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A
Dog's Life...
In a search for cleaner sidewalks an expat looks at pampered
Parisian pooches
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The Metro...
by Isabelle Nikolic
The strong scent of too much perfume on the lady
in front of me seems so aggressive just after waking up this morning.
We are all crammed in here like sardines. The
closeness forces me to put up with the stench of stale alcohol on
the breath of the guy near the door, as my eyes are riveted on the
shoulders of the man next to me shoulders covered with scaly dandruff.
He's so close he prevents me from opening my book.
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Finally, I think I see an opening in the crowd,
a bit further down. But as I approach, thinking, no doubt like everyone
else ahead of me, that I will be able to sit down and finally get
a chance to read my book -- I see the dirty homeless guy laying
across three seats.
I can complain forever about the Paris metro
!
Yet, after I've been away, I am always happy
to see the Metro again. It's like an old friend rediscovered! The
only thing that changes is the advertising posters along the walls.
The endless twists and turns of the subterranean hallways always
remain familiar. In fact, I sometimes I think I know Paris better
from underground than from above.
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And if the Romainian gypsies, smiles full of
gold teeth, weren't here to distract us a little with the joyous
rythyms of their accordions ? I'm glad to be "disturbed"
by them!
The cowd -- so many people in such a small space.
And I am surprised by the sad eyes of a fellow-passenger: is it
a seperation, or just a disagreement?
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A group of kids get on. They talk loud. Showing
off to prove themselves. They vy with each other to see who best
knows the latest cool slang expression. I can barely understand
them. But I remember that we were exactly the same when we were
their age. And when adults looked at us disapprovingly, it just
encouraged us to laugh louder.
Times have changed though. Back then the metro
was still wooden -- the seats too -- and the big game was to hold
the doors open as the train sped through the tunnel.
Watch out. My stop is next, and I must get off,
pushing myself once more through the holes in this "gruyère
parisien".
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