When I was twelve, my classmates might have a holiday in Skegness or Blackpool. France? Foreign travel? Unheard of! But my Dad, an academic, had to fly over to Paris for a day trip to meet fellow academics so he took me with him. He drove us to Northolt Airport at some ungodly hour and we boarded a Vickers Viscount ‘plane along with about forty others. After landing at Le Bourget Airport, we travelled into the city by coach. My two memories of the occasion were of how proudly he introduced me to his colleagues as I stammered, “Je parle Français un peu” and having to drink mineral water at lunchtime because he told me that I’d be dehydrated if I did not. I had no idea what “dehydrated” meant so I managed to swallow the horrid tasting liquid.
We were back in Paris the following year. This time Dad brought the whole family, towing a caravan to a camp site in the Bois de Boulogne, near Suresnes. He and Mum slept in a tent with the baby while my three siblings and I slept in the caravan. We fetched our water from a standpipe and had to use a pit latrine which absolutely stank. In between his meetings, Dad took us up the Eiffel Tower, drove us around l’Arc de Triomphe and took us to Les Jardins des Plantes. On one occasion Dad dumped me, my brother and my sister at the Louvre to wander around by ourselves then meet him back at the entrance a couple of hours later. We managed to find the Venus do Milo but we were unsuccessful in locating the Mona Lisa. Then my sister needed to pee. The only facilities that I could find were back at the entrance, so we left my brother inside. The Staff refused to allow my sister and I back in because we did not have tickets. My schoolgirl French would not stretch to explain that my brother had our tickets. I wish I could remember how we managed to convince the Staff that mon frère was over there avec les billets. Yes, eventually, we were allowed back in.
Fifty four years later I decided to return to Paris, taking my teenage granddaughter with me. This time we travelled by Eurostar and my spoken French was a little better. I could just about make myself understand courtesy of patient listeners who often had a smattering of English. When we visited the Louvre, we found the Mona Lisa. How disappointing! There was this teeny little picture which we could barely see through the throng of visitors.
It was Bastille Day when we went to the Eiffel Tower and we found out that there were to be fireworks that evening. What we did not find out until afterwards was that the Metro shut at midnight!! And there were no taxis because the traffic had been diverted for security reasons. Eventually in our wandering we found a hotel and the receptionist directed us to the taxi queue at the entrance. I am so proud of my granddaughter who stuck out her elbows to make absolutely certain that no one behind us in the long queue tried to push in when our taxi arrived!

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