The First Time I Went Home

It’s much bigger than I thought it would be, towering almost one thousand feet above my head. Iron beams braid up its side, all the same dull gray reflecting the cloudy sky. There is no peeling paint; the city takes care to repaint it every seven years, making beautiful the 129 year old Tower. The top looks like a needle, waiting for a giant Sleeping Beauty. At its base blue, red, and white flags flap.

They call Paris the city of lights, but it is so much more. It’s a city of history, a playground of close calls and wars that brought buildings to their knees, only to construct them again. The Eiffel Tower’s story is one with a close call. The Tower was viewed apprehensively at its creation in 1889 and almost torn down in 1909, but city officials fought to have it stand on, seeing potential in using its height for radio transmission.

The thought is offensive now—one of the world’s most beloved monuments dismissed for scrap metal. Yet here it stands, another year, another 75 million people having stood in the very place I am now.

I stand in the grass below, hands stuffed in my pockets, coat buttoned up my neck. Traffic noises on from behind me, the whole city bustling on as I stand here frozen. I want to go up, walk every flight of stairs and avoid the long line at the elevator, but a chilly breeze smacks my face and I start to rethink it. People briskly pass on the sidewalks beside me, but I continue to wait. It’s my first trip here and I want to remember every detail.

I close my eyes and listen. I hear harsh words yelled by a woman on her phone in French. On my left, a couple debates their dinner plans. Car horns echo and the wind picks up again. This is what Paris sounds like, I think, smiling.

It sounds a lot like home.