Wild horses couldn't drag me away from Henry. But the promise of a New Year's Eve soiree at the Ritz in Paris with Kate and her husband Jeff had me packing my Louboutins and waving "Ta ta!" to my baby boy faster than you can say foie gras.
With Henry entrusted to his uber-competent babysitter Perri, who would be tag-teaming with my parents for the next five days, Scott and I struck out for Newark Airport. He had convinced me to pack light. No electric breast pump, no framed photographs of the children. Just a few dresses, six pairs of shoes, and my skinny jeans.
Kate and I had made the compelling argument that we had to fly Business First since we were only going for a long weekend and wouldn't have time to recover from jet lag. Kate is wise in many ways and has taught me many things. Like this little chestnut from the ad world: If you want your man to spend a lot of money on something he doesn't necessarily want himself, suggest a manly slogan to justify it and allow him to adopt the slogan as his own. This second part is critical.
Thus, to Scott, she said of the Business First ticket: "You're protecting your investment." To her husband, she added: "Go big or go home!"
Using our slogans, we also convinced our men that our only real option for New Year's Eve was the four-figure party at the Ritz. That way we wouldn't have to walk outside and potentially ruin our shoes and the expensive hairdos for which Kate had made us appointments at the hotel's salon -- once again, protecting investments! And hey, go big or go home!
His special slogan now firmly entrenched in his subconscious, Scott gamely convinced himself that not waiting in line to check in at the airport was worth the price of the ticket. Since thousands of flights had just been cancelled because of a blizzard days earlier and the lines were epic, this was almost true. In the lounge, we were served free red wine, rail drinks and all the potato chips we could eat. "This is the life," Scott said, sipping a Popov Vodka and tonic. "Go big or go home," agreed Jeff, toasting us with a plastic glass of Chateau Continental.
Once on the plane, we settled into our double-wide seats. We were torn between trying to get a full 7-hours' sleep and consuming everything our business class seats afforded us. We split the difference, eating the four-course dinner - warm nuts, a salad of mozzarella balls and limp greens, something that tasted like chicken and an ice cream sundae with all available toppings - but forgoing the onflight entertainment to catch a few hours of shut-eye.
We landed in Paris. I had taken an Ambien, and when I stood up to deplane, I felt like I was on a moon walk. But as soon as the four of us piled into a taxi and shouted "Au Ritz!" I was rejuvenated.
"Your rooms are ready," announced the desk clerk, which, at 10:30 a.m. at the Ritz, was a miracle. Kate and I had stayed there before and were always forced to wait for check-in at 3:30 p.m. sharp. We were taken to a hallway I had never seen before, up an elevator that appeared out of the shadows to what may have been a "special unit" of the Ritz, like the locked ward in a hospital. Our room was sparse. White. There was none of the Louis XIV furniture I had come to expect from my favorite hotel in the world.
"Not to be an ingrate," I began, "but this really isn't what we were looking for in a room."
Jeff had already unpacked, but Scott knew from the look on my face we weren't staying. Kate and I arranged with the concierge to have us moved to adjacent rooms done in the more traditional style of the Ritz.
Everything was going perfectly. I went inside our new marble bathroom with the plastic travel breast pump I had brought in lieu of the 10-pound electric version I used at home. I didn't have the instructions with me, so I revved up my new iPad. An Internet connection cost 25 euros, but no matter, I had to pump to avoid the rock-hard leaking disasters that my boobs would become without it. Thus, I was really just protecting our investment in the weekend.
There were 12 steps to putting the pump together, like AA for the lactating. It took me about a half hour to assemble the pump, then another hour of frantic hand pumping to get the job done. I was frustrated, but kept up a positive attitude, thinking about how Scott and I would soon be strolling down the Rue St. Honore.
The next day was New Years Eve. The Ritz soiree started at 8 p.m. Kate and I began our preparations at 4 o'clock with hair appointments while Scott and Jeff had cocktails by the indoor pool.
We were blow-dried and brushed to perfection while champagne and chocolates were passed. Heaven. Then Fred, the Ritz's in-house make-up artist, offered his services. Kate went first. Kate is a knock-out on her worst day, and in Fred's hands, she became a super model. I was so excited for my turn, I was bouncing up and down in my seat and clapping my hands like a trained seal.
But something seemed off about my look. Fred swooped black make-up around my eyes, then decorated the corners with false eyelashes. The base color of my face went from white to a cheddar cheese tone. "Don't worry," said Kate. "This is going to look fabulous in pictures." And wasn't that what really mattered?
Time was ticking - less than two hours before the big party. But I didn't feel rushed. All I had to do was pump and put on my dress. I dallied in the salon, sipping champagne and chatting with other revelers.
"We should get going," said Kate.
Back in the room, Scott was getting dressed. He tried not to look surprised by my appearance. With my hair and make-up done, but still in a t-shirt which was now showing two wet bulls-eyes because my boobs were leaking, I looked off, like a transvestite in full make-up wearing a hairnet and no wig.
I opened my iPad to find the directions for my travel pump and started putting it together. Something was wrong. "The lid doesn't fit anymore!" I complained to Scott.
"That's impossible," he said.
"Look!" I demonstrated, trying to force the top down. Then there was a sickening sound, like a bone breaking. The plastic catch that helped vacuum seal the pump broke off.
There was a moment of total silence.
Then my tears.
"Why did I listen to you when you said not to pack my electric pump?" I yelled at Scott, who had started backing towards the door.
"I'll fix it," he said.
He called the concierge and spoke in hushed tones, then put down the receiver, looking satisfied.
"Someone is coming upstairs to discuss this with you," he said.
"What? I don't need a conversation, I need an electric pump. Now! And it's 7 p.m.! On New Year's Eve! In France!"
I picked up the phone and dialed the concierge, speaking rapid-fire French.
"Hello? Yes, listen, I am a mother. Who feeds her baby. With her breast. But the baby is in New York and so I must discharge the milk. Understand? So I need an apparatus to do that for me."
"Yes, madam. I believe we may have something here in the hotel. A moment, please."
The concierge came back on the line.
"We will send something up to you now."
I had a bad feeling. "Are you talking about a cell phone charger?" I asked.
"Yes, madam."
"Did you understand anything I just said?" I asked.
There was a cough.
"J'ai envie d'un breast pump," I repeated.
"Ah, a breast pump. We can try to rent one for you at the emergency chemists."
"Okay, great, now we're getting somewhere."
"Spend any amount of money you need to get the pump," said Scott. "I'm just protecting my investment."
"Out!" I ordered.
"I'll be in the bar," he said, closing the door behind him.
And within 15 minutes, a bellhop appeared holding a discreet brown valise and a paper sack.
"Will there be anything else?" he asked.
"No, merci. Merci beaucoup!" I handed him a fistful of euros.
Then I opened the valise. I was expecting a pump, but instead, there was what appeared to be a small red toaster oven. In the paper sack was a funnel, a vial and several pieces of tubing. None of which fit on the toaster oven. I looked at the clock. 7:20 p.m. It was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube at gun point.
"Kate!" I went running to her room, pounding on the door. "Help!"
Kate came into the room. "None of this fits!" I wailed. "I'm leaking. I can't go to the party!"
7:25.
"Don't cry!" commanded Kate. "Your eyelashes will fall off. Are there instructions?"
"Yes," I said. "But I don't speak breast pump French. None of these words have any meaning to me."
I called the concierge. "I need a French person. Any French person. To translate some directions for me."
Within a minute, the bellhop was back at the door. He looked sixteen, tops.
"They gave me a demonstration on how to use this," he said, blushing a deep red.
He took off his white gloves and fiddled with the tubing until he had secured it over the "on" switch.
"That's the on switch!" I screamed frantically. "It can't go on there!"
He fumbled while I paced. Then Kate took control. She connected the tubes to the vial and attached the vial to the toaster oven.
"Voila!" said Kate.
The bellhop turned to go.
"Don't let him leave until I try this," I said.
I went into the bathroom while Kate blocked the door to the room.
I put the funnel to my breast and turned on the machine. The machine made a sound, like "grrrrrmmmmmmmmm" and sucked my nipple into the funnel all the way. I didn't know a nipple could stretch like that. The pain was other-worldly, like dropping a frozen turkey on your toe. And the machine wouldn't let go. It was like a pit bull with a new chew toy. I tried using both hands to pry off the funnel, but it wouldn't budge.
I started screaming. Kate ran into the bathroom and turned off the machine. My nipple retracted and was hanging off my chest at an odd angle, like a broken arm.
"I can't do it," I sobbed. "It hurts."
Kate fiddled with the tubing and removed a stopper. "Here," she said. "Put your thumb over this, then remove it." I tried the pump again. With my thumb on the tube, my nipple extended until I screamed, then I released it for a second and took a breath. I did this over and over again for twenty minutes on each side until my boobs had deflated from weather balloons back to A-cups.
Kate went downstairs where the party had started forty minutes earlier.
I looked at the toaster oven. "Methode Francaise," it said on the side.
But of course. Other than their cheeses and scarves, the French made everything harder and more miserable than it had to be.
I knew this because I had spent a semester studying in Paris at the Sorbonne. Instead of normal, written final exams, they had oral exams where you would appear in front of a proctor, other students lined up right behind you. And they would ask just one question.
In my case, the proctor said, "Le Canel de Suez. Expliquez."
I had spent the entire semester in a garret with a musician named Olivier. I was like, "Ummmmm. It's in Egypt? It was nationalized in the 50s? There was a ... crisis?"
I failed the exam to the snickering of the students behind me. But because everyone here knows that the French education system is too hard for Americans, my college "translated" my F into a B. And everyone was happy. Because that's how we do it in the United State of America.
Meanwhile, my eye makeup had run and I looked just like a raccoon. I repaired it as best I could with Q-tips from the medicine cabinet and pulled my dress over my head. The lesser gods of zippers were with me and I was able to zip my dress on my own, which cheered me up considerably.
The bellhop had left his white gloves behind. They were surprisingly small, like something Cinderella might have worn.
Within five minutes, I was in the Ritz Club pouring champagne down my throat. It was an excellent night.
The next day, Scott and Jeff were bedridden with a horrible stomach virus. Kate went to the concierge to get some extra supplies. "I need some extra tissue," she said.
"Tissue, yes, for the nose," said the concierge.
"For the nose and the ..." Kate pointed to her bottom. He didn't blink.
"But of course, madam."
Later, we went back to the concierge to arrange taxis to the airport for the next morning. The bellhop was there.
"Oh," I said. "You left your gloves in my room!"
The bellhop bowed slightly. The concierge was impassive.
Just as our flight took off from Charles de Gaulle, the stomach virus hit me. And then somewhere over Iceland, the pilot announced that due to a drain malfunction, there would be only one toilet operational on the plane. I refused all foods and liquids and hunkered in my seat, occasionally hyperventilating into an airsick bag.
When we landed, a police officer was at the door of our plane looking for a passenger. "No one can exit until Passenger Rutabaga presents herself to me," he said.
I flashed him my passport. "I'm not her," I said, running past him.
I almost fainted going through passport control. My stomach had never hurt so badly. Once outside in the taxi line, I found a large garbage can and threw up until I peed my pants. Kate held my hair, then handed me a tissue. It was a Ritz tissue.
At a dinner party at Kate's house the next weekend, her friends asked about our trip. Kate told them the story of the breast pump.
"I don't understand," said Andre, a Norwegian. "Why didn't you just nurse the bellhop?"
"Because we were in France, not Norway," I retorted. Sicko.
