by Divya Ananth
It was December in Duisburg, Germany. Winter showed no mercy. The sun occasionally made a guest appearance. Sure, spring was right at the end of the dark, cold tunnel. But the trudge was getting weary.
On one such crisp December morning – just a few months since we had set foot in Deutschland – we hit upon a plan. How about we treat ourselves to the much-awaited spring in… “Paris”! My husband and I exclaimed.
The reason for my excitement was that Paris had always been top of my list of to-dos. The uber-cool Alliance Francais in Chennai, four years of French in school and college, and many tales from a distant aunt created an affinity for Paris. My husband, on the other hand, was excited because he’d also found a superb travel deal online.
There seemed to be more sunshine in the drawing room that morning. There was something to look forward to. My husband and I were lost in deep discussions every single evening. The depth of our discussions would have put even the UN summits to shame. We idiot-proofed every single minute. This was our very first holiday in a foreign land, and the ifs and buts of travelling with a baby loomed large. The prospect was unnerving, to say the least, and we gave it the much unwanted effect of travelling to Mars.
The day of departure drew near. We started packing. For a five day trip, we carried about three feeding bottles, a sterilizer, a flask, a pack of diapers, warm clothing, mittens and shoes, barf bags, wet wipes, medicines, a few favourite toys… oh, plus the baby as well!
Our itinerary had just about four destinations. We told ourselves that if we could do the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, stroll through Champs Elysses and visit Notre Dame, our trip was a roaring success! Our timelines were entirely based on baby’s feeds and sleep routines. All we wanted was a smiling, happy child who would not ruin the holiday. Who wanted to be feeding a baby atop the Eiffel tower and cajoling him to sleep at Champs Elysses?
March 21st. Yipeee! The ‘Thalys’ sped through countries. In about four hours, it pulled up at Gare Du Nord.
Was it all a dream? Paris was bewitching. May be it was that sense of actually stepping out into a holiday, maybe it was the little buds waiting to blossom in long tree lined avenues, the pleasant nip in the air, the promise of a beautiful holiday, maybe it was travelling with really close friends – whatever it was, the bustling, lively city immediately made its way into my heart.
Day 1 – We packed up Junior and set out for Tour d’ Eiffel. He helped himself to croissants with chocolate fillings, and sat sweetly in his pram. So far, so good. We took the metro to Bir Hakim Grenelle. As we approached the station, we craned our necks to catch the first sight of the Tower.
Voila! Against the sparkling waters of the Seine, the Eiffel rose proudly, puncturing the sky. We couldn’t wait to go up. As we made our way to join the long queue, reality shook us rudely from the surreal moment. A mild stench filled the air. Baby had a weird expression. How well I knew what he was up to. Why now? Why? Embarrassed, perplexed and terribly frustrated, I got off the queue to hunt for the rest room.
Poor kid! Did he care if he was in Germany, Chennai, Paris or Timbuctoo? His was a blissful world, with no sadness, no happiness, no expectations and no disappointments. He did what he had to do. Ruminations over, I did a speed cleaning job and joined the queue. We went up, and as we feasted our eyes on the incredible view, reality check again. It was feed time.
And so time rolled by. Between taking turns in carrying the baby, feeding him bang in the middle of Champs Elysses, or watching him gape at Mickey and Donald toys at the Disney store, we did manage to steal some quiet joys.
We gazed endlessly at the Monalisa, went “wow” as the Eiffel lit up against the evening sky, gave the humble croissant a royal indulgence, tch-tched at Princess Diana’s scene of accident, lounged at sun kissed lawns amidst baby flowers, marveled at the stained glass paintings inside the Notre Dame, sat down over coffee at road side bistros and watched humanity go by.
We swayed to the throb of a dynamic city abuzz with the click-clacks of designer wear stilettos, high pitched bonjours and ouis. We 
were enamored by sparkling eyes and smiles that flashed the world’s finest cosmetic brands. We discussed the bloody history that the city wore lightly on its sleeve. We looked longingly at Moulin Rouge and promised to come back when the little one ‘grew up’ (they take a lifetime to grow up, don’t they?).
We had our fair share of utter desperation when he decided to stay awake and play peek a boo after a bone-tiring day, refused to take a feed or kicked up such a fuss lying in the pram. I ate my words as I fed him atop the Eiffel and cajoled him to sleep at Champs Elysses.
At the end of the fifth day, as we boarded the train again, I watched him as he slept peacefully in his pram. It was not so bad after all, travelling with an eight-month-old.
As I closed my eyes, images of Paris danced in front of me. I heaved a contented sigh. What a lovely, lively city! Paris, I’d love an encore, sans baby paraphernalia that is!
Divya Ananth is an advertising copywriter – a creative consultant. She simply loves to travel, and Carnatic music is her anchor in an otherwise crazy life. She’s also a busy mom of two adorable boys, and juggles cricket and tennis classes, organizes play dates and reads Geronimo Stilton with them. Writing, to her, is an intimately joyful experience.
Nice to have a peep into the historic city through the vision of a young mother. I sigh, when I recollect what shady planned visit we made to the same city, but, still we had our own style of fun.
Good article Divi, Keep writing and enjoy the same.
Nice article… And in this City of Love where i came to celebrate my First Wedding Anniversary… I completely unexpectedly met you and your little family.. A memory i will forever cherish!