Just back from a short family holiday in Paris, and I'm happy to report we survived the trip without mishap, despite the fact that the city is under siege from attack monkeys.
Yes, according to the Guardian, Parisian street gangs have responded to the crackdown on dangerous dogs by using Barbary apes, smuggled from North Africa, to intimidate their rivals. Highly aggressive outside their natural habitats, the apes have sharp teeth and short tempers, and attack by hurling themselves at people's heads; qualities which have made them the new weapon-of-choice for hard young Parisians.
"They're ultra-fashionable," a police officer from one of the city's tougher areas is quoted as saying. "Kids take them out on leads and even carry baby monkeys around in nappies. But these animals can be very dangerous indeed."
We didn't witness any of this ape-related violence, probably because the monkey gangs operate mainly in the suburbs. We stayed in the centre of Paris, which is still controlled by poodles; except for an area around the fashionable Place Vendome, where a notorious gang of chihuahuas preys on unwitting tourists by crapping under their shoes when they're not watching.
Indeed, if the Barbary apes have better toilet manners than their four-legged cousins, their popularity with street gangs could be a positive development. The use of nappies suggests the owners, at least, are environmentally sensitive; which is more than you can say for the city's dogs, whose liberal street-fouling rights are apparently protected by the French constitution.
Such quibbles apart, my wife and I found Paris as beautiful as ever. It was probably wasted on our 10-month-old son, whom we carried around in nappies to intimidate other restaurant customers. But at least his sister, now well over two, was old enough to be enthralled by the sights.
Soon after arriving, for example, we happened to pass the Arc de Triomphe and she pointed excitedly. "Look!" she said, "bus!" And, sure enough, there was a bus parked near the Arc de Triomphe. So from then on, as you can imagine, it was one thrill after another; usually accompanied by exclamations of: "Look! 'Nudder bus!"
The only thing to equal the excitement of the city's buses were the escalators. "Ezzagators," Roisin called them, and after a few hours she could spot a Metro entrance at 100 metres. Many entrances have mere steps rather than ezzagators. But she'd still have happily spent all day going up and down, which, speaking as the person carrying her most of the time, I believe we did.
We hadn't brought our double-buggy to France, on the grounds that it weighed more than the aircraft. So the only way to transport a two-year-old child for long periods, I found, was on one's shoulders. This can affect one's sight-seeing, since the child, unused to heights, will cling to your head like an attack monkey, and your view may be limited to the footpath. On the plus side, the weight is evenly distributed (on a small area of your neck) and the child, for her part, has a great view of the buses.
Yes, touring Paris with a small family is exhausting, but at least it means you sleep at night. Which is just as well, because the wallpaper in many Paris hotels would otherwise keep you awake. And not just the wallpaper: the general decor of the typical small hotel is scarier than any of the street gangs.
It's remarkable in a city of impeccable taste, where even the food shop displays are composed to such aesthetic standards that you can be moved to tears by an arrangement of sausages in a charcutier's window, that small-hotel decor is such a horror. It is Paris's mouldering portrait in the attic (mention of which reminds me that Oscar Wilde's dying words were about the wallpaper in his Paris hotel room, to the effect that one of them had to go).
PARIS hotels also have some of the tiniest lifts in the world, so that it takes you almost as long to get a family of four plus luggage from the lobby to your room as it does to fly to France. Our lift had the additional complication of having swinging wooden doors inside which opened in such a way that, when getting in or out, you could hold onto your luggage or your dignity, but not both.
Still, we love the city, even if kids change your perspective. Where once you visited the Louvre, you now find yourself, sitting at the sandpit in the Place Des Vosges with Parisian mothers. We hadn't packed a bucket and spade, unfortunately (my wife usually plans for every eventuality, including the onset of nuclear winter), and our son was so determined to take the other kids' things, we had to leave before it got ugly.
I think Roisin loved Paris too, despite one traumatic incident in which she lost a piece of bread to a pigeon (probably owned by the street gangs) and cried so loudly she could be heard in the next arrondissement. After several days of sitting on my shoulders, she even relaxed her grip on my hair, eventually; although she was a little overwhelmed by then and took to murmuring "Everywhere bus" one night before falling asleep on the back of my head.
While we were in Paris, we also took the train to Brussels for the weekend to meet some American friends with a new baby. I promise to write about this trip next week, unless enough readers send money in the meantime.
fmcnally@irish-times.ie
