LISINSKI: American Beauty in Paris

I can now happily announce that I have been awake to see the sun rise in Paris.

Now, the circumstances of said event were not the most romantic nor reflective. No, I think the proper word to describe the scenario is “misadventure.”

As with many good misadventures, this one started with a sense of youthful abandon. It was one of those nights that kept growing and growing, from “I’ll just do homework at a café” to “I’ll just have a bit of wine by the river” to “I’ll just have one more drink” to “I’ll try absinthe, sure,” to “I mean, it’s 4 a.m., so we might as well just stay up until the sunrise.”

My companions and I ended up at the Sacré Coeur, a historic church on a hill surrounded by a sea of never-ending staircases. If the lack of “Rocky” theme music at the top wasn’t enough to let me down, then the fact that the sun rose about an hour-and-a-half later than we planned sure was.

And I confess: At the time, I immensely regretted the decision.

Watching the sunrise is often less romantic than expected because the sun rises really early. You usually have to disrupt your sleep cycle, which is quite disorienting. I found myself thinking, “This is pretty, but can I go to bed yet?”

I knew I should have felt something special, but I didn’t, even once volcanic reds and oranges began to erupt over the Parisian architecture. While sitting on the steps of the church, I had a vivid flashback to one instance during my semester as editor-in-chief of The Daily Free Press in which I sent the paper to print and then immediately walked across the street to get breakfast at the dining hall.

But after a good day’s sleep, feeling and inspiration finally did start to grow, and I found myself questioning what it was about the sunrise that had stuck with me.

Beauty is subjective. But is there anything that makes a sunrise categorically better than a sunset? Perhaps the symbolism of “light vanquishing darkness” resonates with us, or perhaps there’s a generative element that we admire.

But how can this be? The phenomenon is the same as the sunset: the colors are equally as marvelous. Light is still traveling at the same angles through the atmosphere. The blue and purple wavelengths are still scattered away leaving us with a majestic blaze.

What I think, then, is that the sunrise can be fantastic because of its “rarity.” I place that in quotes because calling the sunrise rare is tenuous.

It is rare because we see it so infrequently compared to the sunset, and it is even more significant when we do see it because it becomes a notable event. Think: When was the last time you truly watched the sun set and made a point of it? More often than not, we notice the colors briefly on a commute home or while passing by a window from one room to the next.

Most truths about the world have already been said in one way or another, and I like the simplicity Lester Burnham uses in “American Beauty” (which, by the way, I recommend for anyone who feels he or she is down in a rut; it will give a true burst of existential inspiration).

“It’s a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself,” he muses in a sprightly voice. “Makes you wonder what else you can do that you’ve forgotten about.”

So sure, I actually spent a solid 10 minutes asleep on my bag on the steps of the church. Sure, I spent the following day sleeping until 4 p.m. Sure, I had one of the worst headaches of my life. But I look back and I say, “I did that, and I didn’t ever expect to do that.”

Wonder is — excuse the pun — a wonderful thing. And as awful as we can be, people are a constant source of wonder because we are a constant source of possibility.

In the middle of the night, you could be so struck by a dream that you sit up and write a beautiful poem. Tomorrow evening, you might notice a constellation and be overwhelmed with a sudden memory of stargazing with a parent when you were a child. You may have a conversation with a stranger who turns out not to be a stranger and realize that, sometimes, it’s a small world.

Coming to Paris has been a wonderful experience for me because of its rarity and its surprise. I was oversaturated with academia and a lifestyle on autopilot, and I was convinced I would never get out of my own way. But without realizing what I was doing, I surprised myself, just as I did staying up for the Parisian sunrise.

Sometimes, you need to move aside and look from a different angle to see it, or use all of your willpower to break a routine, or tear down your walls and be open to serendipity. But when you do, you’ll see that life is full of mystery and possibility, and I hope you’ll see that it’s a pure miracle that you exist in this confusing, indifferent universe.

And that, I think, is beautiful.