ADVENTURES IN PARIS | PART THREE
Thursday - Day No. 8 - Picasso, Aux Ducs de Bourgogne, Musée d’Orsay
Our path to the Picasso Museum started at the metro station at the Tuileries. Since we enjoyed walking through the Louvre grounds the night before, we thought we would give our son another chance to run around before jumping on the train. This also allowed me to take more photos of him with the Louvre in the background, although I ultimately could not get him to stay still. I had to content myself with lots of photos of him running and a video of him exploring.
We had originally planned to visit the Picasso Museum the night that we traveled to the Luxembourg Gardens, but knew from the time we would not make it in time before closing. We decided instead to visit the artist’s home first thing in the morning on our decided day. We arrived near the time the museum was to open and I was surprised to find a decently long line waiting for permission to pay and enter. My heart sank a bit as I thought about how my son would do during the wait. Thankfully, we were escorted to a newly created rope line. We stood there for a minute or so wondering if we understood the instructions incorrectly. Perhaps this line wasn’t like the Louvre where we were let in more quickly with our stroller. Another minute went by and then I realized what was going on. We were still a little early and the doors had not opened yet. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait long, and soon we were escorted to the front of the line. We used our Paris museum pass and were on our way. Before our trip, we had learned from a couple of people that the three floors of the museum were separated into three different periods of Picasso’s life and artwork. It was amazing to witness the progression of Picasso’s work and to see how he worked his way toward the famous works that most of us can recognize today. Although there were many works done by Picasso (of course) there were works by other artists as well. My husband grew an appreciation for the painter Max Ernst perhaps because Ernst's work resembles the works of his favorite artist, Salvador Dali. I was intrigued by the photography on display and the many works of many photographers.
We left the beautiful museum and hopped back on the metro just as the day began to warm up. I had scoured websites, travel forums, and Yelp for a place that served gluten-free crêpes. I finally found the place, Aux Ducs de Bourgogne. It was a small place, but the gentleman who greeted us was kind. He was not talkative, but friendly enough. Then we ordered our crêpes! I had to order mine sweet since that was all that was available with a gluten-free crêpe and my husband ordered a savory crêpe. We also enjoyed a little cider to go along with our meal. The crêpes and cider were a lovely way to warm up after our travels in the morning and the brisk walk to the crêperie. I had the drawback that a sweet crêpe would not fill me up so I knew I had to eat more when we returned to our apartment, but all-in-all I am glad that we visited.
This was the day my husband was allowed to explore a place in Paris while I watched our son during his nap. He visited the Arc de Triomphe and I am so glad that he was able to get out and explore a bit and climb to the top of the Arc. I will admit, I was a bit jealous to see his pictures when he returned home. There is such an extraordinary view of the Eiffel Tower with quintessential green trees lining the streets.
I had been looking forward to finally visiting the Musée d’Orsay for a long time. I have been told numerous times that the Louvre is amazing, but the Musée de Orsay is a must-see. I was enchanted as soon as I walked in. The open space of the main floor was quite tranquil even with enormous paintings hanging on the walls. There were several floors and we quickly found the area of impressionist art and the claim of fame of the museum. Now I have never been that enthralled with the work of Claude Monet, but to see his paintings in person was amazing. Not only were they larger than I expected, but the colors were also more vivid. There were quite a few paintings by Van Gogh. We also saw works from Manet, Whistler, Degas, Renoir, Cézanne, Courbet, Ingres, and more.
My son again was starting to get restless during our visit to the Monet section of the museum. My husband was kind enough to stay with our son and let me explore a bit further on my own. This allowed me to enjoy the many pieces of art and for me to take more photos. I’m not sure what he did, but our son seemed more relaxed and was drawing on his €1 etch’n’sketch toy as we finished our visit. We exited the exhibit, which allowed us to see more of what the museum had to offer. Around every corner, I was blown away. If it wasn’t a beautiful portrait that I was standing amazed by it was a sculpture magnificently chiseled.
Satisfied with our museum outing, we decided to return to the Saint-Germain to try a restaurant recommended by my husband’s sister. We found Léon de Bruxelles rather easily and glad that we were seated near a window, but also tucked away from the rest of the restaurant. There was another couple seated next to us, but overall the space gave us some privacy with our son. The restaurant felt very touristy, but we were told that they had several mussel options for dinner. I love ordering mussels in France. They arrived in a little Le Creuset-type pot and when the lid was removed the delicious scent of white wine, garlic, and butter was allowed to escape. I was really surprised to find that so many meals came with frites. I was hoping for a lesson in proper nutrition as shown by the French yet there we were with another plate of fries. It could have been the restaurant that we were at and that it was more suited to tourists, but other places also seemed to have the same side dish. At least our son was happy with all the frites and ate well while my husband and I enjoyed our meal.
Friday - Day No. 9 - Sainte-Chapelle, Latin Quarter, Le Saint-Germain
For our last full day in Paris, I wanted to walk along the Seine and then I thought we could walk to Notre Dame. It was also suggested to us that we should look into Sainte-Chapelle. As we were walking along the Seine, my husband expressed his need for coffee. Our son was also acting hungry so we crossed the Pont Neuf bridge in search of a crêperie. We found a little crêpe stand that seemed sure to deliver the warm overflowing chocolate crepe that my husband was in search of, but more importantly, there was hot coffee. I purchased a croissant for my son and tried not to think about how delicious it must taste. He devoured that croissant with relish and there were crumbs everywhere in his stroller. We waited in a large walkway near the Les Deux Palais it became a great opportunity to let our son run around a bit before entering the ancient cathedral.
Notre Dame was only a few blocks away, but Sainte-Chapelle was staring at us from across the street. My husband and I had already had an amazing experience before at Notre Dame when we experienced a mass on a winter evening. Wanting to experience new things, we decided to give Sainte-Chapelle a go. I had not researched anything about the gothic chapel before our visit so I was completely in the dark as to what we would see. We paid for our tickets and entered then were instructed to enter the lower chapel. When we walked inside I was immediately disappointed. It was only €10, but still. I was told there were a lot of stained glass windows and the lower chapel certainly wasn’t grand. I asked my husband if this was all that there was to see, but he directed my gaze to a set of winding stairs that I had passed without noticing when I had entered the room.
We parked our stroller and made our way toward the ancient staircase. The stairs were quite narrow, but once we climbed to the top we fell out into a huge room and then I saw the chapel that I had been expecting. I loved watching my son look with wonder at the cascading ceiling and to see him absorb the magnificence of the stained glass windows. He also liked a lot of the carvings that accompanied the windows. We did not stay long, perhaps ten minutes had passed and then we were ready to go. The chapel was worth the journey and the visit though. I have never seen anything like Sainte-Chapelle and I am glad that we decided to explore a different place in Paris.
After the lovely experience in the Sainte-Chapelle, we decided to have lunch in the Latin Quarter (my husband’s favorite area of Paris). We walked in and around and through the Latin Quarter with my husband asking me periodically, “What about that place or that place.” At this point, it was nearly one in the afternoon and with our readily adjusted clocks set for European time, we were famished and needed to find someplace soon. We finally agreed on a place named Paul’s. It had a lot of lunch guests but was pleasant and seemed like a good place for our son. My husband ordered some coffee, I ordered my tea and finally, we could all rest. I wish I had taken a picture of the high chair they brought out for my son. It was made of wood and the seat had a leather cushion with upholstery nails along the edge. The high chair also came with a rounded cage that wrapped around my son’s legs. It looked like a royal high chair to me, with my North American eye.
We enjoyed a lovely meal as it began to drizzle outside. My husband and I tried to practice some Spanish while we ate but slowly descended back into English. Near us sat a family eating their meal and a little girl was in a high chair facing the opposite direction of our son, but still able to see him. They both had little across-the-room interactions with each other. He would look her way and she would start talking or the little girl would be making a loud noise toward her parents and our son would look over at her and stare. To distract from him staring at their daughter, I asked how old the little girl was. She was two, six months older than my son at the time. We shared that we were traveling with our son and visiting friends. They were also visiting and leaving fairly soon. I can’t remember now where home was for them, but I do remember them telling us about the number of languages they use with their daughter. The mother knew English and German, while her husband spoke Portuguese and the grandmother spoke French. They were so happy that we chose to teach our son a second language and insisted that the use of multiple languages in their home was purely because of where each person happened to be from. I was amazed. That little girl was going to grow up exposed regularly to, at least, four languages. Incredible!
Knowing that we were leaving Paris early in the morning, my husband thought we should return to Gérard Mulot for some more macarons to share with our friends in Scotland. My husband encouraged me to be brave and place the order. It was difficult to not crave all the decadent creations that lay displayed in the shop.
At this point in the trip, I was feeling really bad as a mother that my son didn’t have a proper jacket. Knowing that the shops in Paris would probably be absurdly expensive, I asked my husband to help me find a mall-type place or location where there would be several shops where it may be possible to find raincoats. He recommended the Le Bon Marché since I could walk there and the description stated that there were several department stores. I squeezed my aching feet in my ankle boots, grabbed an umbrella, and started the long walk to the shops. When I finally reached Le Bon Marché I was already tired and a bit weary. I stalked all the shops and could not find any stores that had stuff for little kids. I walked by a lady a the Ralph Lauren counter and after I greeted her with “Bonjour,” she responded at length in French where then I had to explain that I didn’t speak French. The lady explained that the only thing they had available was down jackets. She directed me to an area that had kids’ clothes, a shop tucked away behind the women’s wear. I found the little kids section and was set to find a rain jacket, but found myself becoming more weary as I looked at the exorbitant prices of different coats. Finally, I found what I was looking for; a little blue raincoat with boots to match. I looked at the price and gasped. It read €80 for the jacket alone. At that point, I was done. I decided that it was foolish to look for a child’s jacket in the heart of Paris so I decided we would have to look in Scotland or when we returned to the UK.
I was determined to not have to use my phone for directions back home. Perhaps it’s my stubbornness, my pride, or both. I have this incessant need to not seem like a tourist when I travel. Even so, I knew I needed to return to the Saint-Germain and the Rue de Bac to pick up our takeaway from Le Saint-Germain, but as I was walking along my route a heavily armed policeman was blocking off the street. I overheard the police officer saying something to the person who had been walking in front of me. I did not know what he said, the conversation being in French, but I understood the context of what was happening. There was either an incident or investigation underway on the street and that route was no longer open. I quickly veered my direction and somehow after a couple of streets and turns I found myself at the restaurant. It had been steadily drizzling during my walk, so it was lovely when I entered Le Saint-Germain; warm and smelling of French cuisine. I learned from our previous order to simply order two servings of the duck confit. The waiters were, again, nice and cordial. No one scoffed or turned up their nose to me. The waiters simply left me alone and didn’t try to engage in any uncomfortable small talk. Within ten minutes of my order, my food was ready and I gladly paid the €33 for what was going to be a delicious meal.
I returned to the apartment damp, exhausted, and with a deep ache in my feet. The apartment was dark and I was worried that my family was not at home. As I turned the corner I saw that my husband had lit candles and had set the table for dinner. I thought it was going to be impossible for my husband and I to have a romantic dinner while we were in Paris, but somehow, he made it possible. Granted, our son was with us so it was not a quiet dinner, but romantic nonetheless. I savored each bite of my duck confit as did my husband. We talked about our trip, about Scotland and our highs and lows from Paris. I will state that my low from our trip to Paris was how much people smoked. I have always known the stereotypical idea of the French and that they supposedly smoke a lot. I don’t know about all French people, but there were quite a few people who smoked and by the end of the trip I was tired of the constant pockets where clouds of smoke hovered the streets. Satisfied with our meal, we started our bedtime routine and tried to go to bed early knowing that we had a big day of traveling the next day.
Saturday - Day No. 10 - RER to Charles de Gaulle, flight to Scotland
I woke to my alarm and looked to see that it was still dark outside. Something is alluring to me about traveling in the wee hours of the morning or late evening. It’s like we were trying to escape the city undetected. I may be alone in my romanticism with early, early morning travel, but I can’t help but love the emptiness of a city, the cool fresh air, and the stillness. It’s quite wild.
We had packed the night before so all we had to do was get ourselves cleaned up and tidy the apartment a bit. I don’t know how, but it felt like we had gained more luggage even though we had actually discarded a few things to make our bags lighter for the flight. My husband had the pack-n-play, our two large bags, and his backpack. I had my backpack, the stroller, my camera bag and I was wearing my son in an Ergo across my chest. Thankfully, the RER station was at the entrance of the Museé d’Orsay and only a short walk from the apartment. We did forget however that there was no working escalator and no elevators, however. We had left the apartment 20-30 minutes later than we had intended. Having our tardiness in mind, I was hurrying a bit as we walked along the street and into the underground train station. I thought I had a good balance of a stroller in one hand and a camera in the other, but after the first flight of stairs, my toe caught the cement step and then, I fell.
I think back now to that moment and I still pause and become very still from the horror and the intensity I felt at that time. Everything was in such a rush. I fell forward, my shins hitting the metal edges of the stairs and my hand covering my son’s head. Miraculously, I did not land on my son, nor did I seem to fall completely forward. It was almost as if my ankles had snapped forward, but my body was somehow able to keep the weight of my body back. My husband got to me quickly, but I was already standing up and reaching to grab the stroller that had slid several steps past me. I knew we needed to catch the train or we would be in real danger of missing our flight. He checked on me and I told him that I was fine and we could process everything on the train.
The train arrived fairly soon after we arrived on the platform. My legs began to ache and one of my ankles started to throb. We boarded a nearly full car, pushed our bags as much out of the way as possible, and stood awaiting possible vacated seats. My legs began to hurt as the adrenaline was starting to wear off from my fall. Thankfully, a gentleman vacated his seat and invited me to sit. I could not have been more thankful. I released my son from the Ergo and let him sit on my lap so that he could look around. I didn’t look at my wounds. I knew that my ankle was injured, but I didn’t know how bad it was. I tried to distract myself, by talking to my son in Spanish and to point out things on the train. He enjoyed the attention, but he kept watching a couple of people in conversation sitting near us on the opposite side of the train. They were talking in French, but he was looking at them so intently, specifically their mouths. I truly believe that this was the point that my son realized not that there are more languages in the world other than English and Spanish. It was amazing to watch him. I swear I saw a sign of understanding and acceptance, although I didn’t see an outward sign. It was something in his eyes that showed me his new understanding and recognition of languages.
We arrived at Charles de Gaulle and heaved our luggage out of the train. I walked slower this time, both because of the pain and not wanting to fall again. We had loaded our son into the stroller this time, but we discovered that the stroller couldn’t fit on the escalator. At this point, my husband and I were both ready to say, “Au Revoir,” to Paris, even if the the only thing special that the next city had to offer was an elevator. My husband was like the wind. He made sure I reached the next floor with our son and the stroller, and then he ran up and down the stairs to grab all our other bags. Needless to say, we were already exhausted and the time was not even nine in the morning. I won’t bore you with the long wait for getting ourselves checked in and bags checked. Let me just say, the wait was excruciating and we knew that we were already running a bit behind schedule. We planned to be at the airport two hours ahead of our flight. However, with our late departure from the apartment on the Rue de Lille and the exceedingly long wait at the check-in counter, we only had forty minutes before our flight and we still needed to go through security.
There were some unusually heavy crowds that morning. I still don’t know why. I saw many men who seemed to be businessmen and used to the system at the airport look around in disbelief at the long security line. My husband and I knew that we were not going to make our flight if we stayed in that line. As we approached one of the airport attendants stationed by the security line, we asked him about the time, how long the security line would be at this point, and if we would honestly make our flight at 10 am. He pointed to another attendant stationed farther down the security line and said, ”Stay in this line. If in eight minutes you don’t reach that attendant, find one of us and we will help you.” Sure enough, eight minutes had gone by and we were still several collections of people back in line. My husband left to go and find someone and found a female attendant nearby. She then left to go find someone else. I waited in line with anticipation and also with worry, not knowing what was going to happen. At this point, we had less than twenty minutes before our flight took off. Suddenly, a male attendant asked us to follow him. I think my heart skipped a beat. We were directed toward some sort of fast lane. The line did not have a particular sign, that I recall, but the only people in line were people who needed extra assistance. We found ourselves only second in line, and then the first line. Out of sight, a lady and minor entered our line as I was about to move up to the counter. The lady looked at me coldly and said, “Excuse me,” with emphasis. My husband also pulled me back. I wasn’t trying to outpace the lady and the young boy in line, but my adrenaline was back up and I didn’t see the two step into our line. Thankfully they passed through quickly and finally, we cleared security.
My husband and I ran, as well as we could, to the gate. We game planned on the run that my husband would run over to the restroom and buy water (a necessity) and I would go to the gate so that the flight crew knew we were present. I reached the gate line as the last section of people were in line to board. There were three openings where people stepped forward, one by one, to board the flight. As I was in line with my son, the two gentlemen in front of me gestured for me to pass them. I thanked them and appreciated their kindness, but then I realized that I had my husband’s boarding pass. I thanked the two Scottish gentlemen again but told them I needed to wait for my husband so they could go ahead of me. I stood waiting, watching. The line slowly emptied and then I saw my husband running toward the gate with a large bag. The attendants at the gate hardly seemed phased by our rushed demeanor. They simply took our boarding passes and told us to have a good flight.
We had to walk onto the tarmac to board the small flight traveling from Paris to Aberdeen in Scotland. The air smelt like rain, but thankfully precipitation of any kind staved off while we boarded. Finally, we were seated. My husband and I hoped against hope that somehow our son would sleep during the flight. He did not, but thankfully it was a short flight. At this point, I thought it would be wise to assess the damage from my fall in the RER. I had two large bruises forming, one on each shin. My ankle had also swelled quite a bit, but it did not appear to be sprained or broken. I was so relieved. It could have been worse. A whole lot worse. I cringe still when I let myself think about what could have happened to me or my son. I thanked God over and over again that I had not hurt my baby. Before long we were starting our descent into Scotland. I was excited to see my friend and her husband. I had only met him once at a wedding, but this was going to be a great opportunity to get to know him better. Suddenly, Paris was behind us and the country of Scotland awaited us.
Lessons learned
Budget to eat out.
If you are gluten-free, pack some gluten-free bread before entering France. It was difficult to be surrounded by all the delicious pastries and bread and not able to enjoy it. I did find some GF bread at a bakery, but it was similar to the bread I had to eat five years ago. Very dry.
If possible, stay near the Louvre/Museé d’Orsay/Tuluries. This was a great central area and with room for kiddos to run around. We were near so many interesting places and close to the trains.
The Paris Museum Pass is worth the money. Period.