SOS from paris — Summer of Rove

My husband’s social media post got everyone’s attention. It was an SOS from Paris:

Note: Please do not respond with words of encouragement right after reading this...

TAKING TWO YOUNG KIDS ON TWO MONTH EUROPEAN TRIP IS CURRENTLY THE WORST DECISION WE COULDVE MADE.

He’s an actor, and I ribbed him for his dramatic flair. But I didn’t disagree. It was a horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day. On the train from London to Paris, one kid had motion sickness and the other was running a low-grade fever. We arrived as France sweltered under its hottest temperatures in history (and France is really, really old) — my iPhone said 96 degrees, but it felt much higher. With barely a word of French between the four of us, Matthew puzzled over subway ticket machines in the Gare du Nord station; then we lugged our bags, stroller and sweaty kids — one of whom whined for soda and candy from every vending machine we passed — underground. No AC on the train. When we emerged at the République metro station, the sun was blinding, the air thick, the ground shaking with … techno beats. Today was Paris’ Pride celebration, it turned out, and the square where we stood was the terminus of the parade. As police cordoned off the local streets, I ran to a pharmacy to get childrens’ fever medicine, imagining that at any minute we’d be swallowed in a sea of rainbow-and-glitter covered revelers. We walked as quickly as we could, the streets unfamiliar and nothing like the easy grid we’re used to in New York. Our apartment was on the top floor of a four-story walkup. And, nope, no AC there either. Our host was apologetic, explaining that it’s never this hot in Paris. But today, to welcome us to the City of Light, it was a French furnace. We took cold showers, changed clothes and tried to shake it off. When we ventured back out, Pride was in full swing. It was as colorful an introduction to a city as the kids could ever hope for.

I’ve never been enamored of Paris the way some people are. It's always felt too cool, too chic, too unapproachable for me. I spend most of my waking life, when possible, in flip flops, jeans or sweats. I speak passable Spanish and Mandarin, and have relied on the kindness of strangers in countries from Italy and Croatia to Laos and Japan. But ask me to pronounce “une tasse d'eau s'il vous plaît” and I’m as close to a shy 6-year-old as you’re likely to see me. (This feeling is reinforced when I do gather the nerve to try to pronounce a phrase I’ve looked up on Google Translate, only to have a shopkeeper or waiter look at me with a mixture of confusion, impatience and — I’m really not imagining it — revulsion.) I didn’t see a single Parisian in sweatpants. And despite the language issue and occasional douchey waiter, I found that, in this city for the first time as a fully formed adult, I had a new appreciation for it. Women look smart, put together, confident. Every little shop seems full of treasures. Fresh food and good wine are highly valued. At our local supermarket, the croissants are better than any I could get at a bakery in my neighborhood in NYC. (And in proper boulangeries, they’re mind-blowing.) From cookies to restaurant signage, everything is just … pretty.

Scenes from our first stroll: Even this local printing shop is pretty. We’re a long way from Kinko’s!

This shop sells high-end ice cream, high-end lotions and high-end dried flowers. I’m sensing a theme…

But back to our day from hell. Hot and hangry, we walked our impossibly cool neighborhood, Le Marais, looking for something to eat. Nothing seemed right: The places M and I wanted to go to didn’t make sense with our small, cranky children. Other places looked perfect but were closed. We stopped at a hipster taco joint, with an Instagram-worthy facade and a back door that opens to a speakeasy at night, in search of a late lunch that would get everyone feeling like themselves again. They weren’t welcoming. We were scolded about our stroller, my daughter’s taco order was rebuffed with, “It’s spicy; children should get quesadillas,” the prices made me sweat almost as much as the non-air conditioned little box of an interior. The kids, as if determined to meet expectations, acted like little shits. It was at that moment that five days in Paris felt like a horrible idea and my husband typed out his message of desperation. It’s probably not much of a spoiler to say our visit got much better. But it’s important to note that on a bucket-list trip to a world-class city, just like during normal life, some days are best forgotten. Or, as the French would say, Certains jours c’est la merde!