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?

Tuesday in Paris

Just as I punctuated the last Ocean sentence yesterday and the clock moved dangerously close to midnight, the first peep came from the room where Snowdrop was sleeping. She'd been out for nearly three hours and she was ready to be done with her "nap."
No way should I be in bed now! I don't care that I'm going on little sleep! It's play time! (by her clock).

Snowdrop, the best sleeper in the world, used the next three hours to protest the time zones. Cajoling, ignoring -- nothing helped. She was determined to be awake. Eventually (around 3? I stopped checking the clock...) she managed to turn the mattress upside down on top of her (not that we noticed until the next day) and disspirited, she fell asleep somewhere on the canvas bottom of the portacrib.



I am, of course, up the next day way before the exhausted young family even stirs. I mean, it's Paris. I can't sleep past the morning hours here. Since no one is up yet, I go out by myself in search of breakfast for us all.

The weather is beautiful! I walk with a bounce in my step (I'll catch up on sleep tonight, I swear I will!) and I find even better croissants than the perfect ones from Julien's yesterday. (Though honestly, I probably would not have picked a "better one" from a line up  -- they're all so very excellent. For the sake of record keeping, today's were from Les Gourmandises d'Eiffel.)

(The bakery also sells gorgeous pasteries...)






(But this morning, I stick with breakfast breads -- as do the customers before me.)






And as long as I am on a hunt for fine foods, I take a few minutes to stop at this greengrocer's:






Are you clever enough to see the pun in the name of the shop? (Say it out loud and think string beans. It helps if you speak French.)

Such beautiful fruits they have! How do they sell berries that are exactly at the peak of perfect ripeness? Not hard, not rotten, not green, not moldy, just damn perfect? How does transport work for something like that?











Next, a cheese store -- one that's is rightly praised far and wide (Marie-Ann Cantin's). I buy her exquisite butter, yogurt, and of course -- cheese.






I stroll through the nearly empty market on rue Cler (peonies!)...






... and then turn in toward my blocks, where chestnut trees are not the only things blossoming in Paris right now.






Our breakfast  at the apartment is a little fragmented, as everyone suddenly has to spring into action.

(Snowdrop eats...)






(I eat...)






(Snowdrop, bathed and dressed by her mom, looks over one of her Paris books.)






And then we're off.

The young couple is heading out for a couple of days and Snowdrop and I will ride with them on the metro to the neighborhood of the Gare de Lyon -- a train station completely on the other side of Paris. We'll eat lunch together and then Snowdrop and I will make our way in some fashion back to the apartment.

(Things get a little dicey, as a major labor strike is announced in France, beginning today. Transportation is always affected and so one has to expect the unexpected. Today it is our local metro line -- closed because of demonstrations. It's surely not the first time that I have found myself in the thick of a strike here. One has to be patient, that's all.)

(On our walk to the metro: waiters on break.)





Snowdrop takes the metro ride in stride. Me, I'm happy to have someone lift the stroller along with me as we go down one station and up the next -- the French really do not make it easy to use the metro if you're antsy about stairs. Though I have to say, whenever I encountered stairs throughout the day, I always, always had the next person come over and give me a hand, with a smile and wave at Snowdrop.

We eat lunch at the lovely Creperie Bretonne.






I love the buckwheat crepes from the Bretagne region and we're curious how the little one will take to this new for her food.






Verdict: the crepe's great, but she prefers the camembert to the goat cheese and so she pilfers bits and pieces of mine (with camembert). The girl will give most anything a try, but she does have her preferences.






Of course, she adores her dad's dessert crepe with chestnuts.


We part ways then. Snowdrop is full of lunch and it is the hour of her nap and I am happy to see her drift off to sleep in the stroller, despite the chaos of the city (we are right by the Bastille now).

I had been half tempted to stay on the right bank, to show her the playground at the Place de Vosges (it's right by the Bastille), but her nap makes me rethink this. Isn't it better to begin the long walk back to our part of the city? It's at least a two hour stroll...

And so the little girl is out for some of the major sights of Paris. She sleeps through the Bastille Circle...






She sleeps through our crossing of the River Seine.






(On Ile St Louis: a chef, taking a cigarette break.)






She sleeps through the view toward the Notre Dame.






... and through the walk along the Boulevard St Germain.






And then, only 45 minute into her nap (she typically slumbers for at least two hours in the middle of the day), just as we enter the neighborhood that I always stay in when I am here, she wakes up. We are steps away from the Luxembourg Gardens and so I tell her -- Snowdrop, I have a plan!

I take her to my favorite bakery in this area (Gerard Mulot). What do you think, little one... are you ready for the best strawberry tart in Paris? (They rank every food item here. This bakery received the gold ribbon for the tart not too long ago, though again, there are a thousand others that I would love to sample and savor.)

We enter the patisserie. She is a bit puzzled. What is this place? All those colorful little cakes...






I buy the tart and some water and tell her -- we're heading for the park!

Through various books, she has learned a little bit about what Paris has to offer even before coming here. She could identify the Eiffel Tower in any illustration. And she is familiar with the picture of the Parisian park with the water pond in the middle. But in a sense, nothing prepared her for the Luxembourg Gardens.

We find a quiet place, not too far from the fountain and the flowers and where people sit to enjoy the parade of others before them. We pull over a couple of chairs. I take out the tart.







She of course loves the strawberries. But her world lights up to a new level of culinary delight when she tastes the creme patisserie that separates the berries from the crust.






There you have it: she is my granddaughter. For sure.

(Why didn't you tell me about creme patisserie before grandma? why why why?)






But this is only a prelude to the joy that follows. When she learns that she is free, free, free...






to romp -- to the fountain...






 around the fountain...






... between all these people who so often smile at the children who play here.

She can't believe her luck! It is tough to take her away, but the afternoon is moving along quite rapidly and I have one more place for her -- the little kid playground in the park. It has nothing but sand pits in it, but it's fenced off from the rest of the gardens and there are benches around for adults to enjoy and it is like a bit of heaven for her.






Play in sand? 






.... no one minds if I carry pebbles this way and that?






Other children to watch? Climb in, climb out?






Oh my!






This girl, who has not had a decent bit of sleep since Saturday night coasts on the park experiences for the rest of her day.


As we leave, I notice we were right by this place:






They're this year's winners of the best baguette in Paris and so of course, I pick up just half of one. She samples. She approves.






And then we make our way to the food halls of the Bon Marche department store and here, too, she is just as charming as I'd ever seen her. I pick up some prepared foods for our supper (skewered shrimp with squash, pickled wild mushrooms, braised carrots, steamed baby zucchini, three types of baked cauliflower) and she is all smiles and she waves to the attendants so that the both of them proclaim her to be  tres mignon (very sweet). I smile in what I hope is a modest fashion.


Of course, not everything is deliciously grand for her. I pick up a lovely ice cream cone with raspberry ice cream of the nicest kind. She tries it. She's okay with it. But frankly, she could pass on the whole experience.






Just one more stop on the way home -- at a children's clothes store, mainly because it had lovely pinwheels in the window and Snowdrop just lights up when she sees them. I do pick up a dress...





... and she picks up another set of friends -- the salesclerks there.

I had purchased for her this book back in Madison about how in France, everyone always says bonjour when you enter -- a store, a restaurant, a cafe... I made up a song about it which she knows quite well, but still, it couldn't have made sense to her before. In Paris, everyone says bonjour. What does that even mean?

And here we are and we enter the stores, the cafes, the restaurants and everyone says bonjour and I remind her of the song and her face lights up. Connecting the dots beyond the spaces of where one lives. Seeing that the world is vast and most of it you'll grow to love through books, but sometimes, you get to see that it's very real. Everyone in Paris does say bonjour. Perhaps she'll forget this tomorrow, but I wont.


(Almost back now, passing other shoppers on their way home...)






At our Parisian apartment, she plays independently: it's easy here, even though we brought very few toys with us. She loves going from room to room, exploring, getting "into trouble with me" (throwing a toy out the window onto the little balcony is a real impish high for her, as is running to the bedrooms and discovering some treasures that I quickly have to retrieve from her little fist). Here, she carries her book from one room to the next.






We eat supper at the table together. We have exactly the same foods and she tries them all, liking especially the shrimp and veggies. (I save the baguette and berries for last. She lets me know that of the cheeses, camembert ranks for her higher than brie. Okay, Snowdrop. I can live with that.)






The Tower lights twinkle. It's midnight. Might you sleep well tonight, little Snowdrop?