Snowing in Paris. Again.

Ummm, wasn't it March last time I checked?

So why is it freaking snowing in Paris?!!!!!! Like big snow, crazy wind, sticking to the ground, making life slippery and cold and brrrrrrrrrr. 

Snow.

It started this morning and by lunchtime was in full force. Paris just about shut down, because while Paris is a lot of things, what it is not is efficient in inclement weather (or really just anytime for that matter). Romantic walk along the Seine with a glass of wine? Paris delivers. Terraces full of café-goers on a sunny Saturday? Paris takes the cake. A lovely garden with fountains, statues and guards yelling at you to get off the grass? You got it. Trains that are working during a snowstorm? Paris is not your gal.

I got a call at 7:30am while I was lying in the Cloud Bed checking up on the lives of my fascinating friends on Facebook. It was my colleague/friend who lives out in the boondocks AKA: Melun. He had left his house at 6:50 to be in Paris by 9am...ummmmm one more point for living in Paris! He was worried that he wouldn't get to work on time and asked me if I could be sure to be there to open. As I reassured him that it was no problem, I wondered if I could even Vélib in this crazytown weather.

I reluctantly left the Cloud Bed and put my morning prep on full speed - listening all the while to the radio go on and on about Parisians stuck on the highways, stuck in the trains, probably freezing to death because of the snow. Snow, snow, snow!  The French love to talk about the weather, so today was a radio weather field day. 

Sure enough, the Velibs were frozen! It was metro for Cannes Cannes this morning, and I crossed my fingers, praying that I wouldn't get stuck in a frozen metro car on my way to work. 

As announcements about problematic lines echoed through the metro and people piled up through the tunnels, I searched frantically for the exit signs, just in case. Just in case what? Just in case there is a fire at this very moment, or a bomb or a fight or a panic, or...oh god. This is why I Vélib, people. 

I watched the snow fall all day in my little office, even braving the RER B in the early afternoon for a meeting. Somehow though, by the end of the day, I had momentary memory loss and decided to WALK HOME.

(not visible: cah-razy snow fall...)

(not visible: small icicles forming on the letter slots)

As I fought the wind and blinked back the ice particles repeatedly hitting my eyeballs, I kept thinking how great the metro would have been at a time like this. Funny what sub-zero temperatures will do to people. I arrived at the front door covered with snow from head to foot, and while scolding me for not using an umbrella and showing up looking like I'd gotten in a snowball fight,  Copain made me half undress on the landing as he took each article of clothing from me and carefully hung it up to dry.

It is now 11pm and guess what? It's still snowing. 

All I have to say is that Paris had better deliver this spring. I'm thinking tulip-lined gardens, perhaps a walk along the Seine, and a glass of wine en terrasse.

PS - Vie de Parisien nailed it.

Dans les Rues de Paris - Metro

I spotted this walking up rue Monge - hidden around the corner, a metro stop I've never seen before.

 I love it.

Merde in the Metro

I shouldn't make fun - I don't even have a driving license in France - but I just got sent this sad little link about a driver who thought he was going down into a parking garage.

Little did he know, he was headed down into the Chaussée d'Antin-Lafayette metro stop with his 4x4!

Police even tested him for driving under the influence due to his major snafu, but the test came out negative. I guess the signage was just very unclear...hmmm I wonder how that could happen in Paris? Poor dude.

photo source

Pickpocket in Paris

I cannot believe that I did what I did, but somehow I lost all self-control and logic and I did something that I would not advise to anyone...

I was on the line 1 metro with Copain on my way to meet up with my copine and her mari.  We were sitting down when a huge group of people got in our car.  I immediately stood up to make more room but felt uncomfortably squished due to a man who had draped a coat across his arm - somehow the coat was now pushed up against me. What bothered me more was that there was room behind him and he easily could have turned around to hold the middle pole and steady himself.

Then I noticed an older man to my right in-between the two sets of chairs, who was having a hard time balancing. He was bracing himself with both arms as he stood in the aisle.  The strange coat man kept getting closer and closer to the old man - so close that his front was now completely pushed up against the old man's back.  I wondered if they weren't traveling together because their level of closeness was off for two passengers who didn't know each other.

In addition to observing this little balancing act - old man braces - coat man pushes against him - old man acts thankful for the additional support - I was also noticing that Coat Man's arm was getting closer and closer to the old man's coat.  When it finally dawned on me what was happening, instead of quietly offering my seat to the old man I yelled, "Vous cherchez dans sa poche!!!"(you're fishing in his pockets!!) and I PUSHED Coat Man's arm away from the old man in the aisle.

Coat man glared at me, told me I was crazy and I seriously thought I was going to get my butt kicked right there on line 1. I put my hands up in defeat, told him that I was clearly wrong and apologized my head off - Copain chimed in too, reiterating how sorry I was.  My heart was racing and all I wanted to do was get off the metro. As I looked over at the old man's jacket pocket, I could see that Coat Man had managed to unzip it already.

Despite my suggestion that we get off the metro asap, we waited until our stop at Concorde and I thanked my lucky stars that Coat Man wasn't working with a team of other guys on the metro which is so often the case.

What was I thinking??!!  Pushing a guy?!! Yelling out that he's a pickpocket??!! 

On the one hand, I hope that I saved the old man from getting his wallet stolen, or others from getting their things stolen next.  On the other hand, I really should have handled that another way...clearly I acted on instinct - bad instinct.

In the USA this wouldn't be such I big deal I guess, but in Paris the culture doesn't dictate that you intervene when there is an altercation.  If Copain wasn't there, there may not have been another passenger who would have helped me.  I like to think that most people are good people (my Maman always reminds me of this), but in Paris there is a "mind your own business" attitude - chacun sa merde (everyone deals with his/her own crap).  The optimistic American in me hates this mentality but I forgot, in my haste to save the old man from losing his wallet, that I was not in America. I was in Paris, on the metro, une française. 


As we got off the metro and went up the escalator into daylight, Copain told me, "it's not your fault if the old man was stupid enough to get pickpocketed."  Still, though I know my reaction was not smart, I cannot get behind the French tant pis pour toi (too bad for you!) way of thinking. To top it all off, the old man wasn't even French - I'm not even sure he understood what was happening...

Les Gens du Metro Parisien

After over a year of daily metro-taking I've come to identify the groupings of rare specimens one can find while in transit.  The list is obviously a work in progress, ever-changing with the times and trends. But for today, mesdames, messieurs, I share with you:

Les Gens du Metro

The Text and Walkers
The metro is a place of transit - of moving - of getting to the final destination.  The Text and Walkers are those very considerate people who like to communicate 24 hours a day. Even when you want to get past them on the stairs - even when you want to move faster down the hallway. Sorry, you'll have to wait for them to send their text.

The Makeup-Putter-On-ers
The women who just didn't have enough time for foundation, lipstick, eyeliner and mascara at home.  The metro becomes a full beauty salon complete with mirror, wide-mascara eyes and hair fiddling to finish off the look. Not just a touch up people, a FULL face of makeup application. No shame...

The Lean-ers
Still in full effect.

The Stare-ers
One minute you're on line 1 going in the direction of Chateau de Vincennes, the next you're starting to get that creepy feeling that...wait - is someone staring at you? Oh oui, oui they are - that guy in the seat across the way. And he just. won't. stop. No matter how aloof you pretend to be, how wrapped up in your book /iphone/finger nail you try to feign, you just can't shake the creeper feeling. Doors opening, you running...


The Field Trippers
Groups of small people, groups of foreign people, groups of any kind - avoid. Like the plague.


The Feel Bad for Me-ers
You want to feel bad for them, but somehow their sad speech seems memorized - a robot, pretending to be a homeless person.  And you just can't seem to hand over that ticket resto, that 50 cent piece, that extra granola bar in your purse. As they walk out of the metro car and into the next wagon over to start their speech again, you see them light up a cigarette and you think to yourself, "if they were really that hungry, wouldnt they have popped for a baguette intead?".

The Listen to Me Play-ers
American Idol wannabes, these gems pop into the metro fully equipped with a speaker, microphone and cup for coins.  The problem - sometimes you don't want to hear Oh Champs Elysees played on the trumpet with back up singing as you commute to work at 9am.


The Stand Still-ers
On par with the Text and Walkers in terms of annoyance factor, the Stand Still-ers just...stand still.  In the middle of a crowded transfer tunnel. Blocking foot traffic.  Acting either lost or just bewildered.  Two words: Pull over.

Who have I missed?!

Parisian Metro - Nest for Rent

Nest for Rent

Location: Traveling - for those on the go

Surface area: 6in X 6in - prime Parisian real estate!

Including: integrated netting for full urban security,  daily snacks (lice, fleas, dandruff flakes)

Rent: Negotiable - do you molt?

Contact: Metro dude on line 3

Photo courtesy of Copain's Iphone 4 -Merci Copain!!

Leaners

Leaners: noun. People who, when in the metro, lean against the main pole in the middle of the standing area, covering the pole with their entire body and preventing others from holding the pole in order to prevent themselves from falling.

I hate them.

Note: when writing this blog, Copain asked me what I was writing about. Leaners, I said.  What's that?, he asked.  People who lean on the pole in the metro, I explained.


Oh, I do that. 

People - I'm living with a leaner. dude.

Great example of a leaner from Unsuck DC Metro - I couldn't have taken a better photo myself!

Parisian Metro Chart Topper

I've blogged about the Paris metro before...but today my friends, today my metro experience topped the charts.

I had just gotten off the metro at République - the doors were still open and I began my mad dash to the next line when I heard it: the sound of snot and phlegm being sucked down the throat, into the mouth, only to be...yep, you guessed it - I turned my head to the left only to see a WOMAN lean out of the metro and hawk a loogie onto the platform.  


Then the bell rang, the doors closed, and she went on her way.


Who does that?!


 I'm still in shock.

Props

The Parisian metro is very..... unique.  You are forced into a very tight space with people of all walks of life, all going different places.  Where you generally try to avoid getting thisclose to the person next to you, during les heures de pointes (rush hour), it is generally inevitable that you will be soclose to someone that you will not only be able to smell them, but you will also be able to inspect their dandruff and see if they clean their ears on a regular basis.  I dry heave sometimes.

It is advisable to try and forget about all of the microbes (germs) roaming around the metro - the three-year-old sitting across from you who has visibly peed her pants, the SDF (sans domicile fixe - homeless) guy with his scary dog, the alcoholic lady who asked you about sugar at the grocery store last week and didn't believe you when you told her that the Daddy brand was not diet...

It's best to forget these things because otherwise you would never wear a pair of pants twice and you would probably get your coat dry cleaned every other day.  All you can really do is obsessively wash your hands (check!), try not to touch your face too much (check!) and carry obscene amounts of antibacterial gel in your handbag (check!).

In addition to these basics, I have tactics for avoiding the peeps who are clearly spreading around more than their fair share of the microbes: 

- I observe the quai (platform) as I wait for the metro to arrive.  If any sketchy peeps are around, I avoid avoid avoid and move down the quai.

- I do a once over of the metro cars before even getting inside - any scary dogs? anyone carrying an open beer can? new car! pronto!

- I try to place myself somewhere that allows me to get out quickly if I need to (I avoid window seats where I would be trapped if a weirdo sat next to me). 

- I try not to think about the nast that is so clearly surrounding me.

- The very first thing I do when I get to work or when I get home is wash my hands - I now have cracking knuckles and alligator skin, but d*amnit, I'm germ free.

Beyond the cleanliness of the metro, I have also noticed a microcosm of the French socialist system at work.  This is how it generally goes down:

We all load into the metro car.  As soon as the metro starts moving, someone in the metro begins their speech (sometimes these people look homeless and sometimes they really don't at all- it's very mysterious). This is how the speech goes (delivered with a monotone voice, every time):

Bonjour Messieurs dames, I am sorry to bother you this morning.  I am currently sans abri (without a home) with no income.  (enter personal sob story here...wife, kids, sleeping in the street, no food, no government aid etc etc).  If you have a petite pièce (coin) or a ticket resto (restaurant coupon) to give me, I would be very grateful.  Just so I can eat tonight and wash myself and have a warm bed to sleep in....Merci messieurs dames and bonne journée.  

And yes, people actually reach into their purses and wallets and give these people money! It baffles me every time.  I'm imagine that these people are French because they obviously understood the speech. It's like, instead of (or in addition to?) going to the Pole Emploi (unemployment office) or the CAF (family allocation office), they go to the metro.  

Now, if it wasn't delivered in the monotone style and if they all didn't sound exactly the same, then I would actually feel bad for these people (I'm not as heartless as I may sound). But as it is, they sound like they memorized a speech and that they work for some dude called the PMP - parisian metro pimp. When this happens, I employ my "avoid" face - stare off into space, check my watch or read something. 

I was just about to bust out my avoid face on Thursday when one of the PMP's men started his speech - only guess what he did? He explained that he wasn't there for money, but instead to divertir - entertain - us.  He opened a French classic, presented the chapter and began to read.  He read about amour and he read it with such passion that one by one, the Parisian metro-goers turned their heads. Some of them even smiled (against Parisian metro code!).  I did too.  And at that very moment I thought - props. Props to the guy for creatively begging and for providing the Parisians with a reason to smile on a run-of-the-mill Thursday on their way to work.  

Out went the thoughts of microbes, out went the annoyance of the metro as unemployment and family allocation office alternative.  For just a minute, on line 11, between République and Rambuteau, we all felt a little connected in anonymous Paris, we all felt the amour...

And if I hadn't had to get off the metro before the end of the chapter, I may have thrown him a petite pièce or two...

Serves Me Right....

After all of my rushing through the Parisian negative space I got what was coming to me.  The leather on my new gold Tropezienne sandals is nice and stretched out after cutting off a grandma who was walking like a snail on downers in the metro:  as I jet out in front of her she stepped on the back of my shoe.  I, on the other hand,  just kept power walking all the way to my line 8 connection, my sandal still caught under Grandmère's orthopedic kicks.

I now have a floppy right sandal and a snuggly fitting left one.

Sheesh.

Negative Space

In college, my choreography professor used to talk about negative space.  He would make a shape with his body and have us "fill in the negative space." We would squish into each other armpits and the space between your ear and your shoulder...we would curve into an arched back or sit in each others' laps. The negative space was no longer - the gaps were filled.

Paris is a mish mash of negative space just waiting to be filled in.  And after just two month here I have learned to view space in a completely different way.  It's valuable, I seek it, I yearn for it.

Space is so rare in Paris that any leftovers are quickly snatched at then sold at exorbitant prices.  For 604 euros a month I could live in 56 meters squared in Cannes...and in Paris for 800 I get a measly 28.85 meters squared - enough to live, but you won't see me doing downward dog yoga moves in my living room.

My day is now punctuated by moments of searching for negative space - I run down the stairs to the metro, I skim through the turn stiles and wait on the platform for line 9 to arrive.  I squeeze into the leftover pigeonhole at 8:32 in-between Madame ChicTillTheEnd and Monsieur CouldUseAShower. I breath through my mouth as the bell rings and the metro doors close in the space - only tiny gaps leftover for things like purses, scrunched newspapers and briefcases. We all glare at the stroller taking up three spots...République stop!  I follow the crowd off the metro, the space widening between us and my eyes glaze over as I scan the tunnel for the negative space.  Ah ha! Squeeeeeeze, cut off, zip, slooooope, yeeeepes, slide, curse! Currents of people push from one tunnel to the next and I plop plop plop down the stairs careful to avoid the slow waves...the grandmas and tourists taking their sweet time.  I need to GO.  The negative space becomes my friend - my escape plan onto line 3....and 15 minutes later, I am behind my computer, typing emails at warp speed, filling the negative space of a white screen.

That'sParis...Thenegativespaceallfilledup, justlikethat.

America the Air-Conditioned, America the Great

I wasn't going to blog today - I vowed I'd be in bed by 11pm.  But after reading my friend Sunny Life's post I had to blog!

Today I was speaking to an anglophone who was new to France - this person has been a little errr...challenging.  At any rate, she was jet lagged and tired and I was trying to be understanding:

"Um, so like, what kind of accommodations do they offer in the South of France? I might want to go there instead next month."

"Well, I'm not sure," I answered. "All cities have different kinds of accommodation options. Why do you ask?"

"Because it's so HOT in Paris! In the South of France it will be less hot and more bearable because the ocean is there!"

hmmmm....how to explain....

First of all, it's a sea, not an ocean, but let's not get into technicalities. Second of all, uh NO it's not less hot in the South of France!  I told her I lived there, I knew.  And then she threw this one at me:

"So do they just like, not have air conditioning here?"

"Well, as you've noticed by the way I have swamp ass, there isn't even air conditioning in our offices...no one really has air conditioning, you know, like San Francisco or Santa Barbara."  (I tried to bring it closer to home for her)

It was a ROUGH conversation.  One that I had to quickly relay to my Anglo friend as we chuckled over her uber-Americaness.  But after a five minute pause I had to bite my tongue. I was a big ol' hypocrite:

At 15, during my first trip to Europe, all I could do was complain about the lack of air conditioning and how stupid all of these Europeans were. What the eff were they thinking suffering through summer like they did? And why the eff were they making me suffer too??!!  I spent most of my vacation in Berlin at the large mall in the center of town, not because I cared to buy anything but because it was friggin air-conditioned.  Call me a spoiled Southern California girl but I just couldn't take it!  To this day, that is pretty much all I remember of Berlin.  And cold showers.

Over the course of 6 years I, like Sunny Life have gotten used to the sweaty, smelly mess that is France during the summer.  I live with swamp ass, I sweat a bead of sweaty mustache, I feel the sweat drip down the back of my legs in a store that is hotter than hell and I save money - why? Because I leave before I can pick anything out.  The heat makes me angry and I have to GO.

I give up trying to look suitable and I just deal with it - cotton and linen are de rigeur, the hair goes up in a bun, rings are totally off limits due to heat inflated sausage fingers, and makeup? makeup is a total joke! But I don't stink - I will never go that far into the French realm of summer.  C'mon people! Antiperspirant it up! Fill your pores with alluminium! For the love of déo! For the love of my nasal passages and gag reflexes on the metro!

And to continue my rant just a bit further, what really gets me are the people who stink already at 9am.  How for effs sake does that thappen?! I'm at a loss.

So where I had a little chuckle about the naive newbie who just didn't get it - I take it back. I take it allllllll back. Girlfriend is right. Get it together Frenchies.  Install the AC. And if you "get sick," as you always claim you will,  pas de stress! The government will pay for your lovely doctor bill anyways!