Ode to a grandson

 

Leo turned into a teenager last week. Ah, you say, so into a kid who will now only answer in monosyllables when he's not giving you sass; get miffed if you tell him to turn off his phone/tablet/gamer; and generally behave as though you, his parent or grandparent, knows nothing at all about anything.

But Leo is not that kind of kid; and for us as grandparents taking him on his first trip abroad to a non-English speaking country, we found this out on the very first day of his being in our care for the first time without his parents. (That's a lot of firsts.)

We flew overnight on French Bee from Miami to Paris Orly and landed on June 6th--at the start of a one-day General Strike. Ack! Les Français et ses grèves. We had no idea what to expect, but that things were not as they usually are on a Tuesday in June became evident as we sat on the plane for an hour and a half waiting to disembark. Our jetway was not ready (not enough personnel willing to work) and so portable stairs had to be driven out onto the tarmac to take the 300 passengers off and onto buses... er, one bus that bucked the strike and had to make many trips to the terminal. 

With my mobility compromised lately, I was on the wheelchair list, and thus we were asked to wait until everyone else had left the plane. Leo stood by quietly as we discussed with the crew in French what Paris in a strike would be like for us getting to the 5th Arrondissement. Still jetlagged from his red-eye from California the day before, Leo was now thoroughly groggy from the extra 6-hour jetlag from Florida, and he could have whined with impunity. But he didn't. 

It took a while to get the hydraulic van-lift up to the other side door to take off the walking wounded, and it all took longer than any disembarkation I have done over the years. Leo never made a peep, and in fact allowed a gleeful Scott to take a photo of him as the lift put him only few feet in front the mammoth jet engine. (Scott is a train, plane and boat fanatic  BTW.)

Once through passport control and customs, we went onto the curb to call for an Uber--along with all the other arriving passengers not willing to test the public transportation system on the day of a strike. The wheelchair assistant was mistaken in where we should be stationed, and after she parked me, off she went with the wheelchair. We were in the wrong spot for pick-ups, and when Scott figured out we had to move 100 yards, Leo followed along patiently, helping me with one of my bags as I was using a cane. By now, Scott and I were getting a bit testy with each other until we were safely in our Uber and breathing sighs of relief. We thought we were home dry.

But no. Our driver complained bitterly about the strike and what it had done to his routes and the traffic, and sure enough within 10 blocks of our apartment on rue Larrey, he suddenly stopped the car, swore, and said, "Sorry, I can't go any further; the police have blocked off all the roads in case of protests. You will just have to take the Metro. See, I am letting you out near one and it's only three stops to yours." At this point, I think I swore!

"What's happening," Leo whispered, not understanding the French and seeing us frustrated and grumbling. "We have to get out. We can't go any further by car, I'm afraid." "Okay," Leo said and cheerfully slid out, dragging his backpack with him.

Now, I have lived in Paris twice in my life--once for a year, but in the 16th Arrondissement, and the second for three years in the 7th. Here, we were a stone's throw from the Place d'Italie in the 13th, which has been the scene of several unruly protests during these weeks of revolting against raising the retirement age to 64 (honestly!), and none of it looked familiar to me. We stood on the sidewalk, forlornly surrounded by luggage. Leo didn't complain, sigh, or throw a fit. He just stood by patiently waiting for us to solve this. 

"Call our VRBO host," Scott suggested. "Maybe he can help?" I knew Philippe was waiting for us at the apartment after receiving my text from the Uber as we left Orly. Having established an email rapport with him before we arrived, I was confident he would come up with a plan, so I called. He was so sympathetic to our plight that he told us to find a cafe, wait there, and he would ride the metro to our stop and help us back to the apartment. (He knew I had had a fall and probably needed help with bags.) We were astonished he would bother to do this, but he did, and three and a half hours after landing at Orly only 16 kilometers from our apartment, we struggled up the three flights of stairs and collapsed. It was only then that Leo finally admitted he really needed the bathroom, poor lad!

A quick freshen up and it was off to find his first patisserie! After such a disastrous beginning, we were worried he'd be discouraged. Not a bit of it. As we sat at a cafe later for a quick bite, he told us he had learned one phrase in French from a schoolmate back in Berkeley. Without asking for our help, he took himself inside the cafe and fearlessly asked the bartender "Ou sont les toilettes?" Now, that's what I call chutzpah.

My hat is off to Leo's parents, my daughter Joanna and her husband Mike, who have raised a sensible, sensitive and easy-going young man. "I trust you, Granny," he told me before the trip when I asked if the itinerary was to his liking. "I will just go with the flow."

And he did! Every step of the seven days. It was a joy to experience Paris through his eyes and share in the adventure...I hope you will, too. (More to come...)