Paris: Not What it Used to Be

I'll see your romantic moonlit strolls, ambient accordion music, and charming street mimes and raise you...

...a bountiful, chaotic street market, dodging motorcycles and honking Renaults with our bikes (sans helmets) on busy city streets, and enough baguettes to build another tower.

From the moment we arrived at Gare du Nord (via Eurostar from London), Paris' essence smacked us in the face: the humidity, from a week of endless rains and the Seine eclipsing its banks; the intensity and urgency of the transit hub; the sour smell of urban life. Like any highly-populated cosmopolitan city, there were well-heeled professionals, transients, and a wonderfully multi-ethnic stew of humanity, each piece going about its business at considerable speed. Sophia immediately recognized that she had escaped her comfort zone.

Triomph-ant Parents

As I vigilantly scanned my surroundings inside and outside the train station ("See Something Say Something"...right?) it occurred to me that I couldn't ignore last November's coordinated terrorist attacks at six different locales across Paris and its suburbs. While I relished my Clark Griswold-ian role of We're gonna have so much fuckin' fun we're gonna need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles! I understood, too, that the Paris we would come to know was not the mythical city my kids had imagined it would be.

Our spacious 5th floor flat, with its narrow, winding stairwell, was located in an alleyway in a melting pot neighborhood, with storefront signage in many languages beside French and comprising mostly Middle Eastern and East Asian populations. This was far from Lilly-White Fort Collins. But if I've learned anything from all my years of travel, it's that discomfort is the greatest catalyst of personal growth—if you let it be.

Rue Denoyez, home

Day One led us via Metro and on foot to hilly, serpentine Montmartre and the iconic Sacré-Coeur church. With its ornate architecture and sweeping views overlooking the hazy cityscape, it was a perfect jumping-off point for our visit. We gawked at l'Arc de Triomphe and walked down the Champs Elysées. We dined on duck and beef tartare and pasta and ridiculously delicious bread at a wonderful (yet smoky) outdoor café. Our fear had begun to dissipate. We were going to be okay.

Louvre girls

By day two, we had shed even more of our unease, in spite of a 90-minute delay brought on by what we'll call "impaired key-lock association" and "the art of French detective work". (Ask me about the story later.) We finally made our way to that famous wrought iron tower in the 7e arrondissement, enduring silliness instigated by Tanya and Ella's Fitbit step competitions under sunny skies and inside Metro stations. The Eiffel Tower is everything it is supposed to be: the views, the feeling, the tourists. Very worth it.

Much of the remainder of our stay in Paris involved renting bikes, cruising past tourist sites and crossing the Seine's bridges, seeing Ms. Lisa at the Louvre, and a fantastically delicious picnic in a park in the shadow of Notre Dame cathedral on Ile de la Cité. It also included stops for souvenirs and gifts, and, naturally, meats and cheeses and sandwiches and beverages and macarons and that quintessentially Parisian delicacy, secondhand smoke.

Our awesome picnic supplies. Yum!!

On our second night, Sophia and I stopped by the bustling Tunisian bakery down the street for a pastry. I watched her thoughtful face as she tried to pick out just the right dessert from behind the glass, listening intently to the lively Arabic chatter, slightly concerned. We held hands and I reassured her that we were okay. These were all regular people like us. Most people, no matter where they live, I said, are NOT terrorists.

I found out while writing this post that our fantastic apartment was actually less than 1 kilometer from one of the bars targeted in the November attacks, and about 2 km from the Bataclan theatre. Tanya said: "I'm glad I didn't know that before." Honestly, so am I.

Yet we repeatedly walked the same streets alongside so many people who had surely been closer than we were to the terror, and made it; we purchased baguettes and patisseries and café-au-laits from the same peaceful vendors who feared for their own safety on that November night, yet would never think of perpetrating such an act themselves. We slept soundly for three nights in an urban, gritty and polyglot enclave without incident. If anything, we were buoyed by the fact that the vast majority of us strive for the same things: love, comfort, and peace.

Yes, terrorism is a real fear these days, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't uncomfortable sojourning in Europe knowing what I know. But as I reflect now on our life-changing holiday, I choose to cling to a different memory:

On our last night in Paris after a busy day of touring, walking back to our apartment in the early evening, the balding, gregarious proprietor of the quaint Turkish café 10 steps from our front door ran up to my 10-year-old, baying "Sophia! Sophia! Ma belle Sophia!" and eager to give her a hug. He had remembered her from our 30-minute sit down there for fries and cokes the previous afternoon. At that moment, it wasn't her lightning smile that made me happiest, it was that she reciprocated the man's heartfelt embrace, and happily let go of my hand to do it.