Paris: my new teacher

Today Alby and I visited the Eifel Tower, the Champs Elysees and L’Arc de Triomphe and Le Louvre before catching the metro home. 

Over the course of the day I’ve learnt that the key to the Parisian elegant and sophisticated look is a pair of skinny black trousers, black heels and a long black coat or a fur coat.  If you must accessorize do so with an oversized scarf and designer handbag, again black.  The only time I saw colour was in Le Louvre and as the ultimate tourist destination I’m fairly confident that there wasn’t a single French person in the whole museum.

Whilst I was fashioning a lovely black cloak I failed the style test in my blue jeans and new white trainers – whoops. Despite that, I must have some French air to me having been asked by directions from one tourist, and instructed on motherhood by two ladies.

The tourist asking for directions was made comical by the fact that despite us carrying out a short conversation in broken French I suspect he was English.

My first piece of mothering advice came yesterday when a stern looking lady informed me (in French) that if I didn’t put a hat on my son he would get ill.  Unfortunately any pride I had in having understood her little speech was quickly quashed as I gave my response – this was met with a hard stare and a quick “Pardon?”  Blurting our “Je suis Anglais” I hurried on – no easy feat with my backpack and city traffic slowing my down.

My second mothering moment occurred with one of the attendants in Le Louvre.  As a treat I had let Alby out of the buggy to waddle around with his rucksack on.  The marble floors proved a bit of a challenge to his socked feet. (No shoes for Alby as I could only find one this morning  - the other he had helpfully put in the bath I later discovered).  He fell down twice in the space of about five seconds, no unusual thing for him but it caused the attendant to rush over to make sure his mouth wasn’t full of blood. I tried to explain that him falling down was common but only got a hard stare and the feeling that French mothers don’t think much of me.  Eager to move on I rushed away – unfortunately Alby wasn’t quite on the same page as me and responded to my efforts by falling down again!  Brilliant.

Tomorrow we take on Notre Dame and Le Marais.  I’ve got my black trousers and my black boots all ready.  I’ve located his shoes to give sturdy stepping and ensured both jumpers are packed along with his snowsuit.  Bring on Day 3 - let's see if I've learnt anything.