Broken Metro

Everyone is looking around. I am giggling at how everyone is trying to pretend they understood. The less timid are asking neighbors if they could make out what was announced, and by listening to tidbits of conversation, I am gathering that the 20-somethings next to me only have three stops to go, but don't feel like walking in the cold. That the girl next to me has been waiting for 45 minutes. That the guy in front of me is a fruit loop.

Somebody coherent is saying that the announcement said the train is at Gare du Nord, and it should be arriving in fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes roll by.

Fifteen more minutes roll by.

"Mesdames et Messieurs, qslkdoqib lqkjsdgoia interrompu blkqjsgd oibqb iat Porte de Clignancourt."

Everyone across the tracks from us, headed towards Porte de Clignancourt, are shuffling out of the station dejectedly, gathering by the three discernable words that service in that direction has stopped.

Meanwhile, my crowd is getting larger and larger, and available space on the future train is getting imaginably smaller and smaller.

I am considering walking. It's only seven metro stops, and it is a walk I have done on several occasions. About a 45-minute trek through reasonably safe, albeit slightly drunken, neighborhoods.

A harried looking older French man is waving at me, trying to get my attention and pulling me out of my reading trance. "One minute," he is saying. I am wondering why he insisted on telling me this, as opposed to those that are within earshot.

I am nodding and saying back, "Well, we'll see. They said fifteen minutes over forty minutes ago," and, as I am saying this, I am calculating that the girl to my left, also engrossed in her book, must have been waiting for over an hour by this point.

The man is responding, "I get off at Odeon. I only have three stops to go."

Not sure what to respond to this comment, I am giving a faint smile and nod before returning to my reading.

At the train's arrival, applause shoots through the grimy station, and some people are even hooting and hollering. The packed car of people is spilling out only to let a few off, while the now rather large group collected at the edges of the platform is finding creative ways to fit more and more people in. It's making me think of a game my mom used to tell me they played in college - how many people could they fit in a telephone booth? A VW bug? Etc. Only this is with strangers and involves a locomotive in motion.

At the closing of the doors, the conductor is announcing that this is the last metro. A psychotic group of tourists with luggage is attempting to board. They are being dismissed by the disapproving groans, Oh-la-las, cluckings, and sighs so typical of French. Giving up, they are cheerily waving us goodbye as the train is lurching forward, and my breasts are being flattened against the doors.

It occurs to me that I am resting my cheek on the man in front of me's shoulder. The young man behind me is sidling his groin right up against my ass on the right side, and the attractive man to his right is resting hand on my ass's available left side. He is trying to find a less compromising place for it without drawing too much attention to its current position, but the train is so crowded that he cannot even lift it.

I'm not complaining.

At Odeon, I am amongst those that spill out to let a few people get off. The man who had so enthusiastically told me that the train would be arriving shortly is tapping me on the shoulder. He is excitedly holding out his hand. I am reaching out to grab whatever it is, assuming it is his phone number (I'm not interested in it, but the least offensive thing to do in this situation is to take the number, say thank you, and ride away with my new-found boyfriends in my metro car).

He gives an excited little nod and fervently drops the piece of paper in my hand. It is $2000 bank note. From Monopoly.