The Puking Stairs

As I posted in a comment recently, I'm not without my own vomit-related embarrassment in the Paris metro. Indeed, I have--on not one, not two, but three different occasions--puked in the metro.

This story could very well begin with drunkenness. But those who know me understand that this isn't likely. I'm just a meek and frustrated lightweight--not much of a drinker by any standard. I might say things like "I'll drink you under the table, boy!", but at the end of the night, the count is usually something closer to "Emily's Friend: 6; Emily: 1.5." And that's on a rough night.

My point is this: I wasn't drunk, Mom, I swear.

I'm a nervous creature. Though overly at ease in front of a crowd in English, the thought of giving a presentation in French--to French people--is terrifying. In English, I either wing it or have a few notes. For my presentations at French universities, I wrote a script, complete with, "TURN PAGE NOW" in parentheses so that I wouldn't slip up and say it aloud.

I woke up early before my first big exposé. I read it again and again to my empty room. Convinced I had finally gotten the flow of the sentences, I set off to catch the metro.

(Now you get where this is going.) On the Ten, with all the rocking and my belly nervous with exposé-induced fear, I started to feel sick. Pull it together, everything is fine. This was my mantra, albeit one that failed me in the end.

As we pulled into Odéon, I knew I didn't stand a chance. I stood to exit the car. As the doors opened, the smell of piss and moldy grime hit me hard. I ran toward the SORTIE sign, but only made it about halfway up the stairs.

That was it. At approximately 9:15am, during the rush hour commute, I clutched the rails, hunched over, and puked my guts out on the stairs. I tried to change locations a couple of times, but each time I tried to move, up it came again. So I was left standing protectively by my pool of vomit.

Commuters and tourists rushed up and down the stairs to my left. None looked at me. If they had, they would have perhaps seen how pathetic I looked and offered me a tissue or a bottle of water. But who was I kidding. There was no Southern hospitality in this station. I simply walked over to the trash can, spit a few times, and boarded the train again to the university.