Tag Archives: Paris

Friday fact or fiction: How to wear shoes in Paris…

It’s “Friday Fact or Fiction”,  where I write a little something for the weekend for you to read, be it fact or, um, fiction. This week, it’s ‘fact’, with another of my travel articles for The Guardian newspaper.

Paris – the city of love and sore feet…

‘Shoes?’ says hubbie. ‘But we’re off to Paris. The city of love,’ he cried. ‘Look, Mister,’ I say.’ If we’re going to wander around Paris, love or not, I’m going to require suitable footwear.’

And with that, grateful that we weren’t flying pay-as-you-carry, we set off on our 4-day, 10th anniversary break to Paris. With the weather predicted 24-7 sunshine, we decided to see the city by foot. Having done the tourist sights 5 years before, this time we wanted to potter through the side streets of Paris thankful that: a) we had no kids to entertain; and b) we had no bunions (yet).

Arriving at 4-star Les Jardins du Marais, we high-fived each other when we saw our room (i.e. large – Parisian hotel rooms are notoriously petite). Having jumped on the huge bed and checked out the marbled bathroom, I took one whiff of the heat from the window, opted for Birkenstocks (comfort!) and off we set. Walking around the district of Marais was bliss. A warren of cafes, high-end shops and museums, it was once the place of the Royal residence and is now, as we discovered while on our third cafe noir of the day, the centre of the Parisian gay scene. Oh yes, for the first time since parenthood, we felt hip. Donning our shades, we crossed the Seine into the Latin Quarter, bustling with Sorbonne students and tortured artist types, where we stopped for a petite bierre followed by some second-hand French book purchasing. ‘But you can’t speak French,’ I said to hubbie. Handing the man the Euros, he said, ‘They’ll look good on the coffee table.’ Hmmm, good point. We ended the day with swollen ankles and tapas at a Spanish restaurant, Caves Saint Gilles, frequented by locals where the chef was grumpy, the food cheap but good, and not a Laboutin in sight.

The next three days were a sun-soaked meander of walking and Metro rides. We ambled through the expensive streets of St.Germain (think Gucci, Armani), had our breath taken away in the Opera district (by two things: one, the view of the Opera National as you come out of the metro station – wow; and two, coffees at 9 Euros a pop in the Cafe de la Paix.), wandered the Champs Elysees by night (busy but exhilarating), gawped at the Pompidou centre, and relaxed in the enchanting Jardin de Luxembourg. Our anniversary meal (pre-booked on-line) was at Le Petit Bordelais, a restaurant run by Michelin-starred, and jolly friendly, Phillipe Penecote (choose the ‘Degustation’ menu with wine – yum). My pearl shoe clips fell off on the walk back, but with the Eiffel tower lit up behind us, the last scent of summer in the night air – and French wine in my system – it didn’t matter. I turned and gave hubbie a kiss. ‘What was that for?’ he asked. I linked his arm. ‘The city of love, right?’ He grinned. ‘Shall we head back?’ I nodded. ‘Please. My feet are killing me.’

Copyright © Nikki Owen 2012

Thanks for reading!  Have a lovely weekend.

**Look out for  my “Media Monday” post on, um, Monday. A short, sharp snippet on the latest writing & publishing news…**

Friday Fact or Fiction: My short-listed Guardian travel article

It’s “Friday Fact or Fiction”,  where I write a little something for the weekend for you to read, be it fact or, um, fiction. This week, it’s ‘fact’, with an article I wrote for The Guardian newspaper which was short-listed for their travel writing competition…

 

It’s all sick bags and champagne on the road to Disneyland, Paris…

Holiday checklist: 4-year old throwing up in a plastic bag whilst sat-navigating the M25? Yup.  4am start? Check. High School Musical soundtrack on loop? Affirmative.  We were off – two shattered parents, two non-shattered 6 and 4 year olds- to France chez Eurocamp and a static caravan, a fortnight’s hols stretching ahead of us like a string of garlic. Our destination: 90km from Paris; close enough to Disneyland for the kids, and to the Champagne houses for the grown-ups; far enough away from work (no Blackberry), bad weather (please, no) and, hold your breath, the telly.

There is something quite alien about living in what is essentially an oversized tin can for two weeks. Dishwasher? Nope. Microwave? Ditto. Luxurious bath? Dream on. But with 4 pools to hand, pedalos, lake, kids crèche and, hurrah, babysitting, things began to feel more familiar. Relaxing though was another matter. ‘Are you chilled out yet?’ my husband would ask on our morning meander to the on-site bakery (oh the smell!) for our ‘see-how-much-we-can-eat-this-time’ run to pick up croissants, fresh baguettes, pain au chocolats. ‘I feel sick now.’ Me. ‘Mum’s letting us have chocolate for breakfast!’ Kids. ‘I just can’t relax.’ Husband. And so that night, using the girls’ felt tips, we drew up a timetable – chilling out time included.

After a day’s blissful me-time at the onsite spa (a massage, heaven!), first up on the chart was Paris. We booked a round-trip coach, thus avoiding hubbie driving around the Arc du Triumph swearing at French car-owners. Perfect. Actually, not quite. Because, Paris is, well, quite grown up. ‘It’s all very fancy,’ declared our six-year old, ‘but it’s boring for kids.’ Cue deep breaths. We thought trips on undergrounds would bag it for them, counting steps up the Eifel Tower ditto, but no.  Hallelujah that Disneyland Paris was a better hit, the plan to stick to one park and get there early meaning minimum queuing. Phew. The eldest cried on the Small World boats: ‘I’m so happy,’ she sighed, and the Buzz Light Year ride was a family favourite. ‘Shoot Zurg!’ yelled husband. The night parade was stunning, fireworks too. The verdict? Worth it.  But, the surprise holiday hit was a tour of the Champagne region. Mummy, as the non-driver, was happy. ‘Moi? Five glasses?’ I protested. ‘You had mine,’ came the reply.  Ah. Good point. The kids were wowed by the panoramic grapevine fields; the electric train ride in the Mercier cellars was fun;  and – as we’d arrived lunch hour (oops)-  in the time we had to wait we found a good, full-of-locals restaurant that served food other than ‘frites’. The only problem? My husband selecting calf’s tongue thinking it might be veal. ‘Oh my god,’ he said half retching. ‘It feels rough!’ I glanced up. He’d gone white.

Mercifully, despite nightmares of bloated tongue, we came back relaxed, void of sickness or M25 traffic jams.  Would we go back? Yup. Already booked.  Now, where are those felt tips?

Copyright © Nikki Owen 2012

Thanks for reading!  In next Friday’s ‘Fact or Fiction’ it’s the first part of my new short-story ‘The Quiet Life of Megan Quinn.’  Have a lovely weekend.

**Look out for  my “Media Monday” post on, um, Monday. A short, sharp snippet on the latest writing & publishing news…**