The Day My Mother Beat the Paris Queue

Some people go to Paris for art, fashion, or romance.  My mother went there to exchange coins, charm shopkeepers, and get us VIP entry into the Élysée Palace.

A couple of decades ago, my mother visited me, for a couple of months, during my four-year posting in Paris.

She quickly discovered that I had accumulated a ridiculous pile of euro coins, mostly because I had no clue where to dispose of them. So after a week of getting familiar with the neighbourhood, she announced that she was going to the local grocery store for butter and yogurt. I heard her and thought, “Let’s see how she handles this, no translator and I had barely survived my own first week here!”. I left for office.  Off she went, armed with all those coins.

Now, she knew exactly three South Indian languages and zero French. But that never stopped her. She somehow conveyed to the kindly French shopkeeper, in what I can only describe as a heroic mix of gestures and Indian-language French, that she wanted to “convert” the coins into euros. The man understood, accepted her mountain of coins, and exchanged them for euros. She came home glowing with triumph. And I, frankly, was impressed with her confidence and enterprise.

Around the same time, it was the annual European Heritage Days, when even the Presidential Élysée Palace opens its doors to the public. So I decided to take her there.

When we reached, we were greeted by a queue so long, it looked like half of Paris had shown up. And because queues in France are actually queues, neat, silent, organised, the length feels even more intimidating. Not at all like the commotion back home where the first five minutes are spent figuring out who is trying to sneak where.

I calculated that it would take at least 45 minutes before we could get in. I suggested that we could go somewhere else, Paris has no shortage of beautiful places, and we started walking back. We had crossed almost the entire queue when someone coming towards us said, “Excuse me, you’re being called from behind.”

I turned to see two policemen in uniform walking briskly towards us.

Now, for context: I had been repeatedly told by seniors that one must always carry the original passport and visa. But in my infinite wisdom, I avoided carrying them, convinced I could always “explain” and go back home to fetch them if needed. That day, predictably, we only had photocopies.

As the policemen drew closer, I warned my mother about the possible trouble we might face for not carrying the original documents, she, meanwhile, had quietly slipped into prayer mode.

Those two minutes felt like twenty.

When they finally reached us, they first smiled and appreciated my mother for her costume, the saree that stood out so gracefully in the Paris crowd. Then they explained, very politely, that there was a special entrance for elderly visitors, and they would like to escort my mother through it. And, as her guardian, I was welcome to accompany her.

My mother still narrates this story with great pride. Not the European Heritage Days, not the Élysée Palace… but how she enabled me to skip that massive Parisian queue, simply by being senior enough to qualify.

Even now, she says, “See? You took me to see Paris… but I’m the one who took you inside the palace!”

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.