You've been lied to....

Sometimes I wish I had a super memory, so that I could ace all my biology exams and never forget a single thing. Photographic memory, however, isn’t something I currently possess. Our brains have a limited capacity. We tend to remember what’s useful, what we associate meaning with. Then there are flashbulb memories, moments tied to a specific emotion. Like the time I got into USC. I’ll never forget that feeling, like I had just won a million bucks.

Episodic memory is our ability to recall personal experiences, events from our lives. These, along with flashbulb memories, seem easier to recall. It’s our life, after all, right? Then there’s semantic memory, facts and general knowledge. That’s like knowing to look both ways when crossing the street or recalling names of presidents and moments in history. So when I say I wish I had a super memory, I don’t mean photographic memory. I mean I wish I could supercharge my semantic memory.

I’m convinced Victor Hugo had exactly that. He writes about the year 1812 like he had lived and breathed every second of it. His narration is so vivid it feels like we’re right there with him. When I walk through Paris, I notice the boulangeries, pâtisseries, and boucheries. But if you asked me what was in a particular boulangerie’s display, I probably couldn’t tell you. Victor Hugo probably could.

““Under the third arch of the Pont d’Iéna you could still distinguish by its whiteness the new stone used to fill the hole for explosives that Blücher had made two years earlier to blow up the bridge.””

— The Year 1812, Les Misérables, Victor Hugo

Hugo includes rich, specific details that endear the reader to the world he’s building. It makes me wonder: do I just move through life, museums, class, through time, without truly noticing the little details? I don’t want to be a passenger in my life. I want to be the driver.

So when I visited the Napoleon museum, where Napoleon Bonaparte is buried, I paid attention to those small details. Rather than rushing through everything, I slowed down and absorbed as much as I could, just as I imagine Victor Hugo might have. I noticed that as I went downstairs, the sculptures felt like they were leaping toward me. In one sculpture, a man on the ground looked up at his companions with fear. I found myself wondering: What was he feeling? Why was he feeling that way?

Instead of turning to the description or googling the scene, I trusted my imagination. Maybe he was scared of aristocrats. Maybe he had stolen from them, and they were about to punish him. Sure, I might be far from the truth, but using my imagination with art is like people-watching, crafting little stories about others, pretending I’m walking in their shoes.

I started to wonder what life would be like if I were Napoleon. Would I be greedy? Would I want to conquer the entire world? Or would I care deeply about my people, enough to let an ordinary man rise to become a general? Napoleon is portrayed both as a villain and a hero. Victor Hugo paints him in a glowing light, and it’s clear France admires him too, we’re literally standing in a vast museum dedicated to him.

In Les Misérables, even Marius changes his political stance after discovering his father fought under Napoleon. He rejects his grandfather’s royalist views and chooses homelessness to connect with his father’s legacy. That alone shows how deeply Hugo admired Napoleon.

As I wandered through the army museum, I saw the horses, swords, and uniforms. I could imagine Napoleon getting ready for the day, “strolling” on his horse. I pictured him enjoying an extravagant breakfast in bed before meeting with his tailor to get dressed for military training. A three-course meal followed: hors d’œuvres for l’entrée, Bœuf Wellington for the plat principal, and tarte au chocolat for dessert. After a long sieste, he’d meet with his generals to go over strategy for conquering more lands.

French military uniforms from the Napoleonic era

Of course, this was all made up, based on the limited facts I could recall.

Here’s what actually happened in a day in Napoleon’s life:
He woke up before 5 a.m. to read military reports. He rarely ate breakfast, as his mornings were filled with foreign affairs. After that, he’d take a walk in the Tuileries. Lunch was quick and simple, roast chicken and eggs. The afternoon was spent attending meetings or writing letters. In the evening, rather than relaxing, he continued working. Dinner was modest, and he worked until midnight, writing orders and handling tasks. He only slept three to five hours a night.

““Six hours of sleep for a man, seven for a woman, and eight for a fool.””

— Napoleon Bonoparte

No, thank you. I’ll be getting my eight hours. But that’s beside the point.

Memory is fallible. We can invent things that aren’t necessarily true. I crafted my version of Napoleon’s life from vague knowledge. I imagined him as a king living in luxury. In truth, he was a tireless worker, devoting his time to his country.

Suis-je un vagabond?

Staring out through the voilage of my balcony, I count down the days until I go home. Immediately, I feel guilty. Why am I feeling this way? I’m literally in Paris, the city I’ve dreamed of since I was 13, when I first started studying French. I imagined croissants, cobblestone streets, and charming conversations in cafés. But what started as excitement to practice my French has slowly transformed into discomfort and a deep yearning to return home.

I’ve never been someone who adjusts quickly. Transitioning between three places (home, London, and now Paris) in just two weeks has been hard. I’m someone who thrives on routine, stability, and quiet spaces to reflect. Without that, I feel off-balance. And when I’m off-balance, I feel unlike myself.

““You know my vagabond and restless habits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don’t be uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning.””

— Sydney Carton, Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

I never expected to relate to Sydney Carton. Yet here I am, seeing myself in his quiet wandering. Sydney, drunk on sorrow and unrequited love, roams the streets of Paris retracing Lucie’s steps. He waits outside the prison where she visits Charles, silently admiring her devotion. There’s something deeply tragic in his stillness, in the way he gives everything without expecting anything in return.

Throughout the novel, Dickens paints Sydney as the man we fear becoming: unfulfilled, overlooked, aimless. But maybe that’s the point. Sydney is human. Raw. Relatable. We aspire to be Charles Darnay, noble, successful, and principled, but it’s Sydney who transforms. It’s Sydney who grows. From apathetic lawyer to hopeless romantic, to vagabond, to martyr, Sydney shows that even the most broken souls can rise again. His final act, a sacrifice, gives his life meaning. Even if that purpose is twisted by modern standards, maybe that was enough for him.

As we explored the Revolution more deeply, uncovering the true sparks behind its eruption, poverty, power, and pain, it became clear that history isn’t just facts; it’s people pushed to their limits. Centuries of inequality, layers of Enlightenment thinking, and a tax system that was rigged harder than Monopoly with my sister that triggered this revolution. Aristocrats paid nothing, the Church paid nothing, and guess who paid everything? Everyone else. And yes, they were mad.

Dickens paints the Revolution with an eerie beauty, juxtaposing celebration and destruction, joy and rage. “It was the best of times and the worst of times.” One of the most chilling moments we discussed was the Grindstone scene. You can practically hear the blood hiss from the blades. The revolutionaries aren’t fighting for a dream anymore, they’re sharpening tools for vengeance. That’s the terrifying part. Coming to Paris isn’t the problem. Coming back from Paris? Now that’s where the fear lives.

La Force: once a dreaded prison of the Revolution. Today, only a weathered stack of stones stands where thousands suffered.

Then we hit the streets, Rue Saint-Antoine, where fiction meets fact. We tracked down the Ste. Catherine Fountain, where the Marquis’ coach tramples a child, a chilling metaphor for the nobility’s indifference. And we stood near the crumbling remnants of La Force, where Darnay was imprisoned. Even more surreal? Estimating the spot where the Bastille once stood, now a bustling square. The ghosts of revolution were replaced by scooters and shopping bags.

And here's the twist I didn’t expect: Dickens wasn’t exactly breaking news with his storytelling. He borrowed heavily from Carlyle’s historical account of the French Revolution. That’s right, our beloved Dickens was basically doing 19th-century plagiarism. But that doesn’t discredit him, it just proves his role wasn’t a historian, but a storyteller. One who planted seeds early on for what would become a storm of guillotines, mobs, and martyrdom.

While walking through Le Marais, we traced the very steps where Charles Darnay was imprisoned, La Force. I thought not of him, but of his discomfort. His real, gut-wrenching fear. He wasn’t worried about routine. He wasn’t scrolling through social media or hunting for AC. He was focused on survival, on saving Gabelle, on holding onto Lucie’s hope. Lucie was focused on saving Charles. Dr. Manette on pulling political strings. Sydney on giving Lucie a life he could never be part of.

And here I am… irritated by the smell of cigarette butts in my apartment.

It put things into perspective. We’ve come so far. My complaints, about lack of WiFi, the heat, unfamiliar routines, they feel embarrassing now. If Dickens’ characters saw our lives, I think they’d be stunned: people glued to screens, navigating vast cities with a tap on a phone, riding underground trains beneath the very soil where revolutions unfolded. I’m living the life I once wished for. So why does it still feel heavy?

Maybe this is the real reason for travel: not just to explore new places, but to confront new parts of yourself. Travel has a way of unearthing all the small things you don’t realize you cling to until they’re gone. It forces you to expand your comfort zone, not by choice, but by necessity. To sit with discomfort. To be a little lost. A little unsure. A little Sydney Carton.

No, I wouldn’t want to live in the 18th century. No AI, no cybertrucks, no AC? Absolutely not. But I’m starting to see how losing your routine, your rhythm, your control, even just for a while, can give you something else: a mirror. Not always a flattering one, but a necessary one.

And maybe that’s what being a modern vagabonde is all about. Wandering, not just through cities, but through yourself, until you find something worth coming back to.