Ah, Paris. It’s a name synonymous with high fashion and luxury. Hearing it might conjure up fantasies of quaint cafés overlooking painters along the River Seine, magnificently gilded palaces, or the bright lights of the latest runway shows. This is the side of Paris portrayed in paintings and poems. It’s the side shown in movies and magazines. But it’s not the side I encountered when I took a vacation there a few years ago, and I’ve learned a lot because of that trip.

It had been a rocky journey of turbulence, airport security, and Google Translate, but we finally arrived at the doorstep of our “authentic Parisian apartment.” The general aura of “too hot, too tired” had settled in. We found ourselves in a tiny apartment with scarcely room to move amidst our sea of luggage. My brother, always looking on the bright side, pointed out that it was possible to make breakfast without getting out of bed. I was not amused. I visited the bathroom, only to find that it was as wide as my shoulders. My first day in Paris did nothing to satisfy my appetite for French grandeur. I chalked the day up to jet lag and went to sleep, certain that the following day would be as breathtaking as my most extravagant Parisian dreams.

The next morning, my family and I packed maps and cameras and descended into the Parisian underground, otherwise known as the stuffy, cramped, and sticky subway tunnels thousands of commuters pass through each day. I wasn’t perturbed, because I emerged from the underground and saw views of the Paris I’d seen in countless pictures and on television: giant stone buildings covered in columns and statues surrounded me, each one more impressive than the next.

We spent the morning wandering around the Louvre before hopping a bus to the Arc De Triomphe. Yet I sulked on the ride; nothing had lived up to my expectations. For every chandelier hanging in a long mirrored hallway, I saw 10 walls covered in graffiti. For every Parisian lady dressed from head to toe in feathers, fur, and gold lamé, I saw 10 homeless beggars. I saw litter strewn under the Eiffel Tower and an old women begging for change at the doorstep of the Louvre. My shoes were covered in cigarette ash from the roads, and my body was grimy from rubbing shoulders with passengers on the stuffed subways.

To my dismay, I found myself counting down the days to my departure, and I was secretly relieved when our plane took off from Charles De Gaulle Airport. From my window seat I cast a last glance of au revoir before leaving my Parisian adventures behind.

A few weeks later I scrolled through my copious vacation pictures, analyzing different angles of the Notre Dame and Musée d’Orsay. As I browsed, I noticed things I had looked at but never really seen. I recalled a woman on the metro, returning from a hard day’s work. I saw two little boys with no shoes, laughing and kicking a soccer ball down a graffiti-covered alley. I saw a young businessman straightening his tie before walking into an imposing office building.

At that moment, I saw Paris neither as the pinnacle of luxury I had imagined, nor the grubby urban wasteland I had experienced. Paris isn’t just a city; it’s a home and a destination for millions of people. It’s full of hopelessness, tears, and toil. It’s a place for dreams that float just out of reach, for triumph and exhilaration. It’s a place of glitz and glamour, sickening poverty, defining history, and classic culture.

From a trip I’d left disgusted, I learned to cast away my lingering naivety and realize that some things aren’t what they seem. I chide myself for turning my eyes away, for not appreciating what lay in front of me while I had the chance. Now, when I think of Paris, I see something a thousand times more lovely than berets and baguettes.