A trip in Paris metro

This is from the notes I wrote during my travels around Europe this July (Pictures here). A previous note is here.

I am in Paris Metro. I am traveling. I have nothing else to do - nobody telling me where to go, nobody telling me what to do. I have a map, I have a list of places, I have several days, plenty of water, very little money and my friend’s metro pass. I am using it because he’s in office during the day and a day’s pass cost around 8 Euros, i.e 80 Euros for the 10 days I’ll be in Paris, which I want to save. With the pass, I can travel any number of times by Metro, Bus and Tram. Not really a great thing for someone who doesn’t know where he’s going.

I am not in a bad mood, I just ate a couple of croissants and had two cafes from real cafes, which, though expensive, had given me some energy and mood. In fact, I was in no worse mood than someone who doesnt know what to do in the next 10 minutes. I look at my map, and decide on some spot to visit. I have around thirty minutes more to stay here, before getting out. I decide to watch around, to pass time.

I am sitting in a 2x2, two seats facing the direction of the train – including the one on which I am sitting and two in the opposite direction. In front of me, it’s an old African lady sitting. By African, I mean – African ethnicity. To her right, it is a beautiful, made up girl who looks Arabic. She has strawberry patterns on her shoes, a pink bag and a huge make-up box she has just bought from some mall in La Défense. On my right, it is a blond reading a magazine on Astronomy. Her hair is undone and she has a great figure. I cannot see her face, for the Astronomy magazine that hides it.

The train stops somewhere. The blond sitting near me gets out. The African old one moves over - she probably wants to sit in the direction of the train.

I get bored and look further. I see an old fat French lady sitting with another, talking, while pointing to her big stomach. What about the big stomach? What will old fat ladies have to talk about big stomachs? That her stomach is upset? Or that it is obstructing sex? Or that her lover hates it?

A new mother – French, with a great figure surprising for a new mother – is standing with her short husband, who’s holding the baby. They seem happy. The husband points at the make-up box of the Arab girl, and says something to his wife, with a smile. The old fat lady looks at me, but rushes her eyes off when I look back. The African one gets out at the next stop. A white “gentleman” in a dark suit moves in, busy checking his blackberry. We reach next stop, he moves out, an African man who looks like Bob Marley, and another blond, with a huge sac like leather bag and a huge hand bag, gets in. She is carelessly dressed, part of her clothes lean over one of her breasts, uncovering the other in plenty. She opens the bag, I peek inside with her. I can see a cigarette packet. She reaches for her iPod and puts it on. I can hear an English song playing. She takes out some train tickets. One of them is to London St. Pancras. She must be getting down at Gare du Nord, the gare from which trains leave for London.

An Indian guy comes in, chewing something. I think it must be bubble gum, but soon sees his red teeth and tongue and realizes it is paan. He stares hard at the blond. So does the French guy sitting in the next seat. She doesnt seem to notice. She is busy with her cell phone.

I reach my station. I walk out. I cross the Chinese guy with the hair of a porcupine, and an Arab girl, and walk fast.