The Pyramid Scheme: An Egyptophile’s Wandering Through the Obelisks and Oddities of Paris

 

There are days in Paris when the sky turns the color of old marble—creamy, cracked, faintly hieroglyphic if you squint—and you feel like you’re walking through a living museum curated by Napoleon himself, fresh off his Egyptian misadventure and drunk on sand-swept dreams. And if, like me, you’re an unrepentant Egyptophile—someone who keeps a scarab paperweight on his desk and a paperback Book of the Dead in his bag for “light reading”—then Paris isn’t just a city. It’s a coded love letter to the Nile, written in limestone and glass, signed by sphinxes.

Step One: Follow the Hathor-Headed Breadcrumbs

I begin at Passage du Caire, which sounds exotic until you realize it's a slightly grimy arcade in the 2nd arrondissement where the scent of discount textiles mingles with the ghosts of the 18th century. But look up—always look up—and you’ll see it: Hathor herself, cow-eared and implacable, carved into the façade like a guardian of Parisian secrets. This passage was opened in 1798, the same year Napoleon was playing sand-soldier in Egypt. Coincidence? Not even remotely.

I order an espresso and contemplate the architecture. The blend of orientalist fantasy and imperial pride here is rich. Edward Said would not be impressed.

Step Two: The Sphinxes Have Opinions

Next: the Fontaine du Fellah. Tucked down Rue de Sèvres, it’s a monument to France’s obsession with exoticism disguised as public plumbing. The statue—a Roman copy of Antinous-as-Osiris (a mouthful, I know)—stands above dry spouts, looking both serene and slightly exasperated. Honestly, same.

Napoleon commissioned it to commemorate his glorious campaign in Egypt, which, in classic French fashion, was equal parts cultural appropriation and military flop. Still, the man had vision. He brought back obelisks, hieroglyphs, and enough papyrus gossip to keep Paris enthralled for decades.

Step Three: Behold the Original Clickbait

The Obélisque de Louxor, planted like a golden dagger in the heart of the Place de la Concorde, is next. At over 3,000 years old, it predates democracy, designer handbags, and your mother’s opinions. Gifted by Egypt in the 1830s—because international diplomacy is just fancy bartering with giant rocks—it’s a literal monument to the seductive power of pharaonic aesthetics.

Tourists circle it, snapping selfies with a stone that saw Ramses II rise before France even existed. I stand beneath it, feeling like an extra in a Cecil B. DeMille remake of Amélie. Somewhere nearby, a man in linen trousers sketches hieroglyphs in a Moleskine. I nod. He nods. There’s a brotherhood here.

Step Four: Hieroglyphics and Hipsters

Cinéma Le Louxor in the 10th is where Egyptomania gets its Gatsby on. Built in 1921 and rescued from decay with a facelift that would make Nefertiti blush, it’s now a temple of indie films and ironic popcorn. The façade glows with mosaics, the kind of color-drunk detail that says, “I read The Egyptian and cried.”

Step Five: The Pyramid Scheme

And finally: the Louvre Pyramid, modernism’s glassy wink at eternity. Commissioned by Mitterrand, who—let’s be honest—had a soft spot for both grandeur and mystery. Designed by I. M. Pei, it’s part-portal, part-provocation. Critics hated it. Time, as it always does, crowned it. I waited about 2 hours in line to enter through the pyradmid and descend into the museum to see the actual Egyptian artefacts. Amid sarcophagi and shattered dynasties, I find a statue of a scribe—kneeling, serene, wise. I sit across from him. We have no time to exchange silent philosophies. Too many people. 

Exit Through the Gift Shop (and Existentialism)

Being an Egyptophile in Paris is like chasing shadows with a sunlamp—everything is a reflection of something older, somewhere warmer. The city wears its Egyptomania like a vintage silk scarf: chic, mysterious, slightly faded, and tied just so.

So I walk. Through streets named for lost battles and forgotten gods. Past metro stations echoing with the hum of modernity and the whisper of mummified dreams. I sip a matcha latte at Kitsune, this one is much more to my taste. I walk further back througth the gardens. I see a sphinx and smile