But first, more Cornwall. Because, clearly, I really am cuckoo for Cornwall.
On our hike to Kynance Cove, we met up with a nice couple from Manchester. They loved watching the kids and reminiscing about their own three boys, now grown. They’ve been holiday-ing in Cornwall for 35 years and know all the secrets. The mum watched our 3 throwing rocks at cow poop and exclaimed, “Well, how lovely! Look how brilliantly they can entertain themselves with dung! Ours would have done the same”. A kindred spirit, obvs. They insisted that we check out Godrevy on our way back to London and so we did.
Godrevy is basically the Oregon Coast, complete with howling winds, sand dunes, boardwalks, tall grasses, seals and cold water. We passed through the adorable village of Gwithian, parked amid all the surfers and their Westfalias and started walking. The wind! We’ve never felt anything like it – kite surfers, wind surfers and regular surfers out in full force. After a quick coffee at the Godrevy Cafe to warm up, it was back on the road.
We made it as far as Reading, just outside of London. Ugh. We stayed in a motel adjacent to a ‘petrol’ station, so expectations weren’t too high to begin with. When we checked in, the clerk handed me the single key and a bottle of ‘air neutralizer’ spray. Huh? Well, we figured it out as soon as we walked into the room. STINKY! The kids were horrified, convinced that rats would soon be gnawing on their sleeping bodies. Tom slept fully clothed. Henry declared his bed to be ‘like from the military’. Lucy thought it was all just swell and spent the evening spraying everything within reach. Quick aside: we are so looking forward to introducing them to squat toilets.
Up early and on the road. Returned the rental car and boarded the Eurostar that would take us from London to Paris (in 2 hrs and 16 minutes!) at an average speed of 300km/hr. The kids dutifully journaled and did their math homework. For about 15 minutes. But still…a win, n’est ce pas?
We arrived in Paris and headed to our Airbnb. It is fantastic. If anyone is interested in a gorgeous, clean, newly renovated 2 bedroom apartment in a beautiful old building, check out this listing. https://www.airbnb.ca/rooms/10936330?eluid=1&euid=6a527535-5b72-5241-2348-3c62320ba438&sug=51 The owner has been wonderful, took us on a tour of the neighbourhood and left us with a nice bottle of wine. It’s one Metro stop across the Seine, spacious, with laundry, full kitchen, and best of all – funky old wrought iron elevator that the kids are convinced is haunted. All this, sans ghost, for about $108 CDN/night. No air neutralizer required.
We took Paris by storm and nearly broke poor Lucy. We climbed as far up the Eiffel Tower as we were allowed. The kids (and Mike) almost gave me a heart attack by jumping up and down on the glass floors of the observation deck, about 2,342,302,423 ft up. Like, who does that? It’s a Darwin Award waiting to happen, if you ask me.
We walked and walked and walked and walked. We placated the kids with crepes, croissants, Orangina. We placated ME with wine and chocolate and more wine. We chilled out in les Jardins des Tuileries and let the kids ride the (very expensive) carousel. We nearly lost our minds in the chaos of the Louvre (I finally called ‘uncle’ and retreated to the cafe and drank crap, expensive coffee while Mike and kids finished up). We walked the Champs Elysées, along the Seine, up past the Trocadero and through Montmartre, up to Sacré Coeur.
So sad…dropped his 2 Euro coin down into the gutters
Glass floor of Eiffel Tower (GAH!)
souvenir shopping at the Trocadero
Throughout our wanderings, we all agree that Parisians are a wonderful, friendly crowd. Given recent world events and the political climate in parts of Europe at the moment, I was anticipating an edgier or possibly angrier undercurrent, a frisson of nervousness even. Nope. The tourists are out in full force, the sun is shining, the sidewalks are teeming. Everyone (and I mean everyone) with whom we’ve dealt has been unfailingly kind and generous. From the fellow who produced 3 Eiffel Tower keychains for the kids on the Metro to the hairdresser who called our Airbnb host when our mobiles wouldn’t work to the handful of people who’ve gone out of their way to help us find the right bus, Metro, restaurant, attraction. Every. Single. Person.
So far, Tom has had the same reaction to the Metro as he had with the Tube (“how many more stops? can we just walk instead?”). Lucy loves to speak French to anyone and everyone. She refers to me only as “ma mère” and happily chirps “merci” at every opportunity. When asked where she’s from, she just shrugs as though it’s obvious and says, “North Van”. And Henry has discovered pain au chocolate, French yogurt and crepes. He’s sold. So far, they all agree that feeding the pigeons in the Tuileries was the best part of Paris. It’s a step up from the Shrek consensus that broke my heart in London, so I’ll take it. Baby steps.