As the roaring sound of cars echoed within Place de la Concorde, I silently observed the square, wondering how it must have looked like more than two hundred years ago, when Marie Antoinette was relentlessly executed before infinite enthusiastic eyes. With my attention captured by the story of the Queen of France, and as I discovered the two fountains surrounding the Luxor Obelisk, I didn’t notice rain had soaked all of my clothes nor how the temperature had instantly dropped. I started shivering and headed towards the trees of the Tuileries Garden, where I knew water droplets wouldn’t have reached my skin, uncovered by the inappropriate summer clothes I decided to wear that day. Despite rain had obfuscated the view and my surroundings almost appeared surreal, it was inevitable for me to notice the contrast between the Garden I was standing in, and the square before my eyes. The Tuileries Garden gave me the impression of being static, as the people it embraced moved with extreme calmness and tranquility. On the other hand, Place de la Concorde was far more dynamic, overflowing of fast cars, traffic lights which changed color every two or three minutes, and people crossing the streets several times. I closed my eyes and deserted my surroundings for a short period of time. I wanted to go back in time and live the 16th of October of 1793 through the eyes of a spectator, a revolutionary, who as eager as he could have been to be there, had moved in one of the front lines. It was scary and terrifying to me how those people could be so happy and cheerful in killing another human being, no matter who it was or what it had done. In my imagination, the roaring sound of cars had evolved into excited voices that filled my ears of laughter and energy as they cried “Vive la République”, but this only anguished and distressed me. How can things change so drastically in history? My thoughts were auspiciously interrupted by my classmates’ voices, which brought me back to reality in the fraction of a second.
The wind was forcefully moving the water sprinkled by the two fountains, and it had gotten too cold for us even under the Tuileries trees. Before leaving I glanced at the square one last time; at the pavement who had touched hundreds of thousands of different people, from different backgrounds and different eras; at the tip of the Tour Eiffel, which shined under the only ray of the sun that had managed to escape the countless clouds. It looked like a painting, one with a variety of stories to tell, maybe too many for just a painting.
