Note to self: Never run for a train, there will always be another one! Even during those pesky perturbations, when they run half schedule. And what better excuse to keep a gentleman waiting than the old french standby, "Le train etait rétardé!" (It's the parisian equivalent of "The dog ate my homework", but it carries a little more clout). But on this occasion I wasn't in the mood to spend 25 euros on a taxi into Paris, this was the only train into town this hour, and in the end I think it is inconsiderate to be more than 10 minutes late for a rendezvous. So I was determined to be on it, even if I had to run like a madwoman in 4" stiletto Italian shoes that would charm the most dedicated foot fetishist. I flung open the gate and sprinted out, without a care if it was locked behind me. The sidewalk was uneven and treacherous, I leaped off the curb into the street which was paved more evenly, and devoid of doggie doo. I could hear my train pulling into the quai, groaning and squealing under the strain of too many journeys as the driver applied the brakes. If I wasn't wearing these stupid shoes it would be a cinch, but I had three sets of stairs to negotiate once I got past the turnstile. I was nearing the plaza, paved with bricks and not at all conducive to the 50 yard dash. "EEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeKKKK!" The train stopped and the doors opened. I had less than 20 seconds before departure as I entered the Gare. I made it through the turnstile smoothly with my magnetic Navigo, and approached the first set of stairs. Ah stairs, my nemesis! I briefly considered taking off my shoes, but just briefly. I heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps in a panic behind me, and held the handrail just a little tighter as two teen aged boys raced past, determined to be on that train. "Wait for me!" I yelled at no one in particular. I had made it down staircase number two and through the doors. The bell signaling takeoff had not yet sounded, and I was in descent of staircase number three. The boys jumped into the nearest car and turned to watch the show. It's always fun to see someone run for a train, narrowly slipping through the "Jaws of Death" and into the car, victorious! (And it's the only time it's socially acceptable and unambiguous to smile at someone on a train). "Hold the door, hold the door!" I pleaded in English. I was too panicked to say it in french, I needed more time to switch the language tape in my head. The bell sounded as I reached the bottom of the staircase. I had less than 3 seconds to cover 3 meters and mount the stairs to the train before the Jaws of Death slammed in my face for good, and left me standing on the platform looking stupid. Flo Jo had nothing on me as I flew through the air, my feet barely touching the ground. The boys teamed up to help me, each one straining with all his might to hold the doors open. The train cannot depart if the doors aren't shut, (the practice of holding them open highly frowned upon by the Department of Train Scheduling). I leaped into the train, and when the boys let go of the doors they slammed shut immediately. "Merci" I smiled gratefully. "Whew! That was a close one!" "De rien" the boys replied, and we shared a community laugh. I found my seat and and sighed deeply, trying to regain my composure. It was a ten minute ride to Paris, and I closed my eyes and took a moment to catch my breath. My heart was pounding wildly, and the image of having a cardiac arrest on a suburban train flickered by like a silent movie. (At least I was wearing cute underwear!) Just then my phone blinged - an incoming SMS. "Looking forward to seeing you, xMick" it said. "Moi aussi" I replied, and thoughtfully checked my shoes for any possible damage sustained by my sprint to the train. With her mélange of cobblestones, potholes cemented and re-cemented, endless staircases, and canine booby traps, this town eats shoes for breakfast! Everything checked out, my pulse returned to almost normal, and I was on schedule. The next step: securing a space on the line 4. A busy line on the metro on a normal day, during a perturbation the cars are crammed full, and a queue of five people deep wait impatiently on the platform to push their way in. You see, a strike in Paris doesn't necessarily mean there will be no service. It's more like a one to three day demi-schedule. Perhaps one or two lines traversing Paris will be closed, and the others will run every 5 minutes instead of 3. Traffic from the closed lines is naturally rerouted, and the underground tunnels resemble a rats maze even more than normal as perturbed parisians push by one another, focused on getting home from work as quickly as possible. You must have your game face on, and fearlessly aggressive to secure a spot. The suburban train pulled into Gare Montparnasse, a major artery of transportation throughout l'Ile de France and beyond. The quai was already crowded with commuters who had waited extra long for a train home, and they barely let us disembark before pushing their way on board. "Oh la la" I groaned, as I weaved through the madding crowd. I hate crowds, and being in the middle of a perturbed, grouchy crowd is even worse. I pictured my handsome Englishman and kept my eye on the prize. I held on to my purse a little tighter and walked with purpose through the station, hesitating for no one. It's dog eat dog in the naked city! I stepped on to the trotteur, a moving walkway that expedites one's journey through the Gare, and stopped walking for a moment, letting the machine do the work. Just then a young African man stopped to my left, creating a bottleneck. When on an escalator or trotteur in Paris, the rule is "stand right, walk left". (The left side is a sort of passing lane, and as on the autoroute, it is considered rude to linger there). "You want to go someplace with me?" he asked, putting his arm around me. I shrugged off his arm and frowned. "NO!" I said, emphatically. "But you are beautiful, and I love you!" he insisted. I looked him in the eye. He smiled his most charming playa smile, his eyes twinkling. Join me next week to find out if I a) trade my handsome Englishman for a cute Senegalese, b) kick this creeper in the nuts, or c) get trampled by 1,000 angry frenchmen saying, "Pardon" on Your Friday Night French Rom-Com!
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