The first time I rode the Metro in Paris I was carrying three months worth of belongings on my back, was totally bewildered, and can’t have looked like anything other than a confused American fresh off the plane. A man who boarded the train a few stops after me seemed to be staring at me, but I told myself I was being paranoid and tried to ignore him. He got off at the same stop as me, went through the same turnstile as me, and then the same escalator.
I still ignored him, until he stuck his face in front of me, asked me if I spoke English, and then said “I like you. You are very beautiful. Did you hear me? I like you. Do you like me?” At which point I walked away very quickly and he stood standing on a street corner looking like he was actually surprised I hadn’t been taken in by his excessively creepy pick up strategy.
It had occurred to me that this first unfortunate Metro experience may have colored the way I view the whole institution. But upon closer examination of the behavior of Parisian Metro riders, I think it is fair to say that the fine citizens of this great city wait until they are in the tunnels of public transportation, and then unleash all of their worst behavior on unsuspecting foreigners.
Perhaps the most disconcerting aspect of Metro riding is the staring (although public urination certainly gives it a run for its money). It is not unusual for a person to stare directly at you for several minutes, without acknowledging you in any way. This is a habit practiced by people from all walks of life, not just strange men. I spent my first several weeks in Paris constantly convinced that I had obvious stains on my clothing or food all over my face. I would check my reflection in store windows looking for the (surely mortifying) flaw that the impeccably dressed French folk had found in my appearance.
I slowly came to realize that, while Americans have been taught that staring is rude and you must always acknowledge someone if you get caught looking at them, unless you want to be pegged as rude or menacing, French children are taught no such lessons. Instead (this is just a guess) they learn that acknowledging other human beings is unnecessarily and uncomfortably friendly, and that it is better to go through life pretending you are riding a train full of surprisingly life-like sculptures.
Despite my initial discomfort, I have gotten used to people staring directly at me throughout my morning commute. What I haven’t yet come to terms with – and I’m not sure I ever will – is the occasional experience of having someone stare directly at me while openly and enthusiastically picking their nose. The first time I looked up from my book to see a middle-aged woman, dressed in business-wear, digging for gold as though her life depended on it, I looked away as though I had caught her in the middle of some unspeakable act. Every time I have been confronted with public booger-hunting since then, I have struggled to repress the urge to laugh. I am usually unsuccessful.
