with my granddaughter, continued

I cannot remember having such weather in Paris, especially in spring: it's sunny, breezy, gorgeous! True, the weekend will be too warm, but oh my, what a set of days this has been! Glorious to the max!

Snowdrop and I are in a good routine: like ones adapting to a southern European climate, we are active before one in the afternoon and after five in the evening. In between, we eat and rest.

She is up late, which is a good thing because so am I. Pushing the clock to write after a late dinner (and after she has gone to sleep) is a bad habit during my travels, especially if I have a full day before me. But Snowdrop and I don't really have a set agenda, so I do not feel obligated to be up early. Indeed, I'd purchased in advance combo tickets to art exhibitions and I let one of them (the one on Rodin) slide, realizing that the rigorous enforcement of visiting hours meant that there would be crowds. The day is best if it retains great elasticity. No agenda!

Breakfast is the same: day old croissants, fruits and yogurt. Yes, in addition to wolfing down her own, she steals all my cherries.






After, she wants to go to the merry-go-round. So if you were to pick her Paris favorite from this trip, I would have to say it's that darn little airplane on the Tuilerie Gardens carousel.

I acknowledge her desire to just spin on that little plane, but I say the best time for it is in the evening. As always, she accepts my call on this and we settle in for a few minutes of drawing. But I lure her away from this quickly enough: Snowdrop, want to go to the museum to look at paintings of gardens?

She is up and with the speed of lightening, puts on shoes and waits by the door. I would guess it's the idea of an outing. She has been to kid friendly museums in Madison and D.C., and I did take her last year to look at the collection of Monets at the Paris Marmottan, but I don't think she's remembering any of those. She is merely excited for an adventure.

...Even though this adventure, too, requires a bit of a walk. But it's a pleasant walk -- past the famous cafes of this neighborhood...






... then along the quieter section of the Boulevard St Germain, where fru fru children's stores and furniture displays dominate, and tourist traffic is light.

(There are, these days, a lot of macaron cookie stores in the city. In fact, the most famous -- Laduree -- is just across the street from our apartment. Snowdrop appreciates all the displays. As do I.)






(The skies are so blue! In this weather, the architectural merits of Paris really stand out!)






We cross the river again. The Alexandre III bridge offers one of the better views of the Eiffel Tower and I pause for a while, remembering how important this edifice was to Snowdrop on our previous visit. It still is, in that she always points to it when it pops into view, but it's not within our orbit this week and I am content to include just the occasional more distant nod to the great tower.






I should mention that today is a holiday in France (the third major holiday this month!) and as it falls on a Thursday, you can expect many people to stay away from work for a long weekend. This is a good thing for us: the traffic is significantly lighter. Here's a shot from the Right Bank toward the bridge and the more distant dome of the church that houses Napoleon's tomb. A pretty empty looking space for late morning!





The exposition that I'm keen on seeing with her (and would be keen on seeing even without her) is called "Jardins" and it's at the Grand Palais. Art depicting gardens. Diverse in time, place and endeavor, it includes Watteau, Monet, Bonnard, Picasso and Matisse, among so many others.

Here's a snippet from the brochure describing its focus:

... a journey where the "real" garden is understood as both a botanical collection and an artistic construction. This "gardening" exhibition promotes the garden as an art form and its creators as artists.

I'm really in love with paintings and photographs that depict artfully created gardens.  You couldn't have put together any display more up my alley.

And it isn't too crowded! That's great for the little girl and for me!

But Snowdrop is growing and she is becoming more independent minded. Last year, I could drag her to pretty much anything and she would stare at displays somewhat dazed, somewhat in awe, not knowing how to react to any of it.

This year, she is interested. We sit down in front of arguably the most well known painting here (Le Dejeuner, by Claude Monet) and we talk about it.






And then she is done with it. I'm not, but she is.






Do I miss having a more contemplative visit here? Do I envy this woman who gets to study each piece as long as she wishes?






I do not. It's like with food: I'm not looking for the best for myself. I'm looking for the best for the both of us together. That includes a nod to her favorites (something tells me if you'll scroll down today's post you'll see photos from the merry-go-round) and to mine.

We study a handful of other pieces (including photos, a water fountain, and a painting of a gardener with very dirty feet ,which I tell her look like ahah's after a day in the farmette yard) and then she really is done.

She is such a good little kid that you sometimes forget that she is just on the young side of two.






Crossing the bridge to the Left Bank again, I'm inspired to have someone take a photo of us again. I don't quite know why bridges do this to me. This gentleman was focused on squeezing the Tower into the shot of us and in its full size it looks quite funny, but cropped, it's actually sweet and it does represent a very frequent pose we have here: me, carrying her. (Just a few minutes before: up and down the stairs of the museum, dragging the stroller behind me... ah, the challenges of this city!)






And now I give her a choice again: picnic or restaurant, and again she picks the latter. And I don't push the picnic. True, it offers an unconstrained eating experience, but I'm thinking she is low on substantial meals and sandwiches just offer an opportunity for her to pick on the bread and ignore the rest.

We are about to pass my favorite luncheon place, Cafe Varenne, and I think it's a good choice, because I know it has food she likes, but it happens to be one of the places that chose to take a holiday today.

Again, I offer her a picnic in the park.
No, a restaurant, please!

I have an idea. Let's switch to a known set of favorites: pasta or pizza. In other words, let's go to Italy!

There is a place not too far from us that has an especially fantastic pizza -- Pizza da Pietro. Not only is it open, but there is a spot at the outside table (awfully close to the table with two serious men, but hey, this is Italy now -- the rules of behavior can be a little bent!). The waiter deftly parks our stroller by the curb, picks her up and pushes her in. She is happy that pizza is an option, that crayons and paper magically appear from Gaga's bag, and that there is an occasional child who passes by with parents wishing there would be a place for them at da Pietro's (sorry -- we seem to have taken the last one).

(Watching other small ones go by.)






The theory is that if they have a meal that they don't like (yesterday evening comes to mind), kids'll make up for it the next day. Snowdrop certainly makes up for  everything by being her most charming, most voraciously enthusiastic, not only with her mushroom pizza, but, too with the hard boiled eggs (well, the whites, but close enough) and the occasional green bean from my salad.






Two years old, going on twelve.






A block away is my favorite neighborhood bakery (Gerard Mulot) and I ask her if she wants cakes from it. Yes!

I pick up a couple of pastries that I think may last us for a few days and, too, I admire this tray of macarons -- strawberry and champagne! What a wonderful summer combination! How cool to have the colors vary with each cookie! I pick up two of those for a late evening munch.






And then we return home... (One more block from here!0






... where she devours a pastry with strawberries and cream.






Evening. Snowdrop's naps are so late that it truly is evening when she wakes up. She lives the life of someone whom I hardly recognize: late to get up, long naps, joyful wake ups, late dinners, even later bedtimes. And always there is that grin that lets me know she is as happy as a clam to be here with an attentive grandma, who oftentimes breaks into incomprehensible strings of words in the stores and restaurants of Paris.

She gets up and straight away organizes a picnic for her baby. One could well guess that she is remembering all those proposed picnics that she herself turned down.






I tell her then that I have two items on my evening list: to go to the Asian deli across the street and pick out foods for supper, and to take her to the merry-go-round.

She is a bit unnerved by this Asian deli thing, but she grabs her baby and we walk to the little shop that sells prepared "Asian" foods for the tony young set that inhabits this neighborhood.






(In and out of the front door is never a simple affair: We must navigate the circular stairs,  the courtyard, and then the Great Entryway, which has a high step and forbidding doors. Snowdrop has embraced these as her own and is very much on her way to becoming forever comfortable with the obstacles in life that are very Parisian and not at all ones she faces back home.)






Okay, the merry-go-round at the Tuileries: twice an airplane, once a carriage ride.  I told you you'd find these here today!
















And then the disappointment of knowing that this is it for the day.






We walk back, detouring along the left river bank, looking at the boats, the passersby, the bikers, skateboarders, scooters. Looking at the bridges, too, from a different angle....






... and then we're out on the streets again, walking again past the flower shop. Wait, the flower shop? Why aren't there flowers on our breakfast table? Perhaps because there is no table there to show them off all day long. No excuse. Snowdrop, we're buying flowers!

We're nearly home and then the chant starts: gaga, I want to go to a restaurant!

I'm a tad befuddled by this. How is it that a two year old longs for the tedium of restaurant service? I tell her we have great foods at home. She is disappointed, but of course, she has no control over this. I get to decide and I want one break from monitoring a toddler's behavior, even the most awesome on the planet toddler's behavior, in a Parisian eatery.

In the apartment, I put out the foods: curry chicken, spicy shrimp, fried noodles.

She is apprehensive.

But in fact, it is a wonderful evening.






She likes most everything and I am so happy with her willingness to go along with my whimsy  that I am more than happy to let her finish her strawberries and cream pastry for dessert.






I could sign off and retreat to bed fully satisfied that I did okay by this sweet child. That we got good routines going. That she grew oh so much in the past three days with me.

But I hear her crying. I know the problem. There's boisterous partying outside. Not the typical bar type stuff, but some extraordinary reverie that I cannot figure out. It wakes Snowdrop (and probably a whole bunch of others on the block) and I am there in my soothing Gaga role. This never happens at home. She is famed for disturbing no one at night unless she is sick.

She is not sick tonight. Just a little confused as to the wheres and whys.

This too is a wonderful part of being with her these few days in a strange to her place. I get to better understand her worries. I hope I can flip them into excitement. Goodnight, goodnight, sleep well, sleep tight.

With love, grandma.

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.