Metro Stories: Tales, Interviews and Photographs

Metro Mashups

2006-10-03T19:34:00.000+02:00

Stripey H+M sweaters for 24 euros. Cell phone plans with unlimited calls to (insert country) with (insert endless list of one-time fees and conditions). Smiling “non-Europeans” wiring their earnings home to a niece in Bangalore via Western Union. The Paris metro billboards are gargantuan. There is no escape. Even when you don’t want to look, they seem to practically fall on you – like the advertisement last spring for the Ingres show at the Louvre: a supersized reproduction of one of his odalisques sprawled on the platform of the 4 at Etienne Marcel, her fleshy hips and coy smile forcing even this narrator (gayer than Christmas, can’t you tell?) to admire the shapely buttocks on this pre-Olympia whore.

But I digress.

The images get insidiously stamped in my brain. It’s very effective advertising. Except that sometimes I get them a bit mixed up – I suffer from spontaneous metro billboard mashups. I see one ad and think of another. A recent billboard series, for example, pitched the irresistible charm of the “Salon des Animaux” (Pet Show), proudly proclaiming its “hundreds of baby animals!”, with photos of baby ducks, puppies, and every other cute animal you can imagine. The week earlier, I had been struck by an ad for a different kind of spectacle: a stadium performance of “Aida”, accompanied by some kind of pyrotechnics/fireworks spectacular. “AIDA, monumental opera on fire!”

Hundreds of baby Aidas? Monumental baby animals on fire? Pyrotechnics and puppies? Kittens (Nubian princesses?) brought to the pharaoh as war booty? The possibilities are endless…

Unleashed on the Eleven

2006-09-20T12:10:00.000+02:00

A guest post by dear Chris.

I needed a work permit. Unless you have dealt with French administration, you cannot imagine the dread with which I woke up on Monday morning to begin an ultimately futile two-hour metro extravaganza. This began, appropriately, in a long line at the ticket window in the Belleville station near my apartment.

When I finally got to the front of the line, a frantic and squat middle-aged woman in a shawl debarked, fluttering her arms. Her peroxided hair was unforgivingly wrenched into a ratty. She leapt in front of me, applied her mouth to the hole in the bulletproof glass and began jabbering. Apparently her dog had escaped and run into the station without her. In Paris it is common for people to walk their dogs without leashes, and yet miraculously, this kind of thing seems to happen very rarely.

"Sir, sir, did you see a dog pass through here? I think he went through the turnstiles! What should I do? What should I do?" Since the cashier was ignoring her, I played along, slipped him my bill and asked for a book of tickets. I heard him finally respond to her as I was walking away. "Listen Madame, I don't know anything about a dog. Can't you see I have a line here?" he spat impatiently.

When I got down to the end of the platform for the République-bound 11 line, a very cute sheltie or maybe a miniature collie was introducing itself to my fellow travelers. It tranquilly worked the crowd, wagging its tail, looking knowingly into the passenger's eyes and, I kid you not, gently proffering its paw to "shake." A few
Chinese high school students ignored it, and the dog finally settled down in front of a fat and accomodating man with a bottle. (7:45 AM) By the time the train was pulling into the station the two seemed to be getting along swimmingly. As I was boarding, I saw the dog's owner rushing down the platform with a look of relief in her eyes. "Toby! Toby! Heel, my baby Toby!" she cried out to it. The dog obeyed, even from a great distance.

How comforting, I thought. A heart-warming reunion on this dreary Parisian Monday morning.

I watched through the window as the train pulled out the station. The woman, finally reunited with her darling Toby, began furiously whipping him with what looked to be a piece of knotted rope.

Gassy

2006-09-20T12:07:00.000+02:00

Rush hour, Line 12.

It had been a long day, I had a ways to ride, and it was rush hour.

These three facts combined meant my competitive pulse was raging by the time the metro pulled into the station. I wanted a seat, bad. But when the train pulled into the station, my two competitors turned out to be two elderly Chinese tourists. Disappointed, I realized I couldn’t fight them.

Okay, so that’s a lie. I was definitely going to fight them. Rules are rules, and I didn’t think these guys were over 75.

But when the doors opened, the two of them bumped me out of the way and were seated before I could even spot the empty seats. The whole thing played out like musical chairs – there was just one person left standing in the car, and that person was me. And that person was sad.

After a few stops, though, a noticed a vacant seat. The vulture standing next to it apparently didn’t want it, so I rushed over and sank down into the spot.

Just a few seconds later, I realized why the woman didn’t want the seat. No sooner than I sat, the eleven year old next to me moved uncomfortably and groaned.

A giant fart sound escaped the seat. I was upset, but I didn’t want to stand.

His classmate started laughing, and the boy complained, “Stop laughing! My stomach really hurts. Aie!”

As he let out that last cry, he jumped again. Again, a loud fart.

I waited for the smell, but it never came. I figured the wind from the tunnel was sucking the smell out the window. So I kept my seat.

“Stop laughing, Thomas, my stomach really hurts, it’s not funny.”

Again.

But wait.

The third sound, even as I tried not to notice, sounded strangely similar to the first two. The woman across from me and I exchanged a small smile.

“Are you studying music in school?” I asked them.

“Yes, those are such charming melodies,” she said.

The boys looked uncomfortable. And then they produced the Fart Machine.

“We have tricked you! It is again the great Fart Machine! We are the kings of the Fart Machine on the metro!”

The Fart Machine punctuated the proclamation with another mighty noise. The passengers in the car smiled very small Parisian smiles.

Until the announcement came:

“Hello, passengers, I have to things to tell you, so let’s hope I can remember them both. First and foremost, the next station, that is, the station Abbesses, is closed for renovation. So if you were hoping to descend there, well… you have no luck. Secondly, appearing on my list of things to tell you, on which there are two items, is that the elevators at Lamarck-Caulaincourt are broken.”

The elevators at Lamarck-Caulincourt are broken. The smiles vanished from the passengers’ faces as they remembered the sign at the bottom of the stairs: Warning! There are 112 steps.

Ouch.

Trafic perturbé

2005-07-30T12:07:00.000+02:00

Okay, some of you may be wondering if Emily and I have been run over by a train or something... Emily is preparing her re-entry to the United States - hopefully she won't explode in her final descent like the space shuttle - and I just moved into a new apartment and have therefore spent all my time unpacking boxes and sniffing paint fumes. So there. We'll try to get back on the ball ASAP. Until then, know that the 4 still smells like the zoo, that there are suspicious packages on a daily basis on the 1, and that I got sexually harassed by a woman (!) on the 4. Full story at 11. Okay bye.

Announcing General Strike

2005-07-25T00:14:00.000+02:00

It's too hot. I've given up. My trip on the RER B last week was like receiving mouth-to-mouth from the entire car. For forty-five minutes. Only two windows that would open. After twenty minutes, I felt sweat dripping down my leg, and realized that it wasn't my sweat.

I've started walking. Everywhere.

In sum, I have no choice but to go on strike. More stories once this city's ready to put a couple layers of clothing between us.

Fake Celebrity #46

2005-06-24T01:44:00.000+02:00

Line 2, direction Nation, 7 PM

Elizabeth was wearing five strands of pearls (I counted), not including the wristbands. One came all the way down to her waist, another had pearls the size of ping pong balls. Her entourage was small, no press people or assistants. It consisted only of two dogs: one elephant-sized German Shepard sprawled unhappily across the metro car floor and a scraggly little terrier. Elizabeth was clad entirely in white, a good choice given the crushing heat, but not a good choice given that it made her look like a beluga whale. She had evidently styled her hair to resemble the terrier, who sat quietly drooling onto her lap. Her face was masked with black, rhinestone-studded sunglasses. The lenses were the size of dinner plates.

The dogs, in contrast, had evidently gone for a less dramatic, more rustic look. The German Shepard had selected a simple red bandana slung around his neck; the terrier was somewhat more daring, with a ruffled, multicolored cloth neckpiece, very gypsy horsemen number at Barnum and Bailey’s.

The trio seemed quite content and carried on an animated conversation, oblivious to the heat and crowds. Nobody asked Elizabeth for autographs. I couldn’t help but wondering, however, why she was taking such a long metro ride with her canine friends. She rode from Victor Hugo to Barbès, a good twenty minutes. I mean, Elizabeth Taylor, don’t you have a chauffeur?

The Glancing Game

2005-06-13T14:02:00.000+02:00

Overview

The Glancing Game (tm) is a popular game enjoyed on the Paris metro involving two or more players. Though the game's origins are somtimes disputed by scholars in the field, most believe that the game began spontaneously one fateful Sunday afternoon when Sir Bimsley Coggleworth grew smitten with a fellow passenger, one Madamoiselle Antoinette Du Fonnetenay. The Glancing Game's (tm) popularity spread thoughout the Paris metro with the expansion of the underground tunnels, enlisting not only famous players from the French bourgeoisie, but those from the lower classes as well. In fact, the game transcends cultural, ethnic, religious and social lines, though rarely reaches across sexual lines, since the game requires Glances which are both reciprocal and sexual in nature. Since it involves no dice, cards, or other game pieces, the game can be played by anyone, at any time of the day.

Official Rules and Regulations

1. Players One and Two must sit facing each other on the car, though thier positions are not limited to a particular section of seats. Thus, the players may sit as close as six inches and as far as ten meters from each other.

2. Players One and Two must be able to see each other. If another passenger sits in between the two players and thus blocks the players sight of each other, the game is over.

3. The game begins when Player One notices the apparent attractiveness of Player Two. Player One then fixes his or her look on Player Two, and awaits acknowledgement of the commencement of the game.

4. When Player Two recognizes Player One's stare, this recognition must be small. Player Two returns the stare, but for no more than a few seconds.

5. Player One notes Player Two's acknowledgement by pretending that Player One's initial look was accidental. This is easily accomplished by averting the glance elsewhere. Examples include but are not limited to: out the window, behind Player Two, the person next to Player Two, the prominently displayed Metro maps, etc.

6. Player Two must then proceed by fixing his or her look on Player One.

7. Player One then shifts his or her glance to Player Two. The game has officially begun.

8. Glances are exchanged, then, back and forth, repeatedly, by Players One and Two throughout the course of the journey. The players can increase the time of Locked Eyes to their liking, but cannot make any other outward signs of recognition, including but not limited to: smiling, winking, waving or licking lips/teeth.

9. Both players must realize, prior to gameplay, that any of the aforementioned signs of recognition are considered taboo in most social circles. Any breach of the game rules leads to immediate dismissal by the other player, who will most likely exit the train or change seats.

10. As the egos of the players enjoy quite a stroking during gameplay, they should feel free to enhance their performance and the other's fantasy by bringing any available accessories into gameplay, including, but not limited to the following: a hip or trashy magazine, an intellectual or pulp fiction book, a newspaper, a hidden hat or gloves.

11. The game ends when a player reaches his or her destination and exits the car. If both exit at the same stop, the game can possibly be continued on the quai or on the escalator. Players are permitted to speak to each other once they have exited the station, thus finding themselves in a reasonable arena to hit on each other. Any prior contact will most likely lead to a game of Cold Shouler (tm) or Total Rejection! (tm).

Mother of the Metro

2005-05-23T17:10:00.000+02:00

Line 12, Northbound towards Porte de la Chapelle, 11:15am.

Roving, dirty, dog-walking young anarchists frequent the metro in search of money. Today, two of them waited with me on the quai of the Twelve. They shared a beer and stank of alcohol, laughing loudly as they provoked the dog to snarl and pull at their sweater sleeves.

Once on the car, one of them gripped the pole while the other straddled one of the strapontins. The dog lay at their feet. An elderly woman boarded the train and chose a seat across from them.

About ninety seconds into the ride, the pole-gripping one's odor reached me from six seats away. I noticed the old woman covering her nose.

She smiled and waved at the odor, and then spoke to the standing anarchist.

"Doesn't the smell bother you?"
"No, I'm used to it."
"Well, I'm not used to it. You smell horrible! It's filling up the car!"

I expected him to get closer and stick his armpit in her face. Instead, he laughed, and said, "Well, I'm sorry, I guess I never considered it."

Two minutes later, he farted and immediately apologized to the woman. She laughed, waved at the smell and looked to other passengers for support.

Between stops, he approached the door and pulled up on the handle repeatedly, producing loud clicking sounds. The woman reached forward and gave him a little slap on the hand.

"Stop that noise!"
"But I'm making music."
"That's not music, it's disturbing. Just sit down and stop fidgeting. And give me that beer."

He handed her the beer and sat down across from her. When he got up to leave, he said, "Have a good day," to the woman before exiting the car. She shook her head, opened a window and placed the beer under her seat.

Shortest Post Ever

2005-05-20T17:33:00.000+02:00

This morning, I was shoved out of the way by the meanest, nastiest Seat Vulture I've ever encountered. She came out of nowhere--elbowed her way past me and ducked into the last available seat with an unabashed smirk. As she opened her book to read, I caught sight of its title: In Jesus's Image.

Warm Welcome

2005-05-17T08:11:00.000+02:00

The welcome stand at Gare du Nord.

Too Slow

2005-05-14T00:07:00.000+02:00

I’m a fast walker. I’ve got long legs, I’m often running late, and I like to move quickly. All of this is was a major disadvantage in the Paris metro. The bulk of the system was built in the 19th century and is not meant to handle today’s crowds. The passageways are narrow and winding, some stops only have one exit, and the staircases are a death trap for the elderly or handicapped. Add to this the influx of summer tourists and you had a large-scale transportation disaster.

I had no patience for the sluggish, the uncertain, the lost, the laden-down mass of people schlepping up the stairs in front of me. Just thinking about that set of stairs off the Four at Gare du Nord at rush hour gave me panic attacks.

That’s why I brought the following proposal to the attention of the mayor. Since its inception two weeks ago, metro slowness has become a thing of the past and it has been universally hailed as a model for transportation systems across the world. Here’s what was done, at my behest:

Metro Solution - A Modest Proposal

City Hall invested in about three dozen wolverines, a handful of komodo dragons, and an assortment of other vicious carnivores, and set them loose underground. Special security systems (including electronic collars) ensured that these new RATP “employees” would never make it out of the stations, so the city at large remains safe.

However, fear of being devoured by a bloodthirsty predator suddenly made the average speed in the metro pick up dramatically. No more absent-minded weaving back and forth. No more blocking the escalators. Everybody now runs everywhere. Those daring enough to brave the metro, and the possibility of a grisly demise at the jaws of some hungry animal, sprint from platform to platform, bounding up the stairs three at a time. Workers and students arrive at the office and classroom revived and refreshed by the morning sprint. The average commute time has plummeted. The productivity of French workers promises to rise dramatically, a wholesale economic resurgence of France is imminent, and with it a re-calibration of the trans-Atlantic balance of power. The metro predators serve to create fear but also help combat the rat problem – two birds with one stone. The frail and the elderly take the bus and are thus not deprived of access to public transportation. (The buses are much more elderly and handicapped friendly).

Mayor Delanoë has promised to comment on this post. I might clear some room in my schedule for lunch with him sometime early next week. In any case I expect to be awarded the Legion d’Honneur by the end of the year.

When the Metro Closes

2005-05-05T20:36:00.000+02:00

I think theoretically you’re supposed to buy a ticket on the Paris night bus but nobody ever does, and tonight is no different. I stumble on the D, headed home to the 18th arrondissement, pushed forward by the human tide behind me.

The Paris metro closes down in the wee hours, so between 1 and 5:30 AM, the cash-strapped, the people who get off work very, very late, and everyone who didn’t score in the bars converges upon Place du Chatelet to grab the moving vehicle that will take them home. A variegated tide of human wreckage spills on at every stop.

At Grands Boulevards a group of 30something women board the bus. I can’t tell what they’re on – maybe they’re simply giddy – but in any case they make quite a racket. For about ten minutes they content themselves with flirting with the driver, whispering to each other and giggling like it’s the junior high school cafeteria:

“You’ve got such pretty eyes, monsieur.”

“Are you from Martinique? You look exactly like a friend of mine from back home.”

They soon tire of this, however, and start to play Bus Conductor.

The ringleader starts calling out the names of the stops whenever the bus halts, but deliberately in the wrong order, so that when we’re at Gare du Nord, she yells out Barbès, when we’re at Chateau Rouge she screams Porte de Clignancourt, and so on. Drowsy passengers jolt to attention, thinking they missed their stop.

The ringleader, a pretty woman in tight jeans, finds this hilarious. Her sidekicks admonish her for a moment, then double over with laughter. Their howls are the only sound on the bus. Then Bus Girl gets aggressive, turning to her companions and shrieking,

“Tickets, please! Show me your tickets!”

“Drop it, girl, cool it.”

“Shut it. I NEED TO SEE YOUR TICKETS!”

More passengers jolt awake. The zany band of shrieking Bus Girls continue their antics on our merry way to the northern extremities of Paris. For once, I don’t have to worry about falling asleep and missing my stop.

Metro Muppets

2005-05-04T14:50:00.000+02:00

The first in the series: Miss Piggy.

Metro Procedure

2005-05-03T00:42:00.000+02:00

Step One: Walk down stairs.
Step Two: Turn off nostrils
Step Three: Maneuver around granny carrying three kids and shopping caddy.
Step Four: Brush past clueless tourists clustered around map, blocking the turnstiles.
Step Five: Barricade self behind novel/newspaper/ipod.
Step Six: Scowl and look unapproachable.
Step Seven: Board train. Avoid suspicious puddle. Keep eyes peeled for Pole Pirates.

(Footnote: when checking out cute fellow passengers, maintain scowl.)

Caught on Camera!

2005-05-01T11:23:00.000+02:00

Remember this post? Nico says that people don't eat in the metro, that he stopped doing so long ago because it's barbarian. He challenged me to find evidence to the contrary. Last night, ladies and gentlemen, I found Nicolas eating on the metro. Here's the proof.

Change Tunnel

2005-04-30T16:33:00.000+02:00

Metro Chatelet. One of the long tunnels connecting trains.

Crazy Person #57 (My Future Self)

2005-04-27T12:49:00.000+02:00

Line Twelve, Northbound toward Porte de la Chapelle

Sex: Male
Age: 40+

Crazy Person #57 gets on the train and slumps down into one of the fold-down seats across the way. He looks fairly unhappy in the flourescent light, but soon after coasting into the tunnel, he catches a glimpse of himself in the window.

He scrunches up his face and puckers his lips. The reflection is hilarious; the man laughs uncontrolably. Once he calms down, he raises his eyes again into the window. This time, he sticks his fingers in his ears and fills his cheeks with air. His double copies; the man laughs and hoots, looking to the other passengers for confirmation.

I smile at my hands. He points at my face, yells, "I saw teeth!" and clutches his dirty hat to his belly as it shakes with laughter and the rocking of the train.

We ride just one stop together, but I think: if I were going to be a Crazy Person, I'd surely want to be #57.

Space Makers

2005-04-26T23:59:00.000+02:00

Rush hour in the Paris metro is not for the faint of heart, nor for the
claustrophobic. On a bad day you can find yourself glued between someone’s gut and someone else’s briefcase. The smell is fearsome. What’s needed is a good way to make some space for yourself, an efficient way to take up more than your share of square centimeters.

This was no problem when I was a music student. Traveling around with a cello can be a real pain – but a cello makes for a damn effective battering ram, I can tell you that much.

I no longer travel much with my cello so I’ve decided that henceforth the thing to do is carry around a stroller. Not too heavy, folds conveniently after I’m done riding. I have no children, nor do I know anyone who could lend me a baby, so the plan is to put a fake baby in the stroller – I'm thinking maybe a Cabbage Patch doll - and ram the sucker into the car. Instant space maker. I’ll have space to breathe, won’t have some stranger’s stomach or crotch glued to my face. Of course, I’ll keep the plastic rain cover down over the stroller so nobody notices that I’m a faker, but just for good measure I’ll lean over and coo to the plastic doll every now and then.

If I’m lucky maybe people may even give up their seats for me.

Metro Meat

2005-04-25T19:46:00.000+02:00

Hungry? Pick up a traditional sausage. Just stay away from this guy... as his face clearly shows, he's not so friendly.

Bicycle Metro

2005-04-24T12:36:00.000+02:00

You can’t usually take a bicycle into the metro. Sometimes on off hours, though, you get lucky and the station attendant will let you in through the gate.

The metro was the way to get home - there was only one bicycle between the two of us, it was 5:30 AM and we were totally exhausted after a night of dancing. Late August. I was with Gilles, the boy who converted me to the wonders of cycling in Paris. We lugged the bike down the stairs, the back wheel thumping and bouncing lightly on each step.

I looked up at the display panel to see in how minutes the first train would be coming. The number 26 flashed away without mercy: blink, blink, blink… The platform was uninhabited. We both sat down. We both promised to stay awake to make sure nobody came along to steal the bike. We both promptly fell asleep.

Twenty-six minutes later, the first metro slid into the station, ready to transport us northward, ready to carry us to the front door of my apartment, where Gilles would lean in to kiss my cheek and where I would reach around to squeeze his waist, ready to sweep us into my bed, ready to take us back to the private, closed space of my apartment where it would become rapidly clear that we had no business dating one another.
Thanks metro.

Swept Away

2005-04-22T19:32:00.000+02:00

Transferring at Concorde the other night, I scuffed along the other late-night riders from the Twelve to the One. A group of gypsy children were among us, two of them similarly clad in jean jackets that boasted the logo of an imaginary football team across the back. Showing off for the girl of the group, who giggled and jogged along beside them, they played subway soccer, substituting the ball with a ratty version of the day’s 20 Minutes.

Hearing them coming, I veered right. One of the boys slammed into my side with his elbow. I rubbed my injured love handle and watched them make their way down the tunnel. Soon, they picked up the newspaper and threw it into the air. Folded and aerodynamic, it slammed into the wall, narrowly missing a man walking just in front of me.

“Pardon!” They shouted. The man shrugged.

A few meters later, we came upon a limping cleaning man, clothed in a bright blue work suit. He scuttled along with his broom and pan, ushering used ticket stubs and candy wrappers away from the sides of the corridor.

As the children approached, one of them broke free of the group and grabbed the man’s broom from his hand. They took off running. The Limping Cleaner shouted, “Oh! La!” and started off after them, albeit slowly and unevenly.

The man who’d narrowly missed having his eye poked out by a flying newspaper and I looked at each other. I let go of my injured love handle; we took off running after the kids. Chased them all the way down the hall and onto the platform of the One. I checked the lighted sign. Sven minutes ‘til the next train—there was still time. We zigged and zagged through the platform, toward the Sortie, up the stairs and through the automatic exit doors. We were soon joined by the Security Guards. The kids ran up the stairs to the outside, and the broom came tumbling down the stairs after them.

The man and I slowed down just before the exit. One of the guards retrieved the broom from the bottom of the steps. The other two dashed out. A few seconds later, the Limping Cleaner caught up to us. He scolded the Security Guards: “You call this security?! Those kids could’ve killed me!” When they didn’t listen, he approached the ticket window, shouting to the woman behind the counter that the security in the metro was insufficient. He might as well quit, he said, it was such a dangerous job.

The man and I looked at each other, breathing heavily. I checked my watch. Two minutes. We jogged back down the stairs and boarded the train, never speaking.

Plastic Girl and Gimp Man

2005-04-21T01:49:00.002+02:00

I’m riding home after class with Séverine. Sitting next to her is a fine specimen of what I call the Plastic Girl. She got on at Etoile – station whose name means “star”. White waist-length coat, white mp3 player, white pointy-toed pumps. Pink T-shirt with the word “Flirt” embossed with sequins. Vacuum-packed jeans, requisite oversize hoop earrings, and blonde-streaked hair. Plastic Girl attaches the mp3 system to her ears – or what’s left of them, sagging under the weight of aforementioned hoops – to barricade herself from the plebian surroundings. These include: myself (unshowered, unshaved, unslept), Séverine, and the man sitting to my right – Gimp Man. Gimp Man has frizzy hair, a crutch, and a nervous twitch. When I lean forward to better catch Séverine’s words, my elbow brushes against his, setting off further twitching.

Sound system safely in place, Plastic Girl can proceed with makeup operations, pulling out a compact and quickly checking mascara (not running), powder (still caked on, no problem), lipliner and gloss (appropriately lurid). Plastic Girl is evidently so fabulous that she is allowed to do her makeup in public. By doing so, she is not being tactless, she is simply marking her territory.

Mere mortals might think this is the metro – in reality it is her boudoir. A hushed awe descends upon the car, as we realize that Plastic Girl is really a star. Of course! I should have realized earlier. All hail the Plastic Queen.

Fourteen Tunnel

2005-04-20T15:53:00.000+02:00

Crazy Person #125

2005-04-19T17:51:00.000+02:00

Westbound on the Two, four o’clock
Sex: Male
Age: 52?

He got on the Two at Courcelles, wearing a red flannel shirt and jeans. As he sat down he issued a grave “bonjour” to his immediate neighbors. Accessories: pipe (dangling from mouth but not lit), crutch, and a shopping caddy, from which protruded the tube of a vacuum cleaner. Does he collect vacuum tubes? Work as a house cleaner and prefers to use his own equipment? (Difficult to imagine with that crutch, come to think of it.) Had he just bought a vacuum cleaner? Gotten it as a gift? Does he just cart it around? We’ll never know.

Swindled

2005-04-18T22:43:00.000+02:00

Faithful readers, I have a confession to make. Once upon a time, I too was a JYA. It’s true; I know them so well because I once was among them. Granted, I avoided stretchy white tops and kept my skin under cover. In fact, I loathed JYAs as a JYA. They used to sit in the JYA office and squeal about Gwenyth Paltrow and lamented the serious lack of J. Crew in this city. I mean where do I get my pink capris? But this is all beside the point.

The point is this: I once was a much less savvy rider than the battle-scarred commuter I am today.

I’d heard all the warnings. Pickpockets? Rampant. Be vigilant! Close those sacks!

But I had also noticed that the only people fearfully clutching their bags to their chests were tourists. I wasn't a tourist, I lived there, right? So I’d taken to keeping my backpack (a French brand, bien sur) on one shoulder and covering the pouch with my arm.

But the very first day I let down my guard, leaving my backpack on, I met a pickpocket ring.

Forget everything you’ve ever heard about some man stealthily reaching into your pocket while you read your novel in your seat. Oh, no. This was nothing of the sort; this was a well-orchestrated event. I suspected nothing until the very end.

It was about five o’clock on a Friday afternoon--prime time metro mania. The quai was packed with commuters, no doubt on their way to a pleasant apéro after a hard week’s work.

I prepared to board the train at Montparnasse, similar to Chatelet in size and squalor. The train pulled up; I approached the door. Passengers disembarked; I waited patiently. Then, when the crowd began to push into the car, I found myself at a standstill. Others boarded, but the men around me didn’t move to get on the train. I was blocked from the front and on both sides. I tried to get around them, but they wouldn't budge.

It was then that I felt the fourth man’s hands in my backpack. Rummaging. How long had this been going on? I swiveled around and grabbed my bag. The men started to move away down the hall. I fished through the front pocket. Wallet, check. Metro pass, check. Phone? Phone?! Decidedly not there.

Amazing myself only in hindsight, I took off after them down the hall. I shouted, “Give me back my cell phone!”

To my great surprise, they stopped to argue with me. “We don’t have your phone, you crazy bitch.” “Yes you do--I saw you take it!” This wasn’t exactly the truth, but I was doing everything I could just to keep up my courage and my French.

Our stop-and-go routine continued as I chased them down the halls, shouting the same tired phrase, “Give me back my cell phone!” We passed countless passengers. No one did more than blink at me in my plight.

Finally, nearing the heart of the station where the tickets and the security office were located, they stopped again.

“What?! You want a phone?! This is the only phone I have! You want mine?!” One of the men showed me a phone. It wasn’t mine.

“No, I want my phone, of me.”

He reached into his pocket and threw it my way. It crashed by my feet. They took off, insulting me along the way. I collected my phone and, the adrenaline leaving my system, shook hard for the next few minutes as I made my way back to the quai to take the train home.

Sunday on the Four

2005-04-17T19:53:00.000+02:00

First Day in Paris

2005-04-16T18:44:00.000+02:00

First day in Paris; first experience with the metro. Fresh off the flight from JFK, I was determined to blend in. This, however, proved difficult:

1) I was not aware that you actually need to lift up the handle on the doors to open them. The train pulls in, I wait patiently for doors to open, doors remain shut, irritated Parisians brush past to open said doors. Strike one.

2) I was carrying a suitcase and a cello.

3) I smelled like airplane.

My crowning achievement came, however, when climbing the stairs at Concorde. Somewhere near the top of a seemingly endless staircase of death, every muscle in my dehydrated and jet-lagged body straining to remain vertical, the handle on my suitcase snapped off. It teetered for a brief moment, then capsized and clattered all the way down to the bottom, sending hapless passengers scurrying for cover. Bonjour, Paris.

My Missing Arm Beats Your Missing Foot

2005-04-15T12:21:00.000+02:00

A small sticker above each section of four seats reminds passengers that they are to relinquish their seat if any passenger really needs that seat.

This is common sense. If an old woman totters onto the train, five people jump out of their seats, in a spontaneous and collective effort to get the woman seated before the train starts moving again, she loses her balance, she breaks her hip, and no one gets to work on time.

The Paris metro, though, is prepared for a number of situations. The list not only details the types of people who require seats, but the order in which those people have priority to those seats, if they should all find themselves aboard the same car during rush hour.

Translated from the RATP online guide to being a good passenger, the sign reads:

In the cars, certain seats are reserved by priority and chronologically to:
- Disabled war veterans
- Blind persons
- Disabled, from work or other reason
- Pregnant women or people accompanied by small children
- Old and/or incompetent people.

So according to the RATP, it's not how diabled you are, but how you were disabled. A man who lost his left foot in World War II has the right to kick a blind man out of his seat. Likewise, the Blind Man gets a seat before the guy who lost all four limbs in a tragic factory incident. A man who accidently cut off his own thumb while chopping up a carrot takes a seat before the big-bellied woman or the woman with a baby on each hip and two on her back. And all of these people get to keep their seats if an old and/or incompetent person climbs on board.

You have to give the RATP credit. They've thought this thing through and are ready for throngs of various incompetent/disabled/blind/pregnant/old people to ride the metro. But they neglect to address the possibility that a person might have two or more of the above handicaps. Does the war veteran still get priority over a blind and pregnant woman?

In any case, I'm a little upset to see that one of the few benefits of growing old--that is, automatic seating--is being down-played by the RATP. I've always looked forward to kicking those young hooligans out of their cooshy seats. I guess I'll just have to stay away from cars packed with higher-priority passengers. The RATP has really helped me on this one, seeing as how only about a third of the stations are handicap-accessible. But hey, at least they try to make up for it--the people on the priority list do get a nice fifty-percent discount.

Metro Catch

2005-04-15T00:48:00.000+02:00

Today’s metro expedition yielded:

Mullets: 1
Suspiciously-shaped packages: 3
“Social Movements” (read - strikes): 0
“Serious voyager accidents” (read – traffic blocked because of a metro suicide): 1
Puddles of urine: 5
Incrusted pigeon shit on above-ground line platforms: 7 (watch those new shoes)
Birds trapped underground: 2
“JYA: 0 (it was a good day)
Run-by accordion recitals: 1
German tourists: 2
American tourists: 0 (no “perdone” today…)
Rats: 0 (obviously not looking hard enough)
Dramatic scarves: 14
19th century classic French novels: 2 (Zola and Balzac)
Beggars: 3
Inexplicable scowls from across the platform: 3
Inexplicable smells: 8
Leopard-print clothing items: 4
Exposed cellulite: 0 (see JYA)

Where the Metro Lunches

2005-04-14T00:18:00.000+02:00

Parisians never eat on the metro. This is a proven fact. I challenge anyone to furnish photographic proof to the contrary (Emily, get to it). When I first moved here I would occasionally wolf down a sandwich jambon fromage between my cello lesson at the Ecole Normale and my art history class in the 14th. But it felt wrong in an odd sort of way. It was like when you’re in an elevator continuing the boisterous conversation you started in the hallway – there’s a pause and suddenly you realize you’ve been behaving like a barbarian. So I stopped eating in the metro.

Sometimes, however, forces beyond your control are conspiring against you.

I spent a brief moment of my life at the bottom of the communications food chain working for a telephone survey company in the southern suburbs of Paris. Needless to say it was a wretched, soul-destroying job, perilously close to telemarketing. It was in Malakoff, at the end of the Thirteen. At lunch hour on my first day on the job (also my second-to last) I was surprised to see everyone leave the office and trek across the road, through a construction site, under an overpass, through a cast-iron gate to a pre-fab block in the middle of a rail yard. The company lunchroom was shared with that of the RATP maintenance workers.

It was early summer. I picked my way across the tracks, gazing at the dark, empty cars stretched out in the sun, the weeds that sprung up here and there, the piles of rail ties and the rows and rows of tracks stretching into the distance off to Paris. Amidst the hulking metal stood the cafeteria building.

I no longer took my lunch underground to the metro. The metro had come up above ground to join me.

Crazy Person #482

2005-04-13T23:09:00.000+02:00

Line Thirteen, southbound toward Chatillon.

Sex: Male
Age: Approx. 47 years old

Passengers board the train, including Crazy Person #482. As soon as the buzzer sounds and the doors lock closed, the man hits panic. He rocks back and forth on the seat across from me, and then, in between stations, jumps to the door. Frantically and repeatedly, he jams his thumb into the door's button, cursing when it doesn't open.

This behavior continues until the next stop, when the door finally slides open. He cries, "Sweet Jesus!" and exits the train.

Speech #786

2005-04-11T23:17:00.000+02:00

Transcript:

"Do you know my name?"
(dramatic pause)
"Do you know my name?"
(less dramatic pause)
"Yes, well neither do I. And who cares, anyway? I do know this: I am fifty-three years old. I ride the metro, and all I ask for is..."
(the train's rattling drowns him out momentarily)
"A little change. A little change could do me some good, and would give me great pleasure. As you know: the street is not pleasure, but money, well, it is. Extend your hands; help me out."

Number of charitable passengers: 4

Now Hiring: Narcoleptics

2005-04-09T16:13:00.000+02:00

An announcement now frequents the airwaves in the metro: "Attention passengers! The Carte Orange is modernizing! The monthly pass is now available as Navigo. Sign-up at the ticket window."

Navigo: a metro pass that magically allows you to slide through the turnstiles without having to slip your ticket through the machine. Just keep Navigo in the bottom of your bag, and slide it across the sensor.

This new and exciting technology was previously only available to those possessing a yearly card. Having a regular Carte Orange, I was jealous. So naturally, I found this new announcement riveting.

The next morning, I left for work a little early so I could stop by the ticket window and pick up a pass. When I arrived at les Halles, I found the ticket agent sleeping soundly behind the glass.

I cleared my throat and waited. Nothing. A man came up behind me. The ticket agent began to snore. I tapped on the glass. The man only pitched forward a little and began to snore into the microphone.

My fellow commuter and I looked at each other. We tapped on the glass again and listened to the snoring a few more minutes before giving up. I let the man follow me through the turnstile, the agent’s amplified snoring growing fainter as we disappeared down the hall.

Field Trip

2005-04-09T12:38:00.000+02:00

At Pigalle, a group of schoolkids boarded the Twelve, shepherded by their frantic teacher.

“Everybody grab onto something. Emilie, don’t hold onto Valentin, he doesn’t count as a stationary object. Move over next to Stéphane and hold onto the pole.”

I stood in the corner of the car. The influx of first-graders flattened me against the wall. The car was instantly full. The teacher was young but prematurely aged--frazzled, early-mid career, still energetic. She packed three kids under each arm and heroically squinted up at the metro map on the wall. The kids, massed together around the seats, were the same height standing up as the adults were sitting. The general effect was that of a perfectly trimmed but heterogeneous lawn. Kids chattered, bobbing back and forth as the car rattled on towards St. Georges. Commuters smiled.

Standing next to me were two women. They eyed the field of young Frenchies and frowned. Said purple lipstick to Bon Marché shopping bag:

“Paris is okay at night but it’s hell in the daytime.”

Calmly Now

2005-04-08T17:58:00.000+02:00

Thursday, packed car, rush hour. Commuters looked wearily at those occupying the seats. Four of the seats were filled by rowdy middle school kids who jumped around the area as if trying to rock the metro onto its side. Disdain clouded adults’ faces. The kids were far too energetic to necessitate seating.

I could read the complaints on the commuters faces: I had to work an eight-hour day. I slept three hours last night. My back hurts. I have to ride fifteen stops.

Soon, one of the boys began screaming, and with each yelp, sprung three full feet into the air. No sooner than I had exchanged a frown with a nearby woman, a man closeby leaned over them.

“Oh! Can you calm down for five minutes?! You’re on the metro, and the metro must be calm!”

The boys snickered, heads hung low. One of them whispered to another.

The man grabbed the culprit by the collar with one hand, and with the other, reached into his jacket. He whipped out a leather business card holder, and shoved his credentials under the boys face. “You little asshole making fun of me? You see who I am? You like that? Want to take this right out onto the quai and talk about it? Oh, not so funny is it now, you little shit? Who’s laughing now?”

The man released the kid and turned back to his newspaper. The pre-teens were silent. Finally, the girl of the group said quietly, “What did it say on the card?”

“Fireman.”

The Wait

2005-04-07T18:23:00.000+02:00

Pole Dancing

2005-04-06T16:30:00.000+02:00

Rush hour – no seats. Even with my super Seat Vulture powers, I’m stuck standing. Clinging to the pole, which after a full day of being clutched by various hands, has become a germ paradise. A veritable biosphere, a bacteria culture, seething with all kinds of surprises – sticky patches, interesting streaks. Luckily, I’m tall enough to explore the outer regions of this urban ecosystem, the cooler, polar zones located above head level.

The worst pole moments are those generated by Pole Pirates. Not content with simply holding the pole to maintain equilibrium, they feel the need to hug it. Caress it, if you will. Smother that pole with generous lovin’. Rub your backs on it. In short, prevent any and all other riders from coming near.

Recently I suffered a traumatic pole-jacking involving a huge smelly man in a brown leather jacket. Without warning he leaned sideways onto the pole and before I could recoil, my hand was buried in the rolling plains of his body. The retreat operation consisted in ungluing my hand from the pole, then extricating it from his generous, doughy flank. The pole was, unquestionably, his territory. And not worth fighting over, anyway.

Passenger Love

2005-04-05T18:26:00.000+02:00

Usually we passengers travel as if alone on the train, faking obliviousness. We read, listen to music, or stare at our umbrellas. The only acknowledgment of other passengers comes in the form of moving body parts or bags, making room for the influx of commuters at stations.

Sometimes, though, braking trains warrant passenger contact.

The One's design is different from the other trains. It features the same four-seat areas, but also, a group of six seats whose backs are flush to the wall. The passengers in those seats travel sideways. Between these opposing seats is standing room, complete with bars hanging from the ceiling to ensure balance.

This afternoon, I was lucky enough to secure one of those six seats. Not a prime location since people stand directly in front of you, but a seat just the same. The One rattled on.

The passengers in front of me were expert commuters; they ignored the handles and poles, chatting on their cell phones and reading the day's paper.

Until it came: the emergency brake. The populus in front of me fell, hard. We six suddenly found passengers in our laps. My businessman and I exchanged panic-stricken looks. He leaped back to his feet, as did the other fifteen passengers in my area.

Once stable, he smiled. The others chuckled as they put away cell phones and papers and gripped the bars tightly. Excuse mes and pardons were exchanged. I found myself smiling, if only briefly, with my fellow passengers. I looked them straight on, and they did the same.

JYA

2005-04-03T00:05:00.000+02:00

I can pick these out before they even open their mouths. Junior Year Abroad. They rumble up and down the Champs Elysees in packs of three or four, armed with Vuitton knock-offs and Daddy's credit cards. On the street they blend into the general crush of people, but on the metro their camouflage vanishes. We’re not in Kansas anymore, Traci.

Warning signs:

-- If headed for weekend in Cannes to visit NYU boyfriend: bright red or blue North Face backpack, complete with plastic water bottle swinging to and fro, cow bell style. Because they’re going to dehydrate on the EasyJet flight. Because France is a dangerous, dirty country where the water is riddled with bacteria. Gross!

-- Valley Girl English.

-- If cutting class during the soldes: shopping bags from the Galleries Lafayette, heaped to overflowing with smart blouses and cute skirts. Because the Gap doesn’t sell things like this. Because Daddy gave me his credit card.

-- Triple chins.

-- Male version: North Face again, this time in fleece form. Pants three sizes too big. Last haircut dates from four months ago. Optional accessories: baseball cap (ragged), athletic sweater, ratty sneakers, bleary-eyed buddy from State U who just disembarked from Amsterdam and is still looking for the next coffee shop. “Whoah, dude!” soundtrack not included.

-- Body shape-inappropriate clothing. For JYA females, this means not enough fabric, stretched over too much flesh. Ominous, welling midsection. Look out, it might overflow.

-- Sweatpants.

If confronted with JYA, best plan is to scowl and look French. And hide the English-language novel sitting innocuously on your lap.

Out of Order

2005-03-31T01:13:00.000+02:00

Taken by a broken escalator, Line Four at Les Halles, on 30th of March. The sign assures passengers that the escalator will be fixed the 30th of April. That's right, kids, work those buttocks.

The Puking Stairs

2005-03-29T12:25:00.000+02:00

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.

With apologies to Annie...

2005-03-29T12:14:00.000+02:00

We were spending a week in Paris--a hazy, magical week in June, before a series of concerts in Normandy. It was Annie’s turn to cook for the group, so after our visit to the Picasso Museum, I accompanied her to the supermarket. Laden with the beginnings of a promising vegan dinner, we got on the One and headed home. Content and lost in thought, we fell into our seats without a word.

Seated across from us was a young, well-dressed couple speaking quietly in English. After a moment, the man leaned cautiously towards us and asked us for the time in strained, but correct, French. At long last--a chance to live out my pretentious French fantasy and answer tourists’ queries in the local lingo!

“Il est six heures,” I graciously managed.
“Merci beaucoup.”

The One whooshed its way under the center of Paris. The Gatsbys across the way continued their hushed conversation. Then, I realized that they were talking about us. The woman was staring at Annie’s legs. Annie, who as a general rule, does not shave, was sporting a lovely blue frock that displayed her shapely calves and the fine, dark downy hair that covered them.

“Look Jim, it’s true! French women don’t shave their legs.”

At long last, decades of speculation had been supported by concrete proof. I squirmed with indecision. Denounce or refrain? Savor a secret triumph or inflict humiliation?

Annie chose the latter. The Gatsbys rose to get off at Concorde. “Have a great vacation,” she said in English, with a radiant smile.

Umbrella Beating

2005-03-25T19:43:00.000+01:00

The station at St. Michel: Serves Notre Dame, that fabulous tourist hotspot. Thus, one of the most likely places to be pickpocketed. Two annoncements in English frequent the loudspeaker, urging tourists to be vigilant. Announcement A, the warning: "Don't attract pickpockets. Secure you wallets and close your handbags." Sound advice. Announcement B, for red alerts: "Pickpockets are active in station. Be vigilant." Parisians blink, oblivious as they finish the paragraph they're reading or turn up the volume on their mp3 players. Tourists clutch their bags to the front of their bodies.

These announcments weren't enough to save an elderly woman heading down the stairs. She grasped the railing with both hands, taking the long steps down one at a time. As I started down from the next landing, I saw them: two boys about my age, unzipping the woman's bag and fumbling through her belongings. Commuters brushed by.

Having already been the victim of a genius pickpocketing scheme just a few months prior, I rushed down to help. Like a fussy old woman shooing a cat off the table, I hit each of the boys on the back with my umbrella, scolding, "Stop it! Scat!"

When I had played this scene in my mind just a few seconds prior, the offenders had been startled and run off, afraid. In reality, they turned on me, much taller than I thought. They got in my face and threatened to hit me. I could only stare at them dumbly, and luckily, they walked off.

I went up to the woman, heroic, ready accept her gratitude. I'd placed myself in harm's way--I'd saved her from the perils of the Paris metro!

Instead, she looked at me for a moment and grunted before returning her attention to her descent. She muttered her thanks as I passed her: "What do you think, I'm an idiot?! I might be old, but I'm not stupid. There's nothing valuable in this old bag! I keep my money in my socks."

The Eight: Corniest line in Paris

2005-03-24T19:23:00.000+01:00

My fascination with the different metro lines in Paris nearly rivals my obsession with 60’s glam Communist propaganda. Particularly the “Red Detachment of Women” ballet orchestrated by Mao’s wife. Damn the consequences, as long as there’s some glam involved. Deportation to a Siberian work camp? Who cares when those Soviet propaganda posters feature such rosy-cheeked, scythe-slinging workers with names like Ilya and Ivan? It’s always the packaging that counts.

That’s what I was thinking when the Eight screeched to a halt in the middle of a tunnel between stations last night as I was on my way to a dinner party. “Please God, if I die in a horrible metro accident or terrorist attack, let it not be on the Eight.” The Eight is the metro line with the least personality. It’s slow, it serves unglamorous neighborhoods, it’s represented by a non-descript purplish color on the RATP metro maps, and its upholstery is a mysterious “psychologically calming” blue.

Poison gas attack, dirty bomb, hostage crisis, subterranean shootout – I’m willing to die a bloody death in any of these events. Just let it be on a cool metro line.

Perdone

2005-03-24T13:46:00.000+01:00

I was exhausted, heading home on the Two after a long day. We pulled into Blanche. I was actively visualizing my teleportation directly into my bed when I heard a loud screechy voice:

“Marcy, are we all on?”

Yep, they were all on, about six of them. It was as if the Alps decided, in unison, to board the Two: oversized American tourists, all wearing white starter jackets. All of them immense. They called to one another from across the car, like military commandos carrying out a dangerous operation in hostile territory:

“Okay guys, we get off at the next stop. Get ready to say perdone.”

Right, perdone. Pardon?

We arrived at Barbès, my stop and theirs. I sat transfixed, as the ringleader—the woman who obviously had taught the others how to scream “perdone”—stood facing the wall of tired commuters who were all uneager to make way for the herd from Omaha. “Perdone, perdone, perdone!” She of the copious flesh stood perplexed as the human mass failed to part on command. No Moses, she risked humiliation in front of members of the tribe as the magic spell’s effectiveness seemed in doubt. “PERDONE!”

A small passageway formed. The Alps filed out. Exiting the car, usually an ordeal during rush hour, was easy as I slid into place in their wake.

The Boob Squeeze

2005-03-24T11:25:00.000+01:00

Running westward, the RER A transports much of France's businessmen and women to the shiny architectural circus that is La Défense. I arrived on the quai this morning at eight thirty. The quai was already three meters thick with stressed commuters anxious to get on board. I scoped out the least crowded section, calculated where the doors would open, and stood perilously close to the tracks.

Perfect placement, that's my trick. The doors stopped just to my left, allowing me to be the first one on board. On mornings like these, you can't even hope for a seat. You aim for a wall or corner where you'll have the least amount of contact with the other passengers.

This morning's car was oddly shaped. I ended up on a corner that jutted out, not in. I awkwardly grabbed the corner and tried to press up against it. Hey, it was better than pressing against the fat and heavily wheezing man next to me. There was no way to avoid contact with the passengers pushing their way on from the platform. The buzzer sounded, and with a mighty push, a woman with enormous breasts lurched toward me.

My arm was caught in her cleavage, and there was nothing we could do. I tried to move, she tried to move, but in the end, all we could do for three stops was stare at my upper arm disappearing into her bosom.

The Puking Car

2005-03-23T14:51:00.000+01:00

In standard Seat Vulture fashion, I was ready when the Eight finally rocked into the station at Concorde. As the doors opened in front of me, I made to rush for the empty seats, but stopped just short of Seat Glory.

My toes were inches from a puddle of fresh, yellow-and-pink vomit. I wondered what the sick passenger had eaten while fleeing to the other end of the car. Easter candy? Eggs and ham?

Women pulled scarves over their noses to filter out the smell. Men discretely blocked the odor with finger mustaches.

The boy with his mother would have done well to follow suit in the minutes that followed. He stared at the vomit, grew wide-eyed, and began heaving himself, quickly and efficiently clearing the section of any remainding vomit-brave passengers.

The mother patted the child on the back, said "come on, baby," and when the doors opened, led him to the next car. There, no one would know his responsibility in the mess.

Old Man with Cane

2005-03-23T00:28:00.000+01:00

The man’s hands shake to a disobedient pulse as he totters through parting legs to the empty seat across from me. He props his cane on my foot and his knees touch mine, but I don't mind. Blinking slowly and steadily, each deliberate movement exaggerating time's lines around his eyes, he watches the passing buildings. And I watch him. The comb's fingers are still fresh in his hair. Lesser-tamed hair grows from his ears, and suddenly, I love him. I wonder if any woman has ever whispered these words into those ears: I love you. Did he turn to her, earnest, this old man alone on the train? Did she quiet his hands?