Every time I set foot inside the Jardin du Luxembourg, I am assaulted by a cacophony of sounds.

Birds nestled upon sprigs, their choruses and calls blanketing the air. A perpetual parade of footsteps, pounding hundreds and hundreds of pea-sized, water-worn stones into the ground. Balls of all sizes, colliding with dirt, and rackets, and walls, and rims, and hands. A cadence of interspersed viva voce languages, competing for supremacy. The sound of my own heart remembering that this is not the first, nor will it be the last, time the five senses must capitulate to its command.

This is my Jardin. My fostered speck of Eden. Located in the 6th Arrondissement, bordering Saint-Germain-des-Prés and the Latin Quarters, and dreamt into existence by Queen Marie de Medici in 1612, this is the backyard of my home-away-from-home.

I have snapped hundreds of pictures, but still never enough to satisfy the urge to capture a million more. Sometimes, when ambushed by nostalgia I pretend doesn’t exist, I forget to take out the camera. Instead, my myopic lens records to memory emotions which live on way past that moment. The moment I stop to stare at 1 of 106 statues housed in this sprawling garden. The moment the sun frames a shadow of shimmering leaves kissed by dry, thirsty sand. The moment a ripple meets the edge of a puddle, seceding to the reflection of patrimonial edifices far off in the distance.

While I have traversed the many entry points to this majestic haven, there’s one path which contains my embedded footprints. Starting at the southwest corner of the garden, I enter just off of Rue Vavin and make my way past the mint green gazebo and its miniature replicas, where artistically-placed bee boxes house the Jardin’s residential bees. Continuing along this path, veering left, I’m greeted by the sound of metal balls landing on graveled dirt, or colliding with one another. Men – mostly men, mostly older – spend hours in all types of weather, perfecting the skill of the toss.

The pétanque, pétanque, pétanque fading, I come upon the children’s playground. Early mornings and evenings, you’ll find it deserted, but come that time of day when caregivers seek refuge from tight, enclosed dwellings, where children’s untiring imaginations fight for freedom, the playground is filled with a carousel of boisterous energy. A stone’s throw away – the Buvette Des Marionnettes. I’ve longed to catch master puppeteers casting their spells over children, both young and old, but during my last stroll, the signage had been removed and the building shuttered, as if awaiting another reprieve. Next up is the basketball court, where large slabs of concrete, with their sparse traces of gravel, are the only thing to distinguish it as such. Most days, the netting goes missing from the basketball rim, reminding me of the neighborhood courts of my childhood. There’s always a friendly game in play, or small children doggedly heaving balls in the air.

I circumvent the designated path which runs the width of the Jardin, from Rue Guynemer, past the Palais and Fountain Pool, all the way to the opposite side, ending at Boulevard Saint-Michel. Instead, I prefer to follow the concrete walkway in front of the tennis courts, where pros instruct middle-aged women on the art of the swing. Benches facing the courts provide respite for weary walkers, people gazers and rendezvoused trysts, where lovers of all ages go to hide right out in the open.

Just before passing a small string of ponies, I hold my breath. No matter how joyous a thing it is to see little smiling faces, waiting for their turn to mount these miniature equines, there is that smell which shoots straight up the nostrils and plants itself in the back of the throat. A few feet away, I arrive at the top of the steps. I gaze down upon the gathering hole. A place which might as well have been brushed into existence by the gifted hands of an artist. Peeking out from above the trees, there in the background, the resting place of the honored and revered. To the left, armed guards stand watch, their faces devoid of any discernible emotions, although they’ll nod when greeted, respond when questioned, or reprimand those unfamiliar with boundaries set by a governmental Palace.

The exposed openness is filled by travelers from near and far. Water has the power to draw crowds.

Descending the steps, I venture right, a preference my feet have taken to memory. I love the crunching of gravel, a reminder for my senses to stay alert. The garden is always in bloom, thanks to the constant tilling, and tending, and the turning over of colorful perennials by skilled and tireless hands. On weekends, and some afternoons, you’ll find small, colorful sailboats dotting the surface of the pool. Children, holding long sticks, vigorously track the trajectory of their miniature crafts.

Leaving behind my reflection on the surface of the water, I come upon the circular lawn, guarded by the famous army of Luxembourg chairs. On warm days, every seat is occupied. During those fall or winter days when a penetrating chill drives tourists indoors to the Louvre, Invalides or Musée d’Orsay, one can partake in an endless game of musical chairs. The grass, plush and unmolested, is home to David, who stands naked atop a tall column, a sword in his left hand and what one must presume his dress robe in the other.

I climb the steps, maneuvering around snap-happy tourists, looking to capture their moments of nostalgia. Here is where I pause, for a split second, to decide my exit strategy. Remain straight on the wide, graveled path and I’ll reach my destination without much to distract my senses. Veer left and I’ll be delayed by gazing at gazers who sit in front of the outdoor cafe.

Whichever decision brings me to the end of this journey. Crossing the threshold, something is lost, yet regained. The sounds of a crowded city going about daily life. Mopeds zig-zagging in and out of traffic. Terraces awaiting a myriad of wine-sipping spectators. Souvenir shops peddling their wares. Homeless mothers cradling leur enfants. Tourists unskillfully skirting dog poo. People avoiding eye contact, and conversations, and one another. Anxiety and fear, mingled with a need to hold on to a fading past. History in the unmaking.