Paris with Kids

An hour or so later, inside the Grevin, the signs of revolt were gone, and my son again asked to borrow my camera. Wax, you know, can do that.

I have been in other wax museums, but what distinguishes the Grevin is its setting -- a palatial manse with rococo vaulted ceilings and columns and a 200-seat Italianate theater that's a national historic monument.

The first room you enter is a round, ornate hall of mirrors and lights with figures of Oriental beauties, called the Palais des Mirages. Constructed for Paris's World's Fair of 1900, the hall is like the inside of a giant kaleidoscope.

Special effects -- so 100 years ago, but special nonetheless.

The Grevin may not be the world's most risque or up-to-the-minute wax museum (an exhibit titled "Ideal Concert" would fit in a natural history museum: Jimi Hendrix, Ray Charles, Phil Collins and Louis Armstrong). But the Grevin is a beautiful, well-conceived place and is less cheesy than most examples of the genre. There is no Brad Pitt with a strokable silicon chest, no pole-dancing Britney Spears (both at Madame Tussaud's in London). What's more, among houses of wax, it is certainly the most French, which is sort of the point after you've come this far.

France's rich and bloody history is recounted on elaborate sets and figures -- from the Inquisition to the burning of Joan of Arc, and from the court of Louis XIV to the Reign of Terror. French culture is represented by interesting sets and scores of figures from Rodin to Bardot to the teen idol you've probably never heard of, Lorie.

For some reason I can't explain, my son's most lasting memory was of a lineup of wax figures he called "the politicians" -- eight dark-suited heads of state flanking a slightly younger-looking Jacques Chirac. Russia's Vladimir Putin bore an uncanny resemblance to himself, we all agreed, while "George Bush Jr." resembled a Dodge sales manager I once encountered in Mesquite, Tex.

After three days of Paris on his level -- including periodic stops to check out the goods at gaming stores -- my son began to view Paris and the idea of a family vacation differently than he had before.

Leaving the Grevin, my wife wanted to do some sightseeing at the Madeleine church behind its Greek temple facade. He followed with not a word of complaint. Then I led us into Lavinia, a modern palace near La Madeleine dedicated to one of my son's least favorite things: wine.

Still no protests. Down in the sleek glassed-in cellar of older vintages, my son zeroed in on a bottle of Mouton Rothschild 1945, reposing in a glass case. He fell backward when he saw the five-figure price tag, which, he observed, could have been a window sticker for an automobile. That was something he has never stopped talking about -- the wine that cost more than a small Renault. We wasted the better part of an hour in there, without a single whine.

On leaving, my son let out about the last thing I'd expected to hear from him.

"Actually," he said, "that's quite impressive."

Robert V. Camuto last wrote for travel about Cezanne's Mont Ste. Victoire.