The One with a Chandelier in a Carry-On
Scenes from a mother/daughter weekend in the City of Light(ing)
On a blustery fall day in 2022, I dragged my sister up and down the streets of Le Marais, retracing our steps to a tiny shop in Village St-Paul where the day before, I’d spotted the Christmas ornament of my dreams: a glittering chandelier, in miniature, with tiny crystals dangling from its gilded frame. I simply couldn’t leave Paris without it.
Three years later, “I couldn’t leave Paris without it” syndrome struck again - but this time, I wasn’t just slipping a petite ornament into my tote bag. Instead, I was hauling a deconstructed Empire-style basket chandelier in my carry-on through Charles de Gaulle.
Wrestling what felt like a ton of crystal through the airport X-ray machine was the least glamorous part of an otherwise charmed weekend.
My mom and I had taken up residence at Hotel Recamier, an elegant townhouse-turned-boutique hotel in the 6th, and spent our days museum-hopping, croissant-sampling, and practicing our French (which was, unfortunately for us and everyone we encountered, limited to “Désolé, je ne parle pas français,” or “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”).
My camera roll reveals that I had lighting on the brain well before that sunny Sunday afternoon when we browsed the stalls at that fateful brocante. I was entranced by the way the beaded gowns at La Galerie Dior shimmered against their moody backdrops. I marveled at how the shop windows in Saint-Germain-des-Prés glowed during golden hour.
And I snapped photos of virtually every light fixture I saw: a Diego Giacometti-style chandelier in the breakfast room at our hotel, a Murano fixture shimmering in the window of an antique shop in the 3rd, a dramatic Art Deco-style chandelier that dialed up the drama in the bathroom at Brasserie des Prés.
But where did my casual interest in beautiful lighting spiral into pure obsession, past the point of no return? Our story begins after hours at Palais Garnier.
Act I: Sing, My Angel of Music
Wandering the deserted, dimly lit halls of Palais Garnier felt a bit like stumbling onto a movie set, with its elaborate marble staircase, Versailles-esque Grand Foyer, and boxes upholstered in wall-to-wall silk damask.
The icing on the Second Empire cake? The gargantuan bronze and crystal chandelier in the auditorium, which weighs a whopping 7 tons and plays the murder weapon in what is perhaps the most famous (fictional) crime in musical theater history.
We hummed the opening bars of the overture as we stepped into Box 5, with its plaque marked Loge du Fantôme de l’Opera. Between the two of us - my mom, a veteran music teacher, and me, a former choir girl - we knew almost every note.
From this vantage point - with an obstructed view of the stage, but perfect sightlines to the soaring ceiling - it was easy to imagine the chandelier crashing to the ground in a fiery fit of rage. In fact, the Phantom’s infamous temper tantrum was actually inspired by a real-life tragedy, when in 1896, one of the chandelier’s counterweights collapsed in the middle of a performance, striking and killing one attendee and injuring several others.
Phantom lore may have whet my appetite, but I felt practically intoxicated as we filed into the empty Grand Foyer. I craned my neck to take in the outrageously opulent view: soaring frescoed ceilings, rows of sparkling chandeliers, and (almost) all-gilt everything. Our guide let one of the room’s many secrets slip: while every surface appears at first glance to be covered in gold leaf, only the moldings are actually gilded (the walls themselves were painted a rich caramel brown to save money).
The room glowed, bathed in the kind of warm, honeyed lamplight that is both universally flattering and devastatingly chic. I desperately wished that I could trade in my scuffed Vejas and battered trench coat for an elegant ballgown and opera glasses.
As I snapped photos from every angle - including close-ups of the fringed lamp shades on the bar - my brain started whirring with ideas for how to recreate this warm glow at home.
Act II: I was taken by the view (like we were in Paris)
By the time we made our way to Hôtel de la Marine the next morning, I officially had chandelier fever (in fact, after spending much of the previous night tossing and turning with jet lag, I had finally soothed myself back to sleep by browsing auction listings for giltwood sconces).
The first part of our audio tour took us through the private apartments of the Intendants of the Garde-Meuble de la Couronne, the royal courtiers responsible for administering the French king’s massive collection of furniture, tapestries and artworks. Every space was restored to its 18th century glory with period furnishings - with a chandelier in practically every room - and not a single errant recessed can or boob light in sight.
By the time we wound our way through the formal reception rooms, my neck started to ache from all the ceiling-staring. At one point, I was so fixated on the nautical details of a particular gilded ceiling medallion that my audio guide headset slipped off of my head and clattered loudly to the floor, drawing annoyed glances from the visitors around me. I sheepishly picked it up and put it back on, only to have the same thing happen again a few minutes later.
What can I say? I was a woman possessed.
Act III: Paris holds the key (to your heart)
On Sunday, fresh off of a boozy lunch and with a few hours to kill, we wandered towards the weekend brocante on Rue Saint Placide. As we browsed the stalls - mostly filled with bric-a-brac - I kept my eyes peeled for treasures, but came up empty.
Then, finally, as we rounded the final corner of stalls, I saw The One: a glimmering, Empire-style basket chandelier, hanging exactly at eye level, crystals swaying gently in the breeze.
I dragged my mom over to take a closer look, immediately trying to talk myself out of it. Where would I put it? (In my entryway, obviously.) How would I get it home? (By dismantling it piece by piece with a pair of tweezers in our hotel room, of course). Wouldn’t one of the smaller crystal flush mounts be more practical, more convenient? (Most definitely. But is any chandelier really practical or convenient?).
I kept glancing at my mom, looking for her approval in classic eldest daughter fashion. She just smiled, refusing to weigh in and pretending to browse the nearby cases filled with sterling silver, while I waved the dealer over and worked up the courage to ask for the price.
The next few minutes were a blur: before I knew it, I was tapping my credit card, too flustered to even attempt to haggle, and swaddling my new purchase in a mildewed blanket. I was in a state of shock as we walked back to the hotel, chandelier in tow. My mom just laughed, finally showing her hand, smiling and saying, “You’ll treasure it for the rest of your life.”
Act IV: I’ve made a terrible mistake
As my purchase panic subsided over the next few hours, a new set of anxieties rushed in. How the hell was I going to get this thing home in one piece?
That night, I tossed and turned, making a mental checklist of supplies to pick up. While this was certainly not my first foray into transporting precious cargo - I had a spotless track record with safely packing mirrors, paintings, and ceramics - this would be my toughest task yet.
Early the next morning, we made our way to the nearest Carrefour in search of the essentials: paper towels, packing tape, small trash bags, and tweezers.
Luck was on our side: as we walked in, we saw that the staff was in the middle of restocking shelves, with piles of discarded cardboard in every corner. At my mom’s prodding, I shyly asked if we could have a few pieces of cardboard; a kind gentleman took pity on my “Désolé, je ne parle pas français,” nodded and helped me pick the perfect pieces.
Getting the proper supplies, as it turned out, was the easy part.
Act V: “Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces…”
Our last night in Paris was decidedly unglamorous: after an early dinner, it was time for packing-palooza. While my mom curled up with her iPad, I laid out my materials on the bed and plotted my strategy.
I spent the next three hours painstakingly deconstructing the chandelier, removing each strand of crystals with a pair of tweezers. By the time I was finished, my nails were in shreds, my hands were cramping, and I had dust smudged across my face. My mom, meanwhile, spent the evening frantically Googling the dimensions of United’s overhead bins.
At one point, I glanced over at my mom and asked when in my childhood she knew that I’d grow into the kind of adult who would spend her last night in Paris meticulously performing surgery on a light fixture. Her response, delivered with an aggressive eye roll? “Since day one.”
Finally, around midnight, I proudly announced that I was finished: the crystals were packed and stored in my roller bag, with the frame tucked neatly into my Mary Poppins tote bag. I was giddy with the thrill of making it work; my mom was desperate to finally crawl into bed.
Epilogue: We’ll always have Paris
Dear reader, I’m pleased to report that the chandelier made it home unscathed - though admittedly, not in one piece. And though it’s not yet hanging in my entryway - it’s in the hands of my trusty electrician for rewiring - it’s already proven to be quite the conversation piece among my friends and family. My mom checks in on its status nearly every time we talk.
My brother-in-law keeps asking whether I could have found a suitable chandelier in the US (“Did you really need to go all the way to Paris for a light?”).
But finding a chandelier was never really the point. I simply couldn’t leave Paris without it. And my mom was right: I will treasure it for the rest of my life.