3 stories about the metro in Paris:

Three models stand around one pole on the train. One speaks very good English, she seems to be Russian–but that’s just a guess. The nervous, concerned, model is American. The third girl is French. The American is telling her companions how she told these French men that she could, indeed, drink them under the table but then, what a shock! They tried to hold her to this claim and kept giving her drinks! She is incredulous, but the other girls are unfazed. The American expresses concern that she’s been up all night and now she has bags under eyes and here she is going to appointments looking like a mess. “It’s so hard,” she stressed, “Getting up every day and having to put on make-up and look fashionable…some days I just don’t want to do it.” The Russian, who is dressed impeccably, says, “I don’t worry about that; I just wear what I like.” The American responds, “But you have to be so conscious about what you wear, how you dress, every day…” The Russian repeats, “Yes, I know that’s what you’re talking about but I wear what I like.” (She doesn’t realizes her sense of style doesn’t come easy–that not everyone can get away with the slamming purple mini-skirt she’s wearing). The American is looking at her reflection in the window and comments on the dark circles under her eyes. The French model says in a beautifully heavy accent, “Can I give yoo sum advey-ce? It’s all about the pers-oh-nal-ity!” The train stops and my parents and I squeeze past the beautiful models and out the metro door. When I get home I quickly sketch out the scene from memory:

journalmodels.jpg

It’s 8am, we are taking the metro to the main station to catch an express train to Dijon. Two young men, obviously returning from a night of carousing, are still drunk and returning home on the train. Every time the metro slows down they say in French, “Slow down, slow down.” They are very cute. One of them keeps trying to catch my eye. He wants to talk to me so badly, even though we are a good 10 feet apart. All it would take is a little attention and I could probably hear this man’s life story. They reach their stop; I watch them exit the metro and my eyes linger a little too long. On the way out the man catches me looking at him and gives me a wave. I smile and toss a wave back…(yup, still got it).

On the train during rush hour returning from the Louvre. I’m far from my mother, pretending that I live in Paris and am catching the train home like everyone else. A chubby fellow in his twenties is sitting across from me. He produces a candy bar from his pocket and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It looks like milk chocolate with marshmallows resting on top; two long sticks that can break apart into four pieces. The sticks are wrapped individually. The man catches me staring at his foreign candy bar and puts his hand out, gesturing for me to break off a piece. I’m embarrassed. I shake my head quickly and look away. The man stares at me while intently chewing on his snack. I realize that I’m really hungry and tired and what a nice gesture: being offered a piece of someone’s candy bar on the train.