Friday in Paris

Ah, we're back to fresh croissants for breakfast! As good as the day-olds were, it's the whole process of going to a bakery in the morning that is so deeply satisfying: it's the aromas, the displays of new baked goods...





... and even the lines of customers waiting for their necessity/indulgence -- it's all rather special.

I choose Les Gourmandises Eiffel for today's pains au chocolate and croissants. Funny -- we have a dozen recommended bakeries in the area and I go back to the two I tried the first day here. Shouldn't I try all the others? Shouldn't I?

I backtrack and go to Sainte Duchesne Boulangerie (a third option! nine more to try!) for a little viennoiserie for Snowdrop: a mini pain aux raisins.






And, returning to another favorite, I stop at Harry Cover for fruits. Why go there when the city is filled with beautiful fruit displays? Well, you have to love a vendor who seems to care about every berry he sells...






... and who carefully hand picks cherries for your pack...






... and who then unloads your sack, so that the proper order is preserved: apricots on the bottom, then cherries, then croissants, then the delicate raspberries.


Breakfast is a feast.






And Snowdrop loves fraises des bois! (As well as cherries. And blueberries. And strawberries. And raspberries. And as of today -- apricots, which were so magnificent in and around Sorede that for a minute I recoil.)






And so today we are a family of four.

Snowdrop feels now perfectly at home here.




(Here she is, running as if with a football.)






Then I say the magic words -- want to go out for a walk?
Really? Really??






But where to? Oh where to?

That's easy. To the place where I will return when we will be a family of six. To the place where I go all the time to get strength to inhale beauty to find peace, even when I am one. To the Luxembourg Gardens!

But we take a long while to get there. (Too, it is a long hike. ) I dont have as many photos today, but I have the important ones. Yes, there are fewer street scenes, like this...






But there's lots of love, like here:






It is definitely lunchtime now and I ask where we should eat: at the grungy Cafe Madame that's cheap and good and very local and very welcoming? At the prim but well regarded Bread and Roses Cafe Bakery?  At the bookish Les Editeurs? At some random place that catches our eye?

We wind up at the Cafe Madame and it's a good choice.






The waiter is funny (at least he makes a concerted effort in this direction and I like effort) and kind toward Snowdrop (this part comes easy to him). The food is fine. It's a place where I would never want to see the kitchen -- something tells me it's cramped and loosey goosey with what goes where, but the fact is, the croque monsieur I order (because Snowdrop loves it so much!) is as good as the one at the more swank cafe, where I ate yesterday.






We're right by the gardens, but we're not ready to let ourselves loose there yet. We're also close to one of my favorite children's clothing stores. Madame knows of Snowdrop from previous visits. (I'm not such a big customer. It's a matter of habit here: a seller works to establishes a personal relationship with the buyer.)

Too, Snowdrop is oozing charm. Madame and her friend are full of sweet caresses and words of endearment. Ma poupee! (my little doll), madame repeats again and again. Snowdrop responds with her best manners, waving and smiling and generally being not the child I know who is way delayed with her nap time.






(Dresses to choose from...)






And still we are not at the park. One more errand! Pastry shop!

(Snowdrop wonders - why are they staring at all these cakes? Can't we just get them all?)






Finally, the park.

Freedom.











Pastries.






And perhaps the best part for the little girl -- a completely unconstrained romp through the toddler playground (which as you may remember consists only of sand pits).






(Is a pigeon like a small chicken? Will it listen when I talk to it?)






(A Snowdrop downdog.)






(Watching another child: a twelve month old, form Paris. We compare notes.)






(Grandma, a flower! Just like at the farmette!)






It's as if a nap is very yesterday. Today, there is Paris.

We walk back deeply satisfied. Snowdrop stays awake during the long hike and she protests a nap when we get home. There is a lot going on in her little world right now. I expect when she does finally get back home, she'll crash. For now, she is on the go.

And in fact, her mom and I take her out on one more quick walk -- to the grocery store! We need milk. We need diapers. We need Badoit fizzy water. We need snacks for the other young couple that arrives tomorrow.

Finally, the day draws to a close. The skies open up and we have a beautiful weather forecast (albeit only for tomorrow). I dash out to grab a supper for myself, trying out today yet another of the numerous little places in the neighborhood (Bistro St. Dominique). Snowdrop's mom and dad will be going out to visit night spots I never knew existed. Me, I order a home made terrine and a plain omelette and I ask (the unpardonable question in France) if I can be out within forty minutes.
Of course!  -- the genial waiter answers. We aren't called a bistro for nothing!







Evening comes. Snowdrop is in bed now, her parents are out on the town. It's very quiet here on the 6th floor  apartment by the Eiffel Tower. A special kind of quiet.

Thursday in Paris

I think most working parents in the U.S. regard rearing children while maintaining a job stressful. We know of course that our corporate culture isn't family friendly and it is no surprise that fewer vacation days and less time off to parent (to say nothing of fears about saving for braces, for camp, for college, for anything at all) only aggravate these stresses. This is a much discussed subject and I offer no new insights there. But I do have to say that purely from a "navigate through the day" perspective, parents in France have an easier time of it, simply because the geography of cities, towns and villages -- the urban landscape, if you will, offers so much more for families with children.

And I say this despite the unfriendly (toward young families) infrastructure here, so don't accuse me of heaping praises on the French government, which, in my opinion, has done more to facilitate bike riding in the Paris than to allow for an easy maneuver of a stroller up and down metro steps. They say that disability laws mandate elevators. Ha! I defy you to find one in some of the stations! (Though again, there are numerous hands to help anyone trying to go up or down with a babe.)

The reason I think it's so much easier to parent/nanny/grandparent here is because of the parks.

The closed off safe areas for very young children are a dream. Numerous benches line the perimeters, strollers are set to the side, parents talk, children play. It's that simple.

Walking up and down city blocks with a stroller makes me feel like I am one of many, because there are hundreds around me -- grandparents, parents, nannies -- who are doing just the same. As we pop in and out of stores, the greetings are warm, the emphasis on social interaction is strong and your child is taught early on that this is the norm. A smile requires a smile back.

Though I must note that "family friendly" means something else here. Americans wont, for example, find French restaurants "family friendly." Much is expected of both you and that little one. You may receive a friendly welcome, but there will be no special menus, no high chairs for wee ones. If you bring your child inside she or he must join the adult world of food and manners. That can be very tough, though again, a child has a lifetime of learning to do and she or he are coached throughout their young years to act in a way that is "sage." It's one of the lessons found in school and even in preschools, so you have help in guiding your child through these life skills. Again, you're not alone. And when you need the extra respite (you already have preschool -- close to 99% of French three year olds attend free preschool), you have the parks.

All this to say that the three days I've had with Snowdrop here have been wonderful.

So, easy as pie, or rather easy as a strawberry tart, you ask? Well sure, but Snowdrop is young and there are times when she just needs a good cry. This happened twice today and I'll tell you about both when my recounting of the day calls for it.


We are back on track with night versus day and she is once more the great sleeper of yore. So much so, that I cannot wait with breakfast: I have mine before she wakes up. (Ten o'clock? Really, Snowdrop?)

The meal is a repeat of yesterday's: a croissant picked up (yesterday) at Julien and then the usual accoutrements.






She has the same, again taking in the view of not only the Tower, but of the tops of trees as they sway with the winds. A top story apartment (American 7th floor) has its virtues!





(Did you catch the raindrops on the windowpanes?)

I give her a bath. This is delightfully easy here because she loves the spout that comes out of the weird fish's mouth. When it's time to put an end to bathing, she protests to high heaven.






I dress her and I take this photo, only because there are so many mirrors in the apartment!






It's supposed to rain on and off today and right now it's off, so I quickly get her ready and we head out. This time I take both her jacket and rain coat. And it turns out we will need both. Very soon.

I have the idea that we should check out what most would regard as Paris's premier park -- the Tuilerie Gardens stretching from the Champs Elysees to the Louvre. It's not my favorite park, but I'm thinking -- maybe I should consider it with Snowdrop eyes? 


We're off. She is always happy to be off. Perhaps that is why it is so easy to be with her here: she and I have the same agenda: to be out.

(Here she is on the bottom half of the Champs Elysees. You think she is singing "Aux Champs Elysees? Maybe!)
 





We come to the Tuilerie Gardens.They're relatively quiet and I have to wonder -- where is everyone? I mean, the weather is not that bad.

I let her out of her stroller. She is happy about that, but she is uncertain of the possibilities.

There are a lot of puddles.  She forges ahead.






And then she remembers that one of her favorite activities of late is to push the stroller. (I have to turn it around because she can only push it from the low end.)

This way, grandma!


]



Good call.

We find the carousel.






Oh, there is no hesitation today. I pick for her an outside horse that goes up and down.






And she so doesn't want to get off at the end that I purchase another run. The ticket agent is kind -- he tells me - go a third time. For free.  I switch her from a horse to a plane ride. I am reaching my limit of the round and round. But she is happy as can be, giving me her most special wave to show her delight.






When we disembark, I promise her a romp at a "playground." But the one nearby is slated really for older kids (in fact it states that it's targeting the 3 - 12 year old set). She thinks for a while. What can I do here?






She picks out the hammock and she really gets into it. Boys play ball in the background, she sways back and forth, all is well... until...





... a young little guy (her age?) comes by with his dad. he wants the hammock. We are, of course, all about sharing. The little guy climbs in. I smile. Snowdrop waits for the next move. He's really uncertain about the swaying bit. He wants his dad to climb in too. Well now, this is a challenge. His dad obliges nonetheless. The boy repositions himself to make room and basically sits on top of Snowdrop whose feet get twisted and stuck in the rope holes. She wails in utter dismay.

I take her out, the dad, who has on his hands a very tentative child, retreats. Snowdrop settles back into the hammock.

We leave soon after and she is happy to get back in the stroller. Good thing, because now the rains come down. Oh, do they come down!

I raise my free "save the bats" umbrella (Ed's contribution to my trip), wrap her legs in the tres chique Target raincoat and pull down the stroller awning, but I know both of us will get wet anyway. 

We come to the glass pyramid that adorns the entrance to the Louvre. Like the Eiffel Tower, this structure has figured prominently in her reading material on Paris (back home) and I am excited to have her see it in real life.

As I try hard to take some form of photo, what with the rain, the unphotogenic stroller-bound Snowdrop, a very lovely American comes over and asks if she can take our picture with my camera. I demure, but finally acquiesce. And I am so grateful to this stranger in our midst. She gave me a lovely memento.






She tells me -- I took a handful. Maybe in one of them her finger will be out of her mouth.
Well, it isn't, but so what!






As we cross the river...





... making our way to exactly that portion of the left bank that I at other times regard as home, I realize that the little girl must be hungry. I'm determined to stop at one of the many cafes here that would serve a hearty croque monsieur (basically a ham and cheese grilled sandwich).

We come across one rather instantly. La Palette. With a nice outdoor space that is heated by warming lamps.

Snowdrop wants to get out of the stroller and I let her sit her on the chair next to mine. She is curious about everything on the table and I struggle to keep the knife, then glass and Badoit water bottle, then pepper shaker out of her curious hands, at the same time that I try to take a picture of this most lovely sight: granddaughter finally having lunch at cafe with grandma. We've worked on this back home and here we are, putting those lessons to the test.

Unfortunately, I am clumsy. In getting up to give her a toy that is not a dangerous object off the table, I bump said table and the glass rolls to the ground, shattering into a million pieces. Snowdrop still reaches for the utensils, the pepper. When i remove these, she cries tears of bitter disappointment.

I take her out, scolding myself for being so unprepared for this.

She settles instantly and monsieur the waiter brings the meal and I tell him that honestly, it was me, not the little one who broke the glass. He doesn't care, of course, but I want to clear this child's reputation,  because really, she is such a spirited, good child!

Here she is, tasting my sandwich.







She loves it so much that I hardly get a bite in.

Here she is, looking up with those questioning eyes -- did I do alright?






You did more than alright, sweet child. A million times more than alright.

Oh, and this is why sometimes you just have to let others take a picture of you and your granddaughter: if you rely on the mirrors you pass by, your little short one will barely be visible.






We come to the Buci market and I see they have quite the big supply of fraises de bois (the "wild strawberries that I've loved since childhood).






I buy them for later. Right now, I let Snowdrop polish off a tub of raspberries. Doesn't it seem that she is she giving them that expert evaluation? A ranking? She eats every last one. Are they better/worse/the same as the ones she ate yesterday?





Towards the evening, Snowdrop's parents return from their short trip to the south. We recount our days: they were charmed by Nice, but I had the easier hand to work with: I had had my days with Snowdrop here in Paris! (In fairness, I love Nice too and I imagine someday Snowdrop will be thrilled to dip her toes into the azure waters of the sea -- there, or, for that matter, on either coast of her homeland. In my view, children notice more the immediate tasks at hand, rather than the unusual settings within which they are placed.)

We go out together, but then I give them time with their little girl.





And I go off to find a quick supper.

It's a challenge to eat well in France outside the official eating hours. (Lunch: 12 - 2:30. Dinner: 7:00 onwards, though only the visitor will show up at 7.) But it's not impossible. Tonight, I check out a small neighborhood place run by ma & pa -- it's called Sancerre, because it features the wines and foods of that region of France. (If you have to pick the quintessential French white white, some would say you would pick Sancerre. I myself would pick a white Burgundy, but I can see the draw.) And when I say foods, I don't mean great cuisine. I mean sausages and hams and omelettes, served with a glass of Sancerre.

The place opens extra early -- at 6:30 -- and I am there then, ordering an omelette. Except for Madame Ma and Monsieur Pa, who use this quiet time to also eat their own dinner. 





And they talk about the Egyptair disappearance and I listen, more to feel the nuance of their language then to get the latest update on what happened over the Mediterranean. (The tragic air crash is something that happens rarely, but it does capture a large amount of our attention. Easy to see why. I fly a lot and I like the idea of perfect safety. But of course so much of daily life is unsafe. Flying, thankfully, remains one of the safest of our ventures.)

Since the restaurant remains empty in the first half hour I am there, I decide to find out more about what it's like to run this very humble place in the fairly posh 7th arrondissement of Paris.

We've been doing it for 38 years, says monsieur.
I'm impressed.
He does a mental calculation. Fifty some of cooking in Paris.
So you're the chef? I smile.
Yes, he is the chef in the kitchen, his wife answers for him.

But I order a tart and it will never win the best strawberry tart competition in Paris, but it is damn good in a very homey sort of way. Who baked it, I ask, even though I can readily guess it was madame.






I sit there for a while, long after I've finished the meal. The TV is on. Madame and monsieur ma & pa are  keeping an eye on some game show now. I sip a glass of Sancerre and take out my computer. A single woman (my age?) comes in and orders a plate of sausages, A man comes with his dog and orders just a glass of Sancerre. I feel like I am many many miles away from Paris.





I'm home by 8. I want the young couple to get to know Paris by night on their own. I'll happily snuggle into my space and keep an ear on Snowdrop. Go, go, play! I never did that in Paris. I don't know why. To me, Paris is homey. I go out early, I stay out not at all. Just like at home.

Wednesday in Paris

During the night Snowdrop began to accept that the world does not run on Madison time. She woke up every hour, like last night, but each time, she put herself right back to sleep and by 3 a.m. she was done with the restlessness. And she slept good and late.

Me, well, I was geared for a struggle and it wasn't until I was sure that in fact no demands would be placed on me (at 3) that I sank into sleep.

I wasn't sure how long she'd sleep so I was up showering and getting breakfast ready way before she actually called out from her room.

I have to laugh at the "getting breakfast ready" part. It may shock some to learn that I used a leftover croissant for our meal. Here's my breakfast:






Her's somewhat later, closely resembles mine.






With hundreds of bakeries putting out fresh croissants throughout the city, it's really strange to be eating day old bread products, but I've learned from Ed that a microwave will at least take away the dryness of something baked yesterday and honestly, by the time Snowdrop is up, it's getting rather late. They say there will be rain in the afternoon. It's best to move briskly through our morning routines and get going now.

(Here she is after breakfast, loving the peek through the hole in the balcony window (it's there for the air conditioning unit which is hooked up come summertime).






So can we go out, grandma?
As soon as your hair dries a bit more.






It's cooler today, but I leave her jacket at home, preferring to take her raincoat in case we do get caught in a Paris shower.

We're off!

Where to? Well, would you believe it, I want to take her to the Marmottan Museum. There is an exhibit there that I think she may like -- children in art. Snowdrop has a couple of young child art books that she loves, with paintings mainly by Impressionists. Of course, she doesn't know they're pictures of paintings, but I thought she would enjoy seeing a large canvas of similar scenes in a museum. Besides, I really wanted to see it myself and the Marmottan is just a little more than a half hour's walk from where we're staying.

The wind is gusting, but Snowdrop is used to Wisconsin winds and she is unruffled by any of it. We pass by the Eiffel Tower which she now always points to whenever even a fragment shows up above a row of buildings. In full view now at our footsteps, it looks, of course, quite majestic.

We cross the river. There are two merry go rounds in this area and one is right by the Tower and one is across the river from it. That second one often stands empty and it is empty now (it's nearly noon). Snowdrop had ridden on a merry-go-round with her mom once before and I have reports that she liked it quite a lot. She's eager to pick a horse here too, but I guide her to the stationary ones toward the middle. There are no "seat belts" here and the horses themselves are rather big for a toddler. She looks determined, if a bit intimidated, doesn't she?






I ride alongside her, of course, and we have a wonderful set of minutes watching the streets of Paris spin in all directions as we go round and round.






We continue our walk. There are many many children in and out of strollers in this area, probably because it is a commercial hub of little shops and stores, but, too, because it's Wednesday which traditionally is a school free day for kids here. Here's one grandma (that's my guess) tending to her granddaughter.






You know, I felt I had payed attention to my wardrobe for this trip. I actually bought a pair of fashionable pants for it and two sweaters! It's not because I'm in Paris, it's that I'm (mostly) with my daughters who are careful dressers. I don't want to be the complete frump next to them. But even though I am more attentive than usual, I always feel like I am not even on the same platform as most of the women here.


At the museum, there is no line and the friendly attendant whisks the stroller away until I am done with our little tour.






I have to admit that the special exhibit is not, in the end the highlight of our visit. The rooms with the special collection are dark and there are many small groups of visitors (all French), hovering next to their art expert to catch every word. Snowdrop does look at some of the paintings, but I feel that the strangeness of the setting distracts her all too often.

But of course, then there is the mostly empty permanent collection. I've always loved the Monets here and I remember very well when I first brought my daughters to see them (they were admittedly a handful of years older). And I'll not forget Snowdrop's wide eyes as we looked  at the water lilies, especially those fanned by the willow branches from above -- just like the willow at the farmette, I remind her.






There is another young girl with her mom in the room and this emboldens Snowdrop somewhat. She is up and moving!






We don't stay long though. But I do buy postcards of the two paintings that seemed to have made the greatest impression on her (a Renoir from the special exhibit and a Monet of course). One set for her, one set for me.


The one other nice things about the Marmottan is that it's close to a park with a good area for young children. Again there are the sand pits and, too, there are a few pieces of equipment that really appeal to her. (No swings. That's a big difference between their playgrounds and ours -- I've seen no swings here.)






Oh that freedom to roam!






The joy of being a child outdoors, on soft sand.






Again there is some protest when we leave, but I see that she is getting tired and so we make our way back, passing  a shop that I've visited once before. A kind of a stern place that normally I would avoid, but I was caught up with this yellow seersucker dress....






On the street again, we continue to see lots of young people out and about. This Parisian teen could have been from the U.S., what with the smartphone and the logo t-shirt, but of course, the scooter and the good shoes (which you can just barely see here) give her away.






And now we're crossing the river again -- back to the left bank, back to the Tower...






And I think this is a good time to pause for lunch. But Snowdrop has fallen asleep! I track down a tea room/restaurant that's just a few blocks from our apartment (Les Deux Abeilles) and the girl is totally out! They're very cool about seeing me with the stroller, especially since the place is packed and it's not easy to fit us in.

Snowdrop sleeps through the mushroom omelette, sleeps through the chatter, sleeps through it all.

(Do you notice that the room is full of women and only women? I comment on that to the proprietor who seemed a bit apologetic. He says it's because it's a tea room and they're known for their salads, quiches and such. Men like meat, you know... He says. Ah.)






The little girl wakes up as we leave. I do hide a few pieces of omelette for her in a napkin even though I know she must be hungry by now.
Just one stop, Snowdrop!

I make my way to the Julien bakery again. It's known for its pastries (in addition to its breads)...






... and for its fruit tarts. I pick the raspberry one for us to share at home.






And I buy a baguette and she is thrilled with it!






(And at home, after a fitting meal of French toddler mush, she digs into her beloved creme patisserie, then finishes it off with the berries. I break away a good part of the cookie for myself.)






In the late afternoon it rains. Snowdrop had napped rather late, yet I worry that she will be housebound and antsy if we stay indoors for the rest of the day. I put on her tres chique Target raincoat and out we go.






Oh, she loves the great outdoors! The walk, the rain, my struggles with the umbrella, the idle stroller -- getting soaked through and through while she trots off on her own...






Well, sort of on her own. Much of the green space around the Tower is now shut off and barricaded to the public. It's sad to see this and though Snowdrop is as happy as a rain-coated clam to be allowed anywhere at all on her own, I still feel that she has a better shot at urban freedom in other parts of the city. But it is indeed a precious sight to see her running back and forth before the ever grand Eiffel Tower.






I had booked a baby sitter for the evening. Let's call her Violet, because she is actually English and I associate violets with that country.

From the get-go, I like Violet. She is confident but sweetly gentle and not at all heavy handed. She is just in her last year of high school, but she seems quite capable and smart. I am testing her tonight so see if she will love Snowdrop and if Snowdrop will love her right back (though on the latter front I have fewer worries as Snowdrop loves and smiles without much attention to who's who in this world).

In talking to Violet before heading out, I do ask her if she expects to stay in France, being British and all. She answers in the affirmative, though she admits to feeling, even after nine years of living here, a bit on the edge of things. French kids are different -- she tells me.
How so? -- I prod her, though I can guess what she'll say.
More confident. You can spot them anytime in a crowd. They just have that air.

It's probably true, though of course, this brings around the question of what it means to be French. I'll describe to you a scene I came across on my way to dinner tonight. French police had just caught and arrested a man who held grocery bags with obviously stolen goods. I had seen his buddies: they ran past me, knowing that their friend had been caught. They, too, had bags of groceries, but they got away, turning a corner and scooting quickly in another direction. The police were obviously anxious to catch up with the whole lot of them. They hadn't seen the escapees. So, if you were me, would you go up to the police and say -- they went that way? Would you?

I thought I should, and I thought I would, but actually I did not do any of it. I walked on. And I wondered why I walked on. And I found a plausible explanation - no one had been hurt. And I feel less compelled to ring the bell when the theft is of food. 

Perhaps you'd agree? So would it change your mind to know that one of the bags contained bottles of champagne? (You cannot fail to recognize a champagne cork.) Oh, the impossibility of having good answers to even a fractions of Europe's questions concerning growth and prosperity or lack thereof!


Let's go back to this evening and my plans for it. I didn't yearn for time alone. I would have been happy to put Snowdrop to bed myself. But I left the two of them and I went to dinner by myself in one of the typical local places I frequent in Paris (Chez les Agnes) and as is often the case, I walk away thinking --it's fine, really just wonderful... (Here's the delicious appetizer of wild asparagus -- something I questioned them on: is it really wild? I'm curious because we have plenty of self sowing asparagus at the farmette, but it does not look like this. It is indeed wild -- they tell me. I'll have to read some more to understand where and how this oddly tipped plant grows.)





... but the restaurant is also a little stiff. I probably would continue the search for a better vibe in the future. (There are so many ways to eat well here, that I can be picky and stay clear of places that lack the warmth that I seek from an evening out.)


As I sit at home now, finishing my Ocean post, a terrific lightening bolt strikes the Eiffel Tower. So dramatic! Snowdrop never even stirs. Have you finally converted to the European time zone, little one?