One of the most meaningful things I did in Paris was walk the route that the tumbrels took from the Conciergerie to the Place de Revolution (now Place de Concorde.) Actually I didn't make it the whole way because Micah called and wanted to meet me by the Carousel, but I walked at my own pace and savored the moment. When I first started working at a high school, there were times when I'd actually feel choked up, walking down the hall, feeling the emotions around me. You can imagine how I felt walking down rue Sainte-Honore, imagining the feelings of those helpless, innocent people being carted to their deaths. And, THIS is the very house in which Robespierre lived with the Duplay family at the time of his downfall and execution. It appeals to the more vindictive side of me that when it was his turn to bump around in the back of the cart, headed for his moment under the national razor, the route passed his own home. The crowd was jeering and screaming at him and someone threw blood, that they'd gotten from the local butcher, on the front door. That's too gross to appeal to my sense of vindictiveness, but they were probably pretty carried away in the moment, knowing he'd been the author of the death warrants of so many. I'd found his address in a book, and wasn't positive it was correct, but, sure enough, there was a plaque on the wall. Can't see that on vacation in the Bahamas.
One of the most meaningful things I did in Paris was walk the route that the tumbrels took from the Conciergerie to the Place de Revolution (now Place de Concorde.) Actually I didn't make it the whole way because Micah called and wanted to meet me by the Carousel, but I walked at my own pace and savored the moment. When I first started working at a high school, there were times when I'd actually feel choked up, walking down the hall, feeling the emotions around me. You can imagine how I felt walking down rue Sainte-Honore, imagining the feelings of those helpless, innocent people being carted to their deaths. And, THIS is the very house in which Robespierre lived with the Duplay family at the time of his downfall and execution. It appeals to the more vindictive side of me that when it was his turn to bump around in the back of the cart, headed for his moment under the national razor, the route passed his own home. The crowd was jeering and screaming at him and someone threw blood, that they'd gotten from the local butcher, on the front door. That's too gross to appeal to my sense of vindictiveness, but they were probably pretty carried away in the moment, knowing he'd been the author of the death warrants of so many. I'd found his address in a book, and wasn't positive it was correct, but, sure enough, there was a plaque on the wall. Can't see that on vacation in the Bahamas.
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