Taking Off

Our last day in Paris with all the girls was a lot of fun. Sunny and hot, we decided it was the perfect time to do all those tourist things that had failed thus far. So ensued the longest walk in history. We began out stroll near the Notre-Dame de Paris cathedral, clearly one of the world's most beautiful places. (sidebar: amongst other invitations, we were asked to chase pigeons with a little boy. He was ecstatic when we obliged.) The inside of the church itself is as impressive as described in everyone's books and guides, though aside from the stained glass, I found myself shockingly unmoved by this historical site. I really hope I won't be this jaded in Bamako.

We continued along La Seine to an area known as Saint Germain des Prés, which is a little bit like a very large, sophisticated version of Montreal's Old Port. Boutiques and cafés alike line the sidewalks and there are people EVERYWHERE, though far fewer than in Montmartre. We grab sandwiches at a local pastry shop and walk around eating, as there are only three hours left until we need to leave the hostel for Charles de Gaulle Airport. We continue walking, and walking, all the way the the Jardins du Luxembourg where we sit under the beautiful royal gardens, and I take a moment to call home, since I haven't touched base since I left.




A quick remark: for a country whose exports include the world famous Vichy water and all of its derivatives, Parisian water, at least, REEKS. It tastes like musty sewer and you never feel refreshed after drinking it. Even the bottled stuff! And they tout the virtues of naturally-high magnesium water, which tastes an aweful lot like 0.5% saline solution.

Four hours pass, including half an hour ordering thai take-out (from a thai woman speaking only french) near the inn, facing crazy rush hour traffic getting to the airport, and having the commuter traint break down on us mid-way. Twice.


After midnight, Paris time. We’ve slept now perhaps a total of four hours in two days, between the heat, humidity and all of the wild energy whirling through our heads. So naturally, our final destination is the hottest town in Africa. Brilliant. Still, after a year of working our rears off to pay for it, and prepare ourselves mentally and psychologically, the time has finally come. We left an hour late because someone got held up at customs, but finally, we’re flying. Needless to say we’re all a bit pooped and yet we’re still awake, finding things to talk about and do.



There are many, many families on the plane with us, and the girls and I have been getting acquainted with the kids through conversation and coloring pages, which Maude had the brilliant idea of bringing along. As always, sometimes the best way to break barriers is music or art. Of course, a baby pukes and it’s a whole new kind of bonding, with clean-wipes being passed down the isle and rolls of toilet paper magically and generously appearing from carry-on bags.







The way mothers comfort crying children is fascinating and inspiring all at once. A child may be absolutely screaming his or her lungs out, about one or two years old, and his mother will sweep him up onto her back and deftly tie a shawl around her to form a makeshift papoose. A minute later, the child is either happy as a clam or out cold. Mom stills has all the mobility she needs to go about her day, and her child is happy and close to her. And it leaves the child to develop a degree of independence, contrasting sharply with Parisian Caucasian children.
Yesterday, in the metro, two little girls of around 4 years old came aboard with their mother, each looking very sharp in matching dresses and little purses, much like little girls like to have when playing dress-up. A minute later, one of them reaches into said purse and politely takes out….a pacifier, and sticks it in her mouth. Aside from obvious orthodontic problems later, it seems as though that little one is entirely too old for this sort of thing, especially since she is developing socially-based behavior (such as crossing her legs when seated or smoothing out the pleats in her dress).

Anyhow.

So we’re on the plane and my left-hand neighbor is a very nice teenage girl who lives in Paris but spends vacations with her father in Bamako. I’m impressed with how much European and African children are uninhibited in their interaction with others. No topic is off limit, and opinions are never kept quiet. Nice to see, though I wonder why no one ever feels flustered because of it. But then, when everyone functions the same, it’s not a problem, it’s a norm.