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Le Metro Parisien by Jennifer Vermillion
The SAT
The metro is like another neighborhood in itself to Paris. After I take the train down from Lille, a couple hours to the north, I must navigate this neighborhood to and from the American School in Paris, where I’m scheduled to take the SAT. If I were home in the States I’d be taking the exam in the familiarity of my own school, but since I’m an AFS exchange student here my junior year, I can only test in Paris at the one school with an American curriculum (meant for diplomats’ children and the like). After the ordeal I’ll stay with some friends of my French mother in a Parisian suburb overnight to avoid taking a late night train. I’ve never met them, but they’re kind enough to open their home to me for one night. First I’ll have to find their place.
Sights and Sounds
So I descend into the city’s underbelly, at a metro stop not too far from the American School, still grappling with the odd sensation I had hearing so much English after months of French immersion. I’m relieved to have the exam behind me, but terribly nervous about traveling alone through the city to meet a couple who are still strangers to me. Suddenly, however, I am engrossed in the sensory experience this underworld offers. Although I’ve been in the metro before, during AFS orientation at the beginning of the year program, I’d always traveled in groups. Even before the exam today, I was in the metro; but, being so focused on my test, I hardly paid attention to anything around me. Now I’m aware and attentive to this world unto itself.
Icy white tiles on walls and floors reflect the scintillant glow of incandescent lamps. A cacophony of clatter from hard soled shoes and running feet are the beat to which a chorus of voices seems to sing in languages from around the world. I make my way along with the masses. While the French are often considered leaders in fashion, and Parisians are certainly the most fashionable, very clear rules seem to dictate what is in fashion, and few deviate from that norm. A single red briefcase stands out in the expanse of khaki and black jackets, leather coats and briefcases, and Burberry scarves.
The Carts
Some stations feature carts selling croissants au chocolat or pommes (apples), baguettes, Evian water, and Orangina. Another might be vibrant with a variety of cut blooms ranging from the exotic and extraordinary to the familiar and traditional. Sometimes a cart of a surprisingly exceptional selection of quality scarves in the style of Hermes: silk, linen, and cashmere in bright hues of bubblegum pink, claret, and azure, often with golden horse bridles or ribbon like stripes, contrasts with a neighboring cart’s deplorably dingy, cheap leather wallets and bags.
Le Monde, Le Figaro, ParisMatch
Newspapers: newspapers too are for sale or are fluttering by the page across the tunnel floors stirred by the (grimy) breeze created by the flow of bustling commuters. Even though the jam-packed streets full of cars, taxis, and buses suggest otherwise; the French commute on foot and by public transit far more than most Americans.
One of a Kind Souvenir
I notice along the walls the gray flannel blankets folded under gypsies on the floor begging or selling wares spread out before them. I stop in front of a woman selling extraordinary silver jewelry embellished with semiprecious stones. “Did you make these yourself?” I ask. “Yes. These designs are my own,” she responds in accented and broken French. “Where are you from?” I dare to inquire, stretching against my innate shyness. “Oh! I’m from Israel!” She replies proudly. After much deliberation, I finally settle on purchasing an unusual pair of dangling earrings featuring a giant half moon pendant and irregularly shaped amethysts stuck through their center hovering above.
Musicians
At nearly every new stairwell plummeting deeper into the earth, a musician or group performs: guitars, flutes, violins, horns, drums, harmonicas, and accordions. A crowd gathers around a nonet string ensemble at the foot of the access stairs. Some travelers stop on the steps as the congregation of admirers below begins to clog the passageway. A refrain ends and even those walking by applaud. Some of the spectators stay for another piece; others drop large thick coins into instrument cases laid at the feet of these talented conservatory students before moving on. Once I even saw the Gypsy Kings playing their jaunty music in the Paris metro. Like playing at Carnegie Hall, CBGB’s, or l’Opéra Bastille, playing the metro in Paris is as much a destination and joy, not reserved for struggling artists alone. Sometimes musicians follow travelers into the cars and continue the entertainment on the moving subway. Just before the next station they’ll walk through the aisle encouraging each passenger to make a contribution into their outstretched hats.
Transients and Nudity
I descend toward the platform by the tracks. As is often the case, a silhouette in a tattered brown overcoat lays along one of the legless benches cradled at the bottom of the curving tunnel wall. Giant advertisement posters tower above the waiting & decorate the otherwise quiet palette of neutral tiles. The smell of urine and body odor cannot be missed, but are generally as ignored as the nude model selling perfume pictured in one larger than life placard.
Gangs
A coterie of teenagers wearing stocking caps over their Gaulish brown stringy hair and layers of t-shirts, oxfords, sweater vests, and blazers over colored jeans tight all the way to their leather shoes or boots scuffed from the many treks from Paris street to café to Paris street to bistro to metro noisily disperse through the larger crowd shouting, snigger to one another, and reconvene in an intimidating cluster.
They watch me study carefully the giant metro map on the wall, tracing with my eyes the dark green line of the Marie D’Issy-Porte de la Chapelle route and the pale blue line of the Chatillon Montrouge-St. Denis Université route.
While the Paris metro is considerably safer than the New York Subway, for example, I’ve been warned to be wary of pick-pockets. I couldn’t avoid taking out some money for the earrings I bought, and now I need to be sure I’ve left enough for my other fares. I look down and assess the contents of the wallet I’ve been clutching. Then I tuck it away discreetly, I think, in the breast pocket of my coat.
Later the pack of teens surrounds me in the metro car looking me over and laughing cruelly amongst themselves. In their guttural street accents and slang, they render the most beautiful language crude. They chatter to each other quips I don’t quite hear, but understand to be about me.
They question me. Am I American? What state am I from? Do I know J.R. from Dallas? Have I ever met Michael Jackson? What am I doing here? Where am I going? Where am I staying? Why am I alone? Is someone meeting me at the next stop? Some questions I answer quietly and carefully. Others I tell are none of their business. Well, I’ve understood them; and they tell me my French is surprisingly fluent. This means that my accent is authentic. If it weren’t, the faux pas would be the same as not knowing French expressions at all.
Perhaps my linguistic ability is why they choose to leave me alone in the end. Before alighting at the next stop though, the girl sitting across from me, looking much like the rough and edgy heroine of the French film La Femme Nikita, addresses me so the others cannot hear. She leans so close that I can feel her breath and smell her musky cologne. “Jamais fais voir tes frics dans le metro!” I take her advice more seriously having met her friends, and I never again let anyone see my currency in the metro.
Tin Can Cars
When I reach the last stop on the red line, I realize I do not understand the directions I’ve written on a torn composition notebook page. Above ground, I call the strangers I’m seeking from a payphone. My voice wavers from exhaustion and fear. I excuse my tardiness and explain my trial in that last car. “Stay put!” Stephane tells me. Soon he arrives in a tiny black tin can of a car with the friendliest face I’ve never seen before and I feel my tense and nervous shoulders relax back down from my neck.
The metro is like another neighborhood in itself to Paris. After I take the train down from Lille, a couple hours to the north, I must navigate this neighborhood to and from the American School in Paris, where I’m scheduled to take the SAT. If I were home in the States I’d be taking the exam in the familiarity of my own school, but since I’m an AFS exchange student here my junior year, I can only test in Paris at the one school with an American curriculum (meant for diplomats’ children and the like). After the ordeal I’ll stay with some friends of my French mother in a Parisian suburb overnight to avoid taking a late night train. I’ve never met them, but they’re kind enough to open their home to me for one night. First I’ll have to find their place.
Sights and Sounds
So I descend into the city’s underbelly, at a metro stop not too far from the American School, still grappling with the odd sensation I had hearing so much English after months of French immersion. I’m relieved to have the exam behind me, but terribly nervous about traveling alone through the city to meet a couple who are still strangers to me. Suddenly, however, I am engrossed in the sensory experience this underworld offers. Although I’ve been in the metro before, during AFS orientation at the beginning of the year program, I’d always traveled in groups. Even before the exam today, I was in the metro; but, being so focused on my test, I hardly paid attention to anything around me. Now I’m aware and attentive to this world unto itself.
Icy white tiles on walls and floors reflect the scintillant glow of incandescent lamps. A cacophony of clatter from hard soled shoes and running feet are the beat to which a chorus of voices seems to sing in languages from around the world. I make my way along with the masses. While the French are often considered leaders in fashion, and Parisians are certainly the most fashionable, very clear rules seem to dictate what is in fashion, and few deviate from that norm. A single red briefcase stands out in the expanse of khaki and black jackets, leather coats and briefcases, and Burberry scarves.
The Carts
Some stations feature carts selling croissants au chocolat or pommes (apples), baguettes, Evian water, and Orangina. Another might be vibrant with a variety of cut blooms ranging from the exotic and extraordinary to the familiar and traditional. Sometimes a cart of a surprisingly exceptional selection of quality scarves in the style of Hermes: silk, linen, and cashmere in bright hues of bubblegum pink, claret, and azure, often with golden horse bridles or ribbon like stripes, contrasts with a neighboring cart’s deplorably dingy, cheap leather wallets and bags.
Le Monde, Le Figaro, ParisMatch
Newspapers: newspapers too are for sale or are fluttering by the page across the tunnel floors stirred by the (grimy) breeze created by the flow of bustling commuters. Even though the jam-packed streets full of cars, taxis, and buses suggest otherwise; the French commute on foot and by public transit far more than most Americans.One of a Kind Souvenir
I notice along the walls the gray flannel blankets folded under gypsies on the floor begging or selling wares spread out before them. I stop in front of a woman selling extraordinary silver jewelry embellished with semiprecious stones. “Did you make these yourself?” I ask. “Yes. These designs are my own,” she responds in accented and broken French. “Where are you from?” I dare to inquire, stretching against my innate shyness. “Oh! I’m from Israel!” She replies proudly. After much deliberation, I finally settle on purchasing an unusual pair of dangling earrings featuring a giant half moon pendant and irregularly shaped amethysts stuck through their center hovering above.
Musicians
At nearly every new stairwell plummeting deeper into the earth, a musician or group performs: guitars, flutes, violins, horns, drums, harmonicas, and accordions. A crowd gathers around a nonet string ensemble at the foot of the access stairs. Some travelers stop on the steps as the congregation of admirers below begins to clog the passageway. A refrain ends and even those walking by applaud. Some of the spectators stay for another piece; others drop large thick coins into instrument cases laid at the feet of these talented conservatory students before moving on. Once I even saw the Gypsy Kings playing their jaunty music in the Paris metro. Like playing at Carnegie Hall, CBGB’s, or l’Opéra Bastille, playing the metro in Paris is as much a destination and joy, not reserved for struggling artists alone. Sometimes musicians follow travelers into the cars and continue the entertainment on the moving subway. Just before the next station they’ll walk through the aisle encouraging each passenger to make a contribution into their outstretched hats.
Transients and Nudity
I descend toward the platform by the tracks. As is often the case, a silhouette in a tattered brown overcoat lays along one of the legless benches cradled at the bottom of the curving tunnel wall. Giant advertisement posters tower above the waiting & decorate the otherwise quiet palette of neutral tiles. The smell of urine and body odor cannot be missed, but are generally as ignored as the nude model selling perfume pictured in one larger than life placard.
Gangs
A coterie of teenagers wearing stocking caps over their Gaulish brown stringy hair and layers of t-shirts, oxfords, sweater vests, and blazers over colored jeans tight all the way to their leather shoes or boots scuffed from the many treks from Paris street to café to Paris street to bistro to metro noisily disperse through the larger crowd shouting, snigger to one another, and reconvene in an intimidating cluster.
They watch me study carefully the giant metro map on the wall, tracing with my eyes the dark green line of the Marie D’Issy-Porte de la Chapelle route and the pale blue line of the Chatillon Montrouge-St. Denis Université route.
While the Paris metro is considerably safer than the New York Subway, for example, I’ve been warned to be wary of pick-pockets. I couldn’t avoid taking out some money for the earrings I bought, and now I need to be sure I’ve left enough for my other fares. I look down and assess the contents of the wallet I’ve been clutching. Then I tuck it away discreetly, I think, in the breast pocket of my coat.
Later the pack of teens surrounds me in the metro car looking me over and laughing cruelly amongst themselves. In their guttural street accents and slang, they render the most beautiful language crude. They chatter to each other quips I don’t quite hear, but understand to be about me.
They question me. Am I American? What state am I from? Do I know J.R. from Dallas? Have I ever met Michael Jackson? What am I doing here? Where am I going? Where am I staying? Why am I alone? Is someone meeting me at the next stop? Some questions I answer quietly and carefully. Others I tell are none of their business. Well, I’ve understood them; and they tell me my French is surprisingly fluent. This means that my accent is authentic. If it weren’t, the faux pas would be the same as not knowing French expressions at all.
Perhaps my linguistic ability is why they choose to leave me alone in the end. Before alighting at the next stop though, the girl sitting across from me, looking much like the rough and edgy heroine of the French film La Femme Nikita, addresses me so the others cannot hear. She leans so close that I can feel her breath and smell her musky cologne. “Jamais fais voir tes frics dans le metro!” I take her advice more seriously having met her friends, and I never again let anyone see my currency in the metro.
Tin Can Cars
When I reach the last stop on the red line, I realize I do not understand the directions I’ve written on a torn composition notebook page. Above ground, I call the strangers I’m seeking from a payphone. My voice wavers from exhaustion and fear. I excuse my tardiness and explain my trial in that last car. “Stay put!” Stephane tells me. Soon he arrives in a tiny black tin can of a car with the friendliest face I’ve never seen before and I feel my tense and nervous shoulders relax back down from my neck.
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