During a recent weekend in Paris, I noticed how many padlocks couples had attached everywhere in the city. On historic bridges, monuments, fountains… And for the first time, I was really bothered by it. It felt as though something in the city was being tainted. Some thirty years ago, there were hardly any padlocks to be found, save on bicycles. So what has changed in the meantime that has made this fad unavoidable in almost every part of the City of Love visited by tourists?

The more I thought about it, the more these locks seemed to me like symptoms of three ever-growing tendencies in our societies. First, on top of the world population having nearly doubled, flights have become affordable enough that every well-known city is now overrun by tourists. Second, in line with the globalisation of everything, a tradition once specific to one place — namely the Bridge of Love (Most Ljubavi) in Vrnjačka Banja, Serbia — has, like so many other things, been exported wherever people wish to take it, regardless of local customs. And third, I increasingly feel that people have become obsessed with making an impression and receiving recognition — or likes — for it.
“What is it that bothers me about these padlocks?” I wondered.
The first time I heard about these so-called “Love locks”, decades ago, I thought the Serbian legend that apparently gave birth to this fashion was a touching tale. The story goes that Nada, a schoolmistress, died of heartbreak after her beloved Relja never returned from war, and that, in her memory, couples began locking padlocks on the Bridge of Love — where the couple used to meet — to protect their own relationships. But then I started noticing those padlocks in cities everywhere, from Europe to America. And it bothered me in much the same way as seeing Starbucks cafés, McDonald’s, or H&M stores everywhere.

I am not entirely anti-globalist, but I am wary of the uniformisation of cultures, as I wrote in a previous article entitled “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas”. There is, of course, much to be said for the democratisation linked to this tendency. In the past, only wealthy people had the privilege of tasting foods from other continents or discovering other traditions, sights, smells, and sounds. Now, not only can far more people travel thanks to low-cost flights, but one could also argue that they have as much right as any multinational company to export whatever they like from one place to another, including a symbol of their undying love.
Yet just as the democratisation of flying comes with environmental costs, the spreading of local traditions creates a tension between individual freedom and the gradual loss of cultural specificity. One could argue that this process began long before our era. The Roman Empire is far from the only example of one culture exporting itself elsewhere — or, to use the current popular term in international development, “scaling”. And just as the Roman Empire brought roads, sanitation, irrigation systems, and laws that can certainly be seen as positive developments, the price paid by conquered peoples for this “improvement” was immense. Likewise, as is pointed out in this LSE article:
“Scaling has become a buzzword in international development, where the received wisdom is to ‘scale what works’. However, whilst this is a paradigm that suits private investment in international development and science more broadly, complex problems require nuanced solutions.“
– Robert Mclean, John Gargani and Dena Lomofsky for the London School of Economics and Political Science
Today, I fear that the accelerated spread of cultural symbols may lead far more easily to a true uniformisation of culture than was possible even just a century ago. European countries do take greater pride in — and market — their local identities more than they did when I was a child, but these traditions often feel like products being sold, while deeper ways of living slowly converge into the same globalised habits. This affects everything from the way we work to the way we eat, dance, and interact with one another. Thankfully, we are not entirely there yet, but I do think it is important that Europe — and other continents, which I will not speak for — preserve certain traditions insofar as they maintain cultural diversity. Otherwise, the very purpose of travelling might become obsolete.
The other point I want to raise, which inspired the title of this text, is the egocentrism I perceive in the gesture of leaving behind these padlocks. I chose the 1966 French hit song “Et moi, et moi, et moi”, sung by Jacques Dutronc, because it is a satirical text about selfishness and indifference toward global suffering. It contrasts massive world problems with trivial personal concerns, suggesting that, despite terrible events, people continue to live self-involved lives. The song’s lyricist, Jacques Lanzmann — whose brother Claude directed the landmark 9.5-hour documentary “Shoah” — belonged to a generation of French intellectuals and artists deeply concerned with collective memory and critical thought, in contrast to ever-growing navel-gazing trends. Along with this ongoing tendency, I also notice the popular transformation of intimate feelings into public display.
A more romantic way of looking at “Love locks” is that couples want a physical, public ritual that makes their feelings seem permanent in a way that words or rings perhaps no longer do. Most people would probably argue that it is simply a symbolic act satisfying a deep human desire to leave a trace of a meaningful moment.
But the way I see it is that, where exchanging rings is a promise made to each other, couples now seem to feel the need to share every moment and every feeling with everyone else as well. Having each other no longer feels sufficient unless the world is invited to witness it, turning private affection into public performance. The act becomes less about love itself and more about broadcasting identity — a way of saying “we exist” in a culture obsessed with visibility. In that sense, I see these padlocks not only as symbols of devotion, but also as small monuments to our need to be seen. After all, we all know the philosophical question:
“If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
On a side note, whilst these locks are seen as a way to share your love with the entire world, their very nature seems to me the opposite of what love should be. Rather than a cold and rigid shackling, isn’t love supposed to be warm, fluid, and free?
Regarding the proliferation of these locks, what increasingly happens is what occurred on the Paris Bridge of Arts (Pont des Arts), which used to be my favourite bridge to sit on when I lived there a quarter of a century ago, before it was covered in padlocks. By 2015, the bridge had become so overloaded with them that part of the railing collapsed under the weight. This led to the “No Love Locks” petition to ban love locks in Paris, with the slogan:
“Free your love. Save our bridges”
The locks were eventually removed from the Pont des Arts, and glass panels were installed to protect the structure and maintain safety. To me, that is the essence of the story. In their desire to say “we were here,” all these couples almost destroyed one of the most beloved bridges in Paris.

And even now, when I visit exhibitions or beautiful places in Paris, I mostly see tourists taking pictures or selfies, posting them immediately, and then leaving. I get the feeling that many of them don’t linger long enough to truly see what they initially came to look at. I sometimes suspect they spend more time looking at their own photographs and tracking the likes than taking in the real-life sights before them.
Perhaps this view is too cynical. Perhaps the way people experience love today is simply different from how it once was — neither better nor worse. Also, perhaps, democratising culture means democratising love, making it something to be shared publicly with everyone.
But I would argue that now could be a good time to look back at the 1958 film “Christine”, starring Romy Schneider and Alain Delon, in which the lovers simply shout their vows from the top of a mountain into the valley below, listening to their own echo — and listening for the echoes of all the lovers who came before them. Their story ends tragically, yet there is something beautiful in that scene: no tangible trace, no selfie, no padlock. No one but they knew about it, and yet their love was true. And it left the mountain and the valley untouched for all the lovers who would come after them.
(Title quote: French song “Et moi, et moi, et moi”,
music and voice: Jacques Dutronc, lyrics: Jacques Lanzmann, 1966)




























