PARIS—My first morning in Paris, I decided to start off on the right foot and take a jog through le Jardin du Luxembourg. This is a park created by Marie de’ Medici to remind her of her home in Italy, a park so strictly groomed that it reminded me nothing of my home in the wild New York woods.

At dinner with my host family the night before, I had caught a glimpse of what lay ahead of me for the month of June. Having carefully considered the amounts of Camembert involved, I figured a jog would not hurt. Trotting through the greenery, along with a very small handful of sweaty Frenchmen with socks hiked up to their knees, I wondered why there weren’t more joggers on this gorgeous Sunday morning.

A day later, as I nursed the blisters on my feet in my bathtub, I knew exactly why. I had walked 10 kilometers that day: four purposefully, three getting dreadfully lost, two purposefully inside the Louvre, and a last one getting dreadfully lost yet again while looking for le sortie of the Louvre.

This perambulation-filled day was no anomaly: every Parisian activity involves walking. When Ernest Hemingway said, “Paris is a moveable feast,” I think he may have meant that, at any given moment, people here are either moving or feasting. When Parisians aren’t walking, they are sitting on street-side cafés and watching people walk. When a Parisian might by chance decide to take the Métro, do not interpret this as a lazier action: he or she will still have to walk about one kilometer to change trains at Châtelet.

After buying a more comfortable pair of walking shoes and giving up the morning jogs, I began to enjoy the taste of a walking culture. I couldn’t remember why I would frequently take the shuttle from Mather (though upon further reflection, the answer is l’hiver). I have set aside a few afternoons when I didn’t have class to walk until I got lost enough to have to pull out my Paris map. It is getting a lot harder for me to get lost, which I consider a good omen.

Not all those who wander are lost, and not all my wandering here has been done for the sake of getting lost. I’ve walked along the Seine at night with a few friends and a few bottles of wine. During La Fête de la Musique, which is a citywide all-night music festival where both professional and amateur musicians and DJs play all night (in addition to many drunk Parisians who think they are musicians by 2 or 3 a.m.), I walked and danced till dawn along the cobblestones. I might have even thought that I was a musician by 2 or 3 a.m. Nobody sits to watch the World Cup matches: Parisians have fun on their feet.

This rainy Sunday night, as I forgo the football match and sit here in front of my computer to send my regards to The Crimson, my room reeks of the Camembert I mistakenly left out while briefly stepping out to join my host father in watching The Simpsons en Français. It is still delicious, though. (I’m currently in feasting mode, for the record).



Aroma of Camembert or not, this moment is the first time during my whole month here that I have sat down in my room for a lengthy period of time. Scratch that, this is the first time that I have sat down at all without food or French grammar exercises in front of me. I am going to sit here and listen to the rain for awhile. Then I’ll probably take a walk.



Aliza H. Aufrichtig ’08, a Crimson editorial editor, is a literature concentrator in Mather House.