Lost In France

“Where are we meeting them?”... “The Eiffel Tower.”...“Well that shouldn't be too difficult to find.” We were in Paris for a pre Christmas 'Hoorah' with our son and his wife. 

Our hotel had informed us that morning, 'due to technical problems', we were being moved to one of their sister hotels, which barely made it onto the map. But we were staying positive. Even after the taxi driver had had a go at us for not being able to pay with cash we were staying positive...even after discovering our room didn't have tea and coffee making facilities we were staying positive (nothing like a glass of tepid water first thing in the morning).

We hadn't seen Murray and Emma since they announced they are having a baby in early June. We are going to become grandparents! Grandpa and Granny! 

The parents-to-be were venturing up to the second floor of the tower, and as I get queasy changing a light bulb we were to meet them when they came down. 

After the first of several expensive meals we wandered down to the Louvre, through the Jardin des Tuileries. It was a lovely day and the city looked beautiful in all its Christmas regalia. 

Now I enjoy a Pre-Raphaelite painting as much as the next man, but after ten minutes of aimless wandering I cut to the chase and suggested we find the Mona Lisa...we weren't the only ones! In a large room full of three hundred people holding their phones in the air we glimpsed the lady herself, looking sultry...no, melancholic. We dived into the throng and worked our way to get a closer look at the lady stuck behind the bulletproof glass. 

We were only in Paris for two and half days so were rushing from one tourist attraction to the next: Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur, La Défense...on one day we clocked 26,000 steps on Anna's pedometer. We couldn't stop! Even managed to bag a tourist destination for our evening meal. There is a series on Netflix called Emily in Paris, which is not everyone's cup of tea, but 50 percent of our party were big fans, so a table had been booked at the restaurant that features in the programme. 

On our second day, after a tepid glass of water, we hit the tourist trail, this time heading for Sacré-Coeur/Montmartre, and on to the Catacombs. Nothing like an ossuary containing the remains of several million Parisians to put you in the Christmas spirit.

We set off in what we thought was the right direction. It wasn't long before disagreements on which route to take started; even when google maps was activated we struggled to understand the directions. 

Eventually, when we met Murray and Emma there was a bit of an atmosphere and we had a sweaty glow about us. Montmartre and Sacré-Coeur was a bit of a washout, so in the afternoon we thought we'd cheer ourselves up by visiting the Catacombs. We descended into the bowels of the earth and spent a thought-provoking time wandering round the subterranean tunnels lined with bones dating back 1,200 years. Disneyland Paris this was not. 

On resurfacing it was decided we would head back to our respective hotels and meet up near the Eiffel Tower at a pre-booked restaurant in the evening. After losing our way earlier in the day, we thought we'd make life simple and catch the underground. Anna had been to Paris in the summer and had the air of someone who knew what they were doing. Half an hour later we ended up somewhere nowhere near our hotel, with tickets that turned out to be for children. With my last ounce of positivity gone I threw a hissy fit and said I was going to walk. After an hour and a half of trudging, Anna said “this looks familiar”, as we passed the entrance to the catacombs. I could feel my blood pressure step up a gear.

It was now too late to go back to our hotel so we trudged on to the rendezvous, stopping at a Parisian drinking hole en route to rest our aching legs and repair our marriage. 

I felt embarrassed and upset that we could not get from A to B without it turning into a three act drama (we had a similar incident in Marseille earlier in the year). On recounting our travails I could see my son looking at me just as I looked at my dad when he couldn't turn an iPad on.

Maybe I am subconsciously slipping into the role of befuddled grandparent. Before long I will be telling my grandchild “when I was a lad the internet didn't exist and if you wanted to phone someone you had to go into a smelly red phone box and put 2p into a machine”, and recount the tale of when Granny Anna got Gang-gang Steve lost in Paris.