Le Vendôme II: A Reverse Pickpocketing and Other Adventures on the Paris Metro

Paris. The city of lights, the city of love, the city of snails, croissants, baguettes and the infamous snootiness of the local residents. Columnist Jasmine Eden Gray shares humorous and insightful stories from her time in the French capital during what can be an exciting but also tumultuous period - the year abroad.

For this column on the weird and wonderful underground transportation system of Paris, I thought it would be fitting to physically write it on the metro. So here I am, typing into my Notes app, balancing against the door in a semi-packed carriage between a woman with three suitcases and a man with a chihuahua. I live quite centrally in the city but have had to spend my fair share of time gliding through the tunnels – well, less gliding and more trying not to fall over with every jerk and stutter that the drivers seem to love making. And don’t think you can just look cool and surf with your hands in your pockets… but also don’t leave your phone in an outer pocket because it will get stolen! Gosh, so many rules.

My first introduction to the metro came to me before I had even moved to Paris. My flatmate was on her way to her first day of work in the city, and I received a distress signal-style text alerting me that she thought she had sat in urine on the train. You can’t make this stuff up. While there is occasionally a minor risk of unfortunate stenches underground, this is certainly not always the case, and there are much more interesting things to discuss.

If I’m not completely lost in my wild and wacky thoughts or attempting to write hilarious and eloquent sentences for publication, I’m listening to music and subtly looking at my fellow travellers around me. People watching on the metro is fascinating to me. The young woman smirking at her phone (is it a flirty message from a crush?); the man watching Parasite on a tiny screen (a total disgrace to that cinematic masterpiece); the girl listening to a podcast trying to stifle her giggles (that one is just my flatmate). I’d honestly like to see more dogs though, Paris. Do better. But it’s inevitable that you’ll come across some characters.

I find it interesting to look at the faces around me, some blank and emotionless, and wonder what their visages would portray if they weren’t self-conscious of others in a train carriage. I personally feel the underground to be a certain liminal space where time and space almost become irrelevant, and my mind floats away to other places. There have been times – sorry this thought was interrupted by an unsolicited armpit in my face, where was I? – on the way to my underpaid internship at 8 am, that I have been literally pushed up like a sardine against the crowd, feeling the oxygen slowly leave my brain and the weight of my multiple winter layers threatening to drag me to the floor in a medieval swoon. These were the moments when I would question why I had to be in this stinky city and not cycling down the peaceful, cosy streets of Cambridge. But the universe provided me with perspective during an experience on the metro.

I had been sent out to the other end of Paris to fill in as a replacement teacher on a Friday afternoon, which roughly translates to babysitting a group of 5-year-olds because their real teacher wanted to take a long weekend. The replacement went fine – only a few tears spilt, and thankfully this time they were a kid’s and not mine. I had quite a long trip home on the metro, so I decided to sit down and journal. With my headphones in and my thoughts spilling into my diary, I had lost track of space and time. In the middle of a long ‘woe is me’ exhalation, I looked through the open metro doors and I suddenly wished I hadn’t expelled all the air from my lungs, as I see I am at my stop. Just as the doors were sliding closed, I grabbed my bag, clasped my pen and diary, and leapt out of the carriage in slow-motion John Wick-style. With my earphones blocking out all noise, I could only take a moment on the platform to collect myself and my belongings before I noticed people on the train trying to get my attention. As they began rolling away out of sight, I realised music was no longer playing into my ears. My phone was on the train. Fudge. For a good seven minutes, I thought my phone was lost forever, but a young Parisian couple surpassed all my expectations of the kindness of strangers by helping me. They attempted to call my phone – first having to add my contact as ‘Lost’ to connect to WhatsApp – and managed to get hold of the person with it who was waiting at the next station for me. Sure enough, an anxious man was there standing on the platform as I run up to him waving ‘C’est moi!’. I wanted to give him a kiss on the cheek and my first-born child, but he was quick to get back on the train and on with his life. However scary the episode, my wavering faith in humanity had more or less been restored.

I am now finishing this column not on the train but in my translation class (oops!). While the teacher is explaining the importance of the pluperfect tense, I am thinking about my memories on the metro: reading a physical book like Parisians tend to do; trying my best to stay standing while slightly tipsy from after-work drinks; randomly tearing up from a mélange of PMS and homesickness; and looking ahead to the many more memories I shall make in the dark and dramatic tunnels of Paris.

All images belong to the author, unless otherwise stated.