Paris - The bowl of noodles cost us about R75. It was an act of complete desperation.
We had made the mistake of taking three children, including a baby, to Paris. On day three in France, the mistake – like our seven-year-old’s escalating fever – had settled into our consciousness.
The nuances of French baby food had not impressed our 15 month old, and so he hadn’t eaten properly since we’d landed at Charles de Gaulle 72 hours earlier.
By the time we sat down in the dark corner right at the back of the Asian takeaway joint, our sense of adventure had already lost a wheel. That was much like the pram, which would need a R1 000 visit to a hardware store after our 10 year old let it go and it bolted head-on into a wall.
It was a bit like watching a car crash, which is probably the only thing that didn’t happen.
We tried to quietly manage the hungry chaos around the R75 bakkie of noodles – some of which had, yes, landed on the table – but it still got us thrown out of the takeaway joint. It was like a Tintin book without the translation. None was needed. Asian man with shiny side-parting behind the counter draws finger across throat. We gather sticky belongings, put heart in mouth and leave. Simple.
Outside, a woman screamed, but fortunately not at us. Just a mouse leaping out from behind a dustbin.
How we longed for Joburg by day three. How we longed for our staples: hot pap and gravy, and Woolies yoghurt. How we longed for one warm smile from one person behind a counter.
Unlike Paris, where everyone seems to be 29, single and laughing lightly over cocktails at pavement bars, Joburg understands children.
It has them tied warmly in towels and blankets on its back. It hoists them on to its shoulders, steering with delight on ears above the crowds. It takes them in its arms and kisses them right on the lips. Its parks, neglected and humble as some may be, are full of ordinary joy.
Paris promises you parks, and gives you dozens, but you’re not allowed on the grass. If there is grass, it’s often cordoned off, just there to admire like the hallucinogenic rush of tulips and whispering daffodils. There are only climbing frames and R30 rocking horses, and carousels that cost about R70 for a two-minute spin.
There are no swings, no roundabouts and only the occasional slide, and everything is rooted coldly in AstroTurf or concrete.
Like the stately Parisian women, whose spiky collarbones jut dangerously out of their Sonia Rykiel knitwear, they look lovely, but there’s no tenderness.
You think: happy city adventure, lost in beauty and culture with your young family. You do your prep, imagining the excitement of pointing at gargoyles and chimera on the Notre Dame and gazing up through the mighty legs of the looming Eiffel Tower.
You get: ill-tempered guard at the Louvre telling you it’s forbidden to let your baby out of the pram or drink their bottle. So you turn rebellious and find a hidden corner of the Egyptian antiquities section where you can change a nappy and have a cuddle.
It was only at full moon in the dazzling grasp of Sacre Coeur that any reason to go to Paris with children made sense.
Our seven year old wept in the pew as the nuns’ sweet, haunting voices trembled around the magnificent night-time altar. Our baby splashed himself liberally with holy water, and a kind guard allowed it to happen. We were gripped by the majesty.
But in Paris, unlike in Joburg, you are nothing more than one more meaningless soul swept into a teeming mass of tourists trying to extract some joie de vivre out of yet another over-priced pain de chocolat and yet another turnstile guarded by a soldier with a rifle.
Indeed, there’s no place like home. - The Star