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Published: November 12th 2009
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Really, I'm not trying to scare anyone off.
Last week, I watched a French comedian performing his show, "How to Become Parisian in One Hour." Some of his funniest bits were mockeries of American tourists in Paris, but he was spot on about certain ways to act that are quite Parisian.
For example, when you go into a department store and not only don't get any service but get snubbed, you should take every piece of clothing you can carry into the changing room, rip it all off of its hangers, and then return with your pile of tangled garments to the saleswoman, tell her that nothing fits, dump it in front of her, and walk out.
And when you get on the metro, you should think about something terrible, tragic, horrible. Then, imagine that your in-laws are coming to visit. At that point, you ought to have just the right facial expression to fit in.
I was reminded of this poignantly yesterday, as my friend Liz & I took the metro to the Gare de l'Est so that I could buy a train ticket.
On our first train, a scary drunken bald man tried to
pick a fight with Liz for daring to get on the train when he was blocking the door (never mind that there was plenty of room. When Liz did the Parisian thing and elbowed on past him, he followed her with rude comments and an unnerving glare to her seat. I could tell that he dearly wanted a confrontation, where he could express himself even more loudly for the entertainment of the rest of the passengers, but she wisely ignored him.
The second train was running late. If you've ever been there for it, you know what happens. The platform overflows with people, the stairways overflow with people, and if you can avoid falling or getting pushed down onto the tracks before the next train arrives, you will have the chance to try and cram into an already-packed car, cheek to jowl with strangers of dubious intentions.
When I lived here, I always thought to myself, "the metro's not
that bad. But then again I was probably lucky. Liz is of the opposite opinion, but then again she had a really terrible experience once. I won't describe it here, but let's just say that it involved the loss of innocence of a really nice Burberry coat. My ex-husband, back when we were dating here in Paris, stopped two attempted muggings on the metro, one involving three teenagers and a pocketknife v. himself (too bad for the muggers that he was a Marine).
So, Liz and I clung to a handrail, trying to protect our purses and our outerwear, while a crowd of Israeli teenagers surrounded us, letting out quiet but extremely potent flatulence on a regular basis. The comedian's words came back to me clearly:
"Then you have to go home at the end of the day. You get on the metro, and it smells of poo and piss and farts and
cheese."
That's exactly what it smelled like, no way around it.
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