Boys In Paris

I was asked to take a family on a day tour of Paris. The family consisted of the mother and father and two boys, ages 8 and 6. You never know how children are going to react to touring Paris, as it involves a lot of walking, more than most American children are used to. My two grandsons came to visit at ages 3 and 5 and we ended up buying two umbrella strollers, into which they happily climbed, because they couldn’t keep up with us and spent a lot of time whining to be carried. I’ve had what appeared to be perfectly healthy teenagers, drooping around like cut flowers in the sun, sitting down any time we stopped, generally miserable, even looking at Winged Victory in the Louvre with the same interest I’m sure they showed in the motor oil aisle at Sears. So I didn’t have very high expectations for the duo to come. I planned, since they were so young, making a trip to the Luxembourg Gardens. There’s a great playground there which you must pay to enter, thus keeping out the riffraff and keeping down the crowds. I had thoughts that the two boys would meet some French children; get to interact with someone from other cultures, see what French children were like. They entered the playground with their father—the mother and I sat outside the fence—and soon ran over with their new friend, a little boy from the same state they were from. I think there were a few French children there but they never connected with my two. The boys turned out to love the playground, especially one piece of equipment with poles that they hung from as it swung around on a track. I struck up a conversation with an American lady near us, who was photographing her daughter inside the play area. She said that these types of equipment wouldn’t be allowed in the States, as they were a little dangerous and some American would have long ago sued to get it taken down. She pointed to a high pole with a series of ropes tied together that children could climb. There was a rubber mat of some sort underneath but it probably wasn’t enough to prevent a broken arm if a child fell from the top. Just then she yelled at her daughter, about 5 or so, clinging to the very top of the contraption. It obviously scared the mother to death, but not her daughter. We dragged the boys out of the play area after an hour and a half, took a quick detour to look at the small Statue of Liberty in the garden and then went to the large pond, where the father rented two sailboats for the boys to push with a stick until the wind took the little boats out across the water. It was windy that day, and the boats raced back and forth, turning unexpectedly, with very little pushing from the sticks. The boys only did it for 30 minutes and loved it. It was lunch time. I offered a trip to the kids’ restaurant Hippopotamus, or a Greek restaurant in the Latin Quarter near Notre Dame, which would be our next stop. Because I told the boys that they could break a plate, they chose the Greek place. Unfortunately, after we’d ordered our food, I found that plate breaking and dancing only took place at night. I asked the waiter if the boys could break just one plate each. He shook his finger no. He didn’t want to sweep up the mess. I tried sweet talking him, I begged him. He wouldn’t budge. Finally I thought, “What the heck. I bet he will take a bribe.” I offered him 5 Euros and the boys each got a plate, which they joyously crashed to the floor. Notre Dame was next. We toured the inside, and a statue of Joan of Arc brought about a discussion when they found out she was burned at the stake. Then I showed them the ports above the front door. In the middle one, right below Christ performing the Last Judgment, is an angel leading the saved souls to heaven, and a horned devil leading the unfortunate doomed souls in chains to hell. Further over to the right, a devil is stuffing a poor guy into a boiling cauldron. The 8 year old was appalled. The family was Catholic and he had had his first communion, so I thought he would have heard all of this before but he said, “Why is he going in a boiling cauldron?” I don’t know a lot but explained what I knew. After an ice cream cone from Berthillon on Ile St-Louis, behind the Cathedral, we headed toward Les Invalides, at the rquest of the 8 year old. I was surprised but he had a real interest in Napoleon, thanks to a teacher who had inspired a love of history. As we entered the complex, the two boys were excited to see all of the canons. I told them that an ancestor of mine had been killed in the Civil War—on the last day of the war, according to my grandmother—by a canon ball to the head. I became the center of their attention then, and the 8 year asked me about it several times. We saw the tomb of Napoleon; many, many pieces of armor, guns, knives, and military outfits; and Napoleon’s stuffed horse and dog, all of which delighted the boys.   Slowly we ran out of steam and it was time to go. The six year old endeared himself to me when he said, “Do you know everything?” I looked into his sweet little face and said, “Yes.”   BOOK NOW to discover Paris with Linda. Linda Mathieu, formerly from Austin, Texas, is a professional journalist and photographer. Owner of Paris Photo Tours, she delights in taking tourists around Paris, showing them her favorite views and photo ops. She is currently at work on a book of her photography with a light-hearted look at…