I caught my parents at a weak moment. The combination of a $338 round-trip weekend winter fare to Paris–less than a trip to L.A.–and a 50th wedding anniversary was too seductive to pass up. Add a strong exchange rate (6.85 francs to the dollar) and how could they resist?
But they’re also wary of foreign travel and, like most people their age (which, if I revealed, I’d be disowned), they’re not up to walking long distances. So I was shocked when my father said, “Let’s do it.”
It wasn’t the bargain or even a fervent desire to see Paris that triggered such rare spontaneity as much as the notion of spending five uninterrupted days together. For the first time in almost three decades, I could shed my competing roles of wife, mother, employee and just be a daughter–a prospect that I found equally delicious.
Now comes the difficult part: How to take this intoxicating city–hell for motorists, but heaven for walkers–and make it accessible to people who never park more than six inches from the front door? Given our brief stay (four nights in Paris) and snail’s pace, could I deliver enough to make the trip worthwhile?
It’s a challenge that confronts an increasing number of Americans. One in five has a disability–a ratio that is expected to grow with the aging of the Baby Boomers, who, even with AARP cards in hand, won’t settle for casino boats and bus charters to Branson, Mo.
OK, so we wouldn’t stroll the grand boulevards and amble through lovely arcades and hidden courtyards, as I had in the past. However, with a bit of planning (and more cash), we carved out some memories of our own. A recap:
Thursday
Three weeks after my proposal–and some tense moments over procuring passports–we are on our way from O’Hare. My folks, Florence and George Miller, are so pumped that, when the meal arrives, they even rave about the airline chicken breast. Wait till they get a crusty baguette.
Friday
After a sleepless night, we arrive at 7 a.m., just in time for morning rush hour from De Gaulle into the city means a whopping $60 cab ride that has my parents exchanging glances that seem to say, “what did she get us into?” Jet lag is replaced by sheer terror, as our driver darts across six lanes of traffic around the Arc de Triomphe to our hotel on the Right Bank.
When it comes to hotels–especially in pricey cities like Paris–I normally follow a no-frills philosophy: Choose somewhere spartan, but well-located. (In fact, on my last trip here a decade ago, the room was so cramped that the only way to get from one side to the other was to walk over the bed.) Better, my reasoning goes, to spend precious resources on memorable meals, theater and shopping than on a room you’re never in.
But with elders, skimping on accommodations is the wrong place to economize. Not only do you spend more time in your room, but the amenities will prove to be invaluable.
We check into Sofitel Arc de Triomphe ($370, including breakfast, for a room for all three of us), which turns out be the key to our success. The room was not only beautifully appointed, but more spacious than many Parisian apartments. The concierge cheerfully made dinner reservations and inquired about special dietary requests (my high school French did not include words like “cholesterol”), and the doorman could always locate a cab even in a driving rainstorm.
Lodging isn’t the only area that requires digging deeper into your pocket. Dining in our high-rent district was going to be more expensive than hiking to some off-the-beaten track cafe. Taxis, too, have a way of adding up (the Metro–France’s superb subway system–requires too much walking to be an option).
I had stressed the importance of staying awake, to no avail. They succumb to the pull of sleep, and I fear that we’ve just blown the first day. However, a two-hour nap is all it takes to get recharged. Rule No. 1: Sometimes you just deviate from the plan.
Newly refreshed, we board a city tour bus, a great way to get the lay of the land. They are awed by the massive scale of the buildings and the seamless architecture that makes the city looks as if it’s been here forever, which is precisely the point.
Afterwards, we eat somewhere on the Champs Elysees. It’s expensive for humble fare (omelets, soup), but the location is good, as is the people-watching–a steady stream of Prada-toting, Evian-swilling, cell-phone talking Parisians. “Where are all the older folks?” my mom asks.
More remarkable than either the food or the scenery is the fact that–even in this tourist haven–the waiters are much nicer than when I made my first trip in the mid-1980s. Back then, a request for water was met with a sneer. Today, it brings “no problem.” We encountered the same attitude everywhere–from the locals who obligingly snapped our photo to one sales clerk on the tony Rue St. Honore who not only gave me directions, but actually walked out of the boutique to make sure I knew my gauche from my droite.
Why the attitude adjustment? Some people chalk it up to a new generation of French, others the importance of tourism ($110 billion annually) and the U.S.’ cultural export of everything from Lance Armstrong to “Nick at Nite.” Whatever the reason, the French are welcoming Americans like never before.
Saturday
They’re raring to go after a good night’s sleep and a sumptuous breakfast of smoked salmon, eggs, cereal, fresh fruit and, of course, a dazzling assortment of breads and pastries. Still, I’m acutely aware that energy is a precious commodity that must be used wisely. Of the city’s 145 museums, the Musee D’Orsay–specifically, its Impressionist collection–tops the list.
The imposing former train station–which sits squarely on the Left Bank–causes concern. No problem. Wheelchairs and elevators make this a piece of cake. There’s plenty of other creature comforts, from the gilded dining room to the spacious galleries, where light streaming through the glass roof bathes every Monet and Renoir in a golden glow.
After four hours of culture, my mother is up for a little shopping, so we head by taxi to Au Bon Marche, one of the city’s upscale department stores, where I am thrilled to find Wolford tights for $23–half the price of home. Dad dozes in a strategically placed chair, but wakes up for the trek to the market–across the street from the main store and roughly the size of two football fields. The cheeses, breads, chocolates (with samples, no less) eclipse anything I’ve ever seen–including Harrods vaunted food halls. However, while the French have it all over us in the aesthetics department, I miss the efficiency of the American supermarket when I stand in line for a half hour with a single eclair.
At a nearby cafe, we cool our heels for two hours because our dinner reservation is not until 7 p.m., the earliest many French restaurants open, but a tough sell for the “early-bird special” crowd.
The meal at Chez Maitre Paul, in the Latin Quarter, is well worth the wait. We feast on pan-seared Dover sole and chicken with morel mushrooms in a cream sauce that shouts “Sop me up.” My father, a former restaurateur is transfixed by how the staff takes pride in their tasks, whether it’s tossing a salad or deboning the fish. Now, if he could only get refills on coffee . . .
Sunday
Our first obstacle: Sainte-Chapelle, 13th Century gothic chapel tucked in a courtyard of the Palais de Justice on Ile de la Cite. The big draw here is the second-tier windows–the largest expanse of stained glass in the world. Access is only by a precarious winding staircase, so they retreat. How can I describe to them the vibrant hues, so gloriously backlit by the sun? I don’t even try.
We stroll over to the Seine and watch the bateaux mouches (riverboats), before heading over to the Marais district, where the Jewish quarter is located. There, we find our way to Jo Goldenberg, the famous hole-in-the-wall kosher deli. Aside from the incongruity of being serenaded by strolling violinists, the food is mediocre and the service is worse–proof that the brusqueness of deli countermen is universal.
Navigating the narrow streets, the next stop on the cultural agenda is the Museum of the Art and History of Judaism, which opened about 18 months ago. The collection of art and artifacts presents the Jewish experience on a very human scale, starting with tombstones from the Middle Ages and ending on the eve of the Holocaust. A wall is etched with names of 13 residents who were rousted from this very building and sent to their deaths.
Monday
The day’s itinerary is complicated by a driving rain (hilly Montmartre is out) and the fact that many museums are closed on Mondays. (The Louvre–which closes on Tuesdays–is rejected because of its size.) So we seek refuge in Notre Dame.
Once inside, though, it satisfies all criteria: Dry, flat and chockablock of art, architecture and history, much of which can be enjoyed from the comfort of a seat. (Fresh from our Sainte-Chapelle experience we didn’t even try for the same view as Quasimodo’s, which can be had for a few extra francs.)
From there, we head to the Eiffel Tower, fresh from its boffo Millennium performance. I had booked a lunch reservation several weeks earlier at Jules Verne, the landmark’s famous restaurant. As a special glass-enclosed elevator whisks us 400 feet up, I think that this will be–literally and figuratively–the high point of our trip.
But while the panorama is sublime, the rest of the experience leaves much to be desired. The three-course fixed price lunch ($44) was touted as a great bargain–and if you look at the a la carte dinner menu, where entrees alone are in the $35 to $50 range, that’s probably true. But we are unable to enjoy a single morsel–not the silky lobster bisque, the sauteed veal or the prawns–because our table is inches away from a chain smoker.
No amount of dirty looks stop her from lighting up, and our waiter can do little to remedy the situation. Even when dessert arrives–a platter of lovely miniature pastries, each arranged like a still life–we are still enveloped in a cigarette-induced fog. Would it trample on Gallic pride to have a no-smoking section?
Tuesday
We have just a few hours before our flight–enough time for one last breakfast and a quick stop at Laduree, the elegant pastry shop, to bring back some of the trademark macaroons, raisin-filled brioche and croissants that many consider to be the lightest, fluffiest and most multi-layered in all of Paris.
As we head home, I’m wistful. Should we have attempted the Louvre? Why didn’t we go by the Eiffel Tower when it was illuminated? We never made it to the Pompidou, the Opera or Montmartre, either. But I also know that Paris is such a feast for the senses that I could have accompanied two marathon runners and not done it all.
But my parents had not a twinge of regret. Since they never expected to be here, whatever they could soak up was pure gravy. “I can’t believe all the art. . . . Every square inch, they stick a statue!” my mother said, with the enthusiasm of a schoolgirl.
“I thought it would have the same franchises and look the same as everywhere else,” marveled my dad as we passed the ornately gilded gates of the Palais de Justice. This from a man whose mantra has always been “See America First.”
But no museum or landmark could match the gift of time together; of sharing something you love with people you love. In the end, I saw less, but savored more.
MAKING IT EASIER IN PARIS
Traveling with seniors takes a bit of planning and a can-do spirit. Some tips:
– You don’t have to belong to a tour to get the benefit of a museum guide. Some museums organize guided visits for groups with mobility (as well as other) impairments and if you can schedule your visit accordingly, you can usually tag along. And, since the pace is geared to this specific population, your elders won’t have to worry that they’re holding back others.
– Always calculate the fatigue factor. While younger folks may start on the first floor of a museum and work their way up, with seniors it is crucial to approach your visit by interests, not geography.
– Do your homework. Some sources for traveling with impairments include: Access to Travel Magazine (518-439-4146). Disability Net was very helpful for finding out about stairs and other obstacles at public sites (www.disabilitynet.co.uk/info/access/guides/paris). Or contact the French Government Tourist Office, 676 N. Michigan Ave., Suite 3360, Chicago, IL 60611. Phone inquiries: call France on Call, 410-286-8310. Web site is www.francetourism.com.
– Other resources worth noting: “Paris Walking Guide” (Just Marvelous, $7) by Jeanne Oelerich, proved to be invaluable because everything is organized by proximity, which helped cut down on unneccessary back-tracking and expensive taxis. It is available at most bookstores or at www.walkinguides.com.
Also, “A Food Lover’s Guide to Paris” by Patricia Wells (Workman Publishing, $16.95). Rabbit in mustard sauce and sweetbreads in gravy may be regional specialties, but your folks may prefer that you save the authenticity for the croissants. Wells makes sure there are no culinary surprises.
– Finally, when your Mom suggests that you bring a sweater (Kleenex, umbrella…), it doesn’t matter that you’re pushing 50. To paraphrase Nike, just do it. (I did, however, draw the line at a plastic rain bonnet.)
— Bonnie Miller Rubin
