AH, PARIS. Home of romance. Keeper of the secrets of a million lovers. Observer of the furtive assignations, shameless serenades and desperate wooing of tout le monde. Igniter of the raging fires of new-found passions. Rekindler of the dying embers of ancient unions. Begetter of untold numbers of overblown attempts at literary flourish . . .
Yes, we all have our fond memories of Paris. Strolling along the Seine at night. Setting eyes for the first time on Notre Dame. Whiling away afternoons in the Musée d’Orsay. Lingering for hours in “our favourite little place in Paris”. The city is the perfect weekend destination for smug couples. The other week we went with friends to visit mates who have been living in Paris. A chance for another of those special weekends. Only this time we were taking the boy with us. We had booked seats in the roomier family carriage on Eurostar but it was shut because the air conditioning was not working. We had to squeeze in opposite a troglodyte who rolled his eyes and tutted at the presence of a baby. I fantasised about him being turned back at the border for breaching a Gallic law on aesthetics and manners.
Then we got to Paris and found that it was full of thin-lipped, eye-rolling, tut-tutting, moustache-twiddling sneerers; all appalled that anyone should bring a baby into their midst. In Rome or Madrid the locals would have been cooing. In Paris we spent the weekend laughing at the comical haughtiness we encountered whenever the buggy got in the way of a Parisian foot, or the boy yelped in a boutique.
Paris en famille is a different city from Paris à deux. We still had a lovely time. But Paris was not created for family holidays. We had delightful walks, but eschewed the cultural hotspots in favour of parks. The parks, all symmetry and elegance, are not for children. Aside from the huge amount of dog shit that makes London look almost hygienic by comparison, those chalky paths are retina-torching in the sunshine. The playgrounds do not offer swings, slides and soft landings, but equipment apparently designed by Salvador Dalí on a weird day; strange twiddly spikes and domes, set in hard concrete.
We were surrounded by museums and galleries but didn’t venture into a single one. Those who regard eating out as the whole point of Paris will be shocked that we didn’t enter a single restaurant. It just seemed too much hassle to get babysitters for children in two different apartments. Somehow kitchen lunches seemed easier. The boy discovered croissants, and his continuing passion for them is turning him into our own EU butter mountain.
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For one of our party the allure of timeless afternoons of the old, pre-children Paris proved too much. After a champagne-heavy lunch, he donned his four-year-old daughter’s tiara and disappeared to meet another pal living near by for a “quick drink”.
By baby bathtime he was officially Awol. He also had the key to the flat. When he eventually turned up even his wife, a remarkably tolerant woman, was unamused. He did not help his cause by arguing that he hadn’t been idling all day in a bar, he had been virtually kidnapped and held there.
We stayed in and ordered pizza. It was not your quintessential Paris dinner but, with some Kronenbourgs and a fabulous view of the Eiffel Tower, it tasted pretty good.
On the way back we were in a carriage with an extended family of two dozen Indians from Bombay on a 14-day European tour. They said they could not understand all the fuss about Paris (but they were excited about staying in Wembley). When the boy began to cry a grandma held out her arms and we had free childcare for the rest of the journey.
Shame we didn’t meet them on the way out.
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damian.whitworth@thetimes.co.uk