Updated by: May 11, 2026
Eurostar Tennis
The Eurostar from London to Paris is one of travel’s great small pleasures. A cup of tea at departure, a croissant on arrival, two and a half hours in between. Simple, civilized, perfect.
I was travelling with my family. My son was eighteen months old and it was my turn to manage him — which any parent will tell you is its own particular category of optimism on public transport.
In front of us sat two French businesswomen in their twenties, heading to Paris. Beside us, a group of young English children travelling with their grandparents.
My son was being an eighteen-month-old boy. Which is to say — occasionally disruptive, occasionally loud, entirely within the acceptable parameters of human behavior.
Then, he started crying.
The businesswoman in front turned around and asked — rudely, bluntly — if I could “make the baby stop.”
What happened next was swift and without warning.
My French wife rose from the seat behind me like a meerkat detecting an intruder and fired back immediately. My French isn’t good enough to catch every word but the general direction of the conversation was unmistakable. The businesswoman didn’t back down, and so, in front of the entire cabin, two hot-headed French women traded volleys across the seats with the precision and intensity of a French Open final.
The cabin fell completely silent. Everyone watching. Nobody breathing.
It lasted perhaps 45 seconds. It felt like an hour.
And then, at the precise moment the argument reached its peak, my son — a boy of very few words at that stage — looked at the businesswoman, waved his tiny hand, and said:
“Bye Bye.”
That was the end of that.
I looked across at the English family beside us, wide-eyed and pale, getting their first taste of Paris before we’d even arrived.
Welcome to France…
Paul Mercuri
Wake Up Here Founder
