Le Metropolitain

The metro in Paris at times reeks of sweat, dung, salt and, on sweet rare occasions, thick vanilla perfume. Its stations are cellars with brown stone floors and walls, poorly kept and dimly lit, cold. Its narrow crowded cabins occasionally wrench forth in me a longing for the wide empty 6-train cars of Lexington Avenue. Yet I take the Parisian metro every day and despite all the disdain I may have once held for it, I've since discovered in me a grMetroeat admiration, a love for it. The soft metallic hum of the train sliding into the station is a happy alternative to the thunderous clack-clack-clack of the New York subway which, when followed by the violent thrashing open of the doors, has always had the power to both startle and embarrass me for no reason at all. Once inside the Manhattan subway, the heavy noise and rusty mildewed stench cause me to immediately raise my gaze to the map of the line, and I can think of nothing but where I will get off, and how far it will be. On the Paris metro, the light makes everything feel different. It is quiet, almost comfortingly so, and warm with exhaled breath. Each morning, I enter and stand by the door for I have just two short stops before I transfer. The whole car, it seems, looks up to greet me with a stare, and in the awkward silence that follows, I feel I have just walked into the waiting room at a casting call where we are all auditioning for the same part. I look from the ground to their eyes to the ceiling to the side then finally, decidedly, rest my gaze on my own reflection in the door window. A phone rings and someone answers with a brusque, "Allo?" and all eyes are on him now, for his voice carries throughout the whole car. The train dips left and right, gliding effortlessly through graffitied tunnels, and pulls smoothly up to the station, stops with a mild jolt. A rush of hurried people pushes forward, moving off the car into the station and we move as one through the tiled hallways, up escalators, down stairs. The mood has shifted from silent and uncomfortable to energetically participatory and I amble with the crowd towards my final destination. Exiting the platform, we part ways, until the end of the day when the mass exodus home once again jams the cars packed and we are one. As dark falls upon the city and the midnight hour approaches, the trains become less frequent, finally ceasing to run a bit after 12. A few sad homeless people huddle together on the thin benches and a cold wind brushes slow across the station. Paris turns dark and the metro tunnel drops into aching silence and all the while, in New York City, the drone goes on.

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