MONTMARTRE and METRO

MONTMARTRE and METRO I decide to take them to Montmartre. There’s a tiny shop that sells Arabian outfits – I had bought one for Petite a few years ago and figured she’d get a kick out of that. And it would get me out in Paris. Line 4 is a 7 minute walk from us and goes straight there. A seven minute walk is like climbing a mountain for Petite. Again pushing Miss Pudding (who refuses to walk) in stroller, with Petite complaining all the way, we walk to the metro. I managed to leave all four copies of my Paris map in California and am hoping that I will recognize the route to the tiny store once we arrive. I figure, middle of the day, in the summer, the metro wont be crowded. This will be an easy ride and I’ll pop them in a taxi to come back. The metro is a sauna and it seems as if all of Paris has boarded our car. There’s nowhere to sit and we are impossibly squished in the crowd. I finally manage two jump seats and insist the girls sit down. Petite declares that she is afraid of being underground, in the tunnels. Miss Pudding is crying and screaming “get me out of here”. Petite closes her eyes and says, “tell me when it is over”. I consider getting them off the metro but then we will be in the middle of Paris, further from our destination, scrounging for a taxi. I decide (perhaps a bad decision) to ride it out (mostly because I am trying to save our cab fare). After thirty hot, uncomfortable minutes, which seem torturous to Miss Pudding, we reach our stop. I get them off the train and hustle them onto the escalator (no easy feat with stroller and Miss Pudding who unsteadily seems on the brink of rolling down the escalator every time she steps foot onto one). We reach the top and breathe sighs of relief to be above ground. Until I see that the exit is one of those roundabout turn styles they have at the zoo, rather than the automatic door. Petite can manage pushing through one but Miss Pudding tends to be clumsy and I worry she will get stuck. Plus, I have to manage the stroller. Crowds are pushing past us and I watch to observe another woman with a stroller. As I am folding our stroller and trying to keep Miss Pudding from being squished within the turn style, I hear two men arguing loudly behind me. Someone grabs my backpack and I turn around and yell. Incidentally, I never wear a backpack and have never been hastled in Paris – or anywhere. I’m usually pretty low key and savvy but here I am with two confused kids, a stroller and a backpack full of extra kid clothes (because inevitably someone will pee or throw up and need to change). Any mugger will be sorely disappointed to take off with my pack. But I am stupidly wearing it on my back since I need both hands to manage stroller and children. That’s the last straw. I am hot, tired and overwhelmed. I have two freaked out, hot children and this guy is trying to mug me? No way. I whirl around and yell at him. Not sure what I yell but basically I’m a fed up, overstressed mama and you’d better BACK OFF. He looks pretty surprised to see such a furious Mama Bear up in his face and moves away immediately. We exit the metro, Petite now frantic with worry, “Why were those men yelling? Why did you yell at him? What did he do? What happened?” I want to calm her but basically I want her to shut up while I hustle them across the busy street into one of the shops. As I am getting my bearings and trying to remember where the tiny Arabian shop is in the twisty streets of Montmartre, Petite won’t stop chattering at me, fretfully. People are bustling by and I’m well aware that I look like an absolute tourist. Previously, by myself, I never felt so jostled and discombobulated. It was easier to blend in and much easier to remember directions without dragging Petite around, yammering at me. At least Miss Pudding is in the stroller, so that’s one I have under control. As we march up the street, a man sidles up to me, “Where are you from? Are you English? I love hearing you speak. I love your children’s accents”. Good lord, I had forgotten what a mecca for hustlers Montmartre is. Now that I look like a total tourist I am a prime target for every game in town. I have no patience and my Mama Bear alter ego tells him sternly to go away. In French. Of course this only exacerbates Petite’s anxiety. “Why is that man talking to us? Why is he asking to speak English?” I’m trying to brush it off, “Oh, he just wants to practice English,” while at the same time desperately trying to figure out which way to go. Miraculously, I find the tiny Arabian store and Petite and Miss Pudding are delighted to try on and score some (cheapo) costumes. M.P. has her heart set on a white party dress that looks appropriate for a wedding and Petite chooses a green Arabian “Princess Jasmine” bikini top with gold jangles, paired with matching disco pants. A gold headband adorned with coins that jingle and a pair of gold sunglasses complete her outfit. We bought the same thing as a birthday present for her Italian friend (note: all three outfits totaled 50 euros). THE SACRE COEUR The Sacre Coeur – which my kids could care less about, but is one of the most famous sights in Paris – is only two blocks away and, more importantly, I know that there is a double tiered old fashioned carrousel below it. I figure that’s worth the walk up. We will do a ride and grab a cab. Of course this only leads us into even more touristed terrain, with hustlers aplenty, trying to sell me crap or chat to me right and left. I finally get the kids on the carrousel, which is a pretty spectacular set up in itself. Halfway through the ride Petite declares that it’s too “slow” and she wants to get off. Are you f—kiding me? She dismounts her horse but I insist her feet stay on the carousel until the ride stops. . Eventually we get in a cab and head back to the hotel. Of course the taxi can’t take us directly to our hotel entrance because it is a one-way street going the wrong way and no I don’t want to pay even more money for it to go all the way around. Both girls fell asleep three minutes into the ride. They actually look quite darling curled up together across the back seat. I lug Petite into the stroller and hoist M.P. over my should while pushing the stroller the extra block to the hotel entrance, stumbling gratefully into the lobby, where at least, the reception men are nice and graciously fill Miss Pudding’s milk bottle without charge. #Paris #Montmartre #travel with children #children in Paris #Paris metro #Sacre Coeur #mugging in Paris #parenting