one way of telling

Many people have written about traveling with relatives. I have added to the pile in disconnected bits and bobs in posts every now and then, mostly in the form of reminiscences, but I haven't written much about traveling with my mom.

This weekend, we were in Paris. I've been there a good half-dozen times. For her, it was a first. It was also a birthday present, and I had lined up attractions she would want to visit, mostly places I had seen before – not because I've seen it all but because the things I've seen are the only ones I know and can find without a map, places like the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Champs Elysées, Notre Dame and St. Germain des Prés.

Saturday, we climbed up to Sacré Cœur, a place best avoided but you have to see it once. The church is like a huge white turtle. Hardly anyone bothers to enter. Hardly anyone even sees it, faces pointing towards town, though the view is much worse than from the Eiffel Tower, except you can see the Eiffel Tower. On the stairs at the feet of the church sit hordes of exchange students and the international gap-year jet set, overdosing on drinks and noise and asking their neighbors to remind them once more whether they're in Barcelona or in Rome. It all looks and feels the same.

To the left of Sacré Cœur is the Place du Tertre, the habitat of limners of the quick pencil that whip up portraits nearly as aggressively as they whip up business. Around the action are restaurants with menus in many languages and food that's bad in all of them. We were quick to climb back down to the Boulevard de Rochechouart, ready to call it a night I thought, but my mom had other ideas.

"Can we go to Pigalle?" she asked, and all of a sudden we were in uncharted waters. I had a vague idea in my mind that Pigalle was just down the road, and that's where we went. The neighborhood became seedier as we progressed and singularly focused on entertainment of the anatomical and human biological sort. Neon Xs appeared everywhere and shops with toys and dress for the enhanced enjoyment of copulation. My mom was delighted at first but then a bit disappointed. The window displays and signs were too tame by today's standards, she thought.

And indeed, Boulevard de Clichy looked stricken, punched in the gut by free porn on the internet. While many Xs still glowed in orange and red, and adult-only baths and live shows promised excitement beyond the power of a screen, other letters had gone dark. The OL ES Pigalle missed an F and an I. The Red Mill (how unenticing the name sounds translated) had a line at the entrance so long it needed to be chopped into bits to prevent visitors from waiting in the face of people eating in streetside restaurants, but other than that, the mood was subdued. The only two hookers we saw were crouching in a doorway as if in hiding.

Twenty minutes later we were back at our hotel (the New Hotel Lafayette, which I'm happy to advertise here for its comfort, quiet and good value). Sunday was upon us, but that's something for another post because the tables will be turned. It won't be traveling with my mom anymore but she with her son, an entirely different story.