Our first full day in Paris got off to a late start. The previous day my friends had trained in from Bordeaux and I had walked half of Paris. We were tired and didn’t hit the road as early as we had hoped. Handling the logistics, I thought it was best if we switched the itinerary and did the Arc first and the Eiffel Tower last. After taking the Metro to the Arc and walking the Champs-Elysees, we ambulated over to the Tower to check out the lines and get the feeling of what was in store for us. The. Lines. Were. Damn. Long. There was no way we’d be getting through them any time quickly, so we just hung out in the little park right at the base and did some people watching. We got the best of the best. Parisians on their Sunday stroll.
The first group we saw was a family. The mother and dad pushed the stroller down the path as their kids frolicked and played around them. Man, were they cute. There were two girls and two boys and they were all dressed to the nines. The girls had blue tights, khaki skirts, and blue sweaters. The two boys had blue corduroy plants, blue sweaters with white shirt collars poking up out of their sweaters. I know I rant and rave and like a lot of things (I avoid the negative, you see. There’s no time to talk about the bad), but these kids were cute. What made them cuter was the fact that they were speaking perfect French. It was great. They were involved in a heavy game of base tag (Touching a tree, you’re safe. Not touching and tagged? YOU’RE IT!!) The eldest, a girl of about seven with long, straight blond hair had a jump rope and would only move on a run, allowing her to jump with her rope simultaneously. The two boys were terror with brown loafers. They were everywhere and no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t quite tag their older sister. The youngest was a girl with curly, curly blond hair that bobbed whenever she ran. For being three years old (that’s my guestimate. I’m not too good at judging little kids ages), she was fast. She had to be! Her two brothers were always chasing after her. Regardless of their ambition to win, the brothers were gentleman. Whenever the little girl got tagged, one would realize her disadvantaged and let her tag him, so as the game wouldn’t go on forever as the youngest chased around her much faster siblings. It was the most intense, politely played game of tag I had ever seen. As quickly as they came, these four bundles were gone.
The next group that wandered by is hard to describe. I will try my best, but the description does not do justice. As we were sitting there, a little boy walked by, helping his mother push his own stroller, as little kids are apt to do. All of a sudden, another stroller appeared from the opposite direction and the boy quickly left his mother, climbed into the newly appeared stroller and started to hug and kiss it’s inhabitant. His girlfriend perhaps? Regardless of the relationship, he was ecstatic to see her. He couldn’t have been more than three, yet he was so excited his best friend in the world had just joined him and they were gonna play. The mothers exchanged kisses, double cheeked kisses, true Parisian style and then kissed and greeted the kid not belonging to them. The little boy quickly undid his mates stroller restraints and dragged her out of the stroller. He took her over to the puddle to examine the water, then over to the grass, then finally they went and monitored the progress of the Arabs yelling at each other over who hit who’s car. These two little kids made it just in time to see the inhabitant of the flat right above this argument pour a huge bucket of water of the arguing men below in hopes of having them leave. I have never see two little kids giggle and laugh as hard as these two did at the sight of grown men get doused with water. The two mothers, now aware that the men were even angrier and might blow, called their two children back to where they were. The boy hesitated, for he wanted to see what would come of the drama, but he realized after a second that his mother was right and he returned to playing near here. What maturity for a three year old. Again, as quickly as they came, they had disappeared.
The final group we saw was some teenagers playing American football. They had claimed a patch of grass and were playing touch. This was rather surreal, as me and my friends had done this many a time, but would have never thought that the kids in Paris do the same thing. The only worlds of English they uttered was the cadence, "Down. Set. Hike!" Other than that, it was all in French. The plays were called in French, the arguments of whether the touchdowns counted were in French, even the vulgarity when missing a catch was utter in some incomprehensible French. One guy was even wearing a Floyd "Wish You Were Here" tshirt. The person who stood out though was the lone girl brave enough to play with these boys. Lanky as all heck, she seemed to be the only one who could throw the football, throw it long (we’re talking 30 yards), and throw a tight spiral. All of the guys sucked. They’d try, but then quickly default to her obvious superior skills. It was a great sight.
The three of us left to grab a bottle of wine, some cheese and crackers. When returned to the park with our booty, they all had moved on. As quickly as they all had came, they left. Just another Sunday afternoon at the base of the Eiffel Tower.
