In 1928, George Orwell went to Paris because he wanted to see what it was like to be poor. He rented a cheap room, ran out of money faster than expected, and ended up washing dishes in hotel kitchens for twelve to fourteen hours a day.
The work was brutal in a boring way. Hot steam, greasy plates, shouting chefs, no breaks. You stood until your legs stopped working. When the shift ended, there was just enough time to eat badly and sleep before doing it again. You missed a shift, you lost the job.
Later, in England, he lived among tramps and slept in shelters because he had nowhere else to go. He kept notes the whole time which he turned into the book "Down and Out in Paris and London", a searing firsthand account of poverty that permanently established his unflinching moral vision and documentary style. Long after he became famous, he never forgot how fragile comfort is or how fast a person can slide from being someone to being invisible.
I was very comfortable and highly visible during my last visit to Paris, but that's a story for another day.
