just romanticize it!

Art is a risk. It’s a risk that you create something and no one will enjoy it. 

Being creative is the action of producing something. It’s active not passive, which makes a “writing block” fictitious. If it’s fictitious, why am I spending so much time pondering what I should write about for this last blog post. Should I write about Cosette, Jean Valjean, or Marius? Where do I even start?

Last year, if you told me to study abroad for a month, I probably would have told you “no.” I would have told you “it’s too expensive.” But in reality, I was too scared. Too scared to throw myself out of routine, out of my home, out of my comfort zone. I was also scared to become a new person or even change. What if when I come back I lose all my healthy habits and become someone of zero ambition?

That seems a little irrational and ironic. Studying abroad is one of the most “self-growth inducing” things I’ve done. Sure, I’ve thought about going home almost every single day. At some point, I was begging my dad to book me a flight home. Take me home. But I stuck it through. It’s August 7th, which means I’m three days away from returning home. 

Packing my bags and looking through everything I got, I realized how many souvenirs I got. And I quickly noticed how none are for me. There are all for family and friends. Well, it was intentional. One I don’t want to spend more money of course. And two, my souvenirs are the lessons I learned and my growth as a person.

The first lesson I learned is about art. 

I will never be someone that will choose to go to a museum. Call me basic, but I prefer pretty views and destinations. I never really had an appreciation for art. When I was excited to go to Paris, I was looking forward to seeing the Eiffel tower and the Seine River. I wasn’t expecting to see a million museums and churches. 

Slowly, I gained an appreciation for art. Art is something that is vulnerable. It requires courage for someone to paint their strokes with no promise of outcome. Not every stroke is a guarantee toward a finish line. It’s completely creation-based. It’s a risk. Maybe the painting will turn out ugly, but no one will ever notice all your hard work. Maybe the painting will only be beautiful when you are not there to reap the benefits. 

Art is not just paintings. Art is anything that requires creativity. Something that causes you to produce something out of nothing. Yes, art’s a risk, but life without art is soulless. The absence of art would mean no beautiful paintings, no entertaining movies, no delicious food, no beautiful clothes to wear.

Art is the root of our enjoyment. It’s the root of slow sustainable enjoyment, giving one a boost of serotonin. Forgive me, I love science. 

The second lesson I learned is that Paris is not the city of love, it’s the city of romance. 

Love is different from romance. Love is a deep feeling of bondage one feels with another individual or thing. Romance is something entirely different. 

Officially, romance is “a feeling of mystery and excitement associated with love.” But romance, I argue, is something entirely different. It’s an essence. It’s the beauty of the buildings. It’s the sun shining through the stained glass of the Saint Chapel. It’s the articulate architecture of the Eiffel tower. It’s the texture of the pages flipping through your fingers. Romance is a feeling. 

In the U.S., we’ve capitalized on the whole “romanticize your life.” We’ve turned it into a spending hobby and a trend, rather than an act of appreciation and art. Before I knew what was true romanticization, I thought it was buy yourself a coffee, take a bubble bath, indulge in a movie, and of course don’t forget to take Pinterest worthy pictures so you can post it in your Instagram story. Both of those could be romanticized, but romance doesn’t require you to do anything extra. 

It’s about taking what you already have and turning it into something beautiful. Walking to class, ok let me gallivant to class and smile at people when I walk there. Reading Les Miserables for this summer class, ok let me light a candle and make myself a cup of warm tea. Eating a meal, ok let me sit down and enjoy all the flavors of the food.   

Samantha caught me right as the Eiffel Tower started sparkling. I think this was the first time I actually understood what true romance meant.

Being a romantic is about enjoying every moment, regardless of whether it’s something you want to do. Being in Paris makes it a lot easier, but I will admit not everyone is a romantic here. Or not everyone is retaining their romantic behaviors. 

When I’m walking from our accommodation to Accent, the first thing I notice is people walking with their phones open and their heads down. When I'm on the metro, people are scrolling through TikTok. Technology has hurt this sense of romance. 

But I’m choosing to take only the good with me. Doing one thing at a time. Not scrolling while I’m waiting. Instead, noticing what’s around me. Not watching while eating. Instead, talking to family and enjoying the flavor profile of my meal. Not texting while walking, rather smiling to the people around me. 

These small shifts turn me into a romantic. Someone who enjoys every little moment. Someone who’s ok with being bored. Someone who sees extra time as a way to be creative and produce art, rather than merely consume it. 

Don’t get me wrong, consuming art is the basis of inspiration, but there comes a point where consumption overrides production. And it’s not about producing as much as possible in as little of time (aka productivity and hustle culture). It’s about taking the time to enjoy those brush strokes on the canvas and the words on the paper. It’s about taking the risk to enjoy the act.

Paris and London! Here’s a little video diary of some of the special moments.

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.

Day in the Life of Marius

Walking through the Saint-Germain, struggling to keep up with our small group of nine, I wanted to enjoy my time in Paris, but I felt rushed. It felt like we were zooming by each place, unable to fully absorb each landmark. Despite being in the land of slow living, we brought our hustle culture from the United States. In fear of being left behind and left out, I moved by short legs as fast as I could. Eventually, taking videos on my camera and getting stuck behind a signal light led me to being a block behind. I could feel the panic rising within me, but I decided not to catch up. I decided to take my time absorbing what was around me, going at my own pace. Maybe this was what being a Flâneur was all about. Getting a little lost and left behind, and losing your destination. 

When Marius left his grandfather to live at his own pace, he acquired characteristics of a Flâneur. Living day to day, watching society drift by him, with no real destination. He wanders around with no real purpose. He minimalizes his life, spending the bare minimum and selling his belongings in order to eat. Rejecting his grandfather's wealth and political convictions, he goes off the grid. He’s drifting, ideologically, kind of like how a Flâneur would never use a map. More importantly, he becomes an observer detached from society. This is especially true when he views Cosette in the Luxembourg gardens. He sees her from a distance and he doesn’t even speak to her. Marius observes her aura and the cadence of her walk and becomes entranced by Cosette. Despite this anonymity eventually turning into love, at the moment he was acting like a Flaneur, never acting on the emotional attachment. 

That day I decided to live a little like Marius. Starting off, I put myself on a budget of $20, which became 17 euros. I thought the budget was quite generous until I spent 30 minutes at the supermarket trying to come up with something suitable for me to consume with my remaining budget of 4 euros. Luckily I was able to stick within my budget, when I bought a baguette sandwich for 3,39 euros. I was proud of myself. 

Medici Fountain at the Luxembourg Gardens

More importantly, when we were at the Luxembourg gardens, instead of rushing to follow the group, I decided to hold back a little, and be left behind. It didn’t mean that was unsafe and forgotten like my brain was telling me. I could enjoy my own presence. I was surrounded by a million other people, but I was by myself. I read the ending of my romantasy book and journaled for a little while. I started studying the people around me. Tourists taking photos, students on their computers, and a woman scrolling through her phone. I felt like the main character, Marius, but I also felt like I was just a background actor of a million different people. 

This scene reminded me of where Cosette and Marius met. They were each other’s background actors until they were each other’s main characters. As I continued to read my romantasy book, I felt awed and struck by the grandiose statements of love similar to that of Marius. It was fast breakable love. The instalove that I wonder if it’s even longlasting. Is it just an obsession or an actual genuine companionship between the two? Regardless, Marius never really interacted with Cosette until much later. He viewed her with interest, but his lack of action proves his Flâneur-like behavior. Just wandering around without a map, looking at interesting people. 

After I finished reading my book at the Medici Fountain à Jardin du Luxembourg, I walked around aimlessly. I stopped to buy that baguette sandwich and then I found myself at the Seine River. For Marius the Seine river was a time of despair after losing Cosette. It reminded me again of how instalove can be toxic. Companionship love is steady and not filled with the ups and downs like Victor Hugo describes it. Despite the drama, I was just here to enjoy my baguette and people watch, like a Flâneur. I ate my baguette, watched the people beside me reading books, the other group of girls talking loudly. They were definitely from the same place I was…

Solo Date at the Seine River

As I sat there, I began to realize that being a Flâneur isn’t about passivity or laziness, it’s about redefining slowness. It’s about choosing to notice a world, instead of blazing past it. Maybe that’s why it felt so shocking to hear one should reclaim their time, instead of optimizing it. Being a Flâneur is not easy. It means resisting the pressure to finish like 20 things in one day, sit down and work for hours. It’s about living. It’s about breathing. It’s about looking. 

Marius didn’t find meaning in status and money. I mean he left his rich grandfather to marry Cosette. Instead, he rooted his years in observation, eventually leading to his discovery of love. 

I saw the tourist cruise, the snickers wrapper floating, the soft wave of the water. Noticing all the small details around me, I realized maybe being a Flâneur means to be present. Present in the little things around you. It makes me feel like the things I give too much responsibility in my head actually aren’t as important as I make them out to be. When you’re surrounded by a million people, but you’re just by yourself, you get the feeling you belong while maintaining your autonomy. I never understood this until I was sitting in front of the buzzing popular tourist destinations by myself. 

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.

Becoming the Main Character in London

It’s my first time stepping into Europe. After a ten-hour flight and a bloated stomach, I found my way to the Tube with my overstuffed carry-on in tow. I didn’t trust myself to wrangle a massive checked bag down London sidewalks. To my surprise, the Tube wasn’t as packed as I feared. I sat down, clutching my backpack, buzzing with anticipation. Forty minutes later, I arrived. Pulling out my phone to snap a photo, I caught a dirty look from a local. He knew I was a tourist.

London wasn’t what I expected. My Pinterest boards promised gothic architecture and rainy city romance. Instead, I stepped out into Bedford Square: clean Georgian buildings under an unexpectedly sunny sky. It felt unfamiliar in a way that made me question my imagination. Still, by 9:30 a.m. on a Saturday, Bloomsbury was alive. Families streamed into cafés, friends caught up over coffees (not tea). A city of stories, already in motion.

Reading A Tale of Two Cities while walking those same London streets shifted something in me. I wasn’t just observing literature or history from the outside anymore, I was participating in it. Maybe I’m not the main character of this city, but walking through its chapters gave me a new way to see myself. Maybe not as Lucie Manette, but someone adjacent to her. Someone becoming.

Lucie, the golden thread of Dickens’ novel, reminds me of who I often am in LA: tucked away in my apartment, overthinking every decision, unsure how to be alone without being lonely. She’s gentle, yes, but often passive, surrounded by suitors, her life shaped by others’ choices. I see echoes of her in myself. Should I go book shopping alone? Or stay in and avoid the discomfort? For Lucie, independence feels just out of reach. Sometimes, for me, it does too.

But that Friday morning, I chose something different.

Gymshark Flagship Store

I took myself on a solo date across Central London. The Gymshark flagship store on Regent Street had been bookmarked in my mind for years. Growing up wearing Gymshark, working out at their first-ever store felt like a full-circle moment. I booked a 7 a.m. class. When I couldn’t find the back entrance, I almost turned back. Maybe this was a mistake. But a kind employee pointed me in the right direction, and that changed everything.

I met the kindest people that morning. All of us were there to better ourselves through movement. Abbey, a data analyst at a juice company in North London. Rob, a travel agent who worked nearby. As the workout began, I found myself surrounded by others who were equally committed. It was hard, but we pushed through together.

That solo date became a quiet triumph. What once felt daunting turned into something deeply rewarding. As I walked back to my accommodation, I realized I was doing the things I wanted to do, even without anyone beside me. In real time, I was building trust with myself. That day, my confidence muscle grew. Lucie may have hesitated, but I was learning to act.

Later that day, I noticed how close everything in London feels. Not just in distance, but in energy. That density is something Dickens captured so well. Earlier in the week, we visited Fleet Street with my class, passing Tellson’s Bank, the Old Bailey, and even eating at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Ten minutes from our accommodation was where Dr. Manette lived near Soho Square. Even in a group, I felt the weight of history in the cobblestone lanes. Dickens’ London was one of constant contact, where lives collided, where people from every walk of life had no choice but to share breath, space, and story. I felt that, too.

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese: one of Charles Dickens’ favorite pubs and believed to be the inspiration for the tavern where Sydney Carton dines in A Tale of Two Cities. A inconspicuous corner of Fleet Street drenched in literary history.

But it wasn’t until I wandered alone near the Millennium Bridge, outside the art museum, that I truly understood why Dickens gave voice to so many characters, from revolutionaries to street sweepers. London doesn’t belong to one kind of person. Watching a street performer do handstands and crack jokes, I noticed children, tourists, and locals all laughing together. In that moment, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt part of a crowd that didn’t need to name me to acknowledge me.

Then there’s Madame Defarge. She’s always fascinated me. While Lucie waits and hopes, Madame Defarge acts. She doesn’t flinch or ask for permission. She is certain, purposeful, and relentless. While her methods seem cruel, her resolve is rooted in injustice, the Evremonde family destroyed hers. She refuses to let the past be forgotten. She becomes a force for change.

I used to think I had to choose: be gentle like Lucie or bold like Madame Defarge. But maybe there’s room for both. To hold softness without losing strength. To make space for others without erasing yourself.

““Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,” returned Madame; “but don’t tell me.””

— Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

In London, women walk alone. They don’t need a man by their side, as Lucie needed Darnay. Even though feminism was only just beginning in Dickens’ time, I’m grateful for women like Madame Defarge, women who rejected the ideal of being quiet, pleasing, soft. Women who spoke, who acted. Because of them, women like me can live boldly today, unapologetically.

I haven’t returned to LA yet. I don’t know what will change when I do. But today, I didn’t wait for anyone. I didn’t ask permission to explore, to eat, to shop, to sit, or to write alone. I walked through the city, through the novel, and through myself. And in doing so, something shifted.

Maybe that’s what Dickens meant by resurrection. Maybe we don’t have to die to become someone new. Maybe we just need a morning to choose ourselves, and let that choice carry us forward.

London turned me into the main character. And I don’t need a plot twist to keep becoming her.