From Paris With Love

Sunday, March 27, 2014, Easter morning. Stephanie surprised me with an Easter basket just like she always does for our children. Nestled into the fake, plastic grass in my little basket, under the Reese's Pieces, under the little foil-wrapped chocolate footballs, was a home pregnancy test. It read positive! Her thoughtfulness and cleverness never fails to put mine to shame. It was a wonderful way to learn of our second child’s arrival. Over the next few days, or maybe weeks, we troubled over when and how we wanted to inform our loved ones of the news. We knew we wanted to stick with the philosophy we followed for our first child; we would wait until the second trimester and the “all looks healthy” nod from her doctor. The problem was, we were booked to be in Europe at the time of her next check-up. We arranged with the doctor to be seen right before we left for London, only about two week’s difference. This would give us the assurance we desired to prudently make the announcement. And over the next few months, we brainstormed inventive ways to reveal the news to the world. At one point we thought we’d just tell our respective parents over Skype from one of the countries we’d be in. That idea seemed too lazy and lame to both of us, so we scrapped it and determined to keep thinking. On the flight across the pond, I was giving the matter much thought, then I said, “It has to be Paris.” She readily agreed. But how? What method? With us on this trip were about 30 teenaged students plus some of their parents who all knew Stephanie and adored her like a favorite aunt. She was an International Baccalaureate English teacher at their high school, and the majority of them were students in the IB program. She is now the program coordinator. Each of them was emotionally invested to some degree in her well-being and our relationship as well, some heavily, others only slightly less so. We are still very close to a few of them and their parents to this day.

Pregnancy does not treat Stephanie well; that is, she suffers a perpetual state of nausea throughout the 9 months; in all other factors, she’s a champ. The anti-nausea prescription drug Zofran might as well be sugar for her; it’s simply not effective. I cannot recall how many times she evacuated the contents of her stomach on the 7-hour flight, but once we were on the ground, we rapidly had to learn to adjust for her bouts of vomiting while bringing up the rear of a 45-person caravan. I acted as scout. While she found and made use of a garbage can or some such apparatus when the need struck to un-eat her last meal, I would keep track of the tail end of our party and rebound in between to assure we did not become separated. It was on this trip we realized just how few public garbage cans there are in Europe; it seems almost negligent city planning. However, the cities are surprisingly clean despite this fact. Another point to know before traveling in Europe: there are very few restrooms, and fewer still for public use. Restaurant owners do not like tourists dropping in just to use their toilets (American tourists in particular, it feels). If you’re looking for something like an American restroom experience, there are St. Arbucks everywhere, and they are your best bet for emergency pop-in-and-out restroom breaks, in addition to offering the continent’s best Wi-Fi access. But do not expect the same quality you enjoy in the States. Complaining loudly naturally only serves to confirm and harden any ill feelings they might harbor for loud Americans. You have to remember, the majority of European cities are centuries old, and these ancient buildings had to be modified and tailored with modern fittings. Consequently, you can expect European merchants to be stingy with their toilets. The toilets are commonly very small accommodations, really, very small. Or, on rare occasions only, you might find an unnecessarily large restroom; it merely depends on the building itself and the space they chose to convert to toilets. I have literally on numerous incidents bumped my head on low ceilings, low-hanging metal plumbing supports, and the top of door frames in toilets that better resembled coffins stood on end. Most places will charge a Euro or a half-Euro for the use. It’s difficult for Americans to imagine paying a dollar every time we needed to wee while tooling around town doing our shopping. It’s no wonder parts of Paris smell like a gas station restroom, if not fresh baked bread and coffee. However, if you’re already a paying customer, you have free use of the facilities. But city-sponsored public toilet facilities always charge. One year, in the subway in Munich, a group of us needed a restroom break. Europeans do not trifle with the modesty we Americans demand; restroom attendants are common, and they’re usually female. Get over it, guys; it’s no different than your own mom checking on you, maybe a little weird and uncomfortable, but harmless. Before everyone scattered to use the toilets, several of us men conducted a money check to ensure all the teenagers were able to pay. We approached the restroom area where stood a female attendant, looking very much like the lunch lady from just about any American middle school. She asked in broken English, laden with her heavy German accent, “Which do you go?”

“I have to use the toilet,” I told her, unsure if I answered her question. They say ‘toilet’, not ‘restroom’. And certainly not ‘bathroom’.

“Ein oder zwei?” One or 2? she asked me.

“Uuhh. One?” Again, uncertain if I took her meaning.

“Ein Euro.” It cost €1,50 to go number two. They also use commas where we would use a decimal, and vice versa (just a little extra knowledge for you, there.). The attendant directed her customers toward the correct entrances as necessary. One entrance led to a room with regular bowl-and-tank toilets; the other housed only urinals. There were also signs etched with corresponding images posted at each open doorway. I have no idea how they kept the ladies honest. I developed a rather amusing image of an attendant keeping a very, uncomfortably close eye on what deposits are made.

On my way out of the toilets, I passed Butch, one of the parents traveling with us, headed toward the toilets.

“How much money do you have, there?” I asked him. This was not an unusual question, as the situation becomes commonplace very quickly on our tours.

“A Euro.”

“Do you have to poo?” I asked him. Perhaps an unusual question.

With a little laugh, he replied, “Nah, I did that for free at the hotel.”

This exchange happened, literally, in passing, without either of us stopping.

When Butch rejoined the group, we were doing head counts, and he came over to me.

“I thought it was weird you asked me if I had to poo, until ‘Fräulein’ asked me what my business was. Then I got it!”

“Yeah,” I told him. “If you only had one Euro; you’da been sh*t outta luck!”

We had a good laugh. Then another of the dads came over, “Can you believe they have rates based on if you have to poop or pee?”

“Good thing I’m a morning guy,” I told him.

“Yeah, me too.”

The lesson, here: always carry coins on you when touring European cities. Or do your big boy business before you leave the hotel.

There are almost assuredly going to be long queues, lines, at any public place you intend to visit. Fortunately for us, Europeans adore pregnant ladies. They treat them like they would their own mothers and encourage them to go right to the front of queues, sometimes even insist. This has been our experience, anyway. Once, a restaurant owner allowed us to use his toilets, though we were not dining there. At this stage in her pregnancy, she was not really showing, so we had to tell him. We bought waters from him as a gesture of gratitude. Pregnant women always have a seat on public transportation. It really does make life in Europe a little easier for them. The sentiment seems most prevalent in Italy.

We arrived in Paris from London via Eurostar, the high-speed train that travels under the English Channel, a longtime bucket item for me. I was disappointed I couldn't see any fish. We exited the train to the chaotic echoes of what sounded like organized protest. There were people chanting loudly, drums pounding a monotonous rhythm, and vuvuzelas humming above it all. It was a little unnerving and annoying at the same time. We collected our luggage, then ourselves as a group, made head counts, and made our way through the station toward our exit. Around fifty yards from the exit to the street, the smell of stale, fetid urine began to permeate the air. And, the strength of the odor grew stronger and more offensive as we followed the protesting parade toward the exit. Bienvenue à Paris. We were scheduled to tour the city for three days before we headed on to the Swiss Alps. Day two was our Eiffel Tower day. By this time, our best idea was to write ‘I’m pregnant’ on something and have our picture taken at the top of the tower. Not such a bad idea. We made our way into the heart of Paris and broke for lunch. Stephanie began looking for a traditional French café where we could eat outside in the beautiful weather. The further from the train station, the better the city smelled. Not unlike any large city, I guess.

On the corner of a very pedestrian-busy intersection, we found exactly the type of place we had hoped for. Café le Dante, a beautiful, large brasserie café. It is an ideal setting. I highly recommend it if ever one finds themselves in Paris. We sat at a table out under the red canopy. There was a comforting din of voices murmuring and tableware clinking all around us, just like background noise in an old movie. Pedestrians passed by from all directions in a continuous stream. The small, round tables were covered with circular paper sheets printed in the characteristic French red and white checker pattern. This was the quintessential Paris experience, to us.

Then the lightbulb flashed on over my head. “Check this out,” I said holding up the paper table cover. “This will be our sign.”

“Oh, perfect,” Stephanie excitedly agreed.

“Now, we just need to write ‘I’m Pregnant’ in French,” I said. “We can ask the waitress for the proper translation.”

“Already have that worked out,” she grinned and pulled a piece of paper from her purse. “I texted Mdm. Smith; she’s the French teacher at my school.”

“What? Now the surprise is ruined.”

“No, she promised to keep it a secret.”

“Well, what do we use to write it?” I asked. A ball point pen wouldn’t be dark enough.

Directly behind us, sitting just inside the restaurant, about one foot higher, was a table of girls from our group; imagine the full wall is made of sectional glass doors and they were all opened up to allow unimpeded passage in and out of the business. We were outside, but the girls were inside, up two small steps. She turned and asked if they had a marker. One of the girls promptly produced a dark, plum colored marker. Stephanie began scripting our message; for as long as I’ve known her, I’ve told Steph her penmanship could be a licensed font. It’s that neat and clean and pleasing to the eye. She began by writing the phrase in a normal, thin-line script, gradually darkening it by making the lines thicker and thicker until it could be seen from a fair distance. It read, “Je suis enceinte!”

Just beside us, uncomfortably near, to my right was a young couple. Yes, every European city’s street-side dining is like that for the purpose of accommodating more customers, and some-times meal prices are slightly higher for outside dining. It is elbow-to-elbow with strangers, like it or not. The couple were unmistakably English, as demonstrated by their accents. The dapper young man looked to be about twenty-two, well dressed, well-groomed, wearing a crested jacket, a college man or country club member, no doubt. The girl was pretty and thin like Rosamund Pike with long straight, golden hair; we’ll call her Rose. “Congratulations,” she said to us.

“What does it say?” Mr. Dapper asked.

“I’m Pregnant,” she correctly translated for him. I thought it comical to imagine her using that opportunity to cunningly reveal to him that she was with child herself.

“Ah, congratulations,” he said to us.

“Thank you,” we replied. And we briefly relayed our plan to them; they ratified the idea with smiles, “jolly” this and “brilliant” that, and a compliment on our cleverness. As Stephanie worked on our project, I chatted with the nice couple on holiday from Kent. They were engaged to be married. “Oh, well, congratulations to you also,” I told them. “I hope this is the first time she’s said that to you,” I chuckled.

“What’s that?” he asked me.

“I’m pregnant,” She said with slight impatience, like he should have understood. “It is the first time. And hopefully not again anytime soon.” This time, the girl and I chuckled together. He did not appear amused. Perhaps not a college man, after all.

“Sorry, it’s none of my business; I was just trying to be funny,” I apologized to them. “Except now it’s two times.”

“It was very humorous,” she assured me and I glanced at his dour expression. Could have fooled me.

“There. All done,” Stephanie discreetly presented the paper sign.

“Nice,” I said.

“Lovely,” said the girl. Then looking at our table with surprise and wide eyes, “Oh, dear. It’s bled through, hasn’t it?”

Together Stephanie and I looked at the table; we both saw the horror at the same time. There in indelible, dark purple, eight-inch script letters across the stark white café tabletop was the phrase “Je suis enceinte!”

“Oh man,” we gasped, and panic set in like Nutella melting over a fresh crepe.

“Quick, get one of the wet wipes”, I suggested. For European trips, I always buy a couple small packs of wet wipes for us to freshen ourselves on long, hot days when a proper cleansing is not possible. I hoped at this point they were alcohol based.

She went through the full pack of twenty wipes, without seeming so much as to fade the permanent marker. I was getting a little nervous about this. “They don’t still hang people in France, do they?” I said.

The girl answered with a giggle, “No. It’s the guillotine for you.”

“Greeaaat.”

“Ohh! I know. I have hand sanitizer in my handbag,” she dug in and pulled out a small personal size bottle of Purell. “Here try this.”

“Ahh hah! Bob’s your uncle!” I told her, hoping I deployed that phrase in the right context.

“And Fanny’s your aunt,” she replied approvingly.

“Thank you,” Stephanie said, and squeezed a little of the solution onto the table; I used my index finger to spread the fluid over all the lettering. “Let it sit for a second, “I recommend-ed.

I then asked Steph for one of the discarded wipes. I noticed a waitress and waiter circulating into and out of the restaurant; I don’t really know the French terms for their jobs, but I do know it is considered impolite to call him garçon. They were slowly making their way among the large crowd of diners and in-and-out of the restaurant; it was only a matter of time before they made their way to us. Fortunately in Europe, wait staff generally require customers to signal when they are in need of service. Contrary to American food service, European wait staff usually leave you alone and you do not see them for long stretches of time. So don’t sit down in a restaurant and order if you’re in any kind of hurry; it will not end well for you. The waiter looked very smug and hipster-like. I doubted I would like him on a personal level; remember the maître d’ in Ferris Beuller’s Day Off? Just like that guy. Imagine him, only dark-haired and about ten years younger. I scrubbed harder and faster. “I think it’s working.”

“No, it isn’t,” Stephanie disagreed.

“Put on some more,” Rose suggested. “Use it all.” So, we did.

Stephanie scrubbed closer to her side of the table while I worked on mine. It definitely was working now. The ink gradually grew lighter and lighter.

“I think it is going to work,” I said with enthusiasm.

However, after several minutes of frantic scrubbing, adding more sanitizer, and scrubbing some more, it became clear we had reached the threshold of this method’s effectiveness. Steph tried to keep our efforts relatively concealed with the paper sign while we worked, but we all knew our luck would eventually run out. And so it did. Mr. French Hipster walked within a few feet of our table and took intent interest in what we were doing. He gasped like I would imagine our new friend, Rose, would. “Mad-e-laine!” he quite literally, loudly sang into the restaurant. The waitress we kept seeing sang out in kind, “Oui?” Then Mr. Hipster pointed at our table and mumbled a bunch of French who knows what, with a very serious tone, all song gone out of his voice. Yep, he and I would definitely not get along. Nonetheless, he was perfect for this scene.

Great, I thought. Here comes the big affray. She must have been the manager or owner.

Madelaine made her way through the inside tables and out to us in a hurry. Stephanie began apologizing for our mishap. When she saw our masterpiece, Madelaine gasped and said something along the lines of, “Ah mon Dieu!” Oh my God! And put four long, thin fingers over her mouth. While Stephanie was explaining the progress we made and how sorry we were for defacing their table, Madelaine just said, still clearly very frustrated and in fairly good English with her thick French accent, “eet’s ok. No, eet’s alright. Really, eet’s alright.” Maybe she read our message and pitied us. She didn’t order us to leave, maybe because we had not yet paid our bill. Ashamed and embarrassed, we left a €20 note on the table, this included a generous tip, and gathered up our belongings to leave. We bid adieu to our new English friends, and I said I wanted to find Madelaine to apologize again. I spotted her not too far away serving a customer and I called her name, but I did not sing it. She turned to see me, and we apologized again. She waved us off with a smile, “I sayed don’t worry about eet.” Her harshly French-accented English was not reassuring.

As we made our way away from the restaurant, Steph commented to me, “I guess we made our mark on that place.”

“I guess we did,” I said, proud to have created yet another Europe story worth telling.

I want to go back some day to see if our table is still tattooed. Who knows? Maybe that has become a popular seat with the locals. It does paint quite a comical scene, though; step out for dinner with your sweetheart to a romantic Parisian restaurant, and you’re sat at a table that has, “I’m pregnant” in big letters hand-written across the top. Surprise! Perhaps we started a trend and they’ve painted other shocking quotes on more tables. I’d gladly take credit for that. I have looked at it on Google Earth and do not see the checkered table covers or any writing on any table. Try searching the address yourself, 2 Rue Dante.

We drove to and explored the area around the Eiffel Tower that day, but we were not scheduled to tour the tower itself until the next day. We walked the Rue du General Camou, and other streets around the tower, and strolled around the open parks, enjoying the sun and temperate weather. From the plaza of the Palais de Chaillot, we decided to try out our photo idea, a dry run, so to speak. We posed with the tower, clear and dominantly framed in the background, but it was a windy day, and we could not keep our sign from folding over and flapping at the mercy of the wind, so we did not capture a worthy picture. Anyway, I didn’t like what I was wearing for such an important moment. It was very difficult to accomplish this without prematurely alert-ing everyone in our group to the news. We recruited Sarah, a young lady in our group to whom we knew we could entrust our secret, and who has since become a right close friend of our little family, an honorary member, really.

Next day was the Eiffel Tower tour. The tower has three levels one may experience. There is a unique elevator that carries visitors, diagonally, up to the next level, 377 feet above the ground, not even halfway to the top; still, it provides a rather satisfying view of the city. Stephanie had no interest in going to the topmost level at 905 feet. So, we made our photo moment happen at 377 feet. It created quite a stir among our student travelers. Once the English translation made its way around, a shower of ‘aww’, “isn’t that sweet” and “I told you!” floated from the crowd interspersed with strangers. We took several poses, a few with us both holding the sign and smiling, a few with us holding the sign and kissing. Our backdrop was a bird’s eye view of the Paris cityscape, cut through by the famous river Seine. We again had Sarah use Stephanie’s phone to take pictures so we could share them on social media as well as my DSLR camera. The congratulatory posts began rolling in almost immediately. Stephanie had posted the photo with no other caption than the script on our sign. Most had to use an online translator to decipher it. Clever girl.

Not that I am so deeply romantic in this way, maybe I am, but this was on the level of proposing marriage, and I think Paris is the best place for such an event. It was textbook.

All the young girls in our group swore they already knew she was pregnant, despite the fact she was hardly showing at the time. They cited the nausea and her particular eating habits as their evidence.

“There’s nothing different or unusual about the way she eats, and it doesn’t take much to make her puke, so you’re all full of it,” I told them, despite having no other explanation for so much vomiting. It really was sad to see her suffer that extreme nausea with no hope of combatting it. With the cat now out of the bag, we felt so much more relaxed. After the excitement subsided a little, I took the ride to the top of the tower with a few guys in our group, while Stephanie remained at the second level with her girls.

Breathtaking is the only word I can attribute to the view. Paris deserves every bit of praise and flattery it receives. The city is everything you’ve seen in movies. At just about every turn, couples will be inspired to steal a little kiss or exchange some kind of affection. Becoming engaged, getting married, or announcing a coming birth are all best done in Paris. My advice to couples struggling in their marriage would be, go to Paris. It will restore and reinforce your love, with little effort on your part. It’s cheaper than a divorce or marriage counseling. It’s not called ‘the city of love’ for nothing. Well, that’s the unofficial, or secondary nickname; officially, it’s ‘the city of lights’. Walk any Paris street for half an hour and it’ll become abundantly clear why the epithet was modified by people everywhere. The city’s sentient presence embeds deep in your chest a feeling of calm and bliss that cannot be ignored. Read that sentence again.

Stephanie and I cannot be more pleased with our decision to announce her pregnancy from the top of Paris’s Eiffel Tower; we even gave the child a French name, Charlotte. It’s a memory we will cherish forever. I believe Stephanie and I have inadvertently created an eternal recharge mechanism for our relationship, that accessing is as easy as looking through photos. As Humphrey Bogart famously reassured Ingrid Bergman, “We’ll always have Paris.”