Le Métro

The metro in Paris carries some four and a half million people every day. It is the circulatory system of the massive machine that is one the most visited cities in the world, transporting people to where ever they happen to be going as well as bringing them back. The metro is an important part of many peoples' daily lives and not always granted with the appreciation it would perhaps deserve; because even if at times restless, dirty and crowded, the system is still of extreme value when moving about in a city the size of Paris. Not to mention that because of the huge amount daily travellers and the sheer size of the city that the network serves, the odds are that if you use the metro on a regular basis, you will end up spending a time long enough in it for it to make a difference. And yet the metro is not a considered a place in its own right; the metro system is an non-place, a limbo of sorts, something you enter and exit because you have to in order to get somewhere else. And of course, as a form of transport, this is very much in the metro's nature; it is the means on the way to an end. But have you ever thought about it, when you descend the stairs to the endless network of tunnels and platforms and carriages, when you put on your metro face and shut the foreign bodies pressing into yours during the rush hour out of your mind and focus on something - anything - else -- Have you ever thought about the condensation of lives, of personal tragedies as well as success stories, the infinite amount of human experiences that travel with you? You share a space with them and for the length of your travel your life blends into the life of the other passengers, those strangers around you that work as hard as you not to look anyone in the eye. It is then, considering both the amount of time spent in the metro as well as the unique blend of personalities, quite remarkable how little attention we pay to this. In fact, most metro travellers work overtime to actively ignore their surroundings; you see people staring out of the window to the black tunnel wall or busying themselves with their smartphones or music devices. You see blank stares, evasive looks, people doing their utmost best to isolate themselves in the crowd they are forced to be a part of for the sake of their destination. In a way this is understandable - when crammed into a small space with a random selection of strangers, many of them way too close for it to be convenient on any level, it is a somewhat natural defence reaction to try to block it out as much as you can. The unwritten rules of public transportation - be and let be, don't engage, don't bother, basically don't exist - these would be absurd if transferred into any other situation; but here in the world of the underground they are generally accepted and endorsed. So in this state of active ignorance as you are, it passes you that the girl sitting opposite to you on the worn-out benches has smeared mascara under her eyes, not much but enough so that it is most likely there because she has cried not long ago. You don't notice that her bag is too full for its size because of the clothes she has shoved in it, in a bag you don't usually put clothes into, and it escapes your eye that she keeps checking her phone frantically and every time she does, her eyes get a bit darker and the hurt in them grows. What also remains unnoticed is the elderly man next to the doors of the carriage, standing despite his old age and even when there are places to sit . The reason he has chosen to stay on his feet is the large cello case that he is hugging with his right arm while holding on to a bar with the left. Or it is wrong to say that you don't notice the man because of course you did, it is hard not to as the instrument he is carrying is quite huge and it annoyed you to squeeze past it. But as you cursed the old man in your mind you failed to notice the fine fabric of his coat and the polished surface of his hand-made leather shoes, the thinning hair carefully combed back and the tender, almost loving expression he has in his old grey eyes when he looks at the precious instrument that caused you so much annoyance. And what about that woman, dressed in black from head to toe with her face as the only part of her skin that is visible, do you see her? Her oval features are surrounded by blackness, looming in the midst of it like a moon that hangs on a dark night sky. Her eyes, almost as black as the fabric that covers every inch of her body are pointed to the floor of the carriage with an intent that would almost suggest that she sees something there, something that is visible only for her eyes. In her feet there is a cardboard box, dented from the corners and big enough to contain a variety of things, everything from a pile of books to a small television, one of those old ones with cathode ray tubes. Who knows what's in it, and who cares; most certainly no one in this metro train. In fact, in that box could be everything she owns, or maybe there is a toaster in it - there is absolutely no way of knowing and both options are equally insignificant to you as you look straight through that woman, barely acknowledging that she even exists. And yet she is a living, breathing human being, just like every single other person around you, with a whole existence behind and ahead. They are like you, carrying everything that they are and have been and will be, all that is them is right there in front of your eyes; but because you don't see, they all look the same to you. You don't see these people and their stories just like you don't see the dozens of others around you; you do notice them, or some of them at least, but you don't see. And to be fair, they don't see you either. In the generic metro carriage nobody pays attention to the bags you have under your eyes because your feverish child kept you up last night. They don't see the crumbs of your hasty breakfast on your collar and they cannot even begin to imagine the level of awkwardness you feel due to the presentation you are supposed to give at work in less than half an hour for the job you dislike but have to keep to pay the bills. To the metro people you are only a slice of existence, a vague reflection of what you are to yourself, and that is the extent of it; and you stay silent, all of you, and keep on looking past as the carriage full of ghosts surges forward in the black tunnels. Maybe that is why nobody really likes the metro. Perhaps this diluted existence that we are forced into - force ourselves into - once in the underground system makes it the non-place that it is; maybe we are afraid that if we stay too long, we lose ourselves and our being gets so thin that the unnatural glow of the fluorescent lamps can shine right through.