Standing on Avenue des Invalides, the chill of early January bites through my layers. My five-month-old, little Sophie, is bundled up tightly in her snowsuit and wrapped in a blanket, resembling a tiny Michelin man. I bounce nervously, pushing her stroller in circles, hoping to stave off her tears. After an endless wait, the bus finally arrives. I position myself at the back door, the only one wide enough for a stroller. But the door doesn’t open.
A man, sharply dressed in a suit, gestures for the driver to let me in, yet nothing happens. Confused, I wheel Sophie to the front entrance, signaling for the back door again, only to meet the driver’s head shake. “No,” he insists. I’m baffled. “There are already two strollers on board. You’ll need to wait for the next bus.” Seriously? It’s the coldest day of the year, and I can’t just stand here with my baby!
Frustrated, I jog down the street, my stomach churning. It’s a 45-minute walk home, and the metro is out of the question. Maneuvering this enormous stroller down the stairs is impossible, and taxis won’t accommodate it. My heart races, panic setting in as I worry for my baby. What kind of mother am I, exposing her to this frigid air? Sure, we’re in Paris—not Antarctica—but it feels like it. She’s dressed warmly, but what about her little face? I chastise myself for wanting social interaction over my daughter’s comfort.
I remind myself that colder climates exist—Minnesota, Alaska—but surely those moms have heated minivans. My thoughts drift to Eskimos, who thrive in extreme cold. Yet, thinking about them while racing through Paris doesn’t provide any comfort.
Finally, I spot the next bus, and to my relief, the back door opens. I wheel Sophie on, parking the stroller in the designated area. The bus is packed with commuters, and I clutch my unstamped ticket. There’s no way through the crowd to validate it. This route must be the most turbulent in Paris, as the bus swerves wildly, threatening to topple us. I ensure the stroller’s brakes are locked, holding onto the handlebar.
While I strategize my next move, a hand taps my shoulder. “Madame, votre billet?” A stern woman in a navy uniform demands to see my ticket. I hand it over, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
“This is not stamped. You have not validated your ticket,” she scolds.
“I couldn’t leave the stroller while the bus was so crowded,” I respond, switching to my best American accent.
“This is against the rules. C’est interdit!”
With La Petite cooing at her, I feel my frustration mount. “How am I supposed to validate it when the machine is at the front of the bus and it’s crowded?”
“C’est interdit, Madame. You must validate your ticket.”
Is she really going to issue me a ticket? I’m curious how that even works for a person, but I don’t want to find out.
“You must leave the stroller and validate your ticket at the front,” she monotones, devoid of empathy.
I’m about to lose it. Does she expect me to abandon my baby in a moving bus? My mind races for a solution. Why isn’t there a ticket machine near the back? I take a breath, reminding myself that arguing won’t help. “I didn’t know it needed to be validated right away. I’m visiting a friend,” I say, forcing a smile.
She scrutinizes me, her expression unchanged. “I’ll let it go this time, but you must validate next time.”
Relieved, I see our stop approaching. “Merci, Madame,” I say, hurriedly unlocking the stroller and maneuvering out into the cold air.
Once home, I collapse onto the sofa, tears streaming down my face. Why is everyone so unfriendly here? I feel isolated. Looking down at Sophie, who immediately latches on to nurse, I realize I’m exhausted. I had hoped the playgroup would help me connect with other moms, but instead, I feel lonelier than ever. The encounter with the transport officer was just the cherry on top. If only we could hibernate through winter and emerge when it’s warmer.
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Summary
A mother navigates a cold day in Paris with her baby, struggling with public transport and feeling isolated. The experience highlights the challenges of motherhood in a foreign city, compounded by cultural differences and the need for social connection.
Keyphrase: Motherhood in Paris
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