As I write this we are traveling at 311km/hour (193mph) through the French countryside on the second story of a TGV train. We left Paris Montparnasse just before 10am and around 2:30pm should arrive at the Spanish border, where we will transfer to a local train to San Sebastián.
Friday we booked a family tour of the Louvre, and in the evening Ryan and
Seb went on a walking history tour around sites relevant to the French Revolution and Napolean. I cooked pasta for the younger kids and tried to get them to sleep.
Yesterday we celebrated Mac’s 5th birthday and visited Versailles—the chateau and gardens. Sebastian said it best, “Anyone else think this place is a just a tad over the top?” And was it ever. Opulence on such a scale. Gilded everything and enough ornamentation to make my aspiring
minimilist heart skittish. The grounds were jaw-dropping—they went on and on with a highly manicured symmetry. During summer months, the many fountains put on a water show to baroque music. Mac was both impressed and convinced that he was the one controlling the water with his powers. I’m treasuring his imagination, these years of believing in the kind of magic the older kids have already relinquished. Saoirse convinced us to take a boat ride on the grand canal, and as seems to hold true for our family whenever we make it onto a boat, the rain began to fall in waves, and then alternated with bursts of sun, which is pretty much how the rest of the afternoon went.
As a side note, I had some trouble with the tickets I had purchased online before our trip. Though there were thousands of visitors waiting to get in, several women on staff patiently paused what they were doing and helped us work it out, even printing the tickets off for us with what were apparently the last four sheets of paper at Versailles. They didn’t have to pause and help and be kind, but they did pause and they were kind, and I was grateful. (Especially since I was already enduring my 13 year old’s incredulous eye rolls at my technological ineptitude).
After walking through town and taking the train back to Paris and the metro to our neighborhood, we walked around the pedestrian area near our airbnb in the the 2nd arrondissment. As it was a Saturday, the streets and cafes were bustling, full of friends and families meeting up, running errands. Ryan noticed how much people smiled and laughed. I noticed how tables full of people crowd in towards each other. Though it felt a bit heretical, we found an Italian restaurant for Mac’s requested pasta birthday dinner. We also found the oldest pastry shop in Paris, going since 1730, and bought a tarte framboise, a couple of eclairs, and a gros macaron rose. We sang (“in French!”), shared sweets, and called it a day. Ryan and I couldn’t be happier with the way the kids are navigating it all—trains and subways and languages and walking and jet-lag and more walking.
Paris was gorgeous, loud, and more diverse than I remember since I was last there 19 years ago. There seemed to be less dog poop on the sidewalks and less public urination. Amidst the graceful old buildings and packed cafes, there were also homeless people sleeping in the middle of sidewalks, plain view drug deals outside of metro stations, packed tent camps of what an Uber driver called “les clandestines,” people who had fled north fleeing who knows what circumstances. There was the women’s World Cup, the French Open, and giant groups of tourists from China navigating all the main tourist attractions and, according to locals we spoke with, shopping their hearts out. Kids playing soccer in tight quarters, cruising around on scooters and bikes. No shortage of contradictions, like anywhere.
Now I’m going to take my favorite kind of nap, lulled by the soft side to side of a train, my people close by, on our way to what’s next.
