Paris in January

Daphne and I arrived in Paris just two days ago. My daughter developed a love for this city starting at age six. She and I tagged along on business trips with her dad in March of ’82, and April of ’83 and ’84. Daphne’s been back to Paris a number of times, including as recently as November of ’09 with her husband, Etan.

But for me it’s my first trip back in 26 years. And I’m relieved to say that aside from seeing more Parisian women in down coats than fur, lots of young people with iPhones, fewer smokers, and cleaner sidewalks, not much has changed. The city is still a perfect blend of old, magnificent architecture and beautiful new components – at least new for me – such as the Louvre’s I.M. Pei glass pyramids and the Musee d’Orsay, a renovated railroad station with glorious Impressionist paintings.

At Daphne’s insistence, we took just one small suitcase each, with an eye toward using public transportation to get from the airport to the Hotel Castex in the Marais. A heavy laptop bag slung across my body, I insisted that we use elevators and escalators as much as possible. But there were a lot of stairs involved, and even in a Metro station where I spied an elevator, I knew enough French to understand an out-of-order sign.

I thought back to Boston’s MBTA, and the multi-million settlement reached a few years go on behalf of physically handicapped travelers seeking access. Hoping the comparison doesn’t sound gauche, I’d like to tell those grumbling about the expense to try carrying even a small suitcase up and down steep flights of stairs.

When we arrived at our hotel, a desk clerk asked if we wanted a shuttle service on the day of our return back to the airport. For a mere 34 Euros, I could not have been more grateful to learn about a service that will pick us right in front of our hotel.

According to the guidebooks, it almost never snows in Paris. There was snow on the ground when we arrived, and it snowed yesterday. I’ve experienced chilling downpours in March, and sunshine and temperatures warm enough for sunbathing in the Luxembourg Gardens in April. I’m excited to see roofs crusted with snow.

English speaking, friendly and helpful, another desk clerk responds with solicitude to Daphne's inquiry about the weather. After going online, he reports that tomorrow will especially cold. With a back and forth motion of his hand, he tries to caution us against icy sidewalks. We explain that’s not an anomaly in Boston.

He offers us an umbrella to shield our heads from the snow. We decline, motioning to the fur-trimmed hoods on our down coats. My decision to wear my La Canadienne boots on the plane has paid off. Thankfully my Floridian daughter packed a pair of Texas boots she’d picked up while doing a story about ranchers.

Paris has been unusually cold, and I can’t help noticing what would be an anomaly for Boston, travel agencies with posters of exotic vacations in warm places, and travel bureaus dedicated to specific locales like New Caledonia and Tunisia. Despite reports on business pages about the demise of Club Med, the posters showing well tanned, blond French children at Club Med resorts would suggest otherwise.

Last November, when I first asked Daphne if she’d be interested in a mother-daughter vacation, I offered two alternatives, Paris or something tropical like Mexico or Barbados. She insisted that nothing could rival Paris – with its spectacular museums, food, and wine.

Not to mention world-class walks along the Seine, where happily the paths have been sanded. I’ve always been drawn to its bridges, and can’t decide whether the Charles makes me nostalgic for the Seine or vice versa. Daphne was right.