The Paris Metro

As much as I love Paris’ public transportation, it does have its downsides. I should note that I have a fair perspective on metro systems, too, since I have used a metro (or a similar equivalent) in Washington DC, Rome, Madrid, London, and Amsterdam. With those comparisons, I must say that I find Paris’s metro, hands down, the most efficient, cost effective (for the rider), convenient, reliable, and clear. It even ranks among the top two or three cleanest in my experience. But… let me say that Paris metros and pregnant women are NOT a good match.

While I have to defend the French in arguing that the stereotype of the “smelly Frenchman” is not really accurate, I have certainly had my own aromatic experience while riding the metro lately. I also should admit that in my previous 4 trips to Paris, I occasionally noticed some smells in the metro, but for the most part did not find them particularly distracting or even, at times, noticeable. But now, when I descend into the metro station, a mixture of urine, stale air, and food (if there is a stand in the station selling the usual freshly baked bread and pain au chocolate, aka chocolate croissants) arrests my nostrils. Thankfully (though this is arguable), upon turning a corner, a breeze is often blowing from some distant, above-ground entrance/exit, bringing with it the smells of the Paris streets—air, exhaust, and cigarettes. Then, upon entering the train, such an olfactory melee faces me that my nose actually feels confused. When the train starts, the lovely scent of a group of sweaty junior-high boys standing in the car ahead of me smacks me in the face, but thankfully that smell dissipates as the acceleration of the car evens out. At which point, I can quickly smell the perfume of the little, gray-haired granny seated next to me in her sturdy black pumps, stockings, mid-calf length navy cashmere coat, and silk scarf—usually something mature and musky. However, as soon as she opens her mouth to yawn, I smell her onions and garlic from lunch. Then the car takes an abrupt turn, and the man standing above us reaches out his right arm to catch the handle and steady himself, pointing his armpit towards me and sending a distinct scent of (thankfully!) some kind of soap similar to Lever 2000, I think. As the car begins to slow, the hair product of the I’m-so-cool-I-work-hard-each-morning-to-give-myself-bedhead teenager tickles the end of my nose and puts a bad taste in my mouth.

The doors open. A woman squeezes by to exit—fish for lunch. A young mother steps on with her infant—baby powder. A middle-aged man moves to the empty seat behind me—definitely body odor. Not sure I can stay in this seat much longer. A young couple seats themselves across from me—Angel (a very distinct perfume in my opinion), or something very similar. A well-dressed businessman with his briefcase takes the seat left empty by the granny who exited at the last stop—new leather, though I’m not sure if it’s his shoes, which are plenty shiny, or his briefcase, in which I could almost see my reflection clearly enough to put on my make up. Oh when will my stop come…………..???

Finally, the doors open; I hold my breath as I force my way through the crowd at the door to the open platform; I step about three steps away from the metro doors, and I take a deep breath of… urine, stale air, and food. Oh well, at least if I want to vomit now because of it, it won’t be in someone else’s lap.