A Paris Moment

Our four-day visit to Paris was a whirlwind tour. I'm especially impressed with my kids for keeping up with the pace: Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysees, Sainte Chapelle, Notre Dame cathedral, Latin Quarter, Luxembourg Gardens, Tuileries Gardens, nostalgic pilgrimage to Suzanne's dormitory from her junior year abroad in 1981, Louvre . . .

(not sure how Clara and Zander got this:

 when the crowd in front of Mona Lisa looked like this:)

. . .  Musee d'Orsay, St. Germain des Pres,  Montmartre (portraits of the kids! ), le Marais, Eiffel Tower (a special thanks to Clara for not being TOO disappointed that we decided not to go up), a dinner party chez Martine Higonnet near Place de la Concorde . . . and more. We got wet several times and it hailed on us once at the top of the steps of the Sacre Coeur Basilica in Montmartre.

Clara and Zander are great travelers, and despite less-than-stellar weather, Paris was as amazing as ever. I'd forgotten how big it is, and how filled with surprises. I'll never forget the look on Clara's face when our taxi emerged into the Place de la Concorde and she caught her first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower -- and the Arc de Triomphe, and the Invalides, and all the other amazing monuments that lie spread out and glistening before you as you circumnavigate that enormous roundabout. Everywhere you look there is something absolutely stunning.

A few shots:

And yes, they have a store called "Bexley" on the Champs-Elysees:

Yet what I will remember best from this trip is the power of the small moment. It is one of those lessons of travel that I keep learning time and again: when all the travel guides are put away, and you are done obsessing over seeing everything and doing it all, and you take a moment to follow your instincts and do what the moment impels you to do, you can find a kind of nirvana in just being in a foreign place. In Paris, I found that moment here,

Where, just after a downpour, the proprietor dried off three chairs and a table for me and the kids (Dennis was running an errand) and I sipped a glass of Pouilly-Fumee while enjoying the just-washed air, the glistening pavement, the echoes of late-afternoon street life in St.-Germain-des-Pres, and took in a view that included this

while cherishing my appetite for the upcoming meal nextdoor here:

The restaurant was supposedly a favorite of Gide, Joyce, Hemingway, even Kerouac. It gets quite a bit of tourist traffic but still seems to exist in a previous era (the interior, I'm told, has changed little since the late 19th century). It was so conducive to the spirit of travel that Clara actually tried an escargot! (and liked it).

But back to the small moment in the outdoor cafe nextdoor. At that pinpoint in time, I wasn't thinking about Hemingway, or Frommer's, or what the dinner tab for four would be. I was just breathing in Paris. And that's what I will remember.