in alleyways. I found colossal slogans alongside popular roads, and black and white sketches on the metro.

Graffiti, whether in New York or in Paris, could easily be viewed as defamation of public property, but as I discovered at Columbia, graffiti art represents an alternative space for discussion in an increasingly divided and marginalized society. Yes, graffiti art is defiant.  Yes, graffiti art is illegal. Yes, graffiti art takes a lot of skill and practice. As noted by pop culture professor Joe Austin in “More to See Than a Canvas in a White Cube: For an Art in the Streets:”

“Graffiti art performs the theatrical right to the city, to the streets, to the shared public
spaces of urban modernity. It enhances city life. A revolution that does not allow the citizens
to write on the city walls can be no revolution at all.”
He also argues that “[s]pontaneous and unauthorized public art has value in its potential to reflect the ignored or yet unarticulated public sentiments, offering an alternative public venue for public discussion, information sharing and creation.”

My sophomore year, I took a sociology class with Dr. Victor P. Corona called The Culture Industry, in which we spent a few classes studying graffiti art. Vic, called him, even brought in a graffiti tagger to come speak to us about his work. I was so fascinated by graffiti work that I half-jokingly asked our guest speaker, Anger (yes, that was his artist name), if he had any tips for aspiring graffiti artists.

I’ve been traveling around Paris on foot for about three weeks now, and I’ve noticed this: Paris is not a quiet city. And graffiti art, more than anything else, speaks as a visual marker of this unrest. I love the Louvre and the Pompidou, but I’m also making sure that I don’t overlook   he art right outside my door.

Since arriving in Paris, I have started to similarly learn the city’s composition.  I came to Paris with a general idea of the different arrondissements, but the actual demographics of the neighborhoods seem more nuanced than I expected.  For example, heading to the Cité Universitaire in the 14^th arrondissement at the end of the 4 line at Porte d’Orleans you see an interesting mix of passengers.  Elderly and middle aged, middle and working class, native and immigrant, student and professionals flood off the train.  A fair amount of the African immigrants head west from the metro towards les habitants sociaux that line le boulevard de Jourdan.  Many of the white passengers seemingly more middle class and professional turn north on l’avenue du General LeClerc, an area with private apartments and lots of shops, both local and chains.

The intersection of Jourdan and LeClerc bustles with movement.  People cram into the tram that runs down bd. de Jourdan in their hurry to get home after a long day at work.  Cars squeeze through the lights in their hurry to exit the city and return to their homes in the banlieues accessible just across the peripherique that encircles Paris.  Mothers grasp the hands of their children toddling home from the elementary school just up the block.  Older women walking their little dogs pause on the corner as their dogs sniff the base of a lamp post.  An Indian vendor sits quietly behind his card table covered in inexpensive, ripe fruit and occasionally exchanges a bunch of bananas for 1€50.  None of the travelers seem to carry briefcases or don suits, as this is neither a professional nor upper class neighborhood.  Rather, many people carry grocery bags from their recent shopping trip.  It’s a residential area, maybe not nearly as gentrified as Morningside Heights in New York, but similarly has a mix of races, social-economic statuses, immigrants, students and families cohabitating.