Paris with Kids

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The next day, before setting out, I began thinking about how far my son's little legs were going to take him. Although Paris is one of the great walking cities, I decided to opt for the Batobus, a boat that plies the Seine, making eight stops along the way. There's none of the loudspeaker narration that can mar a trip on the traditional bateaux-mouches , and it's a great way to combine getting somewhere with a leisurely ride on the river. You buy a ticket that permits you to get on and off all day. For us, though, the boat itself became the focal point. We just sat back, pointing to Notre Dame as it sailed past, the Eiffel Tower again, the Musee d'Orsay. (An old train station! Imagine that! I figured that although I wasn't going to attempt any museums this visit, I could at least lay the groundwork for future visits.)

We both wanted to do more than we had time or energy for -- it seems that the tourist version of "eyes-bigger-than-stomach" syndrome is passed on genetically. We took to repairing to cafes for our afternoon gouter (snack -- literally, a taste), armed with that week's copy of the wonderfully comprehensive Pariscope listings guide and a highlighter. Martin would screw up his face with great concentration as I explained the grand guignol marionette tradition, and that practically every Parisian park has a marionette theater. But then there was the circus to consider. And wait, another circus. And Parc de la Villette, with its science and music museums. And the barge up the Canal St. Martin. Not to mention the famous tea room Laduree, whose equally famous macaroon cookies come in flavors as different as pistachio and rose water.

We chose the Luxembourg Gardens' marionette version of "The Three Little Pigs" ("You mean 'Les Trois Petits Cochons' means exactly the same thing?"), only to get caught in a drenching summer rain midway between the Metro and the park. Although soaked to the bone, Martin seemed to enjoy the show, while I focused on eavesdropping on the French kids and their mothers and nannies and grandmas (much to my discouragement, I couldn't make out a word of kiddie French).

It was only after the curtain came down that we were in for another of those travel epiphanies. We were hurrying out of the park -- on our way, I thought, to the hotel and dry clothes -- when Martin spied a playground, this one bigger and better than the one at Parc Monceau. I wasn't terribly interested, and was even less so when I saw that they had the temerity to charge admission. The park was fenced in, with a little ticket office and a turnstile to keep nonpaying interlopers out. But I eventually forked over a few euros, and it was a very good thing I did. The inventiveness and imagination that went into creating this play equipment were astounding.

There was the standard playground array -- climbing equipment, train, sandbox -- but so much more. Martin became mesmerized by one thing that was more like a ride than a regulation playground item. He would climb a little set of steps onto a platform, pull a heavy vertical pole into place, mount it and, either sitting or standing, push off and the pole would whoosh along its circular track. And then again, and again. We were there so long I was able to brush up on my rusty French well enough to exchange pleasantries with one sweet little girl's equally sweet grandpa.

Although the casual cafes that dot every Parisian street are great kid-food options, that night an in-room picnic suited our low energy level. So we got ourselves over to the storied Place de la Madeleine -- home to the Church of the Madeleine but, more importantly at dinnertime, also to Fauchon and Hediard, fancy food stores par excellence. Fauchon provided us with a bizarre collection of picnic fare (Martin opted for sushi -- of course, what else do you eat on your first trip to Paris?), and we snagged a dozen mini-macaroons next door at Laduree. Bliss in a box.

The next day, we took the Metro out to Parc de la Villette, which in summer shows films on a large outdoor screen and hosts concerts and a plethora of other activities. Our idea had been to visit both the music and the science museums, but the Cite des Sciences contains a special mini-museum for younger kids, so we got no farther than that.

Like the Luxembourg Gardens playground, the science museum was a model of good design and intelligent thinking about how to engage kids. Mine pulled every lever, turned every crank, gazed through every peephole and often went back to do it all again. Afterward, we walked along the Canal St. Martin, making friends with a Russian girl and her mother. The kids found a slide in a tiny playground by the river, and when the time came to say goodbye, Martin couldn't understand why he was never going to see her again. It was his first taste of the bittersweet pleasures of travel: 20 minutes, eight hours, that's it, you're gone. I suppose they could have exchanged e-mail addresses.

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By the time of our next two visits, a year or so later, our lives had taken a surprising turn: We'd moved to France -- although, sadly, not to Paris.

Now, when I eavesdrop on kids' conversations, I can actually make out a bit of what they are saying. Martin has learned how to say gouter like a pro, and the all-important fact that every French child's birthright is a fresh pain au chocolat at 3 or 4 in the afternoon.