I'm sure I've been "mistaken" or perhaps I've "misremembered" a few things on this blog from time to time. I mean, if our political "leaders" can do it, then so can I. It sounds so nice when said this way. It's almost like some thing or some person other than me, a gnome perhaps, made me do it. If I were Sarah Palin, or Flip Wilson, I could say "The devil made me do it." That is, if I believed in the devil.
But in this case, I can chalk my "inaccuracies" up to the fact that observing and commenting on Paris from my 6th-floor balcony is not quite the same as taking the creaking elevator downstairs, going through the code-locked building door, then through the electronic gate, and diving right in. Now that I've moved apartments and live on the ground floor of a new old and crumbly building, all I have to do is walk out the front door of my apartment, through my adorable little private garden patio that I can't wait to use when the weather gets warmer, down a long, thin hallway, past the mail boxes and out the door that "some people" just won't close, and I'm out in the middle of a new section of Paris, the 17th arrondissement.
What I lied about was when I told you that French people don't get up and go to work at oh-dark-thirty like we industrious Americans. I knew this was a fact because I have the wake-up-early-even-on-vacation disease, and as the world snored, I stood on my balcony with my first dose of caffeinated personality, and listened to the silence of each Paris morning, and looked down upon the empty Paris streets and looked down upon the lazy Parisians and muttered a superior "tsk tsk." I imagined them all face down in their feather pillows, or stretching and yawning at 10 AM, picking up their first of many Gauloises, scratching their nether regions, and contemplating their day. In my mind's eye they wandered unshowered into their neighborhood coffee bar and had a leisurely espresso while they discussed Sarko with the barman and then finally walked to work so they could grace their boss with their presence for a few hours until they left again to indulge in a two-hour lunch.
I was, shall we say, wrong misinformed.
Recently I've had a string of appointments at 9 or 9:30 AM. Since I'm in a different part of the city, I had to figure out a new Metro route to my appointments. And so, on my first day out, I exercised my other disease called being-early-for-my-own-damn-funeral, and left 45 minutes ahead of time.
The streets were empty and quiet at 8:15. I smiled to myself about all those socialists, still snug in their beds. Then I descended into the caverns of the Metro, overly proud of my routing skills, and stood on the platform with what I thought was an unusual amount of people. Tourists? Were those Germans peering down the tracks, impatiently wondering where the train was?Were those Swiss, looking at their watches? They certainly couldn't be French.
Then the train arrived.
Staring out at me were thousands of faces, smashed against the windows of the train doors, their bodies one big solid mass of black wool coats. I stood, mouth open. Brave people near me, pushed the button to open those doors. I expected all the people to fall out onto the platform, like sweaters and suitcases and papers and books used to fall out of my closets back home, when I owned too many things. But the human mass remained intact, and my fellow sojourners actually pushed their way into the mob, turning delicately to face outwards with briefcase flat against their knees, making sure that when the doors closed, they would not lose their nose or other protruding body parts.
I decided to wait for the next train.
As the next wave of people came running down the steps to the platform, unhappy to watch the train move down the tracks without them, others wandered calmly down and began to fill up the platform once again. I instinctively moved towards the front, thinking that I better get into fighting position because time was running out and things weren't looking good. The next train came, and the same thing happened. So, I gathered my courage and pushed into the warm spongy crowd and, imitating what others had done before me, turned to face the door. It closed upon my huge purse, and a somewhat disgusted girl next to me had to pull it in for me.
I am happy to say that the Metro door had been cleaned with the same lemony-fresh cleanser I buy at the local Franprix, so my cheek and nose at least felt at home while smashed into the glass.
In a very short time I became part of the gang. I know this because as we eased into the next station, we collectively dared anyone to open our door. We did this in silence, but the solidarity was profound. We discouraged them with our eyes. We aimed all of our telepathic Non!'s forward and out. When someone had the colossal nerve to open our door, then shake their head and walk away, we chuckled smugly.
During the trip to the next station, I got to know my new friends better. I could tell what everyone had, not for breakfast that morning, but for dinner the night before. There's no scent quite like garlic and red wine after it has spent eight to ten hours infusing the pores, carpeting the tongue, all the while manufacturing spores that can travel the world with each Gallic exhale. I wondered what my previous evening's gizzards sauteed in vinegar smelled like now, but then decided not to wonder. We are all one, after all.
I learned a couple of new lessons at the next stop. As the train slowed, we were all doing our best imitation of discouragement to those on the platform, when I heard from way in the back, a muffled, "La porte!" There was no available time or air space for this person to be polite and say, "Ouvrez la porte, s'il vous plaît." Non. Just a desperate plea from a buried soul: The door! And so, the door committee (which had recently formed but had not yet elected a president) had a short meeting, and decided to push the door button. Now a grave decision had to be made. Who would get OUT of the car, in order to let this person leave?
Being the chicken-shit that I am, I sidled over to the inside right of the door and pushed my ass directly into some lawyer's or ad man's crotch (I was hoping), and let OTHER insane people lose their hard-won positions at the ragged and stormy front. One such trooper was a stocky blonde woman, who had a serious "Don't fuck with me" look on her face, and as she stepped down onto the platform, she swung around to face me, positioning her broad shoulders and back against the oncoming crowd. The very instant that people stopped exiting, she swung right back into the car and my nose was now buried into her back, breathing a dusty faded scent of perfume and moth balls.
Damn! I really thought I could have won the election for president of the door committee. Now my hopes were dashed.
Finally, it was my time to exit. "La porte!" I cried, from under my woolen blanket. And Big Blondie obliged. She did her swing onto the platform, and I exploded out of the car like a Champaign cork. But with a lot more bumbling than bubbling.
You might think that my valiant struggle was over. But, alas, non. I had to look up at the direction signs to see which exit I would take to my connecting line. But there is no time to stand and dawdle. The crowd pushed me forward, and luckily I spied, just past a tall man's fedora, the sign for my next train. I was going in the right direction, but nobody else was. Imagine, if you will, what it would be like for a small salmon during mating season, who forgot to turn off her iron, or forgot her sales presentation, and decided to turn and swim back home against the stream of other pink-faced salmon. Imagine the looks on those faces as I swam against them all, shoulders knocking me to the the outer edge of the stream while more salmon shot out of the train and pushed me back into the stream. I heard a man's loud voice as he passed me in the whirlpool, "Entre nous?!" He was commenting on my swimming style, saying "Between us?!"
Sarcasm exists in the French language. Who knew?
My exit door loomed, like Shangri la, glittering impossibly at the top of the mountain while I slogged through the icy foot paths and watched sure-footed mules fall to their snowy deaths.
Well, it wasn't that dramatic. I just had to figure out a way, while walking very fast, to cross in front of a fast-walking, bustling river, ten French people wide. Some people I could slip in front of, others stopped and glared, others pushed me out of the way.
But finally I made it, and stood against the pee-stained wall of a tunnel miraculously devoid of people, and took a a couple of deep, fetid breaths.
Yesterday, being Saturday, I took the same route, foolishly thinking that the trains would be empty. That those lazy French people would be sleeping in, preparing for a nice 4-hour lunch in their neighborhood bistro. And again, twice in the same week, I was wrong mistaken. I still rode, sweating and smash-faced, to my destination.
So, I'm sorry I misrepresented, misinterpreted, disenfranchised, ok, lied about the French. They are quite industrious, after all. In the midst of their indisputable ability to enjoy the artistic, gastronomical and oenological aspects of life to the fullest, they also commute like fierce underground warriors and accomplish great things.
Meanwhile, I'm spending this cold and sunny Sunday busily figuring out a new route to get across town.
Source: omywordblog.blogspot.com
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