metro moments
The Paris metro is not like the New York subway. There are no rats; the layout of the seats is too close for comfort, discouraging eye contact and eavesdropping; it cannot touch you in the same way the Q train can touch you, creaking over the Brooklyn bridge at sunset, reminding you that you are as happy as you ever will be. In Paris, you won’t stand next to a hulk of an iron worker who will tap you on the shoulder and point to the window to make sure you caught the view; you will not be accosted by a tattooed autodidact who will engage you in a conversation about books you never got around to reading in college; strangers will not tell you to smile, or comment on your eyelashes. In Paris, people behave.
This week I had my first metro moment. I was sitting down, and the man I faced was reading Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray. I turned to look at the metro map; the man to my right was also reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. They were not schoolboys, but grown men, who got on and off at different times and did not acknowledge each others’ presence. When I stood up to leave the train, I noticed another man leaning against the wall. He, too, was reading Wilde.
This reminded me of another metro moment, which was sort of a bust. Since moving to Paris I have had a fantasy that I will meet my next best friend on a metro. We will both be reading the week-old issue of the New Yorker, look up at the same moment, and hit it off instantly (naturally, the subject of this daydream is more often than not an amazingly attractive man, or a stylish young woman whose clothes I can borrow.)
It must have been in October when I spotted a young man reading the same magazine as I was reading. He was really unattractive and short and balding, but I was still excited beyond words. I kept trying to make eye contact but he seemed to be ignoring me. I even dropped my bag to get his attention and start a conversation, to no avail. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I spoke to him directly and asked how he liked the issue. He said “it’s OK” and kept reading, as though nothing was happened. I strode out of the train indignantly.
The next week, I took the bus home from work. It’s a longer ride, but I like it, since there’s more of a walk and less of a transfer. I get on at the first stop, so I always have my pick of seats, and, a creature of habit, end up in the same one each time. But as I was about to sit down, I saw a magazine at my feet. It was the same magazine I carried, folded lengthways and stuffed into my coat pocket.
