The train from Angers stopped, and the lack of movement awoke Jamie. He looked out the window into darkness. Glancing at his watch, he soon realised it couldn't be night--it was 11:00 am. Then he heard the echo--he was underground.
The station in Paris is a connecting point between the city's subway services, the RER and the Metro, and it's national train network. From the outside, its tall, embellished windows and 19th-century stone architecture purports an air of elegance. Inside it is a labyrinth of escalators, stairs, and tunnels. Quite logically, information is regularly read over the PA and directions flash in yellow and red across a myriad of digital screens. Getting in and out is meant to be a non-issue. Unless you don't speak French.
After 30 minutes of wrong turns, backtracking, following those who looked like they knew where they were going, "vouslez vous"-ing passers by, and finally just heading "up" as much as possible, Jamie emerged from the bowels of the station and into its main foyer. He looked for the nearest exit--it didn't matter where it led, he just wanted out--and stepped, alone, into the middle of Paris.
On this day, the city held no charm. He was not looking at the Eiffel Tower for its beauty and significance; he was using it to navigate. He did not see the kiosks as quaint tokens of gay Paris; he wanted water, and they had it. Stone-faced, he watched tourists snapping photos. A group of American high schoolers boarded a bus nearby. He listened to their effervescent laughter and ohmygods. They were pointing at the Arc de Triomphe on one horizon, at Sacre Cour on the other, and at Notre Dame nestled beside the Seine. For them this was iconic Paris--the Paris--and they would never forget these views. Jamie saw only a city--something he had to get through.
Like many things in life and love, the bus was not where Jamie first looked.
No comments:
Post a Comment