out + about, part ii

Okay, so Paris was a bust. I still had high hopes for the remaining two weeks of our vacation (unjustified after that final morning of dragging my loved ones around the Marche aux Puces, which yielded nothing but the certain knowledge that one day Violette will mention to someone that she used to go there as a child, with a casual smirk that will break her poor mother's heart). We made for Lyon, the only other firm destination in our plans. 

The legion of guide books we picked up on our way out of Paris promised us superior gastronomical delights in Lyon, and did it ever deliver. Yes, even with our constraints (a.k.a. Violette and Townes). Within walking distance of the Hotel Carlton we enjoyed a Japanese ramen bar, Spanish-French fusion in an industrial loft setting, a place serving nothing but bouchons (the gnocchi-like dumplings that are specific to the city), and a Brooklyn hipster-style burger joint where the French staff were super friendly and the burgers and fries were scrumptious. There were so many chocolate shops that we couldn't bring ourselves to go into a single one--we were in sugar shock from walking past the windows.

 

Lyon feels grittier than Paris, at least the parts of Paris we have been known to frequent, but it has a lot of the same shopping and is quite attractive in its way. Towering over the city is the Cathedral St-Jean, accessed by funicular metro. We went late in the day, thinking the kids would enjoy the train and not planning to see more of the church than the exterior. Once there, though, we couldn't resist a peek inside. It was stunning, especially the mosaics, which were some of the most beautiful I had ever seen. I wish the photo captured them. Violette, who had come inside with me, slid her hand into mine and became starry-eyed, the way she always does when she is lost in great beauty. I wondered what it would be like to grow up with marvels like this inhabiting her young memory. Will she build upon them?  Rebel against them? Outside, we found Townes playing with Pope John Paul II (in stone), with whom he was loth to part. He talks about him by name even now, weeks later. 

 

Our schedule was now wide open. Where to go next? What do you do with ten days, a car, and two kiddies in the middle of Europe? We considered Barcelona or Geneva, even northern Italy, but chickened out at the idea of a long drive and went to Provence instead. I was craving French antiques, and Isle-Sur-La-Sorgue has the largest collections of antiques dealers per capita in Europe, possibly the world (at least, according to Man Shops Globe). We had never spent time in Provence and figured it was oft-praised for a reason. 

It probably is, but not, we soon realized, by teetotaling couples with small children. The antiques were fantastic, though, and I did spend a lovely afternoon wandering around La Sorgue on my own. Beforehand we had lunch at Le Carré d’Herbes, seated in a garden surrounded by groups of dealers enjoying a long lunch. The weather was gorgeous and the conversations around us were lively, and it felt as though we were living a French film. Likewise, our b&b, Villa La Roque in the hamlet of Fuveau, was an idyllic Provencal setting, run by a sweet family with a nine-year-old girl who won Violette's heart, and offering the most beautiful breakfasts I think I have ever had in my life. There was a really cool aqueduct nearby.  We spent an afternoon wandering aimlessly around Aix. And that was it. After two days of trying to find attractions that would be amenable to us, a five-year-old girl, and an almost-two-year-old boy, we gave up. We were exhausted. We wanted to go home.

The road home took us through Nancy, a small-ish town with a grand town square that made a luxurious background for an evening stretch of the legs. We slept in Luxembourg, and waking to find ourselves in a land of castles and porcelain, we made a point of seeing a bit of each. It turns out that castles are perfectly suited to little boys. So many stairs and walls to climb, such nice echo chambers, and no one to mind. The land was beautiful, green and hilly in a way that was reminiscent to us of Vermont, and the fall colors made for a very pleasant day's drive.

Toward evening we stopped in Liege, Belgium for the sweet waffles which bear the town's name, and two hours later we were home, five days earlier than planned. Home and happy. We'll try again in a couple of months. Maybe not Paris again, not just yet, even if Townes has been waking up in the mornings insisting that we go to Paris TODAY!

out + about, part i

Birthday week starts this weekend, so I had better catch up on the past few weeks before we are into all of that.  Here's the thing about the French school system we are in, Violette has two weeks off every other month. Time for road trips galore, we mused as we looked at the schedule the first week of school. When the first break arrived at the end of October, Steve was on a work trip in the States and had to go directly to a meeting in Paris, so I gamely (okay, with some trepidation) packed two weeks' worth of odds and ends, threw the kids in the car, and drove on my own to Paris to meet him, stopping in Belgium overnight to break up the five hour drive. 

It was a bit surreal, standing outside an ancient hotel in the square of a tiny Belgian town at eleven at night, sleeping babe in my arms and an only slightly more awake one at my side, wondering if the hostess would wake up and let us in. Thankfully, after some minutes, she did. I quickly deposited the children in our room, leaving them entranced by cartoons on television, and ran out to the square again, where my car was waiting with its hazards on. It wasn't until I was walking from the parking lot a block away, rolling our small overnight bag behind me, that I wondered at the wisdom of walking through dark streets of an unfamiliar town completely alone.  Ah, well.  We not only survived but enjoyed our little sleepover. The hotel was very cool and gave us a good breakfast, and the town and surrounding countryside were beautiful. TTO and Violette even got a little playground time in our ten hours there. I almost wished we could stay, but Paris, and Steve, were waiting.

And, Paris. As I navigated the familiar streets I realized that it was the first time I had ever done so behind the wheel. I had always found the idea terrifying, impossible. After two months in The Hague sharing narrow streets with bicycles, trams, and electric wheelchairs, Paris seemed positively tame. Apparently, I am now a European driver.

We had promised Violette she could spend her sixth birthday in Paris if we moved to Europe, but once we got here and realized a party with the girls in her new class at school was probably a good idea, we finessed our already scheduled October trip into her "birthday trip." For months she dreamed of the Ferris wheel and miniature cars she had ridden in the Jardin des Tuileries on our last trip to Paris. We made very few plans, thinking that between the bakeries and the Tuileries we would need little else for the children.  We arrived to find the amusement park vanished.  The birthday girl accepted it more gracefully than we had any right to expect, and turning from the disappointingly empty promenade she grabbed my hand, entreating me to run through the garden's rows and rows of hedges with her in the dark. We were laughing and dodging in and out of the maze-like leafy configurations when a small creature scuttled by.

"A ground squirrel!" she beamed. "I saw another one a minute ago!" I stopped.  

Ahead of us another "ground squirrel" passed in front of a beam of light from the streetlamps surrounding the park.  Its pear-shaped figure and pointy head looked distinctly un-squirrel-like.  In fact, rat-like. Another passed by and this time the shape of the body was distinct, its long, very long, pointy tail perfectly back lit.  Around us, a chorus of squeaks became audible, rising from nearly every bush.  As quickly as I could I ushered Violette up a hill to the safety of sidewalk and street.  For the next thirty minutes she lay on her belly in the well-lit grass next to the promenade, watching as herds of rats roamed the hedges below. She emitted squeaks of her own, speaking to the rats in their own tongue, entranced by the sight of them. Groups of teenaged boys and girls dashed into and out of the bushes, daring each other to go on rat hunts, shrieking with laughter. We nearly had to drag the birthday girl away once we could take it no longer. Somehow the whole scene struck me as oh so Parisian.

That night, as she lay on my lap and I stroked her hair, Violette looked at me with bright eyes.

"Mommy, I love Paris," she sighed dreamily. "Today was the best day."

I nodded, thinking how like Paris it was to endear itself to a little girl even when things had not turned out as planned.  The beauty of it, the gorgeous clothes and displays in the windows, the frilly pastries.

"I especially loved seeing the rats," she whispered, and with a soft smile on her lips she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

p.s. In a book of the writer Nancy Mitford's letters I am reading, she recounts the experience of moving into a luxurious apartment in Paris, and a few nights later waking up to find an R-A-T sitting on her belly. She, too, said it just seemed so like Paris. We couldn't have been the only ones to think so, now, could we?