A Lawyer’s Mother Reports on a Recent Trip to Paris, Concluding that Traveling There Is Not as Difficult as Some Might Think

By Pamela Schaeffer

Author’s Note: Evan has elicited a guest post for this week that has nothing to do with the law, but introduces a person Evan might now and again have thought of suing: his mother, who recently had a wonderful time with his daughter on a short trip to Paris. (You’ve heard it said, haven’t you, that the reason grandparents and grandchildren have such a strong bond is that they have a common enemy: the parents.)

Thumbing my nose at the recent excuses I’ve heard for avoiding or postponing travel to Europe--unfavorable exchange rates, anti-Americanism, pickpockets, uncomfortable and potentially dangerous flights--I proposed in mid-December to Lydia, Evan’s 15-year-old daughter (my granddaughter), that we slip off on a last-minute jaunt to Paris. It would be her first trip out of the country, and, unfortunately, my first in a decade. I found a bargain air/hotel package based on leaving from St. Louis on Christmas day and spending three days on the ground in Paris before leaving for home. Those turned out to be furious days filled with pleasant surprises. Lydia saw as much of Paris as we could possibly pack in; I renewed my love for that best of all cities and came away newly confident that all of the aforementioned excuses are lame.

Sure the exchange rate sucks, but there are ways to get around it. One is to shorten the trip; another is to splurge a little less. On our second night, we lowered the average on meal costs by dining with locals at a crèperie in Montparnasse: 20 Euros (approximately $28) for two. And that included the tip, which, in Paris, is included in the price! Sightseeing was cheap with the three-day museum pass (about $12 a day; good for multiple admissions to multiple museums to some 70 sites, including Versailles--far more than anyone could visit in three days). We needed only one pass, as admission to museums for people under 18 is almost universally free. We stayed in Saint Germain des Pres and got around by foot and Metro, but took advantage of the cheap cab fares (comparable to New York City) when returning to our hotel each night, usually around 11 p.m.

Although I had established a tentative itinerary before we left home, I quickly revised it when I realized Lydia had some strong wishes of her own, some inspired by The Da Vinci Code. (I later read in The New York Times that Dan Brown has become an agenda-setter for visitors to Italy too.) The Louvre is now famous not only as the world’s greatest repository of art; it is the site of a famous murder scene.

To the list of must-visit churches (first on mine is Sainte Chapelle, which, to my satisfaction, Lydia proclaimed “awesome”) can now be added the Church of Saint Sulpice, with its starring role in the mystery of the Holy Grail. A walk to the latter site produced a couple of bonuses: breakfast on Place de Saint Sulpice, where we were treated to that oh-so-Parisian blend of informality and elegance at what must be one of the city’s best small cafes, and inside the church, a 15-foot-long Christmas tableau, replete with animated Provencal villagers. We later learned it is one of the city’s favorite holiday attractions. Still operating from Lydia’s list, we made a nighttime visit to the this-season-only ice skating rink on the first level of the Eifel Tower (and from an acrophobic’s point of view, perched too precariously near the edge); a couple of forays to Galeries Lafayette and nearby boutiques, and a day trip to Versailles. From my list, we added the Pompidou Center, the Rodin Museum (though we missed the entrance and, because of time constraints, could only peer into the garden through the fence) and a midday stop at the elegant La Durée on the Champs-Élysées, where Lydia chose death by chocolate and I opted for a smooth-as-silk orange cream creation. Two large pastries and pots of steaming chocolate and coffee set us back only $25, not counting the pricey box of macaroons we bought to take home.

Between us, Lydia and I speak some French, but practically speaking, all we needed in nearly every instance to elicit a helpful response was: “Bonjour, Monsieur/Madame. Je cherche le Louvre (or le / la whatever). Parlez-vous Anglais?”  One endearing older gentleman who obviously wanted to help these befuddled Americans, but was among the minority who speak no English, did his best with hand motions, and in parting, declared gallantly, “Vous parlez tres bien le francais.”

Though obviously Americans, I suppose (even if we did leave our white sneakers at home), we encountered no unpleasantness, and we had a couple of hilarious experiences right out of Peter Mayle. There was the pharmacist who, in a mode that brooked no argument, refused to sell us antibiotic cream, declaring that it was the wrong treatment for a small cut. Then there were the waiters at a restaurant in Le Marais who, standing only a few feet from our table, engaged in animated argument, apparently over who was going to wait on us. Concerned their English wasn’t up to the task, perhaps? We knew who the loser was when he fairly lurched toward our table propelled by a shove from the other’s elbow. Quickly rising to the occasion, he earned my undying gratitude (and an extra tip) on several counts: his linguistic abilities, his charm and his parting conciliatory flourish: two glasses of peach liqueur on the house.

When it comes to pickpockets overseas, I harbor a secret wish for home: if only lazy American thieves would learn this skill, enabling them to relieve people of their money without the need for knives or guns. In Paris, I used ATMs, carried cash and credit cards close in one of those bladder-shaped bags that tuck right under the arm and, as I would in any city at home, remained alert. But never once did I feel concerned.

As for the final excuse for avoiding overseas travel – the long uncomfortable flight – it was a small price for a grand time. Besides movies, magazines and books, and generally futile efforts at sleep, we had plenty of topics for conversation to keep us occupied. (Not to worry, Evan; our so-called “common enemy” was not among them.)

About the Author: Pamela Schaeffer, director of communications for the Religious of the Sacred Heart in St. Louis, has a former life as a journalist with a mission of keeping religious leaders honest. Over 25 years, she worked as a reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, specializing in religion; news editor for Religion News Service; and managing editor for National Catholic Reporter, the nation's only independent newspaper covering the Catholic Church. She holds a Ph.D. in historical theology. The last time she wrote about her granddaughter Lydia was in her article, "Papal visit sparks memories--six families who saw Pope John Paul in '79 reflect on life, death, and faith today."

Photos by Lydia Schaeffer, except the last, which is by Pamela Schaeffer.

Comments

[Jim]

Cool post and cool trip! Is Sainte Chapelle where the Cluny Museum is?

[Evan]

Jim: My mother says the answer to your question is no, although the two might be in the same area. Here is information about the Cluny Museum.

[transmogriflaw]

Great story. My mother can't wait for the day that she can take Nathaniel traveling with her, and I'm looking forward to it as well!

[OLS]

Saint Chappelle is on the Ile de la Cite, further towards the middle than Notre Dame, next the Defence Building I believe? It is absolutely stunning.

I was interested in the pickpocket comment - I would be far more concerned about my money in the US than I would in Europe. I carried my money in a wallet the whole time I was there, but then my wallet was usually in my backpack since most of my clothes don't have pockets (and my backpack was locked with combination locks - a very handy tip!), or was in the front pocket of my pants where it would be very hard for a pickpocket to get anywhere near it.

The only hassle I had in 7 months in Europe was that my big backpack (which weighed around 30kg fully laden) was slashed in an elevator on the Paris metro on my way to the airport to go home - well, they tried to, but I had one of those uncutable cages on it and all they did was ruin my raincover. Ah well.

As for the problems facing Americans in France (in particular), I know many Americans who didn't get the same service I did as an Aussie, but just tell them you're Canadian - no-one in Europe (or indeed in Australia) can tell the difference between the accents! ;o)

I'm very jealous about the ice skating in the Eiffel Tower, by the way. That would have been amazing.

- OLS