Paris in Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

to eat both pots so that the waitress would not feel snubbed.

    Our children are driving us mad. As a surprise, Alessandro came home today with train tickets for London, dated tomorrow.Apparently it’s only about two hours by Eurostar, through the Channel Tunnel.

    The Eurostar that runs between London and Paris has full security; consequently, we almost missed the train. We collapsed into our seats and then spent a lively two hours as the children battled over one copy of
Diary of a Wimpy Kid
, regardless of the fact they’d both read it several times. In a low moment, a jostled arm led to an airborne flood of hot tea landing on Alessandro’s pants in just such a spot as to suggest that he needs Depends. This led to the revelation that he brought only that pair for the next three days.

    In the late afternoon we set out for Big Ben. But it was rush hour in the Underground, and we finally fled the crowd. We got lost in a big park, a helicopter hovering overhead. Alessandro thought he recognized Buckingham Palace, but it turned out to be the back of an apartment building. We were all making fun of him when we saw a motorcycle cop zoom by ahead, and then another one. Alessandro started running toward the street, shouting, “The Queen!” We all ran after him, laughing hopelessly and shouting insults. But he was right! Her Majesty Elizabeth II was riding along in a Rolls-Royce, bolt upright, a dorky scarf tied securely under her chin. This was a highlight of our trip, though the children were truly impressed only after a taxi driver confided that he hadn’t seen her in eleven years of driving.

    We had a long, fractious lunch punctuated by battles over the one functioning iPod Touch, and then went to Harrods, where we bought a Christmas pudding and wandered through women’s designer clothing. Anna fell in love with fur. I pulled her away from rubbing her cheek against the minks. “It’s so soft,” she said dreamily. “Just like my hair in the morning after I wash it.”

    Everyone’s favorite exhibit at the Victoria & Albert Museum was the Great Bed of Ware, which apparently sleeps eighteen—though not if they’re American, we decided after much discussion. In the gift shop, Luca bought a shaggy hat with little sheep horns. He’s all hair these days. The saleslady said, “I was watching you decide.… He had to have this. It’s an extension of himself.”

    Best bit of history from yesterday: noticing that the big red Royal Mail postboxes have slots for both stamped mail and franked mail. Back in the day, lords could simply sign letters in the area where a stamp might be, and the letters went out for free.… I can’t believe that’s still the case, but it was very exciting to see the slot.

    Lunch at Gordon Ramsay’s Boxwood Café was wonderful. I had a delicate leek and pea tart, and then sublime crusty black bream, a kind of fish I’d never heard of before. I was torn between “spotted dick” and “fool” for dessert, both less for their intrinsic appeal than for that of their names. Alessandro lowered himselfto note that I had enough of the first at home, so I went for the fool. (And virtuously refrained from the obvious retort.)

    Life after Gordon is dismal. We went to a celebrated restaurant in the West End … but nothing measured up. We all ate mournfully, and Anna made up her own song, the chorus of which was “Pinkberry, blueberry, vomit.”

    In honor of my characters (who have done the same), we had tea and scones in Fortnum & Mason. My favorite moment was in the bathroom, where Anna was happily trying out the lotion. A very nice lady explained to us that “this is the way the posh live every day … all the time.”

    The British are vehicle-mad. We arrived at this conclusion based on seeing two demonstrations: first, a parade of growling, honking Hells Angels–type motorcycle riders protesting a tax on parking. And then, about an hour later, a parade of tiny minicars, not protesting