Paris, France is Crying

It has been two weeks, but when I close my eyes I can still hear the sirens. I was sitting in a café on rue de Bretagne with three friends visiting from the U.S. and England. They had just finished telling me how they had almost canceled their trip to Paris, because they were nervous about traveling alone without their boyfriends.

“What if the Airbnb host kidnaps us? What if we end up in a dangerous neighborhood? How do we know we will be safe?”

These were their questions, to which I replied,

“Come on, don’t be ridiculous. It’s Paris.”

That is when the sirens started. We looked outside and saw that the street was packed with unmoving cars, and a woman frantically ran out of the café. I asked the owner what was going on. He replied in English, “There has been a fire. Just a few blocks from here. There were gunshots.” I knew he had made a mistake in English. There are no gunshots in Paris. He meant to say a fire. I instantly switched to French and asked him again. He replied in French, “There was a shooting. People have died. Just a few blocks from here. There are hostages.” I looked at my phone and saw 3 missed calls and 7 texts from my boyfriend, as well as a text from a friend in London. My body went cold. I tried to catch my breath. There are no gunshots in Paris. This was a terrorist attack.

We tried to hide in the back of the restaurant, except all of the walls were glass. A friend from Paris called me from her apartment and told us not leave the restaurant. The shooters were all around us, and they were driving cars. We hid in the only part of the restaurant where we could not be seen from the street, a kitchen large enough to hold five people. About an hour passed and the situation was not any more clear. We knew there were hostages at the Bataclan, only about 500 meters from us, but no one knew where the other shooters were. Were they the same terrorists as the ones in the Bataclan? No one had any clue.  My boyfriend called to tell me that it was now too dangerous to stay in the restaurant. Every one was hiding in bars and restaurants around the République area, and so we could be the next target if we stayed. He told me to call my friend who lived two blocks from where we were hiding. The restaurant unlocked their doors and told us to walk calmly when we were in the streets. We took the biggest breaths we could hold and stepped out into the cold to walk the longest two blocks of our lives. My friends were waiting for us in their pajamas with the news in the background. They seemed relaxed compared to my panicked friends and I, not realizing how close the horror was until we brought it into their apartment. We finally fell asleep for a few hours after the siege at the Bataclan.

At 6am I shot out of bed and looked at my friends. I had originally planned to reserve a restaurant right next to Le Petit Cambodge that night, but I changed my mind at the last minute.  We got dressed and called an Uber to drop me off at my boyfriend’s apartment and my friends at the Eurostar. The driver who picked us up had been taking people home since 5am. I told him that he was very courageous and thanked him. He just nodded silently. They dropped me off at the Oberkampf metro, because everywhere else was blockaded. My boyfriend lives 40 meters from the Bataclan, so he had to guide me around the barricade for a twenty minute walk alone with deserted streets and sirens. When I finally made it to his apartment it was only the beginning of our sadness and grief.

I know the victims. I know each and every one of them. They are my friends who landed their dream job at the best architect firm in the world. They are my fellow students who finally found the courage to study abroad. They are new fathers and mothers who were starting their new life as a family. They are artists and musicians who left their day jobs to live their dreams. They are our taxi drivers, our doctors, our teachers. They are our closest friends. They are our family. The weekend after the attacks I went with my boyfriend to the countryside of Nantes to his parent’s home. We both needed a break from the fear and sirens. His parents spoiled us with Muscadet wine from their vineyard, fresh oysters and mussels, homemade cakes, and the love and kindness of parents. We rode bikes through the vineyards until sunset feeling the chill of life pass through us. We were alive and in love, and I couldn’t help but think that we were living for those who no longer had that choice. When we returned to Paris late Sunday night and got out of the metro, I noticed some lights in the distance towards the Bataclan. We started walking towards the lights and quickly realized they were candles. There were candles, flowers, photos, and letters illuminating the entire pathway leading up to the Bataclan. We slowly joined the crowds and walked the entire vigil, getting to know the victims, and feeling their happy lives so present among us. At the end of the vigil we crossed the street and walked in front of the Bataclan. Its dark, ghostly figure was lightened by the candles surrounding it. We held each other’s hands and started walking slowly back towards the apartment. Paris is crying, but we will continue to live, because in the darkest of times there will be light, and in the coldest of hate there will be love.

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