We'll Always Have Paris

14 years ago when we dined at restaurants without a drive-through, watched full-length feature films (at the cinema) and slept an uninterrupted eight hours – my husband promised he’d take me to Paris for my birthday. I was so besotted with him I’d have happily skipped to the McDonalds on the Hounslow High Street if he’d suggested as much. But the idea of Paris made my 19-year-old heart swoon. Paris was for grownups. Paris was proper. I could have a Big Mac any day, but sipping a velvety French wine in front of the Eiffel Tower wasn’t an experience available on any Ronald McDonald’s menu board. Sadly we didn’t make it to Paris that year. Life happened and the trip was put on hold. Until this year. 14 years later than scheduled - somewhat wiser (him) a lot more wrinkled (me) we finally set off our Paris adventure. Just the two of us.

We caught the Eurostar from Kings Cross on a rainy Saturday morning and arrived just before lunch in a sunny Paris. The trip took two hours. I fell asleep in Britain and awoke in France. We arrived at the Gare du Nord station amidst a frenzy of excited tourists. We were no different - my husband had taken 200 pictures before we’d even left the UK. Not unlike a pair of giddy teenagers, armed with a bag each, a camera and the Citymapper app, we set off to see as much of Paris as we possibly could in just 24 hours. We were en route to buy Metro tickets, when I spotted a serious wad of cash lying on the platform. My husband was taking pictures of the sky at the time and so the next 30 minutes were very tricky trying to locate the loot’s owner in a swarm of people few of whom spoke English. Eventually we were able to reunite a very thankful Japanese man with his holiday money – nearly £300’s worth of cash. I’ll hazard a guess that his next purchase was a fanny pack. We figured the reunion we’d initiated between a man and his cash was a good omen. For us. And the Japanese man of course.

The Gare du Nord station is not the best introduction to Paris. It’s ugly, smells of pee and there are groups of pickpocketing yobs that steal from you under the ruse of seeking directions. “Speak Engrish, speak Engrish” is what they chant while a piece of tattered paper is thrust under your nose and you are unwittingly relieved of your wallet and cellphone. We saw this con virtually happen in front of us – fortunately the overwhelmed lady had the presence of mind to scream like a banshee and within seconds the mob had dispersed.  At any station we visited thereafter whenever someone approached us with “speak Engrish, speak Engrish”, we’d back away and like a foghorn I’d proclaim, “No, get away. Leave us alone.” In language with a lot more colour – too colourful in fact for me to type. I tried. It was bad. I felt like a right git though when a lady approached me and she’d barely got her words out before I verbally assaulted her and legged it. Only to have my husband come around the corner a couple of minutes later holding her map of Paris pointing her in the direction of the train she was looking for.  A genuinely lost tourist in a Paris station… Who’d have thought it? Not me. Clearly.

I’ve always been rather cynical about historical buildings. Yes they were built a long time ago. Yes they’re famous. Yes they’re pretty. Yes, ok. I get it. But I had to swallow every last chunk of that cynicism – when I actually stood at the foot of the Eiffel Tower and looked up. And it wasn’t just the structure itself – which is obviously impressive. Mind-blowing in fact. The real magic was being a part of a crowd of hundreds of people on that day. People who had all made their individual journeys from various parts of the world to visit the same site. To share in the collective awe. My best friend asked me to describe the highlight of the trip – and I can honestly say that it was picnicking on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower sharing a bottle of French wine with my husband. Sitting amidst groups of happy people at the foot of one of the world’s most iconic feats of architecture. Watching people pose for that umpteenth picture with the tower as a backdrop. Children playing. Snatches of conversation in a variety of accents. The sound of laughter. The experience transcended age, gender and nationality. We were one collective happy mass. The atmosphere on that afternoon was something I’ll never forget.

Ok so the Notre Dame Cathedral was pretty good too. The Louvre. The Arc de Triomphe. The Opera. All incredible. All worth the hype. Paris is a beautiful city. There’s no doubt about it. We soaked in all the sights. Drank too much wine. Ate way too much cheese. Paris delivered. And we were happy to receive.

We were seated on the bottom of a double decker tube en route to the Louvre when a South African family tumbled into our carriage, moments before the doors closed. Dad led the charge trying to maintain the illusion delusion of being in control. Mom looked harassed, hair disheveled, tired eyes. Three (!!) boys trailed in the couple’s wake. Ranging in age from approximately nine to around three years. They fell into their seats. Mom and Dad rested weary heads and closed their eyes. There was a moment of calm. Then Oldest son opened his backpack and took out a bottle of water. Younger son asked Mum for water. Mum shrugged and raised her hands in apology. There was no more. Older son handed his over to younger to share. Naturally Middle son wanted water too. Younger took a sip and handed it to Middle who in turn took a sip. Older son asked for it back. Younger son wanted more. Middle son proceeded to deliberately finish the rest of the water. A fight ensued. Chaos. Parents intervened. Cajoled. Bargained. Bribed. I averted my eyes from the scene – knowing how desperate I feel when my children have a public meltdown and there are witnesses. My husband and I looked at each other knowingly. Shared relief and sympathy. The couple looked apologetically in our direction. Embarrassed by the disturbance their brood had unleashed. To them we were a couple alone, free and unencumbered in Paris. We sat with two bags, a camera and each other. No additional baggage. In that moment, we could easily have been that couple from 14 years ago. And I have to be honest, on that train, on that day, we basked in the pretence. We had travelled light – in every sense of the word. And it was good.

It was an hour later that we saw a figure skater in the piazza outside the Louvre – performing the most incredible tricks. My husband turned to me and said excitedly, “Wouldn’t Ollie just love to see this! And wouldn’t the Gabs go wild chasing all of these pigeons?” Sublime Paris was all ours for a brief moment in time. After an idyllic 24 hours though, we were happy to leave La Ville-Lumière - The City of Light. And head back home. Back to our chaos. The cheeky little pair of them.