My first visit to the Eiffel Tower was in utero.
I have been told this countless times in countless places to the point where this is a completely meaningless string of words. Well, they served as a mnemonic trigger for the phrase that always followed them.
But they wouldn't let me go up, because I was pregnant with my son.
Mom's spent a good part of her pre-parental life travelling the world with dad, and a not insignificant portion of her motherhood telling her children about all the places they'd visited while they were too young to remember anything.
I was in Holland, Germany, France - all over the damn continent - but we moved to the US when I was two, so it wasn't even whiff of a memory.
If I concentrate really hard, I can conjure up a dark room with a bowl of German candy that I imagine was our apartment in Büchenbeuren. But honestly, I probably imagined that from all the times it was described to me.
Mom's narration is what I have - instead of actual memories. In our recent trips together, it's finally dawned on me just how much Mom loved Europe. Mom was shamelessly proud of having a blonde, blue-eyed baby boy in a baby-starved town like Büchenbeuren.
Our landlady was madly in love with Jen - and would brag to her neighbors that her house had a little girl
and new baby in it. This was part of our family's mythology - and Mom still delights in telling it.
But this latest trip was starting in Paris - so the bit that kept bubbling up was how I cheated Mom out of getting to the top of the Eiffel Tower the
last time she was in Paris. She'd been ready to go, but a month from her due date,
people didn't want her to take the risk.
Exactly
which people stopped her changed with each telling, but the common thread was always I was their justification for stopping her.
------
This time around, Mom was determined to check the Tower off her bucket list.
I knew this because she'd sent me a lengthy article detailing all the reasons why any
thinking visitor to Paris would avoid the Tower at all costs. Fun fact about the maternal line of my family: when they loudly talk about something they will
never do - Count on them doing just that.
(All readers who know me can just. Shut. Up. Now. Thank you.)
Anyway, I'd assumed this was the opening salvo in a series of denials until we found ourselves over 300 meters above the City of Lights.
Donc, Allons-y!
I mean, I'm fine with that. I'd go anywhere in Europe, the only thing I mind is the buildup. But Mom wanted to feel like she was slowly winning me over to this goal.
Ever the good son, I played along. Said I'd be fine with going, but wasn't really into the whole stand-in-line-for-hours thing. "If the stars align, I'd go up."
Which was at least partially honest. I mean, we
were only going to have a short window of time in Paris and a six hour slice of time is a big commitment to one location. Mom had a long list of other attractions she wanted to see - something would have to give.
La Tour Eiffel might be that something.
About a week after the first denial, Mom emailed me reservations for the
Lounge Eiffel. She was all bummed out because online reservations for the summit were sold out. The lounge was on the first level - and while it wasn't the summit, it was still the Tower.
"Besides, there might be a way to finagle a way to the top from there." Mom was still hoping. She'd had an idea and her stubborn was kicking in. Dad's stubborn was loud - Mom's stubborn was more subtle.
But I'd been less than helpful about what we should go and do in Paris so far, I might as well get with the only plan we had. I wanted to see the 11 arrondissement, but the more I read about it, the less I thought it would be a practical choice. We were going to be on foot for most of the time, and the bulk of our other choices were well to the west.
And we'd booked a reservation - for about $100, you can get drinks and snackies on the lower level of the Eiffel Tower - so there was a time and place set in our otherwise chaotic idea of what we'd do in Paris.
--------
<Shorthanding>
Airlines suck.
The TSA can blow goats.
Charles De Gaulle airport is a bizzare thing on many levels.
</Shorthanding>
OMG. Paris. Beyond description awesome. I hate big cities with a passion, and perhaps if I lived there Paris would rub me raw - but on vacation - Paris is the sh!t.
I had a smattering of French in college - and I've always been a decent mimic, so I was seriously looking forward to trying my luck in French.
I was, of course, disastrous - but a few moments of success make you feel like a million bucks. I got hooked on saying Montmartre, just because it's fun.
Montmartre.
Anyway, we hit the
Musée d'Orsay - which rocked, if you go, buy tickets online first, nothing like blowing past the line with a ticket you bought on another continent - and bopped into their cafe, which,
Well -
- its was nice.
Yeah, kinda.
Afterwards, we managed two miracles. First, we got a parisian cab to stop for us, and second we directed him to our hotel in french. Which was great fun. Less so for the cab driver, as our hotel was on a street with a name that is used repeatedly in the same neighborhood.
J'étais confus
But we got back in time to make our reservation.
--------
The travel article Mom had sent had warned us about the crowds and assured us that the view from the Tower wasn't worth it. "The view OF the Tower is what most people want to see, when you're on it, you're looking at a bunch of buildings."
Fair point - certainly something to keep in mind if the only way up cost a lot or took a long time.
We walked to the Tower, and that was part of the fun. Weaving through the historical buildings and narrow streets and then you see it poking out from between the buildings.
Hey look, we've discovered the Eiffel Tower!
At the base, you can see all manner of tourist trappings, booths and ticket counters. Mom's reservation had us queing up to a booth advertising restaraunt reservations.
It was two people long, and took less than a minute to get our admission tickets. Huzzah!
Let's set the scene, shall we?
Picture yourself in a teeming throng of humanity, desperately queuing for the elevator that will take you up to Level 1 of the Tower. It's hot, you're crushed against total strangers, fearful of pickpockets - and the only thing between you and the elevator is a winding maze of fences PACKED with people just as pissed off as you.
Now, imagine watching two people walk past the entire length of the line and go right up to the elevator - ahead of everyone - and the attendant doesn't stop them, no! They smile and usher them onto the elevator like a long lost friend.
That was us.
OMG, I really should feel ashamed - but I was nothing but smiles as we bypassed the desperate and snarling masses like we owned the place.
Bonjour, Madame et Monsieur, billets?
Deux.
Bien sûr!
Sometimes, Evil is pure magic. Up the elevator and away from the unwashed proletariat scum.
Huzzah!
Whisked upward at a slant - we suddenly found ourselves loosed on Level 1.
-Which oddly looked like plywood wrapped in plastic. And caution signs. Lots of those. Level 1 was apparently under a lot of construction at the time, or at least the corner around our elevator was. The entire carful of passengers looked pleadingly at the elevator operator who (in the manner of Charon) laughed menacingly and waved us the hell out of their elevator. Hahahahahahahahahaaha!
--------
Time for some observations about how things work in Paris.
- There are many ways to get what you want or where you want.
- There is an established system of how this will be done
- SHAME THE HELL ON YOU FOR EVEN ASKING ABOUT THE SYSTEM. FIGURE IT THE F*CK OUT.
- WHAT ARE YOU, A CHILD?
- JEEZUS
We'd been pretty successful bulling our way to our goals thus far, so Mom and I ducked around the corner barricade while eveyone else was snapping pictures or staring up. For being on a tower, it felt an awful lot like being in an airport. Pipes, construction equipment, lots of plastic barriers. We came out into a clearing and finally saw a view of Paris from on high. It was nice, but we were trying to find the restaraunt. We had reservations for 6pm and we were just going to make it.
Past some house-sized glass walled box with stacked chairs in it, past another elevator terminal. Right turn, right turn and right up to a door labeled 58 Tour Eiffel.
Inside, it was seriously cool-
We proudly went up to the hostess with our reservation-
-who cut us off immediately to tell us that the restaraunt would not open for another half an hour.
Uh....
We checked our reservations to confirm that, yes - they were for 6pm and - yes, it was after 6pm.
Welcome to Paris!
Okay, we reasoned that the 6pm time was to make the elevator and they'd assumed that we'd take some time getting to the restaurant - maybe take a few pictures.
But we wanted to make sure we would still get our table.
"Can we wait here in the lobby?"
Bien sûr!
I know the stereotypes, but the Parisians we met were very polite. Most were in the service industry, so you expect courtesy there, but out in the streets the folks we met were great. There were in a hurry - so like any urbanite, they'll go from a smiling nod to beating you to death with a claw hammer if you stop at the top of l'escalier to read a map.
WHAT THE F*%K IS WRONG WITH YOU?
GODDAMN.
I hate those people, too. Who does that? Same people who stand in line at the deli and - when it's finally their turn - glance up at the menu like they've just noticed it was there.
CLAW HAMMER!
No, the Parisian vibe I got was that of a population in a hurry. Keep walking and if you need to stop, pull over to the side - get clear of the traffic flow - and then get out your damned map.
One exception to the hurry: Dining. Every place we went assumed we wanted the table for the rest of the day.
L'addition? Vraiment?
They view their presence as an interruption into your meal - were it possible, they would beam the food to you.
We don't want to bother you.
Which is perfectly civilized - so long as you're not on a schedule.
Tourists by definition are on a schedule. Having all the time in the world while in Paris is called
living in Paris. The trick of course, is to schedule a block of time where you don't have anything better to do.
Book the night, and bin the schedule until morning.
We'd tried to do that. But then - our evening was supposed to start at six.
So we waited. More people arrived after us. Some from the same elevator - fresh from wandering lost through the maze of construction. We watched as - one by one - they discovered that
58 Tour Eiffel wasn't going to open for another
vingt minutes.
Dix minutes.
Cinq.
A huge group arrived - easily forty people all in a rush. The hostess bravely stood her ground and had them wait as well. Mom and I held onto our bench seats in the lobby while these well dressed and clearly well-heeled types preened and pouted.
And stood.
Finalement, the restaurant opened and we rose to claim our seats - and found the huge group was going first. It briefly appeared to be open seating, so Mom surged into the room to grab a window table.
I was hanging back, thinking since we had reservations - we should probably check in first. Mom was urgently waving me towards her and the choice table she'd nabbed - but I could see there was going to be trouble.
I checked with the Maître d, and it was clear we'd have to queue, after all. Mom slunk back to the entrance and we handed over our reservation.
"Madame, this is for the lounge. This is the restaurant."
Of course. We realized it at about the same time. This is a place that serves meals. We'd made reservations for drinks and appetizers.
I mean, they certainly
could do both in one place, but that would be too easy. There is probably a bar or... something that we'd walked past in all that construction. We trudged back out of the restaurant, realizing it was now well after our reservation time and wherever we were supposed to be - we should be there already.
Back around the Tower. Left turn, left turn and -
Hey! That house-sized, glass-walled box we passed earlier? Well, the stacked chairs have been taken down and it looks like a bar.
Or a Lounge.
When we arrived at 6pm, they were closed and looked like furniture storage. Now, they looked like a modern bar with cushy chairs and an unparalleled view of the Tower's interior. There was a patio outside, but the day had been drizzly so no one was out on it. Pity. The view would be great, if there were any sun.
Whatevers, we hit the lounge and were whisked over to our Reserved Couches. They had signs and everything. Before long, we had champagne and a parade of stylish appetizers. And we began to relax.
Finally, we were where we were supposed to be. We'd paid to do drinks on the Eiffel Tower, and - despite the logistical bumps - we'd made it. We yukked it up and took pictures and did all the stupid you're supposed to do when visiting a major landmark.
We're having a drink! In the sky! Huzzah!
We watched tired and cranky people stagger out of the stairways and march past the lounge.
Ha Ha! Let them eat cake! We will have crevettes! Ho ho!
What was doubly funny was the lengths the Lounge had gone to - to make people feel privileged.
These couches are for the general public. These others
right next to them, and identical in every way - are RESERVED.
Mom was determined to make the appetizers last and was telling me to take my time. She wanted to linger up here. Appetizers never really take that long and I was ready to go in about thirty minutes.
But we stayed. Mom was beginning to make noises like we should go hunting for some stairs or try to find an elevator line.
Here we go...
I was fine with doing it, I was - but the fact that summit reservations had
sold out had me in the mindset that we were done.
Short of waiting in line for hours, that is. We were on Level 1, which meant we needed to get two elevators. Elevators required tickets and I knew of only two places that sold tickets: the web (which was sold out) and all those little booths that were now 57 meters below us.
I don't want to crush Mom's dreams, but we were hosed.
Undaunted, Mom went to talk to the waiter. I saw him shrug.
Done.
Then Mom went over to the bartender.
Well, bartenders know things...
Mom bounded back, big smile on her face. "He says we can do it! There's a way up!"
I. Uh...
We grill the man. "There is a machine. You put in your money and it will give you a lift ticket."
Shut. Up.
"How much?"
"Just four Euro, monsieur."
I have eight Euros
in my pocket as he says this.
Okay. It's almost 7pm. If we're doing this, we need to do this.
Now. I ask him for
specific directions. "Where is this machine?"
"It is just outside, monsieur."
It sounds way too easy, but we grab our things and bolt out of the lounge. I'm wondering
how will this will go wrong? It can't be as simple as...
There will be a huge line. All these people are coming up the stairs. We've been watching desperate people stagger past the Lounge for the past half an hour...
But it is just outside the Lounge. So much so, that we blow past it before catching a glimpse of it and doubling back.
Pro tip: If you're on Level 1 of the Eiffel Tower, find this machine.
See that? That's Parisian signage. As in - none.
Oh, and it's brown - so it will stand out.
There is a single family ahead of us - and they depart as we walk up. They are clearly frustrated - and at first I'm thinking the machine is out of service.
But it's working. Or at least I think it is. This is what it looks like:
I'm reasonable with written french, but this has me completely mystified. So much so, that I take this picture of the screen and walk back to the Bartender.
"Pardon, monsieur. I don't understand this machine. What do I do?" He is mystified as well, but assures me that the machine is working and will give me a ticket. I was confused about the price and he assures me that it is 4 Euros per person.
Okay, I think I can do that. I go back and - purely out of confusion hit the silver button by the red label 'Volver' -
- I'm taken to a screen that shows me a selection of flags - including the Union Jack.
English! Sacré merde!
I slap the Union Jack button and all the words start making sense. 'Adult' 'Two' 'Confirm'
I slap in the coins and it spits out two tickets called 'SUPPLEMENT.'
Whoo-hoo!! We bolt over to the nearest lift and stand there with a small group of bewildered tourists. There are no signs and nobody knows what to do. So we all wait.
An elevator arrives, but its on the way down. We're trying to figure out if this one will now go back up or continue down to the ground level. We finally manage to get the attention of the Elevator Attendant who tells us to go around to the other side of the elevator (there are doors on both sides) and her "colleague will help us."
Merci, madame.
We dash around the lift terminal and watch the elevator drop down out of sight. We'll catch them on the up leg, I guess.
The 'up' attendant is all alone. This makes no sense to me. There are scads of people waiting in lines below us - everyone's trying to get up and... there's nobody here...?
We ask this woman if we are in the right place. She glances at our tickets.
"Absolutely. You are in the right place." She is so nice. And she chats us up. There's no one else here, so she asks Mom where she's from. Mom tells her and her eyes grow wide. "Did you..? Were you affected by the cyclone?"
Katrina? Yes. Mom tells her
the story.
The Attendant's eyes grow wider. She is aghast. She apologizes for asking. She is so nice. We met her at a lull in the action, but her job has
got to be stressful. Nobody climbing up the Tower is at their best. They're all stressed, tired & sweaty. Day after day, answering the same aggravating questions...
And here, we've found someone who manages to stay serene. To show real concern. She puts her hand on Mom's shoulder. She offers her sympathies.
There's movement behind us. An asian teenager steps up to the Attendant. She's holding a ticket and is desperate to ask a question.
The Attendant continues to comfort my Mom. She asks how the region is recovering, if things are better now. Mom assures her that the region has a long way to go before-
"Miss?" Asian girl just needs a moment. "Can you-"
Attendant goes from sweetness and light to East German Border Guard in one half second.
"EXCUSE ME!" She makes an imperial gesture with her hand.
Asian girl leans back, shaken.
The Attendant looks back towards my Mom as if to say,
please continue...
Mom's at least as startled by the transformation as Asian girl. "I, uh... It will take some time, before there's any real talk of normal." She steps back to offer Asian girl the floor.
The Attendant continues, "It would take awhile, I see... but you hear such encouraging things on the news."
Asian girl looks like she's dying here. She just needs this one question answered and... she goes for it.
"Please, I-"
Attendant rears up. "I AM SPEAKING!"
Asian girl goes quiet for good. Mom does the decent thing and wraps up her discussion early - and nods to the newcomer.
The Attendant glares at the young woman's ticket. "THIS IS THE WRONG TICKET. YOU MUST WALK. THERE ARE THE STAIRS.
GO!"
Another supplicant arrives with the same question. They get the same treatment.
"THIS IS THE WRONG TICKET. YOU MUST WALK!"
Mom and I just pretend to be part of the ironwork. As the elevator arrives I notice that there were two corners to our ticket and the Attendant has torn them both off. I ask about this.
"This is so if you discard your ticket, no one else can claim it." She smiles.
"Ah. And this is the ticket that will take us all the way to the summit?" I want to be sure.
"Absolutely. This is for the summit, monsieur." Again the smile.
We thank her and Mom charges into the elevator. This is really going to happen. It's starting to dawn on me that this is no mere bucket list thing for Mom.
She has
really been wanting to do this for a long time.
We ride up to Level 2. Pressed in with a group of strangers in Paris, thoughts naturally turn to pickpockets.
It's not our fault.
Warning signs are everywhere. Absolutely everyone involved with our stay in Paris warned us -
repeatedly - that Parisian pickpockets were omnipresent and very, very skilled.
(As it happens, the very next day, a woman in our group was pickpocketed in Montmartre. Lost
all her money
and her passport. Second day of a two week trip. Incredibly, her trip got much worse. I digress...
)
So, Mom's got her purse in a deathgrip. I've got my Bag of Holding zipped up, reversed and covering my hidden wallet pocket.
Tense? Yeah, kinda.
But Level 2 is more like what you expect from the Tower. Balconies, views. Open spaces. We sightsee for a bit, but Mom is clearly summit bound. She queues immediately and I link up with her. I'm watching a video screen replay the same three bits over and over.
- Fold up your strollers
- Watch out for pickpockets
- You need either a Supplement ticket, or a Summit ticket to use this elevator.
Over and over. We're in line for a LooooOOong time. Mom's starting to get cranky. She sees a man get into line ahead of us. Then leave. Then come back and go in the front of the line and board the lift.
She's clearly irritated. I'm thinking that was us about an hour ago on the ground floor, but I didn't see any special tickets or signs of anything special about the person. Hmmm...
I check the ticket in my hand again: SUPPLEMENT.
I look at the video again: SUPPLEMENT.
Okay. Just making sure.
Ahead of us is a family who sound like they're from Alabama. They see our tickets and ask us if this is a line to buy tickets. I tell them (with more confidence than perhaps warranted) that we bought our tickets on Level 1 - and that if people were buying tickets in this line - we'd be moving even slower.
The Alabama mom groans and the family just gives up right there. They walk out of line. "I'm not going through that again," she says.
Owch. How awful would that be? Get all the way up to Level 2's lift and wash out?
I know what you're thinking: I was thinking that, too.
I check the ticket in my hand again: SUPPLEMENT.
I look at the video again: SUPPLEMENT.
Okay.
Just making sure.
By the time we get to the Elevator Attendant we are just about done. Mom's eyeing everyone like they're after her purse - and my feet are killing me.
I hand over the ticket and the Elevator Attendant stops me.
"This is the wrong ticket."
What?
I try to argue. "But your colleague told us this was the right one..!"
Elevator Attendant is unmoved. "I
saw you on Level 1. This is not the right ticket. Go. There is a machine on this level. Come back to me when you have the right ticket."
I'm practically ill at this point. I'm absolutely certain that our ticket says SUPPLEMENT and that the signs and videos are saying this is the right ticket.
The nice Attendant from Level 1 told us this was the right ticket...
All of this means nothing. In front of a roiling pack of tourists, there is no arguing the point.
Mom and I get out of line.
We go looking for the machine on Level 2. Behind us, I see the line has doubled in length, and another elevator load of tourists files in while I'm watching.
We are screwed.
We dash around Level 2 like fiends after a fix. We finally locate the same brown box tucked away - like an afterthought - in a closet sized alcove.
I'm out of coins and the price per ticket is now 6 Euro per person. But it takes plastic.
I bust out my credit card and try over and over again. Nothing.
Screwed.
I try again. Nothing.
Screwed.
Mom's really starting to get upset. I knew this was important to her, but realizing exactly
how important is killing me. We got this close - did exactly what we were told - and we're screwed.
Even if we get this machine to work-
-Two teenage girls bop into the alcove and use the other machine. They have coins and are there and gone with tickets in an eyeblink.
I switch to their machine - and it works. 12 Euro charged to my Visa and we have two tickets marked SUPPLEMENT - only these say '6 Euro' on them.
So... Why the-
SHAME THE HELL ON YOU FOR EVEN ASKING ABOUT THE SYSTEM.
Allright, allright...
We trudge back to the Lift line. It's tripled in length. At least.
We are done.
We were almost an hour in this line - last time. Mom's back is not going to manage that. I know her ankles are killing her. Even if we push through the pain, we'll be up there after nightfall and the whole point of this was to see Paris by day.
I'm looking for a way to verbalize this.
Mom looks at me giving up.
-And walks over to a random blonde attendant. "Excuse me?"
Oui, Madam.
"We were told we had the wrong tickets, but to come back when we had the correct ones? Is it okay if we go up to the front?"
I cringe. I'm waiting for the hammer blow of
NO! and waiting for someone, anyone in the line to overhear this and start willing hot death in our direction.
But Mom is unswerving. She remembered that man who cut in front of us in this very line. He'd left and come back to the front of the line. She realized he wasn't cheating - he was just like us.
He had the wrong ticket.
Come back to me when you have the right ticket.
I thought the Elevator Attendant was being mean.
Come back to me...
Mom knew she was being nice. Don't come back and wait in line, "come-back-directly-to-me-and-I'll-let-you-in."
Mom's blonde attendant understood this at once.
Oui, Madam.
And she escorted us both to the front of the line - where the Elevator Attendant waved us in.
Language and a crush of humanity interrupted a proper display of gratitude - instead I gasped out
Merci, Madam. Merci!
And we were in.
The lifts to the top are hilariously narrow, and urgency makes them seem even more cramped - but once you've made the last lift to the summit - all of that ceases to matter.
Forget pickpockets, they're smushed up against you with nowhere to escape.
Forget the heat - everyone is drunk on the thought of reaching the summit.
And then your stomach falls through your feet and you are catapulted into the sky. Height sensitive types begin wailing and everyone else cheers and I look over at Mom
-and she's laughing like a Madwoman.
Not the usual chuckle of conversation - but a full body exultation.
Summiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!
When the doors open, we practically explode onto the floor. I'd expected to emerge into daylight, but the landing level is fully enclosed. There are stairs to the upper deck which is fully open air.
Mom's beat, I can tell - but nothing is going to keep her from those stairs.
We're up - then out. And marveling at the view. That article was so full of sh!t.
We'd had solid clouds and rain since we came to Paris, but on the Tower we caught our due.
La Seine
La Basilique du Sacré Coeur de Montmartre
The view is incredible.
Better still, you are surrounded by total strangers who are as summit drunk as you are. Everyone's celebrating, asking you to take their picture. I helped a young slavic couple with their summit photo, they helped us.
Then I helped some greek guy. Chatted up some teenager who was petrified with fear but still leaning out for the view.
It was brilliant.
Mom was jubilant "We made it! We made it!"
And she had every right to be. I'd totally struck the tent. I'd stopped her from going up the first time, and I was about to give up this time. Mom stuck it out. Willed it to happen, like always.
Any time anyone thinks I'm stubborn, I can say I'm nothing compared to my Mom.
And say it with pride.
'Cos sometimes... stubborn can get you places.
Way to go, Ma.
