Le métro

Before the sun rises, Paris is as quiet as a small countryside village, save for les camions des éboueurs (lay kam-ee-own dayz ehm-bo-or: the garbage trucks) that beep down the streets at 6:00 am.  The sky is dark and timeless, the air cold and uninviting.  I clank down my seven flights of stairs to solid Parisian ground, groaning at my own misfortune as I realize that no one else in the apartment building has turned on their lights.  They're still in bed, warm under down couettes (koo-ett: comfortors). 

The few people I see awake on the street at this hour suddenly become my comrades.  We're equally sleep-deprived and bitter, and this hour of the morning is ours.  Les chiens (lay shee-en: the dogs) braving the cold underneath their bare paws, le tabac (luh ta-bak: the cigarette and magazine store) shopkeeper just unlocking his doors, preparing for the morning paper and cigarette rush.  We are all quietly respectful of each other as we take in the one positive aspect of being awake so early: a hushed, calm Paris.

I begrudgingly stumble down even more concrete steps, twenty feet below ground, trying to avoid the urine-soaked pavement smell by holding my breath while I clutch my coat tightly around me, trying to brave the biting cold of the tiled walls and wind tunnels.  A screech comes near.  My meditative morning state is broken instantly.  Le métro (luh meht-row: the subway) has arrived, announcing the start of a true Parisian day.  Everyone inside the train car is half asleep, resting their heads against the smudged fiberglass windows or else mindlessly playing Angry Birds on their cell phones in order to avoid eye contact with the strangers sitting across from them.  Eventually an accordion-wielding musician hops on, beating out the chords to "Minor Swing" for a few minutes before pulling out a cup full of centimes (sent-eem: pennies) and asking for some change.

The train speeds along at 120 kilometers an hour, pounding on it's grease-deprived brakes with every stop dotted along line 9 in the direction of Montreuil, until finally I jump out at Gare Saint-Lazare, where the real morning battle begins.  Making my way up five floors of escalators, I push through masses of Parisian commuters, suitcases in-hand, all just as angry about the upcoming workday as I am, as the inevitable rushed woman in high heels runs by, desperate to catch her train.  The announcements over the haut-parleur (oat-par-loor: loudspeaker), explaining some new traffic jam, some delayed train, some strike, make for a less-than-peaceful morning as I struggle to hear Andrew on my cell phone.  I barely make it onto my 7:48 train as it slowly creeps away from Paris and into the suburbs, promising another day of lessons, photocopies, and adorably confusing Franglish conversations with my elementary school students.  This is my matin (matt-on: morning).  Welcome to it.

When rich, poor, tourists, and French nationalists all reside together, le métro is the one part of Paris we all have in common.  Unless you're a celebrity, everyone takes the métro.  You haven't truly experienced Paris without it.  It's loud, crowded, and a breeding ground for unwarranted groping, flirtation, and the occasional innocent argument between two passengers over their degree of racism.  But it's also, by far, the fastest, most convenient way to get around the city.  And in some ways, the métro is a stream-lined version of the city above it: old, cold, dirty, ruthless, but within just a few minutes you'll get to one of the most magical destinations on Earth.  And, in the meantime, you never know what surprises await you on the journey.