What I'm Taking With Me

As this journey comes to an end, I can't help but feel a little sad about everything that is being left behind: the art, the architecture, the streets, the language, the food, the bikes, the books, the inside jokes, and the memories made in classrooms, churches, museums, and on sidewalks. After four weeks of waking up every morning knowing there was somewhere new to explore, it feels strange to think that tomorrow I won't have somewhere else to walk to.

Le Louvre

From walking through the halls of Versailles to exploring the sewers while plugging my nose, I have seen more of London and Paris than I ever expected to see in one month. But somewhere along the way, I realized that the most important things I am taking home aren't things I can put in my suitcase.

When I arrived in Europe, I never expected this class to turn me into an art appreciator. I have always liked art, but I wouldn't have called myself someone who goes looking for it. After spending a month in London and Paris, however, it became almost impossible to walk anywhere without looking up and noticing something. The Louvre was obviously overwhelming, but some of my favorite pieces of art weren't even inside it. They were on ceilings, in churches, along buildings, in museums like the Carnavalet, and tucked into places we passed without even realizing they were there. Paris made it difficult to ignore art.

You can turn a corner and suddenly find yourself standing in front of a building that looks like it belongs in a museum. You can walk into a church and realize that the ceiling above you is more beautiful than some of the paintings you traveled across the world to see. You can spend an afternoon at Versailles staring at rooms that seem almost impossible to have been built by people, then spend another afternoon underground in the sewers, wondering how the same city can contain both.

The architecture was just as overwhelming. I think that might be one of the biggest things I will miss. Not one particular building, but the streets themselves. The way old and new seem to exist together. The palaces, churches, apartments, bridges, gardens, and narrow streets all somehow become part of the same city.

And then there was the language. I definitely did not walk away from this trip fluent in French. If anything, there were probably just as many moments when I had absolutely no idea what someone was saying as there were when I understood them. But I did walk away appreciating the language in a way I didn't before.

I'll always remember the man sitting on the bench who spoke to me in French, even though I couldn't understand everything he was saying, and responding with one of the only phrases I know, “Désolé, je parle pas français.” I couldn't walk away from that conversation, suddenly speaking French, but I could walk away realizing that language doesn't have to be something you completely understand to appreciate. I started listening differently. The sounds of conversations around me, the announcements on the Metro, people ordering food, even the way French sounds when someone was simply talking became part of the experience, but you don't have to understand everything to appreciate it.

There were plenty of moments in class when I didn't understand Hugo's point immediately. There were pages of Les Misérables where I wondered why we were spending so much time on a particular street, building, character, or historical digression. Then we would walk through that place, and suddenly it made sense.

Some of my favorite memories have absolutely nothing to do with the novels. They are the moments that happened in between them. Laughing with everyone in class until we had to remind ourselves to be quiet while walking through a church. Getting slightly lost. Finding food after a long afternoon of walking. Riding bikes to class. Making jokes that probably won't be nearly as funny once we are back at USC. Sitting together after a long day and realizing that somehow we had walked another ten miles. Those are the moments I know I'll remember.

When I think back on this trip years from now, I probably won't remember every street name or every date we discussed in class. I might not even remember exactly which day we visited certain museums. But I will remember what it felt like to ride a bike through Paris in the morning. I will remember the overwhelming rooms of Versailles, the paintings at the Louvre, and the smell of the sewers that made me question every decision that led me underground. I will remember walking through London and seeing Dickens differently. I will remember standing where Gavroche's elephant once stood and realizing that a place I had only imagined could have once felt real. I will remember tracing the streets of the Corinth barricade and looking at Paris through Hugo's eyes. And I will remember learning that a city is more than its landmarks.

When I wrote my first blog, I was still trying to figure out what bookpacking actually meant. I thought it meant finding the places in a book and seeing them in person. Four weeks later, I know it is much more than that. Bookpacking taught me to slow down, to look up, to look down, to notice the building I might otherwise walk past, to wonder what happened on the street underneath my feet, to appreciate the detours, to let a book change the way I see a city, and to let a city change the way I read a book.

I am sad to leave all of that behind. I am sad to leave the art and the architecture, the streets and the language, the cafés and the bikes, the books and the memories. But I also know that none of it is really being left behind. I get to take it with me. Maybe not the paintings. Maybe not the buildings, and definitely not the smell of the sewers. But I get to take the way I remember them with me, and I think that's one of the best souvenirs I could have asked for.

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Between the Landmarks

When people ask about Paris, they usually want to hear about the landmarks. The Eiffel Tower. The Louvre. Notre-Dame. Versailles. Those places deserve every bit of their reputation, and after spending three weeks in Paris, I understand why millions of people travel across the world to see them. But when I think back on this trip, those aren't the moments that immediately come to mind. Instead, I think about everything in between.

One of my favorite parts of this program became riding the city bikes to and from class and between some destinations. At first, they were simply the fastest way to get across Paris. By the end of the trip, they had become one of my favorite parts of every day. We could have taken the metro almost everywhere. It would have been quicker, cooler, and probably less exhausting after walking several miles each afternoon. But underground, you miss the city itself.

On a bike, Paris unfolds slowly. You hear conversations drifting from cafés as people linger over lunch. You pass the smell of fresh bread escaping from boulangeries before you even see them. You stop at a traffic light and suddenly notice Notre-Dame towering over the rooftops or catch a glimpse of the Seine reflecting the afternoon sun. Every ride became an opportunity to stumble across something unexpected.

The destinations mattered, but so did getting there. That realization made me think about the way Victor Hugo writes Les Misérables. He rarely rushes from one major event to the next. Instead, he lingers. He follows Jean Valjean down ordinary streets, lets Marius wander through the Luxembourg Gardens, and spends pages describing neighborhoods, convents, and even the route someone takes across Paris. Before this class, I sometimes found myself impatient with those digressions. I wanted to get back to the plot. Walking and biking through Paris made me realize that those "detours" are often the point.

One afternoon, we visited the Paris sewers. Throughout Les Mis, Hugo devotes an astonishing amount of time to describing them, transforming what could have been a brief escape scene into one of the novel's longest and most memorable sequences. I'll admit that I didn't linger there nearly as long as Hugo would have liked. The smell alone was enough to encourage me to keep moving. But even while trying to make my way through as quickly as possible, I thought about why Hugo spends so much time underground. The sewers aren't meant to be beautiful. They're meant to remind readers that every magnificent city has another side that most people never see. Paris isn't only its grand boulevards, elegant gardens, and famous monuments. Beneath all of that is another city, hidden from view, doing the unseen work that allows everything above ground to exist.

Oddly enough, that felt connected to riding the bikes. Both experiences reminded me to pay attention to parts of the city that are easy to overlook. Sometimes that meant looking up and noticing a church tucked between apartment buildings. Sometimes it meant looking down into the less glamorous parts of Paris that tourists rarely think about. Either way, the city became richer the moment I stopped focusing only on the postcard views.

After a couple of weeks, another realization I had was that bookpacking isn't just about standing in front of famous landmarks or finding the exact location of a fictional barricade. It's about learning to slow down enough that the journey between those places becomes meaningful, too.

Ironically, the moments I'll remember most probably won't be standing in front of the Eiffel Tower or walking through the Louvre. They'll be riding a bike through quiet Parisian streets on the way to class, hearing the city wake up around me, turning a corner, and unexpectedly finding another piece of history hiding in plain sight. Sometimes the best part of the story isn't the destination. It's everything in between.

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Children of the Revolution

History has a way of making revolutions feel like they belong to adults. When we study them, we learn the names of kings, generals, politicians, and revolutionaries. Louis XVI. Robespierre. Napoleon. General Lamarque. Enjolras. We talk about governments rising and falling, constitutions being written, and barricades filling the streets. Children rarely appear in those conversations. Victor Hugo refuses to let us forget them.

When I first read Les Misérables, Gavroche immediately became one of my favorite characters. He's witty, fearless, sarcastic, and somehow manages to make even the darkest moments of the novel feel lighter. I admired his confidence and independence, but I also thought of him as exactly what he was intended to be: a memorable fictional character. It wasn't until I started walking through Paris that I realized Hugo was asking his readers to see something much bigger.

Where the elephant would have been

One afternoon, we walked toward the Place de la Bastille from Saint-Gervais Church, tracing the events in A Tale of Two Cities, but somehow the locations we strolled past were also mentioned in Les Miserables as well. Along the way, we stopped where the Elephant of the Bastille once stood, the enormous unfinished monument that Hugo chose as Gavroche's home (think of an empty elephant version of the Trojan horse). Before this class, the elephant had always struck me as one of those strange details authors invent to make a character more memorable. Standing there, you realize that Hugo modeled Gavroche on the countless children who lived on the streets of nineteenth-century Paris, children who survived wherever they could, even inside an abandoned monument.

Fallen Drummer Boy (in the Louvre) - Gavroche?

Our seminar later connected Gavroche to nineteenth-century paintings of revolution, where boys often appear delivering ammunition, holding pistols, or following adults into battle. Looking at those paintings after standing where the Elephant once stood, I noticed something I hadn't before. Artists often make these children appear heroic and almost triumphant. Hugo certainly allows Gavroche moments of heroism, but he never lets us forget that beneath the confidence and clever jokes is still a child. His courage doesn't erase the tragedy of his circumstances. If anything, it makes it even more heartbreaking.

Liberty Leading the People (in the Louvre) - Can you spot Gavroche?

Our seminar later connected Gavroche to nineteenth-century paintings of revolution, where boys often appear delivering ammunition, holding pistols, or following adults into battle. Looking at those paintings after standing where the Elephant once stood, I noticed something I hadn't before. Artists often make these children appear heroic and almost triumphant. Hugo certainly allows Gavroche moments of heroism, but he never lets us forget that beneath the confidence and clever jokes is still a child. His courage and "grand little soul" doesn't erase the tragedy of his circumstances. If anything, it makes it even more heartbreaking.

Where the barricade once stood. Photo by Andrew Chater

Later in our trip, we searched for the location of the Corinth barricade, following Hugo's remarkably detailed descriptions through streets that have long since disappeared beneath modern Paris, with restaurants and stores and some guy named David who created a pin to remember it. I had expected standing there to make me think about Enjolras giving speeches or Marius choosing between love and revolution. The students choose to enter the barricade because of their political convictions. Gavroche enters because the streets have always belonged to him. The revolution interrupts the lives of the students. For Gavroche, it is simply another day of surviving in the only world he has ever known.

Walking through Paris also made me realize something about the way cities remember their past. Paris is full of monuments to revolution: the July Column rises above the Place de la Bastille, Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People hangs in the Louvre, plaques, statues, and memorials preserve the names of generals, politicians, and great historical figures. Everywhere we went, there were reminders of famous people who shaped French history. But there is no monument to some influential children. Their memorial lies in literature or in the small details of a painting. Without Hugo, the thousands of anonymous children would largely remain invisible. Through Gavroche, Hugo gives them a voice that history rarely does. One of the things I've appreciated most about bookpacking is that it constantly reminds me that novels aren't only about fictional characters. They're also about the people who inspired them. Walking through London changed the way I understood Dickens' contrasts. Walking through Paris changed the way I understood Hugo's compassion. Before this class, I thought Les Misérables was primarily a novel about redemption, justice, and revolution. It still is. But after spending two weeks walking through Hugo's Paris, I think it's also a novel about remembering the people history tends to overlook.

Kings have monuments. Generals have statues. Revolutionaries have streets named after them. Sometimes, all a child gets is a chapter in a novel. And after walking the streets that Gavroche once wandered, it somehow feels both tragically insufficient and incredibly moving.

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A Tale of One City

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“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,”

— Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

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Before arriving in London, I always thought the famous opening line of A Tale of Two Cities referred almost entirely to England and France. Two countries. Two governments. Two completely different responses to revolution. After spending a week bookpacking Dickens's London, I'm convinced he was also describing London itself.

One of the biggest surprises of this class has been realizing that London is a city built on contradictions. You can walk through centuries of history in less than an afternoon, passing from places of music and art to places that tell stories of crime and punishment without ever leaving the same city.

Early in the week, we explored the Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, and Parliament. Everything feels permanent there. Massive stone buildings, ceremonial guards, carefully maintained parks, and traditions that have existed for centuries. Even as tourists filled the sidewalks taking photos, there was still a feeling that these places had stood through wars, political upheaval, and generations of monarchs without ever appearing to lose their composure (which it has).

Only a day later, we found ourselves standing outside the Old Bailey, a criminal courthouse, and the Royal Courts of Justice. Instead of kings and ceremonies, these streets tell stories of trials, executions, and the legal system that Dickens so often criticized. Suddenly the city felt completely different. Yet it was still London.

That pattern kept repeating throughout the week.

Walking through the financial district, we found ourselves surrounded by glass skyscrapers squeezed between churches and buildings hundreds of years older than the country I grew up in. The Gherkin and the Lloyd's Building rise behind narrow streets where Dickens himself once walked. One moment that perfectly captured London's contradictions happened while standing beneath the Gherkin. Looking one direction, I saw steel and glass reaching into the skyline. Looking the other, I saw narrow streets that have existed for centuries (shown in the video at the bottom of this page). There wasn't a clean line dividing old London from new London. They coexist together, each making the other more noticeable. Rather than replacing history, modern London simply builds around it. New buildings compliment and reinforce the old buildings still standing. Every neighborhood feels like a conversation between different centuries. That idea reminded me of Dickens's novel.

Bookpacking isn't only about proving whether Dickens got every location exactly right. Cities change. Buildings disappear. Streets get renamed. Instead, it's about discovering how the places themselves deepen your understanding of why an author wrote the story the way they did. Standing in these locations makes it easier to understand why Dickens fills A Tale of Two Cities with opposites. London constantly presents them to you. Justice and punishment. Tradition and innovation. Old and new. Even the city itself feels like two places existing at once. But one contrast surprised me more than any of those. Despite being one of the busiest cities in the world, London is unexpectedly quiet.

Some of my favorite moments from this week weren't outside Buckingham Palace or in the middle of Trafalgar Square. They happened in places like Middle Temple, Bloomsbury, and the neighborhood surrounding the Dickens Museum. One afternoon, we sat down to read in a relaxing, quiet park. When we stood to leave, as soon as we walked around the block, we were met with the bustling atmosphere of London. Just minutes away from crowded streets, all of these spaces suddenly become peaceful. It's easy to understand why Dickens chose settings like these to give his characters moments to breathe. Amid revolutions, public spectacle, and political conflict, Dickens repeatedly gives his characters places where their personalities survive and can breathe. Walking through those quieter corners made me realize that he was doing the same thing for his readers.

Click to watch a video of moments from week 1 in London!

Middle Temple ended up being one of my favorite stops all week. Hidden behind gates and tucked away from London's busiest streets, it almost feels disconnected from the modern city. Walking through its courtyards, it wasn't difficult to imagine Sydney Carton or Stryver hurrying arround. It also reminded me that Dickens didn't always write about grand political events. He understood quieter places too, where ordinary conversations happened and lives unfolded away from the public eye.

Bloomsbury, just outside of our apartment, became one of my favorite parts of London. Every morning we walked through quiet garden squares on our way to class before spending the afternoon exploring one of the busiest cities in the world. Those few peaceful blocks became a kind of reset button. Looking back, it feels fitting that Dickens lived nearby. Even in a city constantly moving, he found pockets of calm.

Visiting Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese was probably one of the easiest places to imagine Dickens himself. Descending into the dimly lit rooms, surrounded by low ceilings and centuries-old woodwork, it felt less like entering a restaurant and more like stepping into one of his novels. It's one thing to read of his characters drinking there; it's another to sit in a space underneath a plaque that read "This was the seat most frequently occupied by Charles Dickens" and has changed remarkably little since Dickens's lifetime.

By the end of the week, I had stopped thinking of London as simply one half of A Tale of Two Cities. Instead, it had become its own collection of "two cities."

Before this class, I assumed bookpacking meant tracing fictional characters through real places. Now I think it's more of a conversation between the place and the story. The novel changes the way you see the city, and the city changes the way you read the novel. And after spending a week walking London's streets, I don't think I'll ever read Dickens's opening line quite the same way again.

From Page to Stage

Some stories change when they're adapted. Les Misérables simply changes how it tells the story.

When I first arrived in London, a few days before the program started, accompanied by my family, I had agreed to see Les Misérables, the musical in the West End, with my mom. I knew I would see it again the following week, but when I met with someone who hadn’t had the chance to read or experience the story, I wanted to say yes. I wanted to experience the musical with my mom just as enthusiastically as she did, especially after telling her snippets of many rants while I was reading the novel and hearing about her dream of seeing the show in London. And I don't regret seeing it with her, or seeing it again a week later with my class. The performance is so heartbreaking, brilliant, and exemplary, and if I had a chance to see it again tomorrow, I would.

For anyone unfamiliar, Les Misérables is a musical adaptation of Victor Hugo's 1862 novel. Originally created in French by Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schönberg before being adapted into English by Herbert Kretzmer, it has become one of the longest-running musicals in the world. Somehow, it transforms one of literature's longest novels into a performance of just under three hours without losing the emotional heart of Hugo's story.

The first time I saw the musical, I was simply trying to take it all in. The second time, after another week spent immersed in literature and history, I found myself watching less as an audience member and more as a reader asking the question, “How do you turn a 1400-page novel into a three-hour musical without losing its heart?”

Surprisingly, the answer is remarkably well. Herbert Kretzmer took the challenge of writing the English version and did not miss a beat, producing one of the longest-running musicals in the world.

Anyone who's read Hugo's novel knows that Les Misérables isn't just a story. The book is also a history book, a philosophy book, a political essay, and occasionally a very detailed lecture on topics you never expected to read hundreds of pages about. The musical trims almost all of that. Gone are Hugo’s lengthy digressions on Waterloo, the Paris sewers, convent life, Parisian slang, and countless philosophical reflections. I wondered whether cutting so much would make the story feel incomplete or leave noticeable holes in the narrative. Instead, it creates a cohesive story, taking the audience through the same emotional journey as reading the novel.

One of the things that amazed me most was the pacing. Fantine's heartbreaking story seems to fly by. Jean Valjean's transformation happens in what feels like moments. Cossette grows from child to young woman almost immediately. Marius appears out of nowhere. The musical makes you forget that Hugo once spent dozens of pages talking about the Paris sewers. If you've read the novel, it almost feels as though someone is skipping chapters. The musical crams the first four parts of the novel, roughly the first thousand pages, into a single act, leaving the last part of the book to act two. However, rather than it feeling rushed, it felt natural and remarkably intentional. And that’s the astonishing feat of the adaptation.

One thing I noticed far more during my second viewing was that Les Misérables rarely stops the narrative for a "musical number." There wasn’t a spectacle made out of the dancing, and the songs were the dialogue. "Who Am I?" is a powerful solo where Jean Valjean's entire moral crisis is compressed into a few minutes. "Stars" isn't simply Javert singing beautifully. It's his worldview. "One Day More" somehow manages to bring every storyline together while moving each one forward simultaneously. By the time "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" arrives, the audience hardly needs dialogue to understand grief. We've lived alongside these characters long enough that the music carries the weight for us. Reading Hugo beforehand made these songs even richer. I found myself recognizing themes from the novel hiding inside lyrics I had completely missed the first time I listened. I will admit that the musical, without the context of the book, is difficult to follow if you don’t pay attention, and would leave someone feeling lost at times.

Photos from the London Les Misérables Website Gallery

This blog wouldn’t be a blog by me without a little critique regarding the technical components and casting.

Before diving into the technical side of the production, I have to give credit to the casting because it was phenomenal. One of the things I appreciated most after reading the novel was how closely many of the actors matched the mental images I had formed while reading. The Thenardiers were exactly as I had pictured them: chaotic, over-the-top, and somehow both hilarious and completely unlikable at the same time. Fantine was another standout. From her blonde hair to her delicate frame, she looked remarkably close to the image I had built in my head while reading Hugo's descriptions, making her tragic story even more believable. Beyond appearances, the vocal talent across the entire cast was incredible. Every principal had a distinct sound that suited their character perfectly, from Jean Valjean's warmth and power to Javert's commanding presence. What impressed me most was the range across the ensemble. There wasn't a weak voice on stage, and each performer brought something unique to the score.

On the technical side, starting with the set, it was absolutely breathtaking. Every moving piece fits together like an enormous puzzle. I couldn’t help thinking of all the planning that must have gone into the design while sitting there, because not only does it have to fit and be reusable on stage throughout the show, but it also has to fit in a probably small backstage space, considering that the theater is in a crammed part of London. On top of the architecture that went into the design, the set was so beautifully detailed in scenes like the barricade or the Thenardiers’ inn. I liked the use of a side vom for additional acting levels on stage left as it added depth. And the lower exit that went below the stage on stage right was also a clever way of utilizing the space in the theatre.

Accompanying the scenic elements was the soundscape. The sound in the show was probably my favorite technical element. From the dripping of water coming from around you during the sewers to the subtle birds chirping in the square, the sound enveloped you completely, making you feel like you were actually there. Together, the sound and scenery brought the “scabrous seepings from the walls, dripping ceilings, blackness” of the Paris sewers described in the novel to fruition. The sound transported you into the world onstage much like Hugo's words transported you into the world on the page. Combined with the orchestra, it created an experience that felt completely immersive. Even more impressive was hearing musical motifs weave in and out of different songs, connecting characters and ideas long before the story explicitly did. Those recurring themes became little musical "Easter eggs." Once I noticed them, I couldn't stop listening for them.

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Other miscellaneous elements I applauded were the pyrotechnics and Javert’s flight. During the show, there were pyrotechnics of sparks from Jean Valjean’s gun and off the top of the proscenium during the barricade scene. I thought that these were nice elements to add. I only wish that there were more sparks throughout the barricade scene, and not just the two in one corner. And when Javert takes flight off the bridge when he jumps, I applaud it not for having that additional element but for the smoothness of it. To have an actor fly on stage, they have to be clipped into a rigging system. During this scene, you could tell that he doesn’t get clipped in until he is on the bridge because he crosses downstage sporadically, and if he were to be clipped in during that, the rope would get caught in the lights and would disable the actor from flying due to danger risks. All in all, I applaud this because I love it when something takes you off guard in a show like this, where you don’t see him getting clipped in, so you aren’t expecting it.

Not every technical choice completely worked for me.

Some lighting moments were so dark that characters blended into the background (particularly during Javert's final scene), making it harder to focus on the emotional center of the moment. I don’t think that the light of the exit signs should be the lights drawing my attention more than the stage lights because the green “exits” were brighter than what was on the stage. I understand that the designer was intending for the lights to convey similar themes to the novel, but you shouldn’t have to strain your eyes to make out what was happening on stage. Towards the end of the performance in Act 2, the entirety of the dim lighting throughout the show was thrown off, with the scene in the wedding ball being the brightest and most light-filled scene, almost as if a separate designer had designed only this scene. I did enjoy how there was a consistent “beam of death” light to symbolize when a character passed away. I thought it was a clever way to understand each monumental death. My last comment regarding the lights includes the barricade, which was well designed and communicated the chaos/battle of the scene; however, I thought that it was quite inconsistent with some of the lights matching the sound and music, but some were out of place.

I walked away simply thinking that the costumes served their purpose in communicating the period, social classes, and relationships. Cossette’s costume as a kid in the Thenardier’s house showed that her relationship with the family was not a loving situation, as it juxtaposed Eponine’s gorgeous, clean, and wealthy-looking costume. My only qualm with the costumes throughout the show was that I thought that Jean Valjean’s soldier disguise stuck out like a sore thumb, not because of the other costumes, but because of how the costume itself looked like it was a last-minute addition and a less detailed costume in comparison to all the costumes in the show. Bringing it back to the wedding scene, I thought that the costumes brought such a huge contrast to the rest of the show, but it worked because it portrayed the happy moment. But even those moments didn't diminish the overall achievement of the production. If anything, they reminded me just how many artistic decisions have to come together successfully for a show of this scale to work. What makes this experience even more meaningful is when it happened.

Our class hasn't even begun unpacking Les Misérables together. During our first week in London, we've been exploring Dickens' world through A Tale of Two Cities, walking the same streets that inspired his novel while discussing revolution, justice, and the relationship between England and France. Watching Les Misérables in the middle of that journey felt like standing on a bridge between the two novels. Dickens asks us to think about revolution through England's eyes. Hugo asks us to experience it from within France. Soon we'll leave London and begin tracing Jean Valjean's footsteps through Paris. When we do, I know I'll be reading the novel differently than I did the first time. And I have a feeling that, somewhere in the back of my mind, I'll still be hearing, "Do you hear the people sing?"

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