Visiting Paris with your son has good sides and bad sides. Not having a son, I wouldn't know, but I take the opportunity to imagine. I imagine a weekend that starts on Friday afternoon with a nice coffee in a rather busy place.
I was picked up by my son who had left work early and talked about a trip, leaving all detail unsaid. He steered me with gentle determination from one train station – of Harry Potter fame – to another, just across the street. My eyes were opened as we approached the gothic glory of St. Pancras but before I had the chance to comment or even be surprised, we were already through security and passport control and at the Caffè Nero that's apparently at the beginning of every trip to the continent – as the English are fond of calling it.
The journey passed in a blur; there wasn't much to see. The panoramic windows of the buffet car gave way to rural expanse on either side of the tunnel. If southern England is one of the most densely populated areas in the world, where does everyone live? When the dominant color changed from green to grey and the train slowed down, we were in Paris – unbelievably.
The train had stopped, we were disgorged, but I remained dazed. It was all a bit much. Looking left, looking right, first impressions engulfed me – sights, sounds, motions – but there was no time to process. We had arrived with delay and my son was pushing ahead with a purpose. I had no reason to doubt and no mind for it, and fifteen minutes later we stood in front of the hotel.
Traveling with your son is the easiest thing in the world: no responsibilities, no immediate expenses – not knowing we were going to Paris I hadn't even brought euros – nothing to see and nothing to miss. It's an exercise in trust and discovery, following a guide with an aversion to maps (men!). The weekend was sure to be packed with as much as is possible to pack in a weekend, the attractions rising left and right wherever we would go, too much to remember even for a nimbler minds.
Quiet time came during meals only, and that's why I was happy to sit in this little place in the Marais, carefully neglected for the full Bohemian experience and next to a park, airy and relaxed. It was the last night, and dinner was almost over. My son has just ordered a coffee and the check with it, though urgency was the last thing on the mind of either of us.
To the contrary, I want to shout, but who am I to spill the mood? Urgency is not just on my mind, it's at the risk of tipping over into an acute frenzy. Our tickets warn that check-in closes thirty minutes before departure. That mark has just been passed, and we're nowhere near the station. I finish my coffee, grab what little change there is from a rather big bill and then my backpack and my mom and start flying down the street. I imagine a boulevard just ahead, a wide street that runs straight up to the Gare du Nord. With a cab, we should be fine, but flagging one down, once arrived on Beaumarchais, proves impossible. They're either occupied or blind to tourists. When the recreated art nouveau of a Metro stop appears ahead of us, we dive into it, relinquishing all control to a force majeur that at first doesn't seem to be on our side.
The ticket machine speaks my language but doesn't understand my needs. I press buttons in vain at first and then in panic. There is no ticket for anxious minutes, until a station agent helps as if this were London. On the platform, the departure board shows a big five, more minutes than we have – and we have to change at République. It seems impossible; we're doomed to a costly rebooking and potentially an equally costly extra night in Paris. But giving up is cheating, and so we run as the orange arrows indicate and hop into a number 5 towards Bobigny just as the doors close.
Three stops later: Gare du Nord. A mad dash from the second subterranean level all the way to the Eurostar departure hall in the mezzanine ensues, a race towards the finished line just ahead of the broom wagon. Good thing I've done this before and don't have to look left or right. We scramble up escalators and wave at uniformed staff in the distance, triggering a response of shrill encouragement: "Une minute", the check-in lady calls, "une minute". We get our tickets stamped, our passports scanned and our luggage checked, passing a few less able travelers in the process. My mom looks at me with the elation of a challenge squashed and pants: "We're not the last ones!"
Indeed, as we sink into our seats there are still two ticks on the clock. For a moment I wonder where I could have used them better. Maybe I should have enjoyed my crème brûlée with more abandon? On the other hand, I've probably pushed luck hard enough already. My mom, still gasping from the unexpected steeplechase, will never forget what it means to travel with her son. Missing the train wouldn't have improved the experience.
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