with my granddaughter, continued

If you have children and especially if this includes girls, you'll likely be familiar with the book "Madeline": In an old house in Paris, that was covered with vines...

It's a 1939 classic about a little girl who attended boarding school here. Though she was the smallest of the lot, she was not intimidated by life or wild beast. To the tiger in the zoo, Madeline just said pooh-pooh!

What zoo did little Madeline walk to with her eleven school mates? In fact (as the story would have it), Madeline went to the Menagerie in the Jardin des Plantes -- on the eastern corner of central Paris.

I want to take Snowdrop there, though I am a little taken aback by someone's description of it: it's very old world, in that the animals are in cages...

Too, the zoo is a good hour's walk from where we are. Is it worth it? When I float the idea by Snowdrop, she doesn't hesitate.

Immediately after a lovely breakfast with Gaga...






... she hurries with her bath and in the late morning, we set out.

I'll leave you with three street scenes from our walk:

The waiter, waiting for a diner... (If you've been to Paris and have not seen this classic scene, then you've not walked enough here!)






A group of school boys, on an excursion...






A street musician of the old era, by a metro station.






I think Snowdrop must have decided after many many city blocks this is one of those adult promises that doesn't really ever materialize. But at long last, I find a side entrance to the Jardin des Plantes (and am greeted by a beautiful old chestnut!)...





... and we make our way to the zoo.

I am surprised by it, in the most pleasant way. I knew it wasn't really a large animal place and indeed, we see more varieties of goats than I think I have ever seen in any one zoo...





... but nor is it really a "cage" place. It's not huge (much like the Madison zoo, actually), but it does boast nearly 200 species, a third of which are near extinction.

And it's lovely to walk through!






There aren't tigers anymore, but there are a few leopards -- behind glass (as are the polar bears in Madison) and there is an additional fence to keep kids from being a bother to the animals I suppose, but in any case, I thought Snowdrop effectuated a very pooh-pooh pose by this wild beast!






This is one of the oldest zoos in Europe and some of the structures are as interesting as the animals that inhabit them...






To me, the endangered animals are hugely fascinating, even as every description is in French and I don't test Snowdrop's patience by reading and translating the tableaux for her.

Here's a (endangered) Malayan tapir...






...who becomes her choice of souvenir to take home.






You can't forget that this zoo occupies just a corner of a larger garden (Jardin des Plantes) -- one with a very pronounced horticultural identity.

A walk among the lofty planes is lovely...






... but the flowering gardens are the real draw.





We don't spend too much time on them. It's nearly the lunch hour and the girl, who on a school day has a solid breakfast, a school snack and a lunch, all before noon, is coasting on a few pieces of fruit, a few spoonfuls of yogurt and a few bites of croissant. In other words, I have to believe she is hungry.

I am often undecided as to which option is more to the girl's liking and as usual, I toss the decision into her lap: do we walk back (it's a loooooong walk!), or do we ride the metro?

She chooses metro.

That's great. For the most part. The nearby metro line perfectly connects us to our neighborhood.

But of course, no parent or grandparent in her right mind uses the metro here with a stroller. The stairs! Oh, the stairs!

It's great if there is a French person nearby. They always offer assistance. Snowdrop is so impressed with this and often tells me -- that man (or woman) was really helpful!

Oftentimes there is no one and I am left with struggling to get the girl up (or down) one flight, while the stroller waits to be rescued later. It's a chore!

But once on the metro, the girl is mesmerized.






I sit on a pull down chair next to her and very quickly she is out of the stroller insisting on joining me in this big person seating arrangement. Then, fearing that some stranger might claim the seat next to her, she cajoles me to quickly come to her side!






(Our metro train, departing the stop where we disembark.)






Another choice for her to make: croque monsieur at a restaurant, or a sandwich from bakery and picnic in the park? She chooses the croque at a restaurant and behaves as if she were the most perfect young patron.







In the end though, her interest in the croque pales when compared with her love of the french fries (this is at Les Editeurs). She cannot stop eating them, indicating that it is the best fry EVER, which it may be, though I think her exposure to french fires is limited to perhaps a monthly trip to Culver's back home.






(Walking down the very interesting stairs after a quick trip to the restroom.)






She wants the park now. Playground is a word that I hear every two seconds. Well why not? We have a good hour or two before she's due for a nap and we are a step away from the Luxembourg Gardens.






A pause for ice-cream. It seems that on this trip she has developed a chocolate love.






But before we even get to the playground, we come across a set of swings. Like the playground, it has a charge  (this time of 1.5 Euro which is small, but I have to say, back home, I hesitate about the expense of a daily coffee at the coffee shop she and I frequently visit and I am more prone to pick up a cookie for the both of us only because oftentimes Ed offers to treat. In other words, small expenses add up).

It is especially interesting to see this charge, given that no play ground (from the handful that we've visited) offers swings here. And if Snowdrop is not an experienced climber, she most definitely can outswing even the biggest kid on the block. So it's pay or pass. Of course, there is no question that on this trip of all trips for the both of us, treating her to a swinging session is an absolute must!

(Fascinating how they ask you if you want a seat belt! The swings are opposite facing chairs that can go really high and I of course say yes. The attendant then ties a quaint rope to secure your child.)






Way up high, in the sky, Snowdrop does fly...





Oh, does she fly!

I suppose it's good that she doesn't know the language or the norms. She wants to continue. I tell her that the rules are such that we must stop now...






We're back at our apartment building. Snowdrop asks why the cage with the bird is missing. Oh, I know why. I had run into the person who had brought in the bird and had asked her the same thing. Il est mort -- she tells me. Dead.

Why do toddlers ask such difficult questions? Well, I'm going to dodge this one: off to be with his mommy and daddy and other loved ones now!

I can see she is a bit relieved. For the first time, she takes on the chore of navigating the tightly circular stairs on her own. Bird's no longer a worry.






Could you read this book now Gaga? 
Sure, sweet one. And here are your cherries. (To myself: I'm so handing this book over to my daughter to read when they return to Paris! It is soooo long! Good, but looooong!)






Evening. Oh, why even bother to improvise! She loved the carousel at the Tuileries Gardens and has been talking about riding on that airplane ever since. It's a lovely walk, it's sunny and warm -- let's go!






I buy two rides for her and as before, the attendant throws in a third. As the merry-go-round slows down, I ask her what's next after the airplane? She picks the big ostrich. I mean it is one huge ostrich.

So does another girl. They arrive at it at the same time. For once, Snowdrop is adamant: I want to ride this bird! Please!
The mother of the other child settles the draw: she tells her daughter -- she should ride it. She is younger. You can pick something else. The girl protests but without conviction, retreating slowly to another animal.

Snowdrop is dumbstruck. Perhaps this has never happened to her before. She tells me: that lady, she is so nice! The girl must live in Paris. Does she live in Paris? She was so helpful!

I want to offer an extra ride to the girl who freed Snowdrop to ride her choice, but the mother and child disappeared quickly after.

(A very happy Snowdrop...)






And once more, on another airplane.






We have some time still before dinner and as we walk the Gardens, I see that there is yet another attraction for kids: individual trampolines where you can jump your heart out, all for two Euros. Well, how many times can I offer this to my granddaughter!

I ask the attendant -- from what age?
Two.
I ask Snowdrop: do you want to try?

She hesitates.






She must have decided that maybe she can handle it.
Yes. She takes off her shoes and puts them in a cubby. She makes her way to the trampoline.

She can't handle it. She can jump on solid ground, but the trampoline is wobbly even if you stand still and do nothing more than sway this way and that.

I'll just sit on the side.

Oh, no, let's try to see if you can enjoy it. How 'bout if we both sway holding hands?
She likes that enough, but she knows damn well that she's doing a modest version of what the others are doing. (It doesn't matter that all the others are way older. She does not fully get the constraints of age.)

The attendant comes over. Like so many young French men (I do not mean to exclude other nationalities in this, it's just that I see it so often here), this guy is completely at home with kids. He speaks their language. He asks her in French, then, realizing that she doesn't understand, in broken English if she'll let him help. Within no time, he has her at least jumping!

He made her day, I'm sure of it.






As we head back, emboldened and perhaps a little proud, she scorns the stroller and flies off.
Are you an airplane? I ask.
No, a bird! Tweet tweet!






We cross the Seine on a pedestrian bridge and she continues her solo walk. And here's a surprise: I'm hot, she tells me.
Take off your sweater, I retort.
And she does.

I ask a guy on the bridge to take a photo. He takes several. I like them all. Ocean gets two!











(Fascinated by the boats below...)






Continuing on her solo trek on the Left Bank now...






(I really love the looks of flower shops here....)






We're home. We're to eat dinner at the restaurant that is literally in a wing of our apartment building -- Le Pres aux Clercs. That means we can leave the stroller in the courtyard of our "home." Snowdrop adeptly climbs out and sits waiting while I dispose of it.






And she is delightfully charming during the wait for her food (99% of the restaurants here offer no high chair, so that even at her height, she is always just a tad short for the table).





But I think she then has had her max for the day. She doesn't complain, she just turns on her full impishness.

It strikes me that when kids behave, more is dumped on them. Snowdrop may appear indulged in my Ocean postings from Paris, but she also endures quite a bit more here than back home. The long, very long walks on narrow bumpy sidewalks (oh, the French and their lack of respect for the stroller pushing parent!). The noises of the city that are about ten times those of Madison. The flights of stairs where she has to wait patiently in tough places while I go back to retrieve the stroller (again, I blame the French!). The irregular meals with foods that don't match those back home (except the croissants and cherries!). The street noises at bedtime, the heat of the sun, the public restrooms, the absence of toys at our "home." The list is long.

So you push the child even more: restaurants -- this is an adult indulgence. No kid (except a French kid who is trained constantly in school and elsewhere to revere food served to her or him at lunch and dinnertime) loves the routines of a protracted meal, restaurant or otherwise. But Snowdrop is so perfectly sweet and willing that she has sat through not just dinners but also lunches,  at places where there are few kids and good manners are expected. And she has delivered.

But tonight she wants to leave her imprint. After waiting patiently, she eyes the arrival of the food curiously and when it is once more too hot and too out of her range of normal, she rebels. No fuss, no wail, no complaint. Instead, she takes things into her own hands. She removes her shoes. Then her socks. She thinks a reclining position is cool and clinging mightily to a wine glass in which her water is served -- even cooler. To the leopard in the zoo, she may have said pooh-pooh, and now to this meal of chicken (lovingly raised in the south of France and braised in a honey something sauce) and potatoes, she also says pooh-pooh. She does try my foie gras but snubs an offer of seconds.

Snowdrop gets that rare Gaga frown (we've talked about what a frown looks like and what it stands for) and a shake of my head when she asks for bedtime cherries. We munch on nuts instead and read the cherry book and snuggle until bedtime.

with my granddaughter

It's rare that I have Snowdrop under my sole care for several days in a row. Sure, when she is at at the farmette, I'm her primary caregiver, but Ed is nearby and these days, he'll play with the little one extensively if I need to retreat for a few minutes.

But in Paris, when her parents take off for a several day side trip, Snowdrop and I are on our own. It feels very much as if I've taken my young adolescent for one of those growth journeys with an elderly chaperone, except that she's not an adolescent and I'm not really concerned with her growth: she does plenty of it on her own, or at home.

This is our first full day in Paris, after a night where, like last year, every one was up in the middle of it, fighting the body's internal clock, except this time Snowdrop was easier to soothe and the adults were hell bent on coaxing at least a solid chunk of hours of sleep.

On the upside, except for me, no one was up before nine. Indeed, I had to rattle their door (Snowdrop shares the bedroom with her parents) to get them going, as the young parents had a train to catch and I wanted Snowdrop to resume her regular patterns of sleep as quickly as possible.

Breakfast is a mishmash of yesterday's purchases: yogurts, fruits, day old croissants. Snowdrop is happy.






A book read with a freshly out of the shower mommy (yes,  the book is the farmhouse favorite du jour, which has the blessed feature of being relatively short to read, as opposed to her home favorite, Cherries and Cherry Pits by Vera Williams, which takes a whopping 25 minutes and that's without a pause to catch your breath!)...






And then we all set out -- the parents for the train station and Snowdrop and I -- for the park.

Remember the night I recently spent researching interesting and novel things to do with children in Paris? Oh, it came in very handy when a parent at the Jardin du Luxembourg playground asked me if I knew of good activities for children in the city. (Honestly, I must sport the look of a know it all, because I am frequently asked for directions and assistance and not only in Paris. You'd think my camera would have people understand that I am a mere tourist, but no. Perhaps I look like I'm in need of adult conversation...)

Basically, I doubt that Snowdrop and I will stray far from our beaten paths. (Though I want to thank the commenter who forwarded additional tips! I am always looking for ideas!) I am surrounded by good options and so I stick to activities that are not too far. (Perhaps I'm just too cautious: Snowdrop is just three months out of diapers and you can't be sure when she'll ask for a restroom).

So -- the gardens! (And yes, the weather is perfect. Absolutely perfect.)

We do try something new: we try the extensive playground in the north corner of the park. Here, you have to pay to get in with your child. Not a lot (2.5 Euros for the whole day for her and half of that for me), but still, it discourages a casual drop-in. (On the upside, there are toilets, which elsewhere in the gardens charge a fee, so the price buys you peace of mind in that regard.)

Snowdrop loves playgrounds. And trains. And play cars.














And child friendly parks. She really loves them.






But I see that many many of the activities here for the 2 - 6 year old set (the playgrounds in Paris are often divided along those age lines) are very different than those in the U.S. and she is both too bold and too intimidated by them.

For example, she plunges onto an elevated roped floor, not realizing that the ropes will not support her unless she grips hard. Down she goes.

(Just before the plunge...)






Too, in France, she is shy with the children. In the U.S., being a school kid gives her a huge boost on the playground: she knows the ropes. But here, kids move in ways that are different and speak a language that she does not understand. Back home, she'll say "it's my turn now!" when someone tries to dispossess her of a toy. Here, she'll get off and say to me -- it's his turn now. She doesn't want the confrontation.

(She waited a long time before every child was off this spinning thing that I used to see in American playgrounds until they were deemed too dangerous. By the way, I encouraged her to take off her shoes and socks so we could do some of the rope ladders together; she took off the shoes and socks alright, but was too timid to go on the little ladders and until she mastered those, I would not let her go on the huge, tall ones which, incomprehensibly, she eyed with some interest.)






On the language upside, she is utterly charming with her "merci" and "bonjour," and in the middle of the sleepless hours of the night, her father taught her "s'il vout plait," which just makes anyone grin when they hear it.

And she is sensitive here to her interactions with adults: we were sitting at a sidewalk cafe waiting for lunch and a grandmotherly type came up and told her in French -- you look like a photo! Such eyes, so serious! Snowdrop could tell that she was being praised and honestly, for the rest of the lunch hour she was on her best behavior. Coquette! -- the waiter teased.

On the other hand, as we waited in the long line of the Bon Marche Epicerie -- that big food hall where I picked up some pasta and fruits, just in case going out proves to be to bothersome at any point (I realized I had to be ready in case she falls sick and I can't easily leave to get food) -- Snowdrop tried the old self-amusement game of kicking anything in sight: signpost, wall, and ooops! -- a woman's well-groomed leg. The woman was understanding even as I was mortified. Snowdrop knew she had crossed the line and she huddled into her stroller for the rest of the walk.

And so now you know our morning! The big playground...






And lunch, at Le Nemrod on Cherche-Midi...

(A timed release selfie!)






... a place that proved to be too perfect for words, as they had a delicious croque monsieur for her and they offered to make it with the softer bread, which is easier for her to devour (reminder: a croque monsieur is a melted cheese and ham sandwich, layered with a very delicate mustardy sauce; she loves this concoction!).






(Fortified, she then rejects the stroller in favor of pushing it and walking alongside.)





And finally, we stop at the Bon Marche, the department store, so that I can pick up a little set of Legos, as neither my daughter nor I felt like bringing toys here for Snowdrop, even as I know she'll enjoy this new little set both here and later at home.

And then to the grocer, and on to our Paris home.

(It's good to be in a very familiar neighborhood...)





I say Paris home, because indeed it is that. When Snowdrop got tired, she said "I want to go home," and she meant here, back to the apartment. How quickly a kid adapts to a new environment!

(I should include a picture of our wee apartment. The main room serves as a living and dining area, though if you put up the table, you will lose your ability to navigate the space. Still, it's quite a nice area for Snowdrop to play in. The owners have small children and they knew to put in safe covers for sharp edges. Too, there is a portable high chair and of course the crib. The place has really grown on me.)






(The living room windows look out on a side street with a school,  which, as in the rest of France,  lets out late -- at 4:30. On the upside - homework is rarely assigned, and as for time off -- well, just ask how many holidays they observe here in May alone.)






Evening. I'm sitting back, taking in the sounds outside. It's nearly nine, but it's still light. On this day in Paris, the sun sets at 9:36. The good and the bad of northern Europe: beautifully long spring and summer days! The darker days of winter...

I hear music and voices. The window is wide open and I should not be surprised, but I am on a side street and so all this must be wafting from some distance. It's so perfect.

Let me go back to the start of the evening hours: Snowdrop wakes up from her nap (a long nap! I am not surprised!) and I expect it to be a slow wake up with the usual squirms and protests, but no! All I have to do is say: let's go out and look for that merry-go-round! She is like lightening at the door, seizing her shoes, putting them on.

Our walks down the stairs have to be a two stage affair. I just cannot carry her and the stroller at the same time (and the banister is unreachable for her and she is way beyond crawling on a stairwell: too embarrassing, I suppose). So she has to wait downstairs for me. And right at this moment, an older woman is sitting by the mailboxes where the weird looking bird rests in a cage. I ask her if it's her bird.
Non, il est un oiseau de la rue. (He is a bird of the street. It turns out she found him floundering out there and she is trying to bring some life into him. When I explain this to Snowdrop, she immediately asks -- where is his mommy? Kids ask the most difficult questions!)

I know there are many carousels in Paris, but the one I'm aiming for this evening is in the Tuilerie Garden, just across the river from us. Oh, what beautiful weather! Oh oh oh! What an evening!






The walking time fits into my idea of a perfect evening outing. Too, I know that she likes that merry-go-round. She was on it last year and cried to high heaven when it was time to disembark.






This is one of the many many differences in taking a two year old (as opposed to a one year old) to Paris. She understands now. If I tell her: three rides, no more! -- she may respond with a lust toward a fourth, but she wont fuss when it is not handed to her. And believe me, three is plenty for a gaga that gets sick at the SIGHT of merry-go-rounds!

So, three rides, on the animals/mechanical devices of her choice: horse, airplane, motorcycle.















She wants then to go to the fountain and I oblige...






... until I understand that she wants to jump in that pond. I remind her that she may be feeling hot because of the sweater, but she ignores me and keeps the sweater on.

But again,  she is a big girl, one who can take more and more of the heartbreaks in life (believe me, not being able to jump into that pool was a very big heartbreak!).

We stroll past the Louvre pyramid. She remembers it from photos (this is how she remembers much of Paris -- from the book I made for her just after last year's trip). Last year, we were here when it was raining hard. This year it's most certainly not raining, but time has brought forth its own sad changes: you can't access it anymore. Not since the brutal attack on visitors here just a short while back.



 

I tell her we must hurry now. I need to make it to Paul's bakery before it closes: croissants for breakfast!

And after, we go to the Little Breizh. This is why I love our neighborhood -- it has everything within spitting distance, including this fabulous creperie, where they specialize in the Breton buckwheat flour crepes. I order bacon and cheese for her (bacon in France is really like knobs of  pan fried ham) and sardine and tomato for me.

I could not be prouder of the little girl.


 



(Too, I want to offer some thanks to the family that came in just after us: they had a little boy, possibly slightly younger than Snowdrop, though it's hard to tell, and slightly incapable of sitting through a meal. She was fascinated by his misconduct and she made sure I took in how much older and ergo better at this she was.)






(To those who make too much noise: shhh! Of course, she is only two. One could well remind even her, perhaps all of us, of the need to stay calm at times of greater stress.)






She eats a good bit of her crepe -- enough that I can offer to split something that I know she loves -- a nutella dessert crepe.

The entire kitchen staff watches in delighted amusement as she gets more and more chocolat on her hands and face.






Gaga is prepared. Gaga has wipies. One swift wipe and she is fine again, drawing contentedly on a scrap of paper.






My daughter, like any parent, worries when she is away from Snowdrop. I text her -- if the remaining days here would be like this one, I'd be so totally satisfied!


On a less chipper note: I do read the news. I know of the horrors that take place all around us. People write about how one must move forward, resilient and strong, in defiance of those who aim to quash the happiness of others. I get it, though I also know that we move forward, because we don't have a choice. To stand still isn't cowardice -- it's pointless. You can't run from the hatred of the few. And so you ignore it and take the next step in life and the one after. And you search and hold on to the precious elements of each day.

Snowdrop is asleep now and still the laughter and pleasure of community streams in from the streets all around us. And that's a good thing. Really, that's such a good thing.

Paris arrival

Each arrival at a new place has its own story, its own aura, its own excitement tempered with trepidation. How will it turn out? What mark will this week leave on us?

I have many many bright little twinkly images from our travel to Paris and some small reminders that in travel, there will always be challenges.

Let's start with the bright twinkly images: Snowdrop loves airplanes and shows unbound excitement at the prospect of a family trip in one.

That's the little airplane, gaga. She's been told that there will be a small one and a bigger jet.







(One unfortunate discovery: now that she has her own seat, when she is buckled in, she cannot see out the window -- a real blow to the girl who loves to see the plane take off. But her smile remains firm.)






We connect to our Paris bound flight seamlessly in Detroit.






No delays, no mad dashes. And Snowdrop is for the most part, at her very best during the whole long journey. She now only puts up with the bothersome parts, but she does so with an enthusiastic smile, even while coasting on almost no sleep.

(Ever grateful to the flight attendant from first class who peeked in and brought Snowdrop a big dish of ice cream...)





Oh sure, there will be something that will sometimes upset her. And she is a passionate girl, so that your heart goes out to her in the rare times this happens. But mostly, she tries her darndest to show terrific spirit and cheer.

I will say that she is in one respect like me: she just cannot get comfortable enough in an airplane chair to sleep long and hard. She tries, but in the end, she captured maybe two hours of night sleep (still better I suppose to my zero) on the transatlantic flight.

Still, she is an excited little girl and she moves through the tedious end of the journey -- the lines, the connections, the waiting -- with patience and curiosity.

(Waiting for the strollers to be brought up from the plane at CDG airport.)





We are renting an apartment and I have to say, I picked it for its location, which I love. Otherwise, it's fine, though very very tiny. Two bedrooms, sure, but I swear, everything in the photo spread was done at an angle where you could not really feel its tinyness.

(Here's the entrance to this very typical Parisian courtyard...)





We're on the European first floor, so not too many steps to climb! Snowdrop is at once fascinated and terrified by the bird that is kept in a cage just by the mailboxes. It's not an especially attractive bird and he looks not too cheerful for being there, but it is an interesting way to enter our teeny tiny Parisian home.

Wait, I think I'm straying a tad from the twinkly images. Okay, so long as I'm noting the challenges, I'll say that the biggest challenge (aside from the sleepless night) has been the car ride from the airport to the apartment. Normally I take the train: cheaper and faster than a cab. But with a two year old and countless odd bags, it seems always easier to cab it. Never again.

It took forever.

The driver, wanting to avoid highway rush hour traffic, took us the back ways which I am absolutely certain was worse. Stop and go. Stop and go. Everyone was suffering, but for Snowdrop, it was just too much. She didn't complain, but she felt quite shaken by it.

Okay, back to the twinkly images: did I tell you it is really really warm here now? Summer weather!

Shorts weather! (Is this a mother or a grandma walking her girl home from school? In Paris, sometimes it's tough to tell. I'm thinking it's grandma...)






After she has her bath, the Snowdrop and I set out to pick up lunch (at two different bakeries...).

We start at Gerard Mulot for the pastries.






(The kind clerk offers her a macaron cookie which she is delighted to accept!)






And then we hop over to the nearby market for fruits (Snowdrop has a cherry and peach obsession at the moment and these fruits are burgeoning here right now!) and to  Paul's for the baguette sandwiches.











...which Snowdrop just cannot manage to stuff in her mouth, but I will give her an A for effort.






No effort required for the desserts!






While the young family naps, I go out again, this time with a list of things I will definitely need in the days ahead. For example a crib sheet. Who knew that most people bring their own? Too, yogurts for breakfast. Wine for a goodnight blog-writing glass. Paper towels. Nespresso pods. Exciting shopping, no? Well, it gives me a chance to catch a few moments in Paris where my attention isn't focused on children.

We are less than a minute away from perhaps the oldest church in Paris -- the medieval St Germain des Pres.





It's possible to find quiet streets here -- twisting around paths formed very many years ago. I follow these now and I think how different Paris feels each time I am here! It's beauty is always viewed by me from the circumstances of my visit. This time, I am looking at it as a place to be reconsidered with Snowdrop in tow.

Evening. It's a no brainer: after a long nap, Snowdrop asks repeatedly to go to the park. This is where she left her heart. When you tell her "you'll be going to Paris" I'm sure her image is of the pond at the Luxembourg Gardens.

We head out.

And whatever memories she has of this place -- the pond, the sand playground -- are confirmed.











Want some sand, gaga?






Dinner is pizza at the Cesar St Germain.


 



It's quite good and the little one finally settles into enthusiastic eating, after the pies cool down a bit.






A post-dinner stroll. To the river.






We're getting close to the longest days... Even at 8, the sun has a long way yet to go...





Time to head back again. Time to settle in for the night.

Sleep well, Snowdrop. Rest. Look forward to the days ahead. Remember with a smile those behind us.

departure

How did things get so chaotic today? I have only one small carryon (plus a little bag for Snowdrop). The farmhouse is together, the garden requires no work. But I am rushing.

In part it's because we have a ridiculously short layover in Detroit. (The airline changed departure times on us and we got squeezed into 58 minutes between flights.) Any delay and we're in trouble.
Perhaps this makes everyone just a tad nervous.

Snowdrop doesn't know or care about layover minutes, but by now I hear she is impatient to get going, even as her parents have their list of essentials to work through.

So you get one photo today: of the calm guy, whose thoughts right now are on cutting down some dead timber and plowing the field out back.





As he watches me dash, somewhat amused, with a shake of the head, I tell him that no matter where you head out -- across the ocean or to the lakes up north -- you're going to have to plan, coordinate, hustle, think clearly -- especially if there is a young one in your midst.

Of course, that delivers the famous words --why leave?

I smile at that. You know why. I've told you many times.

Next post -- one hopes from Paris.