I finally made it back to Paris. I was here 14 years ago, with two (sometimes cranky) teenagers. Their joke is that their main sight of Paris was my back, as they tried to keep up with me.
We had a schedule. Every day, pretty much every hour, was planned. We were staying in a hotel (discount, but full of character) that was a Metro ride from anywhere.
They finally rebelled, coming back from a day of horrendous lines at Versailles. They’d been to the Louvre and the Centre Pompidou already. So they stayed in the room, played video games and ate fast food, while I took yet another Metro ride to Musée D’Orsay to see the Impressionist paintings.
Of course, in London we’d gone to the British Museum, the Victoria & Albert, the Tate Modern. We’d done Kiasma and several other museums in Helsinki. There was a modern art museum in a cave in the countryside where they were horrified by a display that was a stuffed rabbit hanging from a jewel encrusted chain, but that was before they saw the modern art and religion show in Paris, which set a new bar.
My children went to a lot a museums with me. Their father, who met us for the last two weeks of that six week trip, not one. I can’t recall him in a single museum in 30 years except for the dinosaur museum in Tyrell, Alberta. He may have been to a few displays, at a baseball field or a natural history site, but only the children came to museums, and perhaps only because I didn’t give them a choice. When their father and I did a cruise through England, Wales, Ireland and Scotland, he went golfing and I visited museums.
I don’t think my children go to museums now— but of course, they rarely travel. Will they take after their father, or will some of my passion for art and history have rubbed off on them?
This trip to Paris, with Scott, was very different. Of course we went to the Louvre and Orsay, as well as the Picasso Museum. But we slept in, had cappuccinos in the room before we set out on our day, which involved a slow breakfast and stops in sidewalk cafés, for more coffee or a glass of wine. It makes me wish I had been more relaxed when I travelled with my children, instead of rushing to fit in as much possible. You can never see everything, so why stress trying?
But I was younger then. I still thought I could do it all, I still felt that every moment should have a purpose. My travels now are slower and, honestly, much more enjoyable.
But I think they are still brave.
Brave Travels 