So, after a twelve hour delay in Abu Dhabi we finally made it to Paris.....at 4am in the morning.
I can't complain though, as Etihad Airways looked after us and gave a a hotel room for what would otherwise have been a day of pain. We hadn't been at the hotel for five minutes before we were down in the shop kitting ourselves out in cossies so that we could hit the pool:
Our first day, of our 4 day stay, in Paris was just a tad hairy. Needless to say, we were somewhat jet lagged and aimless in our plan. We route marched our troops from the apartment where we were staying, over near the Jardin des Plantes, to the Luxembourg Gardens, for a pilgrimage to the children's play ground and then, like the incompetent parents that we are, thought that lunch at Restaurant Chez Georges, over near the Place des Victoires, on the other side of the river, was a good idea. No sooner had we sat down at one of the long communal tables in this bustling and beautiful little restaurant than we realised that we had made a big mistake. We really do live in la la land and nurse idealised visions of our children participating in a civilised lunch, actually eating the meal put in front of them with gusto and contributing scintillating conversation. It is never like this and we should have known better. In reality it's more like being on the verge of having a massive heart attack....with palpitations, sweaty palms and an overwhelming feeling of dread. We are seriously outnumbered by our children and they are adept at sensing our fear.
Tempers were already frayed, as the children's complaints about the food were in full flight and the wine wasn't quite working for the adults....and then seconds after the baby escaped and tried to sit on the lap of the gentleman further down the banquette, my husband may have said, out loud.....that I was a 'crap mother'. Quelle horreur. Our eldest daughter accidentally upset her orange juice on his lap. He was livid.....and was then presented with a bill for six people's lunch of snails and fillet steak with béarnaise sauce.....which was probably punishment enough.
Luckily, the gods smiled on us and a babysitter materialised in the form of the 21 year old son of the couple who owned the apartment. Even better, can you believe that his rate was €7 an hour (less than AUD$10.....yes, really) although we may have paid him more as we wanted him to come back two nights in a row. Our children described him as spunky and indeed he had that archetypal Parisian male look going on, all shoulder length floppy dark hair, unbuttoned shirt and velvet blazer. He is studying economics at the Sorbonne and is convinced by the benefits of yoga, which he does every day, even though he plays rugby (union) and when we met him, he was reading Homer's 'The Ilyiad'......for fun. He played games and drew and coloured in with the children, did the dishes, cleaned up after their dinner and brought them a cake made by his mum. The day we left he helped haul all of our bags down 4 flights of stairs. How lucky were we.
Because we were in one of the most romantic cities in the world, my husband retracted his 'crap mother' comment and I forgave him and we went and drank champagne at The Cafe Marly in the forecourt of the Louvre during l'heure bleue:
Followed by dinner at Le Grand Colbert..... a beautiful old style brasserie (it's listed as a historic monument) which also happens to be the restaurant in the movie 'Something's Gotta Give'. We'd been there a couple of years before for lunch.....with our children....and I'd ordered the roast chicken that Diane Keaton's character in the film raves about, yet truthfully, at the time I hadn't thought that it was that amazing.....the roast chicken at Sean's Panorama at Bondi Beach in Sydney, is better. Seeing it was just around the corner and the clock was ticking we thought we'd give Le Grand Colbert another go. The poster for the movie was still in the window next to the front door, which caused us to hesitate as there is nowhere worse than a Paris restaurant overrun with tourists. No need to fear, as mercifully it wasn't and the atmosphere was buzzy and the food and wine, enhanced by the knowledge that our children back in the apartment tucked up in bed, was delicious....I had the snails (again) and the fish with hollandaise sauce.
Hedonistic adult decadence aside, we dedicated one full day of our very short visit to lugging the family all the way out to Parc Asterix.....on the other side of Charles de Gaulle Airport:
It really is very cleverly done and the inherent Frenchness makes it, I think, much better than Euro Disney......I'm tempted to actually read an Asterix book now, which my children assure me are fabulous. I'll admit, here and now, that I have a bit of a thing for scary rides.......yet 'Oziris' takes the cake. I screamed from the minute that it plunged down the first terrifying descent, giving myself a hoarse voice, which of course has helped no end with my otherwise shockingly bad French pronunciation.....nobody needs to know that it's not caused by a packet a day Gauloises habit. It also made me rethink pelvic floor exercises....up until now I've been quite proud of mine even though I've had four children, as jumping on the trampoline in the garden at home presents no problem, however being whipped around loop the loops and corkscrew turns on what is effectively a swing is another thing all together. Be warned.
I'm proud to say that while we were in Paris, I got myself out of bed before sunrise, on not one, but two mornings, to get myself over to the Bikram Yoga studio in the Marais in time to do the 7am class. When I explained that I was from Tasmania.....they were incredulous. I mentioned this to my husband and he suggested that maybe they mixed up 'Tasmania' with 'Tanzania' yet I'd made sure that I gave them the word perfect 'small island to the south of Australia' spiel in French as taught by our Adult Education French teacher....before she moved to Queensland. The Bikram Yoga dialogue sounds lovely in French, however it was somewhat off putting having a clock and pictures of Bikram himself decorating the hot room. Both of the instructors, who took the classes that I did, were also keen on barking out posture corrections, no one was immune to their scrutiny, which meant that I had to keep my wits about me so that I could put them into practice when they called out to me.....by name. This was especially difficult during the second class, as I'd also crinked my neck on Ozsiris somewhat rendering my practice almost impossible. Anyway, the only difference, Anna if you are reading this, is that they do Standing Separate Leg Stretching Pose, Triangle Pose and Standing Separate Leg Head to Knee Pose sideways, standing on their mats. Otherwise, I could have been back on the mat.....in Hobart.
Rx
