Finding Fervour

Scents of the 1900’s, tinged with marvel, mingle with the faint trace of urine in one of the 245 stations littered across Paris before a dark pit of stairs explodes in a flurry of foreheads, coats and boots. Parisian society and ardent tourists alike deeply rely on the old network of tunnels, tracks and the trains travelling upon them.

Stride and haste embraced, the Metro became the novelty of my journey. I was licensed with brief belonging until, engrossed in a worthy novel, electrifying music playing at an unhealthy degree, a message crackled over my carriage. A faint grasp of the local tongue ensured I took no notice of such disruption. The train stopped, in a dark and uncomfortably moist tunnel, leaving only the lonely pages of my book, the hush of a bare carriage and the outline of a dim figure.

“Bonjour?” he asked. A tight grin masked my fear. “Parlay voo Anglais?”, I replied with awful articulation. “Oui. Yes! Yoo deed not ghear the alarm? Yoo must not be ghere. That was thee last stop”, claimed the driver in a generous burr. Blatantly aware of my faux pas, I was instead severely concerned about my safety since stranded in a dark tunnel. Alone. With half a deck of French to play with.

“Pardon”, I shrugged. He sighed in a manner only the French can achieve. “Come with me sil vous plait”. I hesitated, accepted my fate of sure demise, and set off because I had little choice. “Merci”, I stuttered and trotted towards the train’s head. I stepped into the driver’s cabin, right where the train begins its clicketty, clacketty dance, and tried to learn the moves. Before I could bellow a request to take the wheel, it ended.

Leaving exact instructions and repeating himself many times, I found the right train. I honestly can’t blame the poor man. I later found out it is exceedingly illegal to have anyone but the driver seated in the chief cabin. Immense gratitude – complimented and contradicted by a robust yearning for more – sits inside my ever ravenous eyes.