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"April In Paris" NOT!
“APRIL IN PARIS”...NOT! April in Paris. Ha! Forget about “The chestnuts and blossoms." Back during that phase of my life it seemed much more like "Where can I run to? What have you done to my dream for crying out loud?”
Our family, consisting of three boys, had been transferred (by way of my husband’s job) from New Jersey to England back in 1981; my husband asked me what place in Europe I had always dreamed about. It was Easter vacation and I had never been anywhere east (or west) of The Mississippi before this assignment. We left the baby back in Esher, a town south of London, with a recommended childminder.
Ah, Paris...the fantasy of every American spirit. With two small boys in tow, we arrived by train (via London to Calais and onto Paris). It had poured buckets while crossing The Channel, and we’d been gagging green in the tossing land-to-sea Hovercraft. The metro in Paris was littered because of an on-going garbage strike, but we treaded through the ankle-deep trash to board a rush-hour train to our pension. Suddenly, the doors closed on the train, and our seven-year old vomited on the shoes of an elderly lady. We apologized profusely; our son was poked with her umbrella and given a very stern scowl. Speaking of umbrellas, I soon felt the back of my raincoat rise. I tugged at it. It rose again. Was Houdini aboard? Nope. It was only an aging Frenchman trying to feel me up with his gray umbrella! Le rat Parisien grimey! All I could think of was the Ugly American image. I gritted my teeth as the doors opened onto the street. I couldn’t get away fast enough.
We hurried through the pelting rain and into the dreary lobby of our small pension. We were told that there was no elevator in the building, but my adrenaline alone helped me reach the fifth floor before the other members of my family.
Dinner is not served in Paris before eight-thirty in the evening. We managed to find a little Turkish restaurant nearby; however, not a soul spoke any English. The food was magnifique, and the chef kept coming out to bow and to check on our reaction to his expert culinary skills as we stuffed ourselves to no end. He pointed to our younger son's baseball cap on the table. We almost thought that perhaps we could do "a trade" for dinner, but did not possess the nerve to try to do so. Besides, we were extremely tired. We just kept smiling back at him. A young Parisian couple, sitting at the far end of our table, observed us throughout the entire meal. I whispered to my husband that they were sizing us up, and I warned our boys not to forget their proper American table manners. As it turned out, the couple was mesmerized with all and anything American, and the woman wanted to practice her English on us. They offered to take us for a long walk along The Seine, showing us their magnificent Paris if we wished to partake. Believe me; Paris at night is absolutely magical! It had finally turned out to be an obtainable dream and I had to pinch myself. London... and now Paris in all of its splendour.
Back at the pension, the mattress springs on our bed felt split down the middle, and my husband and I found ourselves just too close for any real comfort. Our boys whined and tossed the entire night in their own uncomfortable bed. I suppose the hail that pelted us the next damp and bone-chilling morning, as the four of us climbed the steps of The Eiffel Tower, added new dimension to our unpleasant moods...especially after my husband caught our sons spitting from the very top level. Both explained that they had only wanted to see if spit really evaporated...sort of like a science experiment (but of course!). None of us got the chocolate ice cream that my husband promised; in fact, we raced through the streets, alongside a man-with-an-attitude, the rest of the afternoon.
I stumbled on the steps entering the magnificent Sacre Coeur Cathedral later in the day. My mother had told me that it was even more beautiful than Notre Dame. She had been right on target. Slipping into a pew and closing my eyes, I nursed my twisted ankle and bruised shin bone. Then, I quietly whispered a prayer, begging that in my husband's and my next life, we would so love to return to Paris as Elizabeth Taylor and Van Johnson.
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