A day in the life of Elizabeth Zheng

A day in the life of Elizabeth Zheng

Applied mathematics and Sociology, Harvard College
CUPA Immersion

My alarm rings at 8 a.m., and I wake up to the stirring city of Paris. I start my morning routine: in the kitchen, I press coffee the way my host mom showed me—doucement—and slice into a baguette, before smearing on butter and jam. Through the window on the 13th floor, the west side of Paris stretches into the haze. My host mom works from her office across the hall. We exchange morning greetings and I ask her about her plans for the day as I eat my breakfast.

Soon, I’m rushing out the door and into the metro on line 13, shoulder to shoulder with strangers, carried beneath the city toward the Musée d’Orsay. It’s Tuesday, which means art history class. I meet my friends in the museum, and we walk through rooms filled with light and color. Manet, Monet, Renoir—their names are familiar, but now their techniques hold something more. Our professor dives into the history of each painting and the cultural significance they held for France. I begin to see the paintings much deeper—the stories and innovativeness and disruption they created. After class, hunger leads my friends and I wandering through the streets to the nearby boulangeries. I choose a quiche Lorraine, and we walk to the Seine to eat. Tour boats pass, and we wave at the passengers. We play music from our phones and share bites from each other’s bags.

My friends and I part ways and I browse the little shops on the side of the Seine before I head to the library. I love to tuck myself into the little sunlit corner of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France—François Mitterrand. It’s not the most ornate library in Paris, but something about its clean lines and towering windows makes it feel honest. I sip a café au lait and work on tomorrow’s philosophy reading. I underline what I don’t understand, circle what I want to come back to. The French is complex, but I feel myself learning a lot and seeing my progress.

By late afternoon, I’m in the metro again—this time to the Grand Palais, where Chiharu Shiota’s The Soul Trembles exposition awaits. I’ve been dying to see her work, and I finally scheduled a timed ticket. Her multimedia work wraps around you—physically and metaphorically. I stand inside the installation of an intricate web of thread and am completely still, like I’ve stepped into her dream. As an Asian-American artist myself, her work resonates deeply with me. I make sure to get a poster at the gift shop (my go to souvenir).

Evening returns me to the 14th arrondissement. I stop for a flan at a boulangerie near Gaite to bring something sweet to share for dinner. When I’m home, I set the table while my host mom cooks. Dinner is simple—leeks with ham–but delicious, and one of my favorite meals she makes. We follow the same (very French) cadence every night: the main dish, then a salad with an assortment of cheeses, and then dessert. Over our food, we talk for hours. About books. About our backgrounds. About our families. I learn so much from my host mom and the wisdom she shares; even better, my French improves significantly through our nightly conversations.
I help clean up the table and dishes before I get ready for bed. I read a little bit of Annie Ernaux’s Evenement and I pack my bags before I turn off the light. Exhausted, I go to sleep—tired, but excited for the new day ahead.