An Ode to the Metro

by Abbey Gibson (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection France

Every day, I’m trapped in a moving metal box. I step inside, hear the dull ringing of the bell, and lurch towards darkness as we set off, hurtling uncontrollably underneath Paris. The windows and metal doors have scratches on them, and at first, you think someone really has been trapped inside here, and has tried to claw their way out. But if you look closer, they are the residue of someone’s attempt to mark their identity. Racing through the tunnels, I hear the wind screaming in protest as the train disrupts the gloomy tranquility. I stumble and the grating sound of the brakes hits me. The doors are slammed open as people push their way out and others push their way in. Their faces become blurs of disinterest, a morning haze. This was before the strike. For 52 days, the green line number 12 is scratched out of my mind and replaced with the blue line of Google Maps guiding me through Parisian streets, angrily correcting me for each wrong turn. The buildings, although graceful, seem to sneer at me, echoing the thought that has crossed my mind: “You don’t belong here.” My French auntie tells me that it is a great opportunity to discover the city, and it is. I see the sun rise over the Seine. I admire the stillness of the river contrasted with the chaos of motorbikes, cars and a seemingly endless line of businessmen on scooters. Despite the hustle and bustle, it’s impossible not to miss the awkward eye contact and sidestepping inside the metro carriage; a dance I’ve had to learn in the months I’ve spent here. The Tuileries Garden is frosted over, withering in the Parisian winter. It seems a miserable place, and I think to myself that perhaps it also misses the metro, whizzing underneath, teeming with hundreds of people, all impatient for the journey to be over. I feel an acute sense of mourning as I walk past my metro station, abandoned and covered with green tape, warding off any lost tourists. For good measure, there are two unfriendly transport workers standing by - although I can’t imagine that the interaction between an eager American tourist and a moody Frenchman at 8am would be successful. Although I come to enjoy my morning walks, I yearn for the human connection that the metro brings. I remember pulling a woman up from the gap between the train and the platform after her leg had gotten caught. How she looked at me and said thank you, before two other people stepped in to ask how she was and took her to sit down. I remember the man who stopped me falling as the metro came to a halt, and laughed with me as I apologised in broken French, very embarrassed. I remember my first few weeks in Paris, when tourists seemed to sense the Englishness in me and would ask me which stop was closest to Sacré Coeur. None of them will remember me, and they are only shadows in my mind, but these interactions appear more substantial and real to me than the Parisian architecture. When metro line number 12 is reopened in January, I’m happy to see the train rattling towards me, suddenly more cheerful and less sinister than in November. If I’m lucky, I’ll grab a seat next to wallpaper with a web of green colour scratched into it, veins connecting and diverging, like the lives of those here with me. People who don’t know each other and yet are connected by a single journey, each cloaked in blank time as they wait to arrive at their destination. I take note of the faces around me; I invent stories for them; I pay attention to their conversations. They are no longer hazy figures in my mind - they make up the city. A man with an accordion enters the carriage, and rather than inwardly scoffing, I enjoy the music and smile at him as he passes me. It’s why I can’t help but bristle with defensiveness when my mum visits me in February and she says humorously that the metro smells of farts. It does. But it’s still my favourite part of Paris.