Wendyl Nissen: There's no space like home

Most Kiwi women who spend time in Paris watching elegantly coiffured women totter effortlessly over ancient cobblestones in four-inch heels return to New Zealand feeling a bit frumpy. But not me. I've returned from Paris feeling clumsy.

I am a tall person who is used to a fair bit of personal space. In Paris personal space is so yesterday and, as a result, my even taller husband and I bumbled our way through Parisian restaurants breaking crockery, hitting other diners in the head, jamming fingers in doors and, in my case, wearing a flying potato.

I should have known something was up when we entered a restaurant for our first meal in Paris.

As we stood in the tiny room, chock-full of diners, wondering how on earth we were going to negotiate our way to a table, the waiter simply pulled a table out from the wall, instructed me to sit behind it, then pushed the table back in place, effectively pinning me to the wall for the remainder of the meal.

"I feel like a toddler who has been secured in their high chair," I whispered to my husband.

"You look like one too," he chuckled.

He wasn't laughing long.

In another restaurant, which specialised in food from the Middle Ages, we spent most of the meal being regaled by the owner about King Alfonso of Spain, who has apparently been much-neglected by historians. There were only five tables in the restaurant, but it was the size of our bathroom and every wall groaned with mediaeval memorabilia.

"I am so glad to hear you come from New Zealand," crowed King Alfonso's friend. "I have made a special dish for Kiri Te Kanawa - it is called Poulet Te Kanawa and I would very much like you to tell her from me to come and eat it here. Will you tell her when you get home?"

We had no choice but to assure him we would do our very best, because he presented us with a bottle of wine to encourage us to do so.

"At least he didn't name a curry after her," sniggered my husband as he stood up to leave and knocked a mediaeval shield off the wall, sending it crashing on to a neighbouring table where it shattered a plate.

"Oooh!" squealed the Parisians at the other tables, having never seen a Kiwi male stand up before.

We made for the door, but it was locked. King Alfonso's friend let us out, but not before standing protectively in front of the suit of armour which stood by the entrance.

At another restaurant, my handbag managed to knock a rather old woman about the head as I stood up to leave, so I wasn't really thinking when I hastened to escape and mashed my finger in the door.

"Oooh!" I squealed, having never experienced quite so much pain in that area before.

By the end of our 2-week stay we had become fairly adept at sucking our height and girth in to enable ourselves to squeeze through the 5cm gaps left between tables and to tuck our coats and bags safely in front of us. But you can never get too confident.

At our last dinner out, we noticed there was an American couple behind us. This was rare in the neighbourhood we were staying in. As a waiter walked past, the American woman stood up and bumped into him. I heard a "thud" behind me. I also felt a warm presence on my lower back.

"A potato!" I said to my husband, having reached behind me to investigate the feeling.

"Oooh!" squealed the waiter, having spent the past few minutes searching for it on the floor. He plonked it back on the plate and delivered the meal to a diner at the back.

"A spoon!" said my husband as he peeled it off my coat, now covered in healthy blobs of sour cream.

"Can't wait to get home!" I said as we left the restaurant, squashed into the Metro with what would be the entire population of our suburb in Auckland and let ourselves into our studio apartment, which was the size of a small Kiwi kitchen.

"Luxury," I cooed as we finally arrived home and walked down our hallway. I realised for the first time that it is the perfect size for 12 tables of Parisian diners - or two Kiwi adults and five children.