hollywood billionaire

Chapter 583 The Dawn and Dusk of History
Barbara and Han Yi ultimately did not enter Shakespeare and Company. The store was packed with customers on the weekend, and looking in from the window, it was difficult for book buyers to even turn around, so the two naturally gave up the idea of ​​joining the crowd.

Moreover, Han Yi had already bought many rare books in Argosy, New York, and had no desire to explore places like Shakespeare and Company for the time being.

So, Barbara led Han Yi to turn left in front of the bookstore and into a quiet alley. This was the edge of the Latin Quarter, and nestled here was a community park called Place René-Viviani. According to Barbara, the benches here offered the best panoramic views of Notre Dame Cathedral. To the south of the square stood a church that didn't look particularly dilapidated, but compared to other landmarks in Paris, it was rather simple.

This church has a name that perfectly matches its appearance: the Church of St. Julian the Poor.

Although historians still debate which Julian the church was dedicated to, the church's self-proclaimed spiritual identity and centuries of Parisian folklore undeniably point to the most famous Julian—Julian the Hospitality.

The legend of Julian the Hospitalifier, widely circulated in the Middle Ages through works such as *The Golden Tale*, is a classic story about sin and redemption, filled with dramatic joys and sorrows and profound theological symbolism. At its core is a prophecy similar to that of Oedipus. Julian was born into a wealthy noble family, and on the night of his birth, a prophecy foretold that he would one day kill his parents. Terrified by this idea, Julian secretly fled his home to avoid the fulfillment of this fate. Later, he achieved great success and married a wealthy woman.

But no matter how he tried to escape, tragedy struck years later. Julian's elderly parents, who had been searching for their lost son, finally found him at his castle. Julian was out hunting at the time, and his kind wife warmly welcomed her in-laws, unaware of their identities, and simply offered her bed to the two weary travelers out of hospitality.

At this moment, the devil intervened. The devil found Julian and deceived him, making him believe that his wife was unfaithful and was having an affair with a lover in his bed. Driven by jealousy and rage, Julian rushed home, drew his sword, and without seeing clearly, killed the two people sleeping in the bed. Just when he thought he had completed his revenge, he encountered his wife, who had just returned from morning prayers at church.

At that moment, Julian realized he had made a fatal mistake.

The prophecy came true; he killed his parents.

Julian was deeply grieved and vowed to spend the rest of his life in repentance to atone for his sins. His good wife did not abandon him; instead, she encouraged him to trust in God and chose to embark on the path of repentance with him.

The couple gave up all their wealth and came to a dangerous river with a swift current, where people often drowned. There they established a shelter to care for the poor and sick.

In addition, Julian also served as a ferryman, ferrying travelers, including pilgrims participating in the Crusades, across the river free of charge.

The climax of the legend occurs on a cold winter night when Julian hears a faint cry for help from the opposite bank of the river. Ignoring the storm, he rows over and finds a leper on the verge of freezing to death.

In that era, lepers were considered unclean and utterly ostracized by society. But Julian took him back to his hut, gave him food, and kept him warm. Seeing the leper on the verge of death, Julian performed an act of ultimate charity.

He placed this most lowly person on his own bed.

At that moment, the leper revealed his true identity—he was Jesus Christ.

He announced that Julian's confession had been accepted by God and his sins had been forgiven.

Based on this widely circulated legend, Julian's patron saint's scope was clearly established. He naturally became the patron saint of travelers, ferrymen, innkeepers, and innkeepers. His patronage also extended to circus performers, clowns, jugglers, and wandering musicians, since they were also wandering travelers in the Middle Ages.

The Church of Saint Julian the Poor, from its founding in the sixth century, was originally established with the mission of hospitality and shelter. It primarily provided refuge for travelers arriving in Paris and for the homeless poor. The church's humble, even somewhat austere, appearance perfectly reflects the spirit of Saint Julian.

If we broaden our perspective further, we can almost say that the Church of Saint Julian the Poor, and its subsequent fate, is a microcosm of the development and changes in medieval Paris. In the sixth century AD, after defeating the Visigoths, Clovis I, the Frankish king, established Paris as his political center and founded the Merovingian dynasty. During the Merovingian era, Paris experienced a period of considerable prosperity. Later kings built magnificent basilicas in and around Paris, and even had the resources to mobilize for shelters for the poor, which undoubtedly demonstrates the immense wealth of the Frankish kingdom at that time.

However, this prosperity was short-lived. As the Merovingian kings lost real power, the House of Pepin, the Mayor of the Palace, finally seized the throne in 751 and established the Carolingian dynasty.

For Paris, this marked the beginning of its decline. The center of power of the Carolingian dynasty—especially that of its most famous ruler, Charlemagne—shifted geographically eastward, closer to its familial territories, with capitals in places like Aachen and Metz. As the center of political power shifted, Paris's economic prosperity declined accordingly. By the ninth century, the Carolingian kings were no longer able to effectively maintain order in West Francia, and the vacuum of central power, coupled with the fragmentation of the empire, left Paris exposed to the blades of invaders.

In 845, the Vikings first sacked Paris with their fleet, and the hastily organized defenses of the Frankish King Charles the Bald proved utterly ineffective. Charles was ultimately forced to pay a ransom of 7000 françois in gold and silver before the Vikings withdrew. Then, in 885, the Vikings besieged Paris for several months. It was during this siege that the Church of Saint Julian the Poor, located on the Left Bank and exposed outside the city walls, was destroyed by the Normans.

In other words, the initial destruction of the Church of Saint Julian the Poor was the most direct and typical symbol of the early decline of Paris.

The next turning point came in 987. When the last Carolingian king died in 987, the Frankish nobles made a logical choice: they elected Hugh Capet, the powerful Count of Paris, as their new king. From the moment Hugh Capet ascended the throne in 987, the fate of Paris was fundamentally reversed.

The infancy of Paris's urban development came to an end, and a golden age as the capital of the kingdom began.

The Capetian kings began systematically transforming their fiefdom of Paris into the kingdom's political, economic, religious, and cultural capital. Paris experienced explosive population growth and economic prosperity during this period. It was against this backdrop of urban revival and expansion that the Church of Saint Julian the Poor was rebuilt between 1160 and 1170 on its site destroyed by the Vikings. Its reconstruction, almost simultaneously with the laying of the foundation stone for Notre Dame Cathedral in 1163, together ushered in the construction boom of the Parisian Middle Ages. The Church of Saint Julian the Poor's primary clientele shifted from impoverished travelers and struggling locals to the thousands of young students flocking to the Left Bank, desperately needing lodging, food, and medical care.

It's worth noting that the Church of Saint Julian the Poor is so small and simply decorated compared to other churches in Paris because it was never officially completed according to the original plan. The final size that Barbara and Han Yi see now is much smaller than originally planned. And this future that never became a reality is actually closely related to the history of Paris.

The reconstruction of Saint Julian's Church in the 12th century coincided with a social movement historians call the Charitable Revolution. Charitable work, previously largely monopolized by monasteries, was increasingly being funded and established by wealthy laypeople. By the 13th century, hospitals had become among the most popular recipients of charitable bequests. In Paris at that time, Right Bank merchants were accumulating unprecedented wealth, but this clashed with traditional Christian morality, which held a skeptical and even condemnatory attitude towards profiteering and usury.

This tension between the profit-driven primitive capitalist economy and traditional morality gave rise to a theological anxiety.

How to alleviate this anxiety? Through charity.

A large amount of money flowed to specialized hospitals like the main palace hospital, while the Church of St. Julian, the poor man's church, was naturally swept into a corner where no one cared.

This is what Han Yi meant when he said that in Paris, history is the air, the road beneath one's feet. What they are doing is not visiting history, but walking through history.

Who would have thought that such an inconspicuous ancient site carries the entire memory of the city from its first appearance on the historical stage, to its entry into the Middle Ages, and then to its gradual approach to the Renaissance?
Its construction, burning, reconstruction, and decline are all synchronous rhythms of the grand destiny of the city of Paris, and are the glory and disgrace engraved on the stone walls.

Han Yi and Barbara didn't even realize it before they passed by it.

But that is precisely what makes Paris so charming, or rather, it is the same in every ancient city like it.

Their true treasures are never displayed under the spotlight, but are scattered in every alleyway you inadvertently walk through.

Every brick you step on could be an epitaph for an era.

Here, the most profound history is always disguised as the most ordinary daily life, waiting to be encountered by you unexpectedly.

You might need to look back countless times to notice its existence.

But when you notice it, it will be the most abundant gift that fate has prepared for you.

And the two encountered many more gifts along the way.

For example, after passing the Church of Saint Julian the Poor, they walked west along the entire Rue Saint-Severi and saw Place Saint-Michel.

Located on the northwestern edge of the Latin Quarter in a geographical sense, it represents the noisiest and most commercialized side of the Latin Quarter.

As if emerging from a silent historical tunnel, Han Yi and Barbara were instantly engulfed by a dreamlike illusion woven from sound waves and light the moment they stepped into Place Saint-Michel.

The sunlight wasn't intense, but it generously dispelled the chill in the air, turning the entire square into a giant open-air stage.

This is the heart of Paris's 5th arrondissement, a stark contrast to the quiet of the Poor Saint-Julien Church we just passed; here it is vibrant and bustling.

Traffic, crowds, and flocks of pigeons converge, circle, and then disperse in the square. Bookstores, pubs, fast food restaurants, and souvenir shops stand side by side, their flashing signs coexisting seamlessly with the ancient building facades. Countless young people, resembling students—the eternal masters of the Latin Quarter—walk in small groups, canvas bags on their backs, loudly discussing the recently concluded exhibitions or upcoming exams, weaving among tourists who stop to take photos.

All this flowing noise, all this worldly vitality, seemed to find a dramatic focus in front of that huge wall at the end of the square.

That is the heart of the entire Place Saint-Michel, the Saint-Michel Fountain, built in 1860.

Unlike Roman fountains that occupy the center of a square, this one resembles a triumphal arch embedded in the gable of a building. The winter sun shines precisely over the roof, illuminating the bronze statue atop the fountain. Archangel Michael, sword raised high, his golden wings gleaming in the sunlight, majestically tramples a dying dragon. Beneath his feet, a monstrous creature sculpted from red and white marble vigorously spews jets of water. The water flows through a thin mist in the slightly chilly air before crashing heavily into the pool below, creating countless shimmering, golden sprays that refract the archangel's cold, radiant light.

If the Church of Saint-Julien the Poor is a microcosm of old Paris before the French Revolution of 1790, a time of feudal theocracy, then Place Saint-Michel is the product of a century and a half of constant tug-of-war between monarchy and civil rights, empire and republic, order and resistance since the Revolution.

Compared to other landmarks in the Latin Quarter, Place Saint-Michel, the Saint-Michel Fountain, and Boulevard Saint-Michel, which runs through the middle of Paris's Left Bank, are relatively young. They are products of the sweeping transformation of Paris in the mid-19th century by Napoleon III, Emperor of the Second French Empire, and Baron Haussmann, a high-ranking official in the Seine.

On the surface, this plan is intended to improve sanitation, improve traffic, and modernize the city, but it actually hides deeper political and military considerations.

Since the Middle Ages, the Latin Quarter has been both the brain and the powder keg of Paris. It was teeming with intellectually vibrant students, intellectuals, and impoverished artisans. Its narrow, labyrinthine medieval alleyways served as the perfect battleground for revolutions, particularly from 1789 to 1830 and into 1848, as people fought against the army and built barricades.

What Haussmann and Napoleon III intended to do was to use this grand, straight, modern avenue to bisect this dangerous area. It brutally cut through the ancient fabric of the Latin Quarter, forcibly severing this once tightly knit community, a place highly susceptible to the mobilization of resistance. The wide, tree-lined avenue was not merely for aesthetics; it also allowed for the rapid deployment of the army, especially the barricades' natural enemy—the artillery—to suppress any potential uprising.

Place Saint-Michel and its fountain mark the most magnificent end of this dividing line and its most impassioned declaration. It is a masterpiece of political art, its grand theme—the Archangel Michael's victory over the devil—imbued with strong symbolic meaning, representing the imperial order overcoming the chaos of revolution.

This is a history entirely different from that of the Church of St. Julian the Poor, an ancient church that bears witness to the natural erosion of faith, humility, and social change. This fountain, however, is an artificial creation of the will to power, a forced reshaping of urban space by the state apparatus.

Ironically, history always follows its own course. While the Boulevard Haussmann cut through the ancient Latin Quarter, it also provided new gathering spaces for students. In the century following its construction, Place Saint-Michel and the Boulevard became the new center for student movements and protests, most notably the May 1968 events.

But a government is a government, and power is power, regardless of whether it takes the form of an empire or a republic. After the barricade night of May 10-11, 1968, Gaullist France made its final move, passing the Higher Education Orientation Act of 1968, which split the University of Paris into 13 new autonomous universities, greatly weakening the cohesion of the Latin Quarter's intellectual community.

The eight-hundred-year-long struggle between "robe and city" reached its climax and final chapter. From then on, the conflict between knowledge and power was no longer the main theme that constantly echoed over Paris. It seeped into the cobblestones of Boulevard Saint-Michel along with the blood that seeped out, and was subsequently completely covered by modern asphalt.

Today, the Left Bank of Paris, and the heart of the Latin Quarter, the 5th arrondissement, are no longer student dormitories. The high cost of living in this highly gentrified area has eroded its function as a primary living and working space for students. Meanwhile, its brand image as a center of knowledge is actively used in marketing to attract tourists and residents drawn to its bohemian history and intellectual heritage.

Boulevard Saint-Michel has become a historical twilight line. It not only divides Paris geographically, but also its time. To the right of the avenue lies the dusty past, while to the left, the present is simultaneously dominated by capitalism, consumerism, and existentialism.

The vibrant sounds of young students, street performers, and tourists at Place Saint-Michel quickly faded behind them. But it wasn't that the street in front of them had become empty; quite the opposite, people were still coming and going, but the tone and quality of the atmosphere had undergone a fundamental change.

The air here seems to be filtered.

The slightly anxious youthful energy and commercial clamor characteristic of the Latin Quarter are gone. In their place comes a more composed, refined, and even somewhat reserved low hum.

The population density is still quite high, but the composition is completely different.

The figures of students hurrying along with canvas bags and tourists looking around with selfie sticks were as if left behind at the other end of Boulevard Saint-Michel by an invisible filter. In their place came the true Germanopratins, the people of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, as Barbara had described.

Dressing impeccably here seems to be an unspoken rule, but this impeccable style is different from elsewhere. It's not the ostentatious excess of the nouveau riche, but rather a seemingly effortless elegance. The men wear well-tailored wool coats, with the collars of their cashmere sweaters peeking out just right. The women wear simple black coats paired with elegantly colored silk scarves, and the leather handbags they carry have a particularly warm sheen in the winter sun.

Han Yi noticed that these people, regardless of age or gender, all wore a similar expression. It wasn't the outward enthusiasm or restlessness of the young people in Place Saint-Michel, but rather a perfectly balanced indifference, a blend of class superiority and contentment. They spoke in hushed tones, flipped through newspapers at the outdoor café, and even their pet dogs seemed more meticulously groomed than their counterparts elsewhere.

They weren't just visiting this street; they *were* this street.

The changing crowds are mirrored by the changing store landscape along the avenue.

The affordable shops in the Latin Quarter that marketed themselves as bohemian have quietly faded into the background here. The shop windows lining Boulevard Saint-Germain have become a declaration of another world.

High-end boutiques have replaced old bookstores, their facades now adorned with understated dark marble or brass, and their glass impeccably polished. The windows aren't cluttered with merchandise; instead, they often display a single seasonal item or a piece of jewelry, under carefully designed lighting, exuding an air of aloof elegance. They feel less like shops and more like private salons requiring invitations to enter.

The gallery has replaced the pub. Through huge floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see massive abstract paintings hanging on the walls, or uniquely shaped modern sculptures. The lighting inside is museum-quality, and it's so quiet you can almost hear the dust settling down.

Even the smell in the air has changed. The greasy aroma of street corner fast food restaurants and the sweet scent of waffles have disappeared, replaced by a complex scent of wealth—a blend of high-end perfumes, brand-new leather, and expensive coffee.

But Saint-Germain-des-Prés wasn't always like that. Like the Latin Quarter, it also has a history dating back to the Merovingian dynasty. But unlike its neighbors, Saint-Germain-des-Prés never became a gathering place for intellectuals, nor was it ever a preferred residence for them. The suffix "des-Prés" in Saint-Germain-des-Prés comes from the fact that its original prototype was the pastures and open fields outside the walls of Paris, a place that foreign scholars speaking Latin would never have set foot in.

In 543, Merovingian King Hildeber I ordered the construction of a monastery here to house sacred relics. In 576, the highly respected bishop, Saint-Germain, the future patron saint of Paris, was buried here, and the monastery was named Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Its prestige and influence rapidly expanded, becoming an important site of royal patronage and pilgrimage.

In other words, from the very beginning, Saint-Germain-des-Prés was the "city" that stood in opposition to the "robe" of the Latin Quarter.

The monastery suffered numerous calamities throughout history, including the Viking invasion and destruction in the 9th century, but also underwent a magnificent reconstruction. The so-called pre-modern period, following the French Renaissance and preceding the French Revolution, coincided with the westward shift of Paris's urban center. In 1682, Louis XIV moved the court to Versailles, and nobles followed suit, leaving the Marais district and relocating to the area near the new palace in the western part of the city.

The Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, once considered the "outskirts of the city," transformed overnight into prime real estate. The reason was simple: it lay on the main thoroughfare between Paris's old city and Versailles. France's elite nobility needed a place that offered respite from the city's hustle and bustle while still providing easy access to Versailles for their audiences with the king. Thus, they began abandoning their opulent but cramped old mansions in the Marais district, constructing magnificent residences on this expansive pasture. These buildings were no longer medieval fortresses overlooking the street, but rather a new architectural style emphasizing privacy—the Htel Particulier, a private mansion. Hidden behind high walls, they boasted expansive private gardens and secluded courtyards.

In just one century, the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, or as it was more commonly known at the time, the Fabre-Saint-Germain district, became a symbol of the highest levels of power and ultimate luxury of the old regime.

Then, the storm of 1789 arrived.

The French Revolution's eradication of the region was decisive.

The monastery was dissolved, and its vast lands were nationalized. And what about the nobles? They either fled abroad as exiles or went to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror.

Their private mansions, the dens of the old system, were also confiscated.

Thus began an unprecedented clearance sale in Parisian history. The Saint-Germain-des-Prés district, the former territory of the nobility, along with a vast amount of land released from the monastery, was thrown onto the market.

Who is the buyer?

They were the newly rich, the newly promoted generals who rose rapidly during the Napoleonic Wars, and the bankers and industrialists who amassed fortunes through speculation and supplying the army during the Directory and the French Revolution.

They bought more than just stones, land, and gardens. They bought an identity, a story, and a legitimacy.

The lineage of the old regime vanished, but its essence and character were fully inherited by these new masters. Throughout the 19th century, especially during the Bourbon Restoration, the cautious remnants of the old aristocracy, together with these wealthy new nobles, reshaped the place.

From then on, the Saint-Germain-des-Prés district solidified its image as the most conservative, xenophobic, and expensive old-money stronghold in Paris. It became a bastion of orthodoxy, maintaining a haughty distance from the political clamor of the Tuileries Palace and the Élysée Palace.

It is not so surprising that a land with such a lineage became the cradle of existentialism and the absolute center of knowledge, culture, and art in Paris and even the world during the French Golden Age in the 20th century, especially after World War II.

Doesn't that sound like a huge paradox?

How could a most conservative and orthodox place become the cradle of radical ideas that promote "existence precedes essence" and question everything?
To understand this, we must first answer the most fundamental question: What is the essence of existentialism?
It is not a pre-constructed, intricate metaphysics like that of Kant or Hegel.

On the contrary, it was a philosophical fire, a fire ignited on the ruins of World War II by the Nazi iron heel, the terror of concentration camps, and the mushroom cloud of the atomic bomb.

This fire destroyed everything that had been conventionally established—God, nation, morality, family, class…all those grand narratives that had predetermined “who you are” or “what you should do” before you were even born.

When all of this was burned to ashes, humanity was laid bare and thrown back into existence itself.

This is the core of Sartre's famous assertion: "Existence precedes essence."

You did not first exist as a “nobleman,” a “worker,” a “Christian,” or a “good person.” You first exist; you are simply here. Then, you must, and can only, create and define your own “essence” through your choices and actions.

It is a dizzying freedom, and also a terrifying responsibility.

You have been sentenced to freedom, and you must face the absurdity of existence, the gaze of others, and the anxiety and nausea that come with it all alone.

So, why Saint-Germain-des-Prés? Why would such a heavy, anxious, and even destructive thought be born in the most elegant and affluent living rooms and cafes of Paris?

The answer lies in the one thing that is least scarce in that class, yet most desired by others: leisure.

More accurately, it is an absolute "existential freedom" that does not require the need to make a living.

Whether they were the old aristocracy of the 18th century or the financial elites of the 19th century, people in this class had one thing in common—they did not need to define themselves by a job.

A baker's "essence" is baking, and a lawyer's "essence" is defense. Their lives are filled with a clear social function and economic needs, leaving them little time to ponder the meaning of it all.

But what about an old man named Saint-Germain-des-Prés?
He doesn't need to work. His existence is predetermined, guaranteed by inherited wealth. When a person is completely freed from the shackles of survival, a vast black hole—nothingness—immediately appears.

"If I can live without doing anything, then why should I live?"

This is the existential crisis unique to the aristocratic and old-money classes.

Of course, before World War II, they had their own answers. They filled this void with a complex and sophisticated set of "essences":

For example, etiquette uses cumbersome social rules to prove one's superiority. For example, taste uses an appreciation for art, fashion, and food to construct one's identity. And for example, honor uses a set of often hypocritical moral standards to flaunt one's lineage.

They use these things to build high walls around themselves, pretending that terrible question about the ultimate meaning of life doesn't exist.

Then, war broke out.

The fall of France in 1940 was not only military but also psychological. It ruthlessly shattered all illusions held by France, especially by the Parisian high society.

The honor and lineage of the old aristocracy became a joke in the face of Nazi occupation and Vichy's cooperation. The wealth of the bankers also seemed meaningless in the face of absolute violence and material shortages.

The old money of Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the poor students of the Latin Quarter suddenly became equal at that moment. Together they witnessed the collapse of all essence.

It was in this spiritual vacuum that existentialism emerged.

Intellectuals like Sartre, Beauvoir, and Camus inherited Saint-Germain-des-Prés's leisure. They didn't need to work in factories like laborers; they could spend all day in cafes.

Café de Flore and Café des Deux Magots became their new private residence.

"This is the Holy Trinity of Saint-Germain-des-Prés."

Standing at the grand intersection of Boulevard Saint-Germain and Rue Rennes, Barbara, walking towards the sunlight, stopped, comfortably squinting her eyes slightly, and introduced herself to Han Yi.

"The Holy Trinity?" Han Yi was puzzled.

“This Les Deux Magots café in front of us…” Barbara gestured with her chin, “is a place frequented by Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre, and Hemingway. Camus and Picasso would also appear here whenever they were in Paris.”

The Les Deux Magots café occupies the most prominent corner, its deep green awning, a hallmark of Parisian cafés, appearing weighty and serene in the winter afternoon sun. The name "Les Deux Magots" is truly fitting. Beneath the awning, high up on either side of the entrance, two wooden sculptures depicting Chinese merchants in Qing Dynasty attire silently overlook the bustling avenue below, witnessing nearly a century and a half of history.

The enthusiasm of France for Chinese culture and aesthetic traditions during and around the Belle Époque period is evident.

"Why is Hemingway everywhere?" Han Yi joked. "If he lived in modern times, he would probably be a very popular travel blogger on YouTube."

“I think so too.” Barbara smiled brightly. “Further away, that coffee shop with walls covered in flowers is Café de Flore.”

"I know this. I've seen it on Instagram countless times."

"Yes, both are gathering places for Simone de Beauvoir, Sartre, and other Parisian intellectual elites, but Café de Flore is more famous than Les Deux Magots and has a higher profile on social media... This shows that appearance really is important."

Café de Flore is located just one street behind Les Deux Magots, also occupying a prime corner location. It shares similar genes with Les Deux Magots: classic dark green awnings, compact round tables, and a terrace enclosed by glass. But as Barbara says, even in winter, this café truly lives up to its name as a flower-filled paradise.

Its entire second-floor exterior is covered by a layer of meticulously trimmed, dense ivy, forming a thick green curtain. The railings of the terrace and the edges of the awning are also entwined with carefully arranged holly branches, enveloping the entire building in a vibrant atmosphere that contrasts sharply with the surrounding bare branches.

Its terrace was equally packed, steaming warmly under the heaters. But the atmosphere here was far more modern and digital than that of Les Deux Magots.

Several tables of customers, clearly Instagram influencers, were holding up their phones, carefully adjusting the angles, trying to perfectly frame the latte art in front of them and the gold letters of "Café de Flore" in the background into the same frame.

"Isn't that right? That's why you have four million followers on Instagram, while I only have forty."

"Stop talking nonsense." Barbara took Han Yi's arm and turned him counterclockwise so that he was facing the Saint-Germain Boulevard side. "Across the street is the last part of Trinity, and also my favorite part, Lippe Beer Hall."

“A beer hall.” Han Yi carefully savored the word “Brasserie,” a term exclusive to French-speaking countries.

“That’s right, it’s fundamentally different from Flora and Les Deux Magots. The latter two are places where intellectual elites gather and chat, while Lip’s Beer Hall is the canteen of power.”

“Woo.” Han Yi raised an eyebrow. “I really like this description, the canteen of power.”

Lippe Beer Hall, located on the other side of Boulevard Saint-Germain, across the street from the two cafes, exudes a completely different atmosphere.

The facade of Lipp is made of dark mahogany, and the gleaming brass handrails reflect a cold, hard light in the winter sun. Its awning is a solid dark red, with "Brasserie Lipp" written in vintage gold lettering.

Looking inside through the huge glass window, instead of crowded round tables, there were dining areas covered with snow-white tablecloths, and a deep red leather sofa that seemed to stretch endlessly along the walls.

In the corner by the door, two middle-aged waiters in uniform were taking a short break and smoking.

They wore ankle-length, snow-white aprons, tied meticulously. Underneath, they wore crisp white shirts, black vests, and black bow ties. Their hair was combed perfectly, and their shoes gleamed so bright they could be used as mirrors. They spoke in hushed tones, their gaze occasionally sweeping over the passersby with a disciplined reserve and scrutiny characteristic of the Parisian service industry.

“Because it is.” Barbara nodded. “The French Parliament building is not far away, so it’s the perfect place for politicians, senior journalists, publishers and bankers to meet for lunch and dinner.”

"So, philosophers across the street discuss the nothingness of 'existence,' while politicians on this side of the street, with beer and steak, decide the 'essence' of this country." Han Yi thought for a moment, "assuming they're serving French food."

“It’s French cuisine, with a fusion of traditional French dishes with Alsatian influences, so you can also find some German dishes on the menu, such as sauerkraut and sausages,” Barbara explained. “The founder of Lip was from Alsace, so the signature dishes here are always Choucroute, Alsatian sauerkraut with pork sausage, and Pied de Porc, which is French-style stewed pork knuckle.”

Which dish is your favorite?

"Compared to German food, I still prefer the traditional French dishes served here, such as the Frank steak. Especially with their special shallot sauce and golden, crispy fries. For me, that's the perfect sinful pleasure, both simple and satisfying."

"But I like it here, not so much because of the food, but because of its unique atmosphere."

“It has a very special vibe…” Barbara paused, as if organizing her thoughts, “It’s that casual and relaxed, yet elegant dining atmosphere.”

“I remember the first time I dined here, there were two French men sitting next to me. They looked like old-fashioned Parisian elites, with big noses, slicked-back hair, and impeccable suits.”

"They chatted for the entire meal in a very elegant tone. My French wasn't that good at the time, but just listening to the rhythm was a pleasure. After the meal, they both ordered a cup of black coffee and drank it slowly."

"I thought they were leaving, but then the man sitting on the other side of the sofa took out a thick stack of contracts from his briefcase, and the two of them signed them on the spot on the snow-white tablecloth. Then they shook hands and left, without making a single unnecessary move."

"Honestly, that scene perfectly captured my definition of Paris. Work and life, food and power—all the boundaries blurred over a cup of coffee and a contract, both serious and relaxed. That's Saint-Germain-des-Prés."

"That sounds very appealing." Han Yi was clearly intrigued. "Please tell me, where are we going to have dinner?"

“Since we’re already here, we should definitely go to Lip for dinner.” Barbara glanced at the time on her phone. “But it’s still early. We can go before dinner starts and before the rush.”

“Now, let’s walk a couple more blocks. Not far from here is the neighborhood in Paris that I consider the most livable in the whole city.”

"If you want to buy a house here, that place is the best choice."

(End of this chapter)