So, that time has come. I’m leaving Paris. There have been ups, there have been downs, and there have been incidents with poetic tramps and rude shop assistants.
And there has been a daily commute to work, during which time I have got to know the faces of various fellow-commuters, people who have their ups, downs and incidents with tramps and shop assistants - lives of which I know nothing, and never will, but with whom I have shared limited train-confined breathing space, irritation at train tardiness and many seasonal germs.
There’s the young rotund couple, who catch – caught - the same train as me every weekday morning, and stood on the same part of the platform, no doubt, much like me, in order to minimise walking at the destination station. Him, a sort of Dennis The Menace/gerbil mish-mash, her, rosy cheeked, with dyed orange hair and a floor length sheepskin coat - even when it was so hot, I thought I would drown in my own sweat. (Actually, because of the coat and the plumpness, she reminded me a bit of one of those old-skool lego figurines; the very, very basic kind that have no moving parts, and are essentially a head with a shiny plastic wig of hair in a shaggy-bob style and a tent-like dress, with no discernable arms, legs or neck.) Anyway, Dennis Gerbil and Legolady would stand at the very edge of the platform, hand in hand, him slightly in front, and - as the train slowly ground to a halt, and bleary-eyed commuters braced themselves to get violent over a seat - he demonstrated a seemingly magical ability to find the spot placing him exactly in line with the very centre of the double doors, and was always first in, every single morning. And, despite such regular success, he would still look unbelievably proud and smug that he had judged it right once again, and would nod knowingly to his lego-lady-love. I think, this ability to impress her on a daily basis might even have been the very foundation on which their love was built. Once, I got on the same train home as them, and they walked the same route as me (look, it’s not stalking when it’s actually the road that you live on – it’s just coincidence, alright?), and their car was lime green and very square and boxy in shape, much like…well, your average lego vehicle. Hmmmmm…. Who knows?
Then there was the shiny girl, with shiny skin, who had all her features centred in the middle third of her shiny face. She was equally trussed up in scarves, gloves and a wintery coat whatever the (hot) weather. (This is very French, I have to say. The English are the exacte opposite when it comes to weather-based behaviour; the merest hint of sun, and it’s a stripping frenzy, as they whip off all their clothes, exposing white pasty rolls of fried-breakfast-induced flab and regrettable tattoos faded to a murky green colour, before lying completely motionless in the sun, until they have roasted to a painful red colour and neatly increased their chances of skin cancer… In France however, if a gentle breeze wafts past un français or, even more so, une française, they become instantly petrified that they will catch chronic pneumonia, so throw on as many clothes as possible. Children are manhandled into so many layers of scarves, hats, mittens, boots, vests, thermal t-shirts, jumpers and coats that they are forced to walk around with their arms sticking out at a 90° angle… ) Anyway, back to my commuting pal, shiny girl, who despite looking like she was perpetually about to fall into a coma, was seemingly unable to walk and could only perform a bouncy run. I’m thinking there was a certain lateness for work involved.
And then there were the two Franco-American ladies who were always oh so perfectly tanned, blondly groomed and French-manicured; one with tasteful jingly gold jewellery and a designer handbag, and the other always very slightly veering towards nearly-orange foundation and dangerously low-cut T-shirted sluttiness. They would talk loudly about photographers and actresses and unnamed VIPs they were dealing with, in a strange Franco-American hybrid for which there seemed to be no discernable rules. “Oui, oui. Well, you know, c’est parce que c’est une artiste, elle est, tu sais, so sensitive…”
Or the two po-faced women, who didn’t know each other, but both managed to apply their make-up in such a way as to make them seem permanently, and simultaneously, surprised and disproving, with peachy pursed lips and excessively high DIY eyebrows… Sitting legs together, back straight, staring straight ahead and anxiously clutching their handbags, just in case someone less than salubrious approached – and this is the RER, so that’s pretty likely.
What did these people do? Where were they going? What for? The whole thing fascinates me and always has. This whole bustling underground world which functions day in, day out, ever different, ever the same. Full of people who spend their days underground - like the feisty, friendly African lady who runs the café at La Defence RER station, with an incessant gaggle of men propping up her bar, getting tipsy and competing to flirt with her, ever subservient to her school marm-like authority. Or the bad boy ticket inspector, who rebelliously wears a massive gold earring with his uniform, and walks with a curled lip and slouch, as if he were in a rap video, rather than policing the metro system. Or the person responsible for the sounds of The Beatles on pan pipe which languidly drift through Charles de Gaulle from time to time. Or my poetic tramp. Or, or, or… Or so many others. You know what? I’ll truly miss you all.
