Let Them Eat Bread

Thomas Jefferson reflected that Paris "is everyone's second home."

. . . Unless you are a clean-eating, gluten-free, Paleo hot mess.

In which case, Paris is like purgatory.

Because, really, the "City of Lights" is better named the "City of Bread."

Well, we just went. For the first time. And it was love at first bite.

Just magical.

I should clarify. It was not "romantic honeymoon" Audrey Hepburn-Carey Grant magical.

First, because there is nothing amorous about the Bob Stroller. 

Hauling that beast up escalators, down sloping staircases, between narrow Metro exits and through 18th century prisons just leaves you looking like Gerard Depardieu: Tired and sweaty.

Second, because the military-issued rucksack isn't a sexy accessory.  

Like a preppy pack mule- Jason was laden with three-month's worth of snacks, water bottles, kindles, cameras and a few pull-ups. Just in case we get stuck on a desert-island or someone pee-ed their pants. Or both.

Third. Because there is nothing romantic about the family bathroom. 

On at least three separate  occasions, we all occupied a "family water closet" together. 
As a family. 
All five of us. 
In public. 
Together.

So, it was as romantic as that.

Now, truly, Paris is fabulous. Effortlessly so. Which makes you love it and hate it all at once.

Exhibit A: The first day we arrived, it was pouring rain. Naturally, I outfitted each of us for a monsoon. Meanwhile, however, all of Paris was still dressed like Coco Chanel.  Everyone. Like Coco.

Oh and still managed to smoke. In a rainstorm. Whilst looking tres chic.

Love them. Hate them. See what I mean?

Hurricane ready, we trekked to the historically infamous Concierge prison which detained hundreds of Parisians during the French Revolution- most notably, Marie Antoinette. Nothing like an afternoon reminiscing about the ghoulish good times of the Reign of Terror!  

But seriously, it was fascinating. And I highly recommend a stroll through the memorial to that macabre madness. 

Besides, all that be-heading business is nothing a few éclairs can't forgive, am I right?

Cells for political prisoners in the Concierge 

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Tribute to Marie Antoinette- former queen, former prisoner. 

Next up, Notre Dame. 

In a land where churches have become like Cracker Barrels -everywhere and all rather similar- this particular cathedral was a serious upgrade. Which is really thanks to Disney. (And I guess Victor Hugo, if we're being fair)  The lure of seeing Quasimodo's bell-tower was a carrot  I dangled over my kids for a few days or maybe a week.

Don't judge.

Now, the sheer magnitude of Notre Dame is staggering. Seven hundred years is a long time to construct anything. But, if you're going to do Gargoyles, go big or go to home.

And they did. Go big, that is. 422 spiral steps later, we reached the alcove of Hunchback fame, hunched ourselves, breathing like chain-smokers. 

Honorable mention goes to Jason who carried chubby Chuck the entire way with his rucksack in tow. It was like Crossfit. 
But without the Facebook announcement. 
So better.

Ducks lips. Notre Dame. Of course. 

Notre Dame Cathredral

422 steps later, Jason is a (sweaty) hero. 

Home of the Hunchback

No Hunchback? No smile. 

Then, the bread binge began. Credit goes to Eowyn for stumbling upon an adorable

little pastry shop with delectable cakes, beckoning from their window-perch like tiny French temptresses.

The aroma that greeted us at the door destroyed whatever will I had to eat things other than bread while in Paris.

From that taste on- we were powerless. It became a bread crusade.

We walked for miles, mainly to justify eating more bread.

We did laps around the Louvre, dreaming of brioche and baguettes. The Mona Lisa was amazing, the Venus di Milo-dazzling, the paintings of Bertolli, beguiling BUT Parisians pastry chefs are the greatest artists.

Sorry, Michelangelo. You tried. I enjoyed your work but then I got hungry.

And  I should pause my ode to bread to commend the Louvre. It was lovely and overwhelming and *bonus* equipped with a Starbucks.

Plus, if I ever feel like a homeschooling failure (so, every other day), I just remind myself, "Melissa, your kids spent four hours (mostly conscious) touring the Louvre. You're a homeschooling hero!"

Actually, anyone who can keep a three year old in the Louvre for more than 30 minutes without being escorted out by security should win a trophy.

A trophy filled with wine.

Which you will need after you take three kids through the Louvre for four hours. Trust me.

And she never took that beret off. 

Louvre artistry. Impressive, a little. 

It's always the right time for Cole's superhero pose. 

I was just shocked that we hadn't been escorted out by security. 

And the bribery comes out. 

The Venus di Milo. Not bad, Greeks. Not bad. 

Selfie with the Venus. Cole = underwhelmed. 

Wings of Victory, "Nike"

Some Italian chick

Cole was as compliant as he looked. 

I guess I could live here. If I had to. 

Leaving the Louvre was my kids favorite part. 

To the Jardin des Tulleries we convoyed. What proceeded was rather predictable:  While the boys tested fate on the edge of Every. Single. Fountain, Eowyn flitted through the gardens, posing for photo ops. Requested by herself. For herself.  In her French beret. 

After a while, I think people thought she was famous.

So, well done, Eowyn.

Your narcissism proved credible.

Now, Jason hasn't had the opportunity to become the hardened parent I am- denying kids' requests with practiced ease. So, his "no's" are sometimes negotiable. Which is how the kids got a ride on the iconic Roue de Paris (ferris wheel).

I rationalized it as their just reward for surviving the Louvre.  

A quid pro quo, if you will.

The view from up here. Roue de Paris

At this moment, Eowyn's bucket list includes "playing in a grand tennis match, going to the Eiffel Tour, making a movie and getting a shit-shoe dog." All things which aren't going to happen this year. For sure.  But, we could do the Eiffel Tour.

(and work on her spelling of Shih tzu)

And so we did.

Bob Stroller and all. That thing is well-traveled.

As we surveyed Paris from the sky-scraping summit, their eyes were like saucers- their little kid-minds, blown. It was perfect.

And I have nothing sarcastic to say about that.

Naturally, we took roughly four million photos from every possible angle while there. You can't go to the Eiffel Tour and just experience it. You have to memorialize it. With everyone smiling. At the same time. Looking happier than we feel. Like I didn't just threaten to do them bodily harm.

(Family photos always remind me why I need Jesus.  Badly.)

Eiffel Tour at sunset

Our final full day in the Ciy of Bread was spent at the Palace of Versailles, the splendorous 18th century cheateau designed by the sun-king, Louis XIV as a tribute to -well- himself. 

The architectural fruits of his vanity are unrivaled. 

From the Hall of Mirrors to Les Mesdames suites for the Queen's consort, Louis lived like an 18th century rap star in a pimped-out palace. 

*warning my interior photos are junk. You are guaranteed to be underwhelmed.

More importantly, Versailles was also once home to a fellow cake-lover,  with a flare for fashion, Marie Antoinette.

This is NOT the real Marie Antoinette. I repeat. This is only an actress. Pre-beheading. Obviously. 

In fact, she lost her head over all of it - the fur-lined fashion, the excessive parties, the sumptuous carbs.  

If  I were a clean-eating, vegan crusader, Marie Antoinette would be the perfect cautionary tale. 

Conceivably it was her reference to "cake."

Maybe she just overshot.

Impoverished French peasants would never demand cake.

Perhaps if she had just let them eat bread, the whole thing would have gone over better.

We'll never know.

But now I do know that Paris is my second home. Jefferson, #nailedit.