Ponce-alot and Flatchat*

....so we've spent a few days in Paris.




It only took us a year and a half to get there but when you're only a three-and-a-quarter hour train ride away, there's a half term break and reasonable-ish ticket and hotel deals on, the siren song finally hooks you in and lures you irrevocably towards it.

I first visited Paris as a twelve-and-a-half year old with my parents in 1981, during our whistle-stop three week driving tour of Europe in the Scottish summer holidays. How Dad managed to drive the UK-licensed Bedford van on the wrong side of the road without a GPS or chemical assistance of any kind is still an admirable mystery. 

The ultimate holiday souvenir gifted to myself was an oh-so-classy gold coated mini-Eiffel Tower sitting tastefully on top of a small bottle of green-coloured violet scent, all encased in a spray of fake flowers inside a plastic cube. I didn't open it for years as it was far too beautiful to desecrate.

The second time was in 1991 as a twenty three year old with an unforeseen Easter break. The family I was housekeeping for in London were Jewish and, at the last minute, gave me the entire weekend off. None of my friends had the cash or the time to join me, so I booked a flight (this was pre-chunnel days) and spent a rather lovely but slightly lonely time in the city of romance by myself. Couples seemed to gravitate towards me, all cuddled up, kissing, walking hand-in-hand and generally smooching their smug happiness in front of my singleton self as I sat on a park bench opposite Notre Dame eating a baguette and a bunch of grapes. I swore that next time I visited Paris it would be with the man I loved.....

The holiday souvenir was not a one night stand with Pierre de Milliardaire but a tiny watercolour of a Parisian street bought off a market stall for 10 francs, stuck on a white tile. This was proudly displayed on assorted bookshelves in various states of Australia until Love Chunks' Flemington Fireplace Flop of 2010 rendered it entirely black.

This time, twenty one years after my repeat trip, I had my husband, my child and her best friend Imogen with me.  No sleeping with my mother in the back of the Bedford as my Dad and brothers got wet in the cowboy tent or stuck in a hotel room in a freezing double bed watching Paul Hogan in the ANZACs speaking in dubbed Francaise.  No, it was a funky hotel in an arty farty neighbourhood and company aplenty. 

Sapphire and Imogen both had digital cameras at their disposal and were determined to end up with pictures that would stand the test of time, such as being bozos on the blue bus tour:




Melting mud face masks in the miniscule hotel room:


Caffeine-crazed cackle faces:


Appalling appearances at the Eiffel Tower:

Silly sugar highs at Champs Elysees:


......and toothy goofiness. 

..... I joined in, sharing their disappointment when we slogged our way from one side of Paris to the other only to find that the much-anticipated Catacombs were closed:


Still, consolation could be found in a new hat.....

.....and in adding another 'Munching in front of Monuments' pic to my growing collection.

Love Chunks reached for my hand many times. It was his first visit to Paris. "It's so beautiful," he whispered. "There's so much more for us to see, so we'll have to come back again. And again."

I squeezed his hand in return. "I always said I wanted to come back to Paris with the man I love," I said, voice filled with emotion.

"Oh well, better luck next time."

Pens shaped like baguettes, smelling a guy's nuts all the way up the Sacre Coeur (roasted almonds, you perverts) and making my migraine move on in front of the Mona Lisa were just some of the highlights.

This, however, was probably the best one:

* names of two French scientists that appear - among others - on the Eiffel Tower