Two large turquoise doors open, permitting a father and his young daughter to board the underground train. The little girl with long blond hair, a pink coat, white hose, and pink tennis shoes, pulls her father’s hand toward the area that connects the two train cars, between large accordion-like (fitting for Paris) mechanisms. As he sits in the seat in front of the metro’s joint, he lets go of his maybe 7 year-old daughter’s hand, with an expecting and knowing look on his face. Before the doors close, she is positioned with feet spread apart directly on top of layered metal plates. She lifts her hands for balance, turning back to her father smiling, waiting. As the doors come together, her eyes widen, her smile broadens, and her hands prepare. Her purpose becomes clear as this metal earthworm leaves the station, twisting and turning through stone tunnels. As the two giant accordions begin to inhale and exhale and the metal plates under her feet shift above and below one another, she surfs the metro line. Her father smiles with an outstretched hand, waiting in case she needs to grab hold. She shifts her weight, lifts her hands frantically, and moves her body with the curves of the underground subway, smiling intensely. As the train comes to a stop, she doesn’t move, ready for the next challenge. Unfortunately, as the doors open, I step out, hoping that this little train surfer never stops facing challenges but also never finds out that some people surf on top of trains.
A man with spiked hair that is as white as snow but pitch black at its roots stands on the subway platform in black leather riding boots. His long black overcoat is swept up in the air from a metro train passing on the opposite side. With one hand holding a black leather handbag and the other gently flicking the air at the wrist, he recounts a story in English thick with a French accent to his companion. His black vest covers a silver tie that nearly matches his hair. As I walk by one of the few conversations I could understand in the subway, I catch a glimpse of his perfectly tailored eyebrows raising as he emphatically states, “All women lie.”
Weaving through Parisian market goers, I step to the left, closer to the pungent aroma of uncooked shellfish and cod. Evading the interesting, yet somewhat discomforting smell, I move to the opposite side of the small walkway where customers are allotted in the street market that spanned at least 5 blocks. Trapped for a moment by an elderly woman at my front and a thick current of people to my left, I am given the short opportunity to watch a fruit vendor work. The most interesting aspect of this particular vendor was the tan cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. It caught my attention, I believe, because you don’t often see food workers actively smoking during service. However, rather than offending, this little stick of tobacco seemed completely in its proper place, part of a proper character. The cigarette moved up and down as the bearded and mustached lips raised and lowered prices during negotiations. Smoke followed the vendor’s head, caught under his dark brown cloth flat cap as he turned to weigh a bag of oranges. As he turned back to his buyer, a small bit of ash fell toward his shirt, but was prevented from burning it by the long brown apron he wore. As I stepped into an opening within the street current, I wondered how his mouth found time to draw from the cigarette and from the wallets of Parisians at the same time.
As the Eiffel tower’s four legs straddle thousands of tourists, we try to make our way out of the crowds. As we emerge, Ben points to a man jogging to our left. He is particularly conspicuous because of the jingling of hundreds of metal Eiffel Towers he holds in his hand on a wire half circle. He is not dressed for exercise; in baggy jeans, an old leather jacket, and worn tennis shoes, he frequently looks over his shoulder. His skin is significantly darker than the tourists around him, likely an African immigrant who had come to Paris to work. Suddenly, I notice another one of these men, carrying even more Eiffel Towers in his arm, jogging cautiously, continuously checking behind him. Then another and another. Turning, I finally see the impetus for their odd actions. Maybe seven men and women in blue uniforms with Police written in white across the front and back walk forcibly, in a disparate arc reaching from one side of the tower to the other, through the crowd. They create a slow moving wall that, like magnets of the same polarity, creates an unseen force that moves these street vendors out of the area. As the men scatter and the police converge, none are arrested. The vendors convene just next to the street, continuously checking their backs, as the police group together into a circle apparently finished with their task. A few men double back, continuously watching their law enforcement foes, returning to their prior position until the next sweep. As we cross the street and continue on toward Notre Dame, I can’t help but wonder if there is better way of regulating commerce than herding people like animals.
An older woman sits in the final wicker chair at the end of a long line of chairs facing the street, but is turned toward the pedestrians walking along the street. A small espresso size cup of coffee sits beside her on the café table, half full – or empty depending on your mood. Crossing her leg in front of her, bending forward, placing her elbow on her knee, she gently lifts a cigarette from her mouth and slowly blows smoke out of the corner of her ruby red lips. Her red, maroon, black, and purple coat with a boisterous pattern, which can really only be described as eccentric, drapes over her neatly touching the wet sidewalk. She smiles as we walk by, proud of the statement she is making.
Within two hours of being in Paris, this is what became quite clear: It is a complicated, busy, beautiful city, and most of the people within it have some sort of statement to make. Yet, whether due to previous media influence and cultural stereotypes or the real character of Paris, it is still clear that Paris has interesting, beautiful, romantic, and romanticized moments to offer to its visitors.
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