Happy Holidays, from the Métro

This afternoon I was weaving through the Opéra métro station, trying to find the most efficient exit to get to l'Avenue de l'Opéra. The station is currently under renovation, and the signange is having a hard time keeping up with the changes in navigation. I got a bit lost, ended up on another train platform, but eventually made my way towards an exit. Before I took the stairs to get above ground, I found a table with coffee machines and mini crossaints being handed out by RATP (Régle Autonome de Transports Parisiens) employees. There was a sign that said that the staff of métro line 8 invited you to have a coffee with them, as a celebration of conviviality or something like that... It was the nicest gesture the métro has made to me all year, and almost made me forget about the grève. Almost.

Paris on Strike

Many people around the world wonder how it is possible that the transport system of a powerful European country could, at the drop of a hat, go on strike. They wonder how the beautiful metropolitan city could still pulse, how the workers could continue to work, how the economy could survive.

When the strike begins, the city is injected with a rush of adrenaline. Everyone finds a solution, or takes a vacation day to stay home. Carpooling (or co-voiturage) is à la mode during a transit strike and motorless wheels become all the rage. Sporting goods stores sell out of bicycles and their accessories, cityzens pick up old rollerblades they haven’t used since the supreme vacation month of August. The camaraderie associated with the beginning of a strike (or a single-day strike) is not unlike that which follows a natural disaster: a hurricane, a flood, maybe some wildfires or twisters. A handful of people are even thrilled by the challenge of finding an alternative route to work, and happily email their coworkers requesting or offering rides to the office.

The hum of the city’s métroless wheels slows little by little in the following few days of the strike. For me, it was when the November cold started creeping into the holes of my hand-knit scarf, and my thin Gap gloves wore out along the handles of my bicycle. Desperation ensues for those packed onto a sardine-like métro platform. They may even fight one another to be the first ones to get into the train, to make sure they’re going to get home as soon as they can.

As I sit here in my apartment writing this article, I am midly bemoaning the fact that we couldn’t go out to the cinema this evening. Every option for going out was ruined: we didn’t want to wait 20 or 30 minutes for a métro; it was raining out hardly enough to deter us from taking our bikes; and we could have taken the car but the traffic outside was roaring loudly enough that we didn’t dare.

The only consolation for this stranded young American in a modern Parisian world is some hot chocolate, made with fresh (not high temp pasteurized) milk, which, yes, is a rarity.