There she was

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There she was, again. She with the authentically engaging fixed grin, and rosy red checks playing what can only be described as a Chinese banjo on the main level of the Bastille Metro station. On a freezing Paris Sunday in February while I was rambling from one side of town to the next, I heard the same mysterious strings from this smiling pixie for the third time. She really does get around it seems, and with it I instantly became part of her narrative as well and in some diluted way became a Parisian for the day.



This is what I love about Paris. The quick intimacy and familiarity I feel when I arrive -- even on the sometimes crowded, sometimes grimy RER train heading into the city from Charles De Gaulle with eyes and head fuzzy from the burgeoning effects of jet lag. I recognize the same young girls with extravagant eyeliner and seriously large earrings chatting with each other in secretive hushes on the other side of the train car. I recognize the middle-aged Algerian woman wearing what looks like several layers of coats, with a glazed look in her eyes; perhaps coming off of the night shift somewhere? I recognize the bored RER ticket taker asking for tickets, then barely looking at each one as he punches it with a lazy, perfunctory click. This cast of characters with whom I have now become a member, never fails to bring a smile to my face.



I amble up to street from the Metro and wander through the mix of broad avenues and crooked cobbled lanes, gazing at the buildings that all look familiar, but aren’t. The unity of architecture across much of Paris makes it seem like you’ve seen that edifice before, and leads to that honest feeling of familiarity. Did I see that building yesterday, or did I see it 5 years ago when I was here last? Who knows, and who cares? The city starts to feel like your ‘own’ as you recognize and make a connection to these touchstones.



The next time I’m there I bet I will see that same smiling pixie in the Metro. Well, obviously not her, but one of the cast of characters that makes Paris its own, and yes, my own as well.

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