Yeah I know. It’s been ages since my last post. So unlike me. But I really needed to party and I happened to be partying in Paris this past weekend so I just didn’t get to it for a few days. Sue me.
There’s nothing like a semi-spontaneous trip to Paris to let cancer know who’s boss. I have this lovely American friend, Alicia, who finds herself in Paris going on nine years now, having married my French friend, Olivier, who used to work at the NYC law firm with me. The happy couple invited us to Alicia’s fortieth birthday party a couple months ago, and it seemed rather unlikely that we would attend given that the event was to be five days prior to my final chemotherapy session on June 7.
Nevertheless, I entered it into my iCal and waited to see what would happen. What happened is that I’ve been feeling pretty decent. So two weeks in advance of the festivities I booked an apart/hotel (this is an apartment-style hotel with kitchenette) in the 16th arrondissement near their flat and some Eurostar tickets and started counting down the days.
Last Friday evening the girls and I and Agnieszka, our nanny, cabbed it to St. Pancras, had an early dinner at Le Pain Quotidien, and hopped on the train. Bill was slammed on a deal (or two) and planned to join us the next morning.
The apart/hotel was located a stone’s throw from my old haunting ground. When I was sixteen and a student at Choate Rosemary Hall, I lived with my friend Greg (you know Greg from One to Go) and his family in a grand apartment on Avenue Raymond Poincaré, an address we passed on foot half a dozen times during the course of the weekend. I wonder who lives there now. Just about next door are the Ugandan and Tanzanian embassies.
The apart/hotel wasn’t quite as grand as the old apartment. My husband would comment later that night that it was “a part hotel, a part shit hole,” which we both thought was wildly funny and erupted into uncontrolled bursts of snorting and laughter. So mature are we. But it was fine and convenient, slept five and we didn’t plan on spending any time in it so whatever.
It was fairly late upon arrival and not easy to calm the girls down after our exciting train trip. But finally they succumbed (at about midnight) at which point I decided to turn in myself. What greeted me in the mirror after removing my clothes and make-up was the same body and visage that I face every day. Yet somehow it was different in Paris. In different (fluorescent) lighting.
It occurred to me that the last time I had been in Paris was for my tenth wedding anniversary in October of last year. For that trip, only months earlier, I had long, wavy brunette hair and real boobs, and was blissfully unaware of the tumours in my right breast and all the physical transformations that would accompany their annihilation. My biggest physical concerns at that time were the hollows under my eyes and that bit of tummy that just wouldn’t budge after child number two.
I looked at this spectre, bald and disfigured, and thought to myself, how the fuck did this happen? Sometimes you have to get out of context to digest something. You have to see yourself, literally, in a different light. I didn’t feel sorry for myself. I wasn’t sad. I just felt terribly odd to be back in Paris like this. After a few moments of shock and awe, though, I got over it, fetched a glass of water and hit the sack.
Saturday morning, Agnieszka and I rallied the girls at a reasonable hour and set off on one of the most memorable travel days I think I have ever had.
Traveling with young children is a different experience, obviously, from tooling around as a carefree adult. You have to worry about how far they can walk, when and what to eat (children are not pleasant when their blood sugar drops) and what will interest them. Luckily I had a loose plan in place. A plan is good but flexibility is key. And good weather helps tremendously. Saturday was sunny and warm. The perfect day.
First we decided to breakfast at the Brasserie Trocadéro so that we could gaze 
at the Eiffel Tower. I learned on this trip that for a child it is never too hot and sunny for hot chocolate, particularly the dark, syrupy version that is served up at French brasseries. I also learned that it is not overkill to have hot chocolate with a pain au chocolat (that’s a chocolate croissant for my American readers — even though it is decidedly not in the shape of a crescent). Right: Isabel and moi at the brasserie.
After breakfast we descended into the métro to travel to the belle epoch Grand Palais (originally built for the 1900 World Fair) to see Daniel Buren’s Excentrique(s) exhibit. For this exhibit, Buren stretched coloured translucent plastic film within hundreds of circles of different sizes, each one touching the next, and all supported by vertical columns. The effect of the installation is determined by the light coming through (or not if it isn’t sunny) the glass domed roof of the building. The sunny day allowed light to pass through the coloured film and reflect the circles on the ground.
In the ticket line, Isabel spotted her art teacher from the American School in London, making me look like a cultural genius, even though I cannot take credit for the idea, which was Alicia’s (well she does live there), and validating my choice in the children’s eyes. We explored and ran around a bit in there until we started to get warm (do not do this on a hot sunny day in the afternoon when the sun has had all day to heat up the interior — the morning was fine though). Then we headed across the street to the Petit Palais (free admission to all) for refreshments in the lovely interior courtyard café. To the right, Isabel, Charlotte and Isabel’s art teacher.
It was at this point that I received an email from Bill indicating that he had arrived in the City of Lights but that he would have to confine himself to the apart/hotel to work on a document for several hours (insert sad face). Such is the life, at times, of the corporate lawyer. You have to hand it to the man for coming to Paris in spite of this. Alas, I sighed, we must forge ahead. So we exited the PP and headed toward Les Invalides. The walk across the stunning Alexandre III bridge with its gilt-bronze winged horses, Art Nouveau lamps, cherubs and nymphs is one of my favourites in Paris. It is just so fancy. Saturday’s walk was interrupted slightly by graffiti and rubbish on the ground, but I ignored these unfortunate side effects and focused instead on the two brides having photos taken on the other side of the bridge as a moderate wind whipped their trains and veils around. Girls and I on Alex. III bridge above.
After a few cartwheels on the esplanade (Isabel, not me), we headed into the métro again and set off for the Luxembourg Gardens. I so love the Jardin du Luxembourg, which is second-largest public park in Paris, and houses the Senate, among other things. We had to take two metro lines and an RER (another train) to get there, and the children managed beautifully. We headed into a main entrance flanked by ice cream carts and headed straight for an outdoor café for a late lunch. It turned out to be a very late lunch. Upon sitting we were politely informed that the kitchen had temporarily suspended orders due to the size of the crowd and that we could have a drink and wait about twenty to thirty minutes and then order food.
We acknowledged this and the children entertained themselves by drawing on the backs of paper placemats while sipping juice and sparkling water. I had a citron pressé (fresh lemon juice) which made my mouth pucker, so deliciously sour it was. Finally it was time to order and the children shared a juicy cheeseburger and fries (what, potatoes are a vegetable) while Agnieszka and I chose the Salade Atlantique which had smoked salmon and prawns on a bed of lettuce and cucumber and a creamy rosé dipping sauce.
After lunch we traversed the centre of the garden, stopping to observe children guide colourful toy sailboats around the fountain filled with fish. The afternoon sun was beating down by this point, so after ten minutes we sought refuge in the dappled shade on the other side of the garden, watching children take pony rides (Charlotte wanted to have one but then wasn’t sure so we decided we would do one next time) and then braved the paid playground for half an hour of structure climbing, sliding and running. The pic is of the beautiful Luxembourg Palace, also in the garden.
I sat down on a bench next to a man and a woman (and their generously sized backpacks) to watch Isabel tackle the rope structure. When another woman came along and there wasn’t space I asked the man to please move the bags so she could sit down and his response was some obnoxious comment directed to the recently arrived mother. I almost had to whip my scarf off in protest but it would have been wasted on this French asshole so instead the new woman and I just chatted about what a jerk he was and that was even better. It is good to speak the language when you visit a place. It so enhances the experience and allows for personal connections and observations that are otherwise elusive.
After the children tired of the playground we headed back to the entrance to try the artisinal ice cream (which was recommended as the go-to ice cream place in the park by the nice French lady on the bench, thus allowing me to avoid protracted discussions over which disgusting fluorescent chemical pop to choose from a cheap souvenir stand). I just about passed out after translating forty flavours for the kids and Agnieszka, finally instructing the kids to choose any flavour they could think of. Isabel said “Rocky Road and Cookie Dough.” Um. I had to laugh and explain that those are American flavours and that the artisanal ice cream man was unlikely to have those flavours. They finally settled on chocolate and mint chocolate chip (in a cup, thank you very much). Agnieszka and I decided to be adventurous and tried lavender, rose, blueberry and melon in cones because we don’t cry (much) if we drop ours in the dirt.
At this point Bill surfaced from the mustard-walled confines of the apart/hotel and made plans to find us in the park. Agnieszka went off to explore the area and the girls and I finished our ice creams while a four-piece band started to play nearby. We listened to them until Bill found us. There is nothing like the smile that takes over a child’s face when she sees her father appear after a long absence. Isabel revealed her mouth full of crooked teeth, adorable despite resembling an assortment of ivory stalagmites. Charlotte flashed her pearly baby teeth and flung herself onto her father from the ledge she was standing on, smearing his pants with the tawny dirt that covers the floor of the garden.
I had forgotten this aspect of the garden. The fine dirt that gets all over no matter what. I lived across from the Senate on rue de Vaugirard for about five weeks in the summer of 1998 when I worked as a summer associate in my firm’s Paris office. So the garden was another old haunting ground of mine. I lived in a tiny but charming apartment on the top floor of a walk-up building, on the ground floor of which was an ancient doll repair shop. I had meant to check if the shop was still there but we didn’t have time. I’ll have to look next time. I hope they have stayed in business. I like to think of the old broken dolls being brought in, one missing an arm, one an eyelid, and then after a brief stay leaving intact and fresh again. It is nice to think of something old and broken being wanted, being loved, and getting new life.
I remember inviting my fellow summer associates for a dinner one night at this apartment at which I served rotisserie chicken, Le Sueur canned peas and carrots (for some reason I just love French canned peas) and a baguette. And wine of course. I didn’t cook anything but it was great and we were young. Or maybe it was great because we were young. I also remember during Bill’s visit that summer, lying in the grass in the garden together between the rows of perfectly rectangularly pruned trees and spotting an odious character whom one of our law school roommates had dated and literally pressing my head face down into the grass and soil to avoid detection. And going for a jog in the garden one weekend afternoon while all the French sat around smoking and being French, except for my friend, Cédric, whom I convinced to come jogging with me (I don’t think he had ever jogged before, much less in the Jardin du Luxembourg).
Anyhow, after we did a loop of the garden en famille we chose a table at the very same café and had a beer before meeting up with Agnieszka and heading back to the hotel on the metro. We all got cleaned up — it took some doing to get rid of that tawny dirt — and Bill and I headed to our party while Agnieszka and the girls set off for an Italian restaurant for carbonara, bolognese and risotto. Our girls, out on the town for a 8:30 pm dinner in Paris.
I wore the exact same ensemble I wore to my fortieth birthday dinner: little black dress, black hat with white flower, “holey” tights and old Gucci rock ‘n’ roll stilettos. I wasn’t planning on walking anywhere, only when we got to reception at the apart/hotel no one was there. My guess is the dude was in the can. But anyhow we waited in vain for a few minutes then decided to walk to the cab stand at Place Victor Hugo. I tottered there with a hand on Bill and we found a cab and made it to the party, fashionably late.
Alicia looked ravishing in a raspberry satin dress. She told me about all of the guests and made me feel like a very special guest myself, which was lovely. Olivier, her husband, was quite the host, passing delicious hors d’oeuvres and fetching drinks for guests. I think I ate about 25 hors d’oeuvres and had three glasses of champagne. They were small glasses though. We had a very nice time but at about eleven I was tired so we said good-bye and left.
Instead of doing the practical thing and going back to the hotel, however, we decided to walk for ten minutes (again in the darn stilettos), go into the metro (see metro action shot right) and return to the Brasserie Trocadéro for a late dinner, because Bill hadn’t eaten as much as I had. We also ordered a half bottle of red wine. And then another half bottle. That makes, let’s see, two half bottles. We enjoyed the light display on the Eiffel Tower at midnight and then again at 1:00 am (the last one apparently, before the lights are turned off and the Eiffel Tower goes to sleep). At this point we decided to join the monument and returned to the hotel. By the time we got to bed it was almost 2:00 am. Oops. But a cancer patient needs to have fun too.
What a killer first day in Paris. Stay tuned for days two and three.
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