A Little Joie de Vivre

I often wish I could bottle my children’s passion for living. When they are excited, every ounce of their bodies seems to shake with glee; when they are sad, you would think the whole world had crumbled at their feet. Perhaps as adults, we can’t get that excited because we simply can't get that depressed— we’re supposed to achieve some level of perspective, but the happy part doesn’t sound so bad.

In some ways, being a tourist is much like being a child; You see everything for the first time, find even the most mundane details interesting and dress for comfort, instead of style (at least to some degree).

I’ve lived in Paris twice now and been a “tourist” here many times in between, but having lived here first, I never really experienced the city as a tourist. I spent all my time trying to fit in— wanting to look, speak and act the role of a Parisian. I did it quite well, actually, but only recently did I realize I missed something.

So, in order to give real tourism a try, I bought a ticket and boarded the cheesy tourist boats that make their way up and down the Seine every day. I couldn’t think of anything more "touristy"- and they didn’t let me down.

As we made our way down the river (the guide giving his pathetically brief description of the world’s most treasured monuments), a funny thing started to happen. I noticed that after every description, the whole crowd started clicking their digital cameras. At first I scoffed at them. Wouldn’t it be so much better to buy a reprint of an image by a talented professional who wasn’t bobbing up and down the river as they clicked away? And then I realized that it wasn’t about having the best picture—or even a great picture. Instead, it was about being free to think everything was beautiful, new and interesting—and also about capturing the memory of that freedom. Shortly thereafter, I started clicking away. It felt very child-like. It felt good.

Now, whenever I see that look of excitement cross my children’s faces, I not only recognize it, but I understand it, too. In fact, I'm even a bit envious of it. Perhaps joie de vivre is a French thing or perhaps it is a gift of childhood; either way I truly hope I preserved a bit of it with the clicks of my camera. If not, perhaps a little red burgundy will inspire me.

Curiosity Killed the Afternoon

They say Curiosity Killed the Cat and, if so, I probably should have died a good half-dozen times by now. My deep curiosity seems to land me in some... precarious situations. It recently landed me in Paris' Museum of Curiosity and Magic. What could be more perfect?

The guidebook said it was great for kids- there was a show and lots to see. Given my quest to find the best activities for toddlers, it seemed ideal. Pulling bunnies out of hats and colorful scarves out of a sleeve would keep anyone captivated-- even a toddler!

Walking down into the museum, however, I was acutely aware that I was entering a cave and hoped desperately they weren't going to try me as an escape artist once I got inside. The museum itself was probably quite interesting in the 1980s when it opened, but would have more accurately been called a museum of the history of magic. There were many antique magic tricks encased in glass with French descriptions and a few that moved but, frankly, nothing my toddlers were so interested in seeing. On top of that, the show was more descriptive than "show" and was again, naturally, in French. I spent the afternoon in the magic museum rather similar to how I would spend it at the Louvre- chasing the kids, saying "don't touch," and trying to figure out why I had thought this was a good idea in the first place.

Re-emerging into the daylight, we made our way to a park and had a great time running, climbing and sliding. I quickly realized that curiosity should have killed this museum long ago. It certainly nearly killed our afternoon.

Stalking Cinderella

Having toddlers around means sometimes doing things you would never otherwise do. I occasionally swing on swings, read board books and I’ve been known to attend imaginary tea parties. I know the names of all the Thomas trains and can sing at least a dozen Laurie Berkner songs by heart. Having young children not only gives you the opportunity to do these things, it actually gives you license to relive a bit of your childhood. To that end, my husband and I recently found ourselves on the RER line headed towards Euro Disney. It wasn’t that we had always dreamed of going, nor that our children had been begging for it. It more seemed like one of those experiences that would bring out the child in each of us.

Arriving at the gates was fully reminiscent of the gates at Disney parks in the U.S. The magic of Disney seemed to emanate from each and every corner and I found myself becoming almost giddy as we made our way inside. We did all the toddler-friendly activities we could find— ate lunch at Buzz Lightyear’s Pizza Planet, toured “It’s a Small World,” met Tigger and Baloo and tried removing the sword from Excalibur’s stone. The thing that was really going to leave an impression on me, however, was meeting Cinderella— or, more to the point— almost not meeting Cinderella.

When we arrived in France, my 2-year-old daughter, Kate, had no interest in anything feminine. It remained that way until the day she happened to see the movie Cinderella— the music, the animals, the dresses, she was fascinated with it all. I went from having the perfect little tomboy to a pretty, pretty princess practically overnight— all due to the power of Cinderella.

The line to meet Cinderella was an hour long, which is a lifetime in toddler speak. I sat there weighing the drawback of spending an entire hour trying to keep Kate in line against the joy of making her dream come true. I didn’t want to be one of those moms who torture her children for a “fun experience” but I convinced myself this was different. I decided to go for it.

About half way through our wait, I noticed some activity up ahead and realized the princesses were trading out. Suddenly an hour waiting to meet Cinderella became an hour to meet Jasmine. In no time at all my Mickey Mouse ears came off and I became a calculating opportunist focused exclusively on making sure my daughter (who certainly won’t remember this watershed event) met Cinderella. I was one of those moms, after all. In fact, I probably bore a strong resemblance to some of the cheerleader moms that appear on the evening news, but I digress. With Kate under my arm and my camera in hand, I ran for it.

Thankfully there was a crowd gathering around Cinderella, so she wasn’t moving too quickly. I knew that getting in the midst of the crowd would get me nowhere fast, so I ran around the crowd and put myself directly in her path. She noticed us (how could she not?) and gave us a half smile while explaining that she could not stop. I snapped a couple pictures as we walked, but more importantly, Kate got to meet her.

In the end, Kate was thrilled to meet her, though it probably wasn’t worth the guerilla tactics used to get us there. As for me, well my Mickey Mouse ears are now firmly back in place and I can cross meeting Cinderella off my “to do” list. Perhaps I should just replace it with stalking her, though. At least that would be accurate.

Confessions on a Dance Floor

Considering that we all have toddlers and aren’t very good penpals (virtual or otherwise), my girlfriends and I have done a surprisingly good job of staying in touch while we’ve been apart these past few months. Still, nothing beats quality time together and I’ve been longing for a night out with the girls. Last week, for better or worse, my wish came true!

Three of my best friends—all strong, intelligent and unique women—decided rather spontaneously to take a trip to Paris. By the time they decided, it was only a few weeks until they arrived so I began compiling a list of activities. In some ways, their trip took shape much like our conversations— without any real structure or a massive list "to do" list. Instead, we pooled our ideas and our guidebooks to create a somewhat unorthodox itinerary.

Since it was a girls' getaway, it seemed appropriate to splurge a bit and they stayed at the oh-so-famous Hotel de Crillon (in many ways similar to the old Plaza Hotel in New York). It is a traditional luxury hotel, known as home to an elite group (including Madonna when she is in town) which meant it came complete with plush robes and slippers- essentials for a girls’ getaway.

Throughout the week, we ate well and drank even better- talking and laughing as we made our way through the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe and a rather impressive assortment of boutiques. The most read newspaper in Paris, Le Parisien, actually did a brief article about us about our luxury shopping, but that's a story for another day. (Had they found my Visa bill? I suddenly felt guilty!). For the most part our activities were pretty benign- all that is, except one night that is the basis for my Confession.

It started, as all our evenings did, in their suite at the Crillon. They had the foresight to select and chill a lovely champagne. From there we went to Buddha Bar- a great restaurant serving carefully prepared French-Asian fusion dishes and an intriguing ambiance. After a wonderful seared tuna, and great conversation, we made our way to the Moulin Rouge for their "early show." I had been there once before and frankly hadn’t found it especially inspiring, but thought it might be fun in a group. Not only was it fun to be there together, and funny to see my husband with 4 dates (was it a dream come true or a torture chamber? I'm still not sure), but it was an excellent show- snake lady, horses and all!

We left the Moulin Rouge around 11 :30p and walked around briefly before bidding adieu to my husband (someone had to relieve the babysitter, afterall!) and heading back to watch the scene unfold at Buddha Bar. As it turned out, the scene had already largely unfolded. The peaceful restaurant we had left just a couple hours before was now filled with great music (available for 40 euros at the door) and an eclectic mix of people, every one of them clammoring to get one of the bar-level tables. It didn’t take four women long to secure a table, however, and we spent a couple hours watching people pick-up dates, other people trying to forget theirs and still others drowning themselves after a bad one.

After a couple hours, though, we’d had our fill and decided to call it a night- or so I naively thought. As we stepped outside, however, they asked where we were going next! As the only one not suffering from jet lag, I couldn’t quite bring myself to tell them I was too tired, so I offered up a dance club I’d wanted to try, but for which I had never been awake (since it didn’t open until 2a.m.- Yes, it was now 2 a.m.) To make a long story short, we found the club and danced ourselves to sleep barefoot atop a bed of broken champagne flutes (literally, but accidentally, of course) finally returning to the Crillon around 5:30a.m.

I don’t know that I would recommend trying a club that doesn’t even open ‘til 2a.m., and I would highly advise against dancing barefoot on broken glass (my foot took over a week to recover!), but it was an unforgettable night with an unforgettable group of women. Perhaps this is how Madonna's "Confessions on a Dance Floor" was born- perhaps even on the same dance floor; it is how my Confessions on a Dance Floor will end.

What a Wonderful World

I live on a mostly pedestrian street in Paris, which means there are people walking on it at nearly every moment of the day and night. Occasionally street musicians wander up the street, filling our apartment with old Edith Piaf and Louis Armstrong tunes.

A few days ago, after several near 100 degree days, I was snapped out of a good book by a loud, random sound- like someone repeatedly slamming cupboard doors outside. The noise was the result of shutters caught in the now somewhat forceful wind. You could almost feel the thunderstorm descending on the city.

I watched as the tourists continued on their way, completely unaware that their path was about to become a river. And then it happened, it started to pour. Suddenly, these peaceful, carefree tourists were scurrying for cover, throwing their bags of souvenirs over their heads until they found the haven of a well-placed awning. And then they waited. And waited. About 5 minutes later it was still pouring and everyone began to realize they may not be able to wait it out.

Suddenly, these same tourists who were peacefully meandering through the streets just minutes before had reverted to their fast-paced day-to-day mentality. They saw a problem and took action. They were almost all now in a dead run towards their next haven. They had no prayer of staying dry, but they had every intention of getting dry quickly. Was it a race? If so, they were going to win.

And then there were the others. They left the safety of the awnings with smiles on their faces. They didn't cover their heads or scamper about. They walked and, yes, they got wet (very wet, actually), but they had fun doing it. They continued strolling down the street, laughing at themselves, laughing at the predicament and knowing they would be dry soon enough. When life hands out lemons, some people make lemonade. It looked sweet and delicious.

In the end, they say beauty is skin-deep, but it seems like some vacations are only skin-deep, too. Some people go through the motions of vacation, all the while multitasking about their next major purchase or career move, ready to run should some raindrops fall. Others let go of everyday life and take some time to enjoy what the day brings, whether it's a nostalgic Louis Armstrong tune or a bucket of rain- oh, what a wonderful world.