Tour d’Eiffel
The Eiffel tower rose into a warm hazy sky of gunmetal gray. The structure itself was at the same time mechanically businesslike yet still endowed with a grace that emanated from its curves that extend from the four massive bases before it becomes unified and thrusts phallic-like into the haze. Make no bones about it – it is large. It dominates that entire section of Paris, a colossal contrast to the 19th century brick buildings and stone streets that run perpendicular from the quadrangle that the Eiffel Tower is anchored within. Photographers like us quickly learned that they would need to back a thousand yards away if they wanted to capture the entire edifice in the frame. As we came upon the nearest base, containing one of four ticket windows, sets of stairs and elevators, we slowed to merge with the gathering crowd which united with the large crowd already in line. I sighed as quietly as I could. Truthfully, I would have been more than satisfied to ponder the marvels of the Eiffel Tower from a distance, as part of the Parisian skyline, leaving the treasures of the summit to a future visit, if ever. It simply struck me as time consuming, hot, crowded, and a waste of money. Such a notion was inconceivable to the three kids, though, so I knew better than to try to dissuade them from the crowds and peddlers, let alone the cost required to get a family of five lofted into the bowels of this beast of French eclecticism. So we got ourselves in line, bottles of water priced like champagne shoved in our faces as the buzz –clink of the toy birds dived bombed around us. Soon, we realized a decision would need to be made. Would we climb the old fashioned way or take the unsettling 45-degree elevator? My wife made a bold move, and I applauded her for it. Under no circumstances, she declared, would she be making for the top. Bully for you dear, I encouraged silently, if not a little cowardly. One of our sons agreed, that he would not want to go up all the way, but at least to the first main level. The other two still had the idea of the tippy-top in their heads, so we concluded that we would take the stairs to the first level, and gauge the situation from that height.
My wife and older son stayed on the first main level, having watched the ground slowly recede below them through the open stairs and deciding that enough was enough. They chose to reward their efforts with strawberry ice cream cones and a tour of the restaurant and post office. I would have been quite satisfied to join them, but we still had two that wanted to go higher. The stairs accommodated those going up and down, and some, whether climbers or descenders, chose the inside part of the open stairwell in order to grasp some psychological sense of greater safety. It made for some interesting traffic jams, though. This time the height slowed my two down as well, but they bravely persevered to the next level that, though a much tighter space than the level below, still provided a 360-degree walk-around. The climb to the top was jettisoned as my son and daughter both decided that the panorama here was sufficient for picture taking. I had to admit that the view of the Seine and museum row was magnificent, as was the brilliant whiteness of the Sacre Cour. We lingered a bit to gain our composure for the trip back down, but the thought of ice cream steeled us for the return journey.
In making our way to the Arc du Triomphe, we stumbled across the Shangri La of high end, boutique shopping. One look in my fair bride’s eyes and I saw that she was longing for that Parisian purchase which would make her friends’ eyes grow wide with awe. The string of stores along the Rue Montaigne would make even the most Rodeo Drive -hardened shopper grow a little weak in the knees. There, displayed before us, were shops represented by every luxury designer under the sun. In fact it was along Rodeo Drive in L.A. that I had seen this look from my wife before, and it had gone unsatisfied. The kids trotted along ahead of me thinking of lunch, as my wife lingered behind me, wistfully dreaming of Fendi. I needed to make a decision fast and, as we turned onto the Champs Elysees and quickly came upon the Louis Vitton store, so I rounded up the kids and told them that we were going to let Mom wander in this store a bit, and then we would eat lunch. With a smattering of moaning from our youngest, and a luxurious sigh from the adult feminine one, we entered the Paris hub of all that is LV.
I have since learned that counterfeit bags are a particular problem for these designer firms, and I instantly saw why. Ridiculously thinking that I would chuckle as we spent twice, dare I say three times the price of a department store purse for a Louis Vitton equivalent, I was as stunned as the bovines who gave their all to make these branded masterpieces when I saw the prices. The smallest coin purses required an investment that would have been a solid down payment for a luxury automobile. The sales people, mostly men in suits that would not have been out of place in the solemn boardrooms of elite Wall Street financial institutions, merely nodded as we entered, giving us free reign to stare at the merchandise in wonder, or horror, depending on one’s outlook. The goods were displayed like the treasures of an Egyptian pharaoh, under glass with spot lighting to accentuate each item’s individual accoutrements. Price tags, large enough to accommodate the requisite number of zeros, were unabashedly displayed next to each item. I was baffled. I saw these bags commonly on the arms of women all over America and Europe. How could people afford these, I asked my salivating bride. Many, if not most of them are not real, was her quick response. How as one to tell? There are ways, she murmured, not to be dissuaded from the real McCoy. Nor would I want to try. I must confess to my relief, however, that she knew well before walking into the boutique, as I never could have anticipated, that only the budget of the privileged few could withstand the spontaneous purchase of a Louis Vitton purse. She was patient to window shop that day, and give me the opportunity, upon our return to the States, to arrange for less eating for a month or two to accommodate the purchase of a modest bag from the LV website as a Christmas gift that year.
We were all beginning to flag, and our youngest was absolutely ravenous, so we turned onto the Champs Elysees in search of a quick lunch. The wide, airy avenue is beautifully tree lined, and it provided cool respite from the heat of the Eiffel Tower. There were adequate opportunities for dining, but I was fearful of the tourist’s nightmare – bad food pictured in photos at the door with mediocre service and prices set to empty the wallet of the unwary traveler. On the other side of the spectrum, noticing the tables set outdoors with linen and well groomed waiters whisking in and out of the restaurant with cold beer and steaming plates, I knew this was no time for a top-notch meal for the mental scrapbook. No, as the kids (and I) started to pant our way along, I knew that this was a time for basic food, hearty and fast. We spied a simple shop with hamburgers, hotdogs, cold pop and (oh, how I love Europe) cold beer. When Nancy discovered that the tables outside belonged to the shop, I knew I had a happy family. Moments later the kids were diving into recognizable American food, notwithstanding the hot dog’s French origin, and the fries’ first name. In fact, my wife and I were marveling over the deliciousness of the French fries, which were a meal in themselves. We all people-watched for an hour as we munched and sipped our drinks.
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