Steph C - mom of three

Years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I took off to backpack through Europe for a couple of months. My mom decided to join me for the last week of my trip so we could enjoy some mother-daughter bonding time in Paris. As we strolled through Place Vendome one day, Mom suggested we stop in at the Ritz Carlton for an afternoon drink. “Dad and I spent a lovely afternoon there last year,” she said.

I glanced down at my ratty jeans and hiking shoes and knew we didn’t stand a chance. “Look at me,” I protested. “I’ve been living out of a backpack for the last two months and I’m really not dressed for the Ritz.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said, trotting up the steps. “It’ll be my treat.”

We didn’t even get to the front door of the place before a security guard stopped us mid-trot and told us, quite loudly, that the hotel was “only open to registered guests.” My mom was absolutely stunned and I was doubled over in gales of laughter. Needless to say it was a memorable bonding moment – my mom just wishes I would stop referring to it as “that time Mom got us kicked out of the Ritz!”