A Morning in Paris: A Walking Tale of Two Thousand Years in Two Hours
The morning air bit sharp and clean as we approached Fontaine Saint-Michel, where a bright salad-green umbrella bobbed like a beacon against the winter sky. Beneath it stood Alberto, our guide for the next few hours, his breath forming small clouds in the December chill. We had lucked out with the weather — Paris had shed its usual winter gray for a ceiling of perfect blue.
Alberto wasn’t just another tour guide reciting memorized facts about the City of Light. A musician who had traded London’s conservatories for Cambridge’s cobblestones, then Mexico’s vibrant streets, and finally Paris’s timeless boulevards, he had the soul of an artist and the heart of a storyteller. You could hear it in the way he talked about the city — not as a collection of monuments and dates, but as a living kaleidoscope of human dreams, follies, and triumphs.
“Ready to travel through 2,000 years of history?” he asked with a smile that suggested he knew secrets the guidebooks didn’t. When he wasn’t leading tours, Alberto could still be found performing in intimate Parisian bars, but today his instrument would be the city itself, and his music would be the tales that echoed through its ancient stones.
As our small group gathered around the fountain, none of us knew we were about to experience not just a walking tour, but a masterclass in storytelling. The next two and a half hours would transform Paris from a beautiful backdrop into a stage where kings and revolutionaries, artists and architects, saints and sinners had played their parts in one of history’s greatest dramas.
Fontaine Saint-Michel: A Symbol of Victory and Rebellion
The Fontaine Saint-Michel, constructed in 1860, serves as more than just a decorative monument. The fountain depicts the Archangel Michael vanquishing Satan, a powerful religious and political symbol. Today, it has evolved into a cultural focal point where Parisians gather to celebrate victories (particularly in football) and initiate protests. During celebrations, people traditionally place the French flag in Michael’s hand and wrap the defeated nation’s flag around the demon figure, transforming the religious symbolism into a modern expression of triumph.
Fontaine Saint-Michel
From Franks to France
The name “France” carries within it the echo of its Germanic origins. In the 3rd century AD, a confederation of Germanic tribes known as the Franks (“the free ones” or “the fierce ones” in their language) began moving into Roman Gaul. Unlike other Germanic peoples who simply raided Roman territories, the Franks formed alliances with the Romans and gradually established themselves as a powerful military and political force.
The watershed moment came with Clovis I, the first king to unite all Frankish tribes under one crown around 500 AD. His conversion to Christianity, influenced by his wife Clotilde, marked a crucial alliance between the Frankish monarchy and the Catholic Church. The land of the Franks — “Francia” in Latin — gradually evolved into “France,” and its people became known as “French,” though they were a mix of Gallic, Roman, and Frankish ancestry.
Paris: From Tribal Settlement to Capital City
The story of Paris begins on a small island in the Seine River — today’s Île de la Cité. Around 250 BC, a Celtic tribe known as the Parisii established a settlement here, choosing the location for its strategic value. The island provided natural protection, while its position on the Seine offered control over vital trade routes.
The Parisii were skilled craftsmen and traders, minting their own coins and developing a prosperous trading network. They named their settlement Lutetia (believed to mean “place near a swamp”), but the Romans, after conquering the area in 52 BC, often called it “Lutetia Parisiorum” — Lutetia of the Parisii.
As the settlement grew beyond the island and up both banks of the Seine, the name evolved. By the 4th century AD, it was simply called “Paris,” immortalizing the tribe that first saw the potential of this bend in the Seine. From these humble beginnings on a small island, Paris would grow to become one of the world’s great cities, though its heart still beats in the same place where the Parisii first made their home.
With these ancient origins still echoing in our minds, Alberto reached into his bag and produced a telescopic rod, unfurling the tricolore — blue, white, and red rippling in the winter breeze. Like a modern-day standard-bearer leading his troops into battle, he guided us through the medieval streets toward our next destination. As we wound our way through narrow passages that had witnessed centuries of Parisian life, the massive towers of Notre-Dame began to emerge above the rooftops, just as they had greeted countless pilgrims and travelers before us. Here, on the very island where the Parisii first made their home, we were about to encounter one of humanity’s greatest architectural achievements.
Notre-Dame: A Cathedral’s Tale of Glory, Revolution, and Rebirth
Stand before Notre-Dame, and you’re looking at a story that spans nearly nine centuries. In 1163, Bishop Maurice de Sully had a grand vision: to build the most magnificent cathedral Paris had ever seen. The old cathedral of Saint-Étienne would be demolished, and from its stones would rise something unprecedented in scale and beauty.
Notre-Dame
Construction was a generational saga. Sons followed their fathers onto the scaffolding, working with tools that had built the previous generation’s portion of the cathedral. Master masons passed their secrets to apprentices who would one day become masters themselves, each adding their own touch to the growing monument. For 182 years, the sound of chisels on stone echoed across the Île de la Cité as Notre-Dame slowly reached toward heaven.
The cathedral became the beating heart of French royal power. Imagine the scene at a royal coronation: incense hanging thick in the air, sunlight streaming through stained glass, and the future king approaching the altar. Here, French monarchs would humble themselves before God, kneeling before the archbishop to receive their crown. This ritual, performed before the nobility and common people alike, proclaimed that the king’s power came from divine authority — a message reinforced by every soaring arch and sacred image in the cathedral.
But then came 1789, and with it, a perfect storm that would shake France to its foundations. The country was bankrupt, thanks to an absurd tax system where peasants might surrender 70% of their earnings while nobles paid almost nothing. When devastating crop failures struck in 1788–1789, bread — the staple food of the poor — became almost impossible to find. The streets filled with hungry, angry people who could see the stark contrast between their empty plates and the nobility’s lavish lifestyles.
Marie Antoinette became the revolution’s perfect villain, though largely through propaganda. The infamous quote “Let them eat cake” was never uttered by her — it was actually from a book written when she was just a child in Austria. The real Marie Antoinette was known for her charitable works, but truth matters little when public anger needs a focus. She and Louis XVI would eventually join nearly 40,000 others under the blade of the guillotine during the Reign of Terror.
The Guillotine: Revolution’s Deadly Efficiency
The guillotine, which became the infamous symbol of the French Revolution’s Reign of Terror, has a surprisingly humanitarian origin story. Before its invention, executions in France were brutal, inconsistent affairs. Nobles were generally granted the mercy of a quick death by sword, while commoners might face hanging, burning, or being broken on the wheel — all potentially slow and agonizing deaths.
The guillotine, which became the infamous symbol of the French Revolution’s Reign of Terror
Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, a physician and member of the Revolutionary National Assembly, proposed in 1789 a more humane method of execution. Though he didn’t invent the device (that was done by Dr. Antoine Louis and German harpsichord maker Tobias Schmidt), his name became forever attached to it. The irony is that Guillotin opposed the death penalty and believed his machine would make executions so quick and clinical that the public would lose its taste for them, eventually leading to abolition.
The first guillotine was installed at Place de Grève (today’s Place de l’Hôtel de Ville) in Paris. Its efficiency was tested on sheep and dead human bodies before its first official use on April 25, 1792, to execute a highwayman named Nicolas Jacques Pelletier. The execution took place in front of a crowd that had gathered expecting entertainment. Many were disappointed by how quick and anticlimactic it was compared to traditional executions.
During the Reign of Terror (1793–1794), the guillotine became known as “the National Razor” or “Madame Guillotine.” It was moved to the Place de la Révolution (now Place de la Concorde), where it claimed its most famous victims, including Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, and eventually many revolutionaries themselves, including Robespierre.
The machine’s efficiency was terrifying — it could dispatch a condemned person in seconds. The chief executioner, Charles-Henri Sanson, claimed it took just 45 seconds from removing a prisoner from their cell to the blade’s fall. During the Terror’s height, the guillotine claimed up to 300 victims per month in Paris alone.
The guillotine’s use extended far beyond the Revolution. It remained France’s official method of execution for nearly two centuries, with the last execution taking place in 1977 in Marseille. France finally abolished the death penalty in 1981 under President François Mitterrand.
Dr. Guillotin was horrified that his name became synonymous with the device. After the Revolution, he withdrew from public life and devoted himself to medical research. His children later petitioned the French government to change their surname, unable to escape the association with the deadly machine their father had inadvertently promoted in the name of humanity.
Napoleon’s Rise and Coronation
Then came Napoleon, a brilliant military commander who had caught France’s imagination. Fresh from his triumphs against Austria and his Egyptian campaign (which filled the Louvre with antiquities), he staged the most dramatic coronation Notre-Dame had ever witnessed. On December 2, 1804, Pope Pius VII himself had traveled from Rome for the ceremony — a coup for Napoleon, as popes rarely left the Vatican. But Napoleon had one more surprise planned.
As the Pope raised the crown to place it on Napoleon’s head, the soon-to-be emperor seized it from the pontiff’s hands. In a gesture that left the assembled crowd gasping, Napoleon crowned himself, then turned and crowned his wife Josephine. The message was clear: his power came not from God or Church, but from himself and the people of France. This shocking moment was immortalized in Jacques-Louis David’s massive painting, which still hangs in the Louvre today.
Coronation of Napoleon — Jacques-Louis David’s massive painting
The revolution had taken its toll on Notre-Dame. Stripped of its religious purpose, the great cathedral was used as a warehouse and fell into devastating decline. Statues were smashed, lead was stripped from the roof to make bullets, and the spire was torn down. By 1830, there was serious talk of demolishing it completely — it seemed Notre-Dame’s story was about to end.
Victor Hugo’s Salvation of Notre-Dame
Enter Victor Hugo, already a celebrated writer, who had fallen in love with the deteriorating cathedral. In 1831, he published “Notre-Dame de Paris” (known in English as “The Hunchback of Notre-Dame”). The novel made the cathedral itself a character, with the bell-ringer Quasimodo serving as a symbol of its wounded beauty. The book became an international sensation, drawing tourists from across Europe who were shocked to find the magnificent cathedral of Hugo’s pages in such a sorry state.
Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris
Public outcry led to one of the most ambitious restoration projects of the 19th century. Under the direction of architect Eugène Viollet-le-Duc, Notre-Dame was not just repaired but reimagined. The spire that rises above Paris today is actually Viollet-le-Duc’s creation, more magnificent than the original. He added the famous chimeras (the gargoyle-like creatures that tourist’s love), restored the statuary, and essentially created the Notre-Dame that captured the world’s imagination — until the devastating fire of 2019 reminded us once again how precious and vulnerable our architectural heritage can be.
As our phones filled with snapshots of Notre-Dame’s enduring grandeur, Alberto waited patiently. The cathedral’s scars from the 2019 fire were still visible, a reminder that even Paris’s greatest monuments remain vulnerable to destruction. Perhaps reading our thoughts, Alberto’s expression grew more serious as he gestured us to follow him. “Now,” he said, his voice taking on a darker tone, “let me tell you about another time when Paris’s treasures hung in the balance — a moment when the entire city came within hours of annihilation.” As we walked, the morning sun caught bullet holes still visible in the limestone walls of the Police Prefecture, silent witnesses to the story we were about to hear.
Paris in World War II: The City That Almost Burned
The preservation of Paris during World War II is a tale of defiance, unlikely heroes, and a fateful decision made in the final hours of Nazi occupation. While most of Europe’s great cities lay in ruins, Paris emerged from the war almost untouched — but this miraculous survival hung by a thread.
Hitler had a complex relationship with Paris. Having visited as a tourist in 1940 after the city’s fall, he was enraptured by its beauty. In a rare moment of whimsy, the Führer insisted on a three-hour tourist tour, demanding photographs of himself posed before the Eiffel Tower and Opera House. It was dawn when he finally finished his sightseeing, and he declared, “Paris is beautiful, isn’t it? But Berlin will be far more beautiful.” This would be Hitler’s only visit to Paris, but it left him determined to either possess the city or destroy it.
Hitler in Paris
By August 1944, as Allied forces approached Paris, Hitler’s infatuation had turned to vengeful obsession. He appointed General Dietrich von Choltitz as the new military governor of Paris, reportedly demanding, “Is Paris burning?” during their final meeting. Hitler’s orders were explicit: Paris must be defended to the last man, and if lost, it must be left in ashes. The plan called for the destruction of all 45 bridges over the Seine, the Louvre, Notre-Dame, and every other major monument. Explosives were already in place.
Von Choltitz found himself in an impossible position. A dedicated career soldier who had previously followed orders to destroy Rotterdam and Sevastopol, he was no stranger to urban warfare. Yet something about Paris gave him pause. Perhaps it was the city’s beauty, or maybe the futility of destruction with the war clearly lost. Whatever his reasons, he began playing a dangerous game of delay and deception.
Meanwhile, Hitler’s mental and physical state was deteriorating rapidly. His personal physician, Theodor Morell, had him on a disturbing cocktail of drugs, including regular methamphetamine injections. On crucial days, Hitler would often sleep until late morning, his staff terrified to wake him with bad news. This chemical haze may have contributed to his increasingly irrational demands regarding Paris.
As the Allies approached, Swedish Consul General Raoul Nordling entered the picture, engaging in marathon negotiation sessions with von Choltitz. Over glasses of wine in the Hôtel Meurice (which served as Nazi headquarters), they discussed Paris’s fate. Nordling argued passionately for the city’s preservation, appealing to von Choltitz’s sense of history and civilization.
The negotiations were interrupted by news that the French Resistance had risen up in Paris. Von Choltitz now faced pressure from all sides: Hitler’s orders to destroy the city, the approaching Allies, and armed resistance fighters in the streets. He could have followed orders, triggering the explosives and creating an urban inferno. Instead, he chose a different path.
On August 25, 1944, von Choltitz surrendered Paris to the Free French Forces, deliberately disobeying Hitler’s direct orders. While some have painted this as a purely moral decision, the reality was more complex. Von Choltitz negotiated terms that would protect himself and his men, securing their surrender to the French military rather than resistance fighters. He was indeed transferred to American custody and spent the rest of the war as a prisoner.
On August 25, 1944, von Choltitz surrendered Paris
The few signs of combat from this period can still be seen today, particularly bullet marks preserved on the walls of the Police Prefecture on the Île de la Cité. These scars are intentionally maintained as subtle reminders of how close Paris came to destruction.
Von Choltitz’s legacy remains complicated. While his decision saved Paris, his previous willing participation in war crimes prevents him from being celebrated as a hero. There are no monuments to his memory in Paris, and his name is rarely mentioned in official histories. Yet his final act of disobedience preserved one of the world’s great capitals for future generations.
When asked later why he spared Paris, von Choltitz gave different answers at different times. Sometimes he cited humanitarian reasons, other times military pragmatism. Perhaps his most honest response came in a 1965 interview: “If for centuries to come, people can walk across the bridges of Paris and wander through the gardens of the Louvre, then they can thank God that the soldier who had been trained to obey orders had, at the decisive moment, disobeyed.”
Pont Neuf: Tales from Paris’s “New” Old Bridge
Stand on the Pont Neuf today, and you’re walking across a delightful historical irony. This “New Bridge” is actually the oldest surviving bridge in Paris, a testament to both clever engineering and human stubbornness. Before 1578, Parisians crossed the Seine on wooden bridges that had an unfortunate habit of collapsing during floods or fires, sometimes taking houses and unfortunate residents with them. It was King Henri IV who finally decided that Paris deserved better.
Henri IV himself was one of French history’s most colorful characters — a king whose larger-than-life personality matched his ambitious projects. Known as “The Green Gallant,” he embraced life’s pleasures with enthusiasm that became legendary. Court gossips whispered about his prodigious appetite for wine (supposedly two liters daily) and his even more impressive appetite for romance. The official count was 67 mistresses, though unofficial estimates ran much higher, and the number of children he fathered could have populated a small village.
Henri IV
But Henri was more than just a royal bon vivant. He was a king who survived multiple wars, changed his religion twice (“Paris is worth a mass,” he famously declared when converting to Catholicism to claim his crown), and managed to end France’s brutal religious wars. His greatest achievement, the Edict of Nantes in 1598, granted unprecedented rights to Protestants in Catholic France. It was a revolutionary idea for its time — the notion that people of different faiths could live together in peace.
The king’s romantic adventures made him plenty of enemies. He survived an impressive 25 assassination attempts, leading him to joke that he had become quite skilled at dodging daggers. But on May 14, 1610, his luck ran out. While his carriage was stuck in traffic on the Rue de la Ferronnerie (a scene any modern Parisian can sympathize with), a Catholic fanatic named François Ravaillac reached through the window and stabbed him. Ravaillac’s punishment was especially gruesome — he was pulled apart by four horses in the Place de Grève, a common execution method of the time.
But Henri’s bridge outlived him, and what a bridge it was! The Pont Neuf became more than just a river crossing — it was Paris’s first great public space. Unlike other bridges of its time, it had no houses built on it, offering instead wide pavements where Parisians could stroll and enjoy views of the Seine. It became the city’s premier promenade, a place to see and be seen.
The bridge’s most distinctive features are its stone semicircles bulging out between the lampposts. These spaces, called “turrets,” became home to some of medieval Paris’s most colorful characters — the tooth-pullers. These early dentists had a unique approach to dental care that would horrify modern practitioners. Their typical procedure went something like this: First, get the patient thoroughly drunk on strong wine. Then, while assistants held them still, whack them on the back of the head with a wooden rod to render them unconscious. Finally, using two nails hammered into the gum on either side of the offending tooth, yank it out, root and all.
Pont Neuf turrets
These tooth-pullers were also entertainers, drawing crowds with jokes and tricks before demonstrating their dental skills. They would display strings of pulled teeth as advertisements for their services, while musicians played to drown out any unfortunate screams. The more theatrical practitioners kept monkeys or other exotic pets to attract customers, turning each extraction into a street performance.
The bridge became such a popular gathering place that it earned the nickname “Pont des Pleurs” (Bridge of Tears) — not from the dental patients, but from laughing so hard at the comedians, singers, and street performers who made it their stage. Pickpockets loved it too, leading to the saying that the only thing you could be sure of on Pont Neuf was losing your purse while watching a show.
Today, the bridge still stands proud, its stone face weathered but dignified. The tooth-pullers are long gone, replaced by tourists taking selfies next to Henri IV’s statue (added in 1614, just after his death). But if you listen carefully on a quiet evening, you might still hear echoes of the centuries of Parisian life that have crossed these sturdy stones.
Between Two Banks: The Heart of Paris
As we cross Pont Neuf, Alberto pauses midway, gesturing first to our left, then to our right. “In Paris,” he explains with a knowing smile, “we don’t think in terms of north and south. We think in terms of left bank and right bank — ‘Rive Gauche’ and ‘Rive Droite.’” It’s a distinctly French way of seeing the world, one that spread from Paris to every river city in France. Stand facing downstream, and the left bank is to your left, the right bank to your right — simple as that.
But this division runs deeper than mere geography. For centuries, these banks have developed distinct personalities, almost like siblings in the same family. The Left Bank, with its Latin Quarter and Saint-Germain-des-Prés, became the realm of students, artists, and intellectuals. Here, Hemingway wrote in cafés, Picasso painted in cramped studios, and Jean-Paul Sartre debated philosophy over coffee at Les Deux Magots. “The Left Bank thinks,” Alberto says with a theatrical wink, “while the Right Bank spends.”
The Right Bank, home to the grand boulevards and our next stop, the Louvre, historically attracted power and commerce. Here, kings built their palaces, bankers established their institutions, and merchants set up elegant shops. Even today, you can feel the difference in the architecture — the Right Bank’s broad avenues and imposing buildings speak of power and wealth, while the Left Bank’s narrow medieval streets whisper of artistic dreams and revolutionary ideas.
From our vantage point on Pont Neuf, we can see both worlds. Behind us, the Left Bank’s spires of Notre-Dame pierce the sky. Ahead, on the Right Bank, the magnificent facade of the Louvre stretches along the Seine — a former fortress that would become the world’s most famous museum. “Shall we?” Alberto asks, gesturing toward the palace that awaits us. “It’s time to discover how a medieval castle became the home of Mona Lisa.”
The Louvre: From Medieval Fortress to World’s Most Famous Museum
The story of the Louvre is a tale spanning over 800 years, beginning not as an art gallery, but as a fortress. In 1190, King Philippe Auguste, preparing to leave for the Crusades and worried about protecting Paris, ordered the construction of a defensive fortress with thick walls and watchtowers. The medieval Louvre’s foundations can still be seen in the basement of today’s museum.
The Louvre
As Paris grew safer and more prosperous, Charles V transformed the fortress into a royal residence in the 14th century, adding comfortable rooms and Gothic windows. But it was François I, the Renaissance king, who truly began the Louvre’s transformation into a palace of arts. Captivated by Italian Renaissance art during his military campaigns, François I returned to France determined to make Paris the new Rome.
In perhaps his greatest coup, François I convinced an aging Leonardo da Vinci to come to France in 1516. The aging master brought with him three paintings, including the Mona Lisa, and lived out his final years in Amboise, where the king provided him with a comfortable manor house. Their relationship was remarkably close — while some tour guides might suggest a romantic connection, what’s documented is a deep friendship based on shared intellectual interests and artistic appreciation.
Each subsequent ruler added their own touch to the palace. Henry IV connected it to the Tuileries Palace with the Grande Galerie. Louis XIV, the Sun King, began his reign here before deciding Versailles would be his primary residence. During this time, the Louvre became home to the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture, hosting the first public art exhibitions called “Salons.”
The French Revolution transformed the Louvre forever. In 1793, the revolutionary government opened the “Museum of the Republic,” making the royal art collection accessible to all citizens. Napoleon later renamed it Musée Napoléon, filling it with artworks seized during his military campaigns. Many were later returned, but this period established the Louvre as one of the world’s premier art collections.
The Theft That Made Mona Lisa Famous: A Tale of Intrigue
On Monday morning, August 21, 1911, the Louvre opened as usual. Around noon, a painter working in the Salon Carré wanted to study Leonardo’s famous technique in the Mona Lisa. But where the painting should have been, he found only four iron hooks on the wall. Thinking it was being photographed, he thought nothing of it. It wasn’t until Tuesday that alarm bells finally rang — the Mona Lisa had vanished.
Mona Lisa in newspapers
The theft was embarrassingly simple. Vincenzo Peruggia, an Italian handyman who had worked at the Louvre installing protective glass cases, had hidden in a broom closet on Sunday. On Monday morning, wearing his white worker’s smock, he simply walked up to the painting, lifted it off the wall, and walked out with it hidden under his coat. The Louvre was so poorly secured that workers regularly took paintings out for photography or restoration without any formal procedure.
The Paris police launched their largest ever investigation. They questioned known art criminals, including the young Pablo Picasso, who was briefly a suspect due to his previous purchase of stolen Iberian sculptures from the Louvre. The press had a field day, mocking the museum’s security and publishing endless theories about the theft.
Ironically, before its theft, the Mona Lisa was far from being the Louvre’s most famous painting. It was admired by art historians but was just one of many Renaissance masterpieces. The theft changed everything. For two years, people flocked to the Louvre just to stare at the empty space where she had hung. Her image appeared on countless postcards and newspaper front pages worldwide.
Peruggia kept the painting in his Paris apartment for two years, storing it in a trunk with a false bottom. In December 1913, he finally tried to “return” it to Italy, contacting an Italian art dealer who promptly informed the authorities. Peruggia genuinely believed he was performing a patriotic service, returning a painting he thought Napoleon had stolen (in fact, Leonardo had sold it to François I). His trial in Italy became a sensation — he was hailed as a patriot and given a lenient six-month sentence, serving only seven months.
When the Mona Lisa returned to Paris in January 1914, she was no longer just a masterpiece — she was a global celebrity. Her theft had transformed her into what many consider the world’s most famous painting, her enigmatic smile now known even to those who had never set foot in a museum.
The Louvre Pyramid: A Tale of Love, Power, and Whispered Secrets
Standing before the Louvre Pyramid today, it’s hard to imagine the storm of controversy it once stirred. But in 1984, when President François Mitterrand announced that a giant glass pyramid would rise in the heart of the historic Louvre courtyard, Paris nearly had a collective apoplexy. The French press dubbed it “Pharaoh Mitterrand’s” folly, and cultural critics predicted it would destroy the harmony of one of the world’s most beautiful palatial courtyards.
Louvre Pyramid
The official story is straightforward enough: Mitterrand, like French presidents before him, wanted to leave his mark on Paris with a grand projet. He chose I.M. Pei, the Chinese-American architect known for his bold modernist designs, to create a new entrance for the overcrowded museum. The pyramid would serve as a central hub, allowing visitors to enter the museum’s three wings while bringing natural light to the underground reception area.
But in Paris, there’s always another story brewing beneath the surface, and the pyramid has one of the most intriguing. It centers around a passionate love affair between Mitterrand and the Egyptian-born singer Dalida, the sultry voice behind hits like “Paroles, Paroles” and “Je suis malade.” Born Iolanda Cristina Gigliotti in Cairo, Dalida had become a French cultural icon, but she carried Egypt in her heart and, some say, in her influence over the president.
According to the whispered tales in Parisian cafés, it was Dalida who first planted the idea of a pyramid in Mitterrand’s mind. During intimate dinners, she would tell him stories of ancient Egypt, of the pyramids’ eternal beauty and their power to transform the landscape. Mitterrand, ever the romantic beneath his cool political exterior, was captivated not just by the stories, but by the storyteller.
The timing adds fuel to these rumors. The pyramid project was announced shortly after a period when Dalida and Mitterrand were often seen together at cultural events. The selection of I.M. Pei, while officially based on his architectural brilliance, gained an interesting twist when it emerged that he had recently completed a renovation of the Cairo Museum.
The controversy over the pyramid reached fever pitch during construction. Traditional Parisians were outraged at the thought of modern glass and steel rising in the classical courtyard. Scholars pointed out that pyramids had no place in French architectural history. Some even calculated that the structure would contain exactly 666 panes of glass — the number of the beast in Biblical prophecy — though this was later proven false (the actual number is 673).
Tragically, Dalida never saw the completed pyramid. She took her own life in 1987, two years before its inauguration. Mitterrand attended her funeral at the Church of Saint-Jean-Baptiste de Montmartre, and those who were there say his grief seemed to go beyond the official mourning for a cultural icon.
When the pyramid was finally unveiled in 1989, something unexpected happened. Like the Eiffel Tower a century before, it transformed from an object of scorn to a beloved Parisian landmark. The glass structure seemed to dance with light, reflecting the sky during the day and glowing like a lantern at night. Its transparent walls offered new views of the palace’s historic façades, creating a dialogue between past and present.
Today, few visitors rushing to see the Mona Lisa give much thought to the pyramid’s controversial birth or the whispered stories of love and influence behind it. But on certain evenings, when the setting sun turns the glass plates to gold and shadows lengthen across the courtyard, you might catch old Parisians smiling knowingly. They remember the rumors, the controversy, and the curious connection between a French president, an Egyptian-born singer, and a pyramid that changed the face of Paris.
Leaving the geometric shadows of the pyramid behind, Alberto led us through the Louvre’s manicured gardens toward the Porte des Lions. As we walked, the winter sun glinted off the glass pyramid one last time, and suddenly, there it was — rising above the Parisian rooftops in the distance, the iron lady herself. The Eiffel Tower stood like an exclamation point on the horizon, its silhouette unmistakable even from here. Alberto found us a quiet spot in the gardens, and with a theatrical flourish of his flag on the telescopic rod, pointed toward the tower. “Now,” he smiled, “let me tell you about the ‘temporary’ exhibition that became the eternal symbol of Paris.”
The Eiffel Tower: From Temporary Exhibition to Eternal Symbol
The story of the Eiffel Tower begins with a competition. In 1886, to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the French Revolution, the government announced a contest for a monument to be built for the 1889 World’s Fair. Gustave Eiffel’s company submitted a design that many Parisians considered shocking — a 1,000-foot iron tower.
Eiffel Tower construction
The project faced fierce opposition from Paris’s artistic and literary elite. A group calling themselves the “Committee of Three Hundred” (one member for each meter of the proposed tower) published a scathing letter in Le Temps newspaper, describing it as a “gigantic black smokestack” that would crush noble monuments like Notre-Dame under its “barbaric bulk.”
Eiffel defended his creation with both poetry and pragmatism. He compared it to the pyramids of Egypt and emphasized its scientific utility for meteorological observation, physics experiments, and most importantly, wireless telegraphy. The tower was built with a 20-year permit, meant to be dismantled in 1909. Its salvation came through its practical value — as World War I approached, the military realized its potential as a crucial communication hub.
The tower proved invaluable during the war. In 1914, its wireless telegraph jammers blocked German communications, helping achieve victory in the First Battle of the Marne. It intercepted enemy messages, including the famous “radiogram of victory” that led to the arrest of spy Mata Hari. The military utility of the tower ensured its survival past the original permit’s expiration.
Construction itself was a marvel of precision engineering. Each of the 18,000 iron pieces was calculated and cut exactly, with angles precise to within a tenth of a millimeter. No element weighed more than 3 tons, allowing the pieces to be lifted by simple cranes. Of the 250 workers who built the tower, only one died during construction — remarkable for a project of its scale in that era.
Initially painted reddish-brown, the tower has worn seven different colors over its lifetime. Today’s “Eiffel Tower Brown” is actually three different shades, applied in a gradient to harmonize with Paris’s cityscape. Every seven years, 60 tons of paint are applied by hand to protect the iron structure from corrosion.
The tower has inspired countless stories and legends. During the German occupation of Paris in World War II, French resistance fighters allegedly cut the elevator cables so that Hitler would have to climb the stairs if he wanted to reach the top. When German soldiers hoisted a swastika flag on the tower, the lift operators coincidentally “broke down” until they could find the right spare parts — which somehow took until the Liberation of Paris.
Today, the Eiffel Tower welcomes almost 7 million visitors annually, making it the most-visited paid monument in the world. What began as a temporary exhibition has become the eternal symbol of Paris, its silhouette instantly recognizable worldwide. As Guy de Maupassant supposedly said, he ate lunch in the tower’s restaurant every day because it was the only place in Paris where he didn’t have to look at it — though today, few Parisians can imagine their skyline without it.
Farewell to a Morning in Paris
As our tour draws to a close near the Porte des Lions, the December sun has climbed higher in the sky, warming the limestone facades to a honey-gold. Alberto lowers his tricolor last time, and we stand for a moment in the gardens, taking in the sweep of history we’ve traversed in just a few hours.
“You see,” Alberto says, gesturing to the city around us, “Paris is like a book where every generation writes its own chapter, but nobody tears out the previous pages.” He points to where we’ve been — the medieval spires of Notre-Dame rising in the distance, the elegant span of Pont Neuf, the gleaming pyramid catching the winter light. “The Parisii chose their island, the Romans built their city, kings erected their palaces, revolutionaries changed the world, and emperors dreamed their dreams. Each left their mark, but none had the final word.”
As our group begins to disperse, some heading to the Louvre, others to find lunch in centuries-old cafés and explore the Christmas market, I linger for a moment, watching Alberto pack away his telescopic rod with flag. In just two hours, we’ve traveled through two thousand years, yet somehow it feels like we’ve only begun to scratch the surface of Paris’s stories.