Eurotrip with Mom - Paris

We settled into our big comfy seats on the train, our luggage carefully stored and AWAY FROM US (I grew to hate my luggage as the trip progressed), with complimentary copies of The Times, The Daily Mail and Marie Clare (in French, but I'll take what I can get). We enjoyed a lunch of flounder in a leek and cheese sauce and a slice of double chocolate cheesecake. We had just entered the Chunnel and my mom announced she was getting up to go to the bathroom, and I was full and sleepy so I announced that I was taking a nap. She left, and I pulled my coat over my head and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke however many hours and minutes later, with the conductor announcing we had arrived in Paris. My mom's seat was empty. I watched as my fellow passengers filed off the train, one by one, until I was alone with the luggage attendant. She looked at me expectantly. I looked around expectantly. Give me a little credit in that I didn't start panicking right away. She was probably in the bathroom, I reasoned. Again? But this is my mom. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Enough with the bathroom business. It was obvious that she had been kidnapped by traffickers targeting... moms?

Suddenly she appeared through another compartment. I breathed a sigh of relief. "I was getting worried! Come on, we have to go." And my mom's like, "Where? We're not in Paris yet." And even though I KNEW we were in Paris, there's always that question of doubt. Like when someone tells you that Jude Law is behind you, giving you a 'come hither' look, and inwardly you KNOW that Jude Law is not behind you and certainly not giving you A Look, but you want to believe it so you look anyway. Kind of like that? I turned to the luggage attendant and was like, 'We're in Paris...?' And she's like, "Yes, we're in Paris" and I knooooow she wanted to roll her eyes and point to the empty train as obvious proof that we had arrived at our destination, but she had more self-control than me.

So I was in a bad mood now, trying not to be, but grumbling at my mom for aging me prematurely and RUNNING OFF LIKE THAT - and she was all, "My back hurt. I was standing up in the baggage cart behind us. I couldn't hear the announcement." And I wanted to shriek, "We were in FIRST CLASS and you stood in the BAGGAGE CART", but I resisted.

We dragged our two massive suitcases plus one carry-on apiece to the taxi dock, where some French schmuck tried to get us to ride in a limo to our hotel for NINETY-FIVE EUROS. We might be blonde and we might be Americans, but we're not (that) stupid. We made it to our hotel and took the world's smallest lift up to our room.

This is where it all gets fuzzy. Our time in Paris, I mean. I remember the next morning that we slept in until 1:30 and the maids had knocked on our door twice by that time. I remember a lot of churches - Notre Dame, San-Chappelle, St. Genevieve, St. Sulpice. I remember going to the Louvre, the Arc d'Triomphe, the Champs-Elysees. Like many kids remember their first date or their first time driving, I will remember my mother discovering Starbucks.

I didn't realize until then that maybe the Starbucks stop in London had been a mistake. She had never been to Starbucks before, but one of her friends had made her try a chai tea latte before. It's like crack. We ordered Starbucks at least twice a day. Every time my mom had to go to the bathroom (which is, frankly, every hour on the dot - she has no bladder control), she insisted we go to Starbucks because they had the only bathrooms she trusted to be clean. Some of the Starbucks had keypads on the outside of the door where you had to type in a code found on the bottom of your receipt. This necessitated another chai tea latte purchase. I told her that when people asked her how Paris' famous coffeeshops and pattisseries were, and she had to confess that STARBUCKS WAS GOOD!, I would be taking no responsibility. God knows I tried.

Speaking of God, I also told her one morning over breakfast in our hotel that I didn't believe in God anymore. I have since changed my position on this (I think). She took it better than I EVER thought my mom would take such a statement, probably because she didn't think I was serious. Maybe not the best conversation to have three days before Christmas, but hey, it came up.

It was freezing in Paris. On most days I wore a tanktop under a microfiber turtleneck under a coat and a pair of tights under my jeans. The wind went right through me, probably because it was about 20 degrees and gusting. My mother, of course, was perfectly content, even taking off her jacket at times to illustrate just how nice it was outside. On one of our first days there, she looked at me seriously and said, "Ashley, I think you must have anemia, because you can't possibly be THAT cold." And I was like, "It's winter, Mom!" And she's like, "I know, and I'm so glad. I could never come here in any other season because it would just be too warm." We compromised by buying me a hat.

Last stop of the journey TBC ... in Rome!