The French do have a talent for catchy
phrases, which they proudly display on buildings with spray paint. One
yesterday caught my eye: Je suis Marxist;
tendence Groucho.
##########
Marches are dangerous places.
Wide-bodied matrons hauling 2-wheeled shopping carts the size of 50-gallon drums
barrel down the narrow lane on their missions of domestic pursuit. But today it
is raining, calling the umbrella factor into the mix. With stalls on both side
and a center aisle often little more than 2 meters wide, eye protection becomes
essential, typically in the form of keeping the head low and eyes downcast,
adding a further impediment to the smooth flow of commerce. Gives new meaning
to the phrase “sharp stick in the eye.”
##########
The Parisian transport system is a marvel.
Rarely is one more than 2-3 blocks from a Metro station, and when busses, the
new tram system that circles the city, and the occasional funicular are added
to the mix, walking is often unnecessary, except of course during rush hour when
all public conveyances are jammed to stifling proportions, a godsend to perverts
and pickpockets alike.
A weekly pass to all of these services
costs around $25 and a monthly equivalent about $75. The pass arrives in the
form of a Carte d’Orange (color green) currently named Navigo (in purple). It
comes with a chip on which one loads weekly or monthly (even annual) credit
then holds it next to a reader on the bus or entrance to the Metro. A
high-pitched “ding” confirms your validity to be conveyed.
Here it gets tricky. Over time I have
noticed a steady deterioration in the proportion of paying public. Youth, minorities, and those under 60 appear
to feel that the nuisance of payment is beneath them. Bus drivers never
question these miscreants (more on this downstream), but there are controllers
that sweep onto busses or subway cars, covering all exits, demanding proof of
compliance.
While few and far between, there is a
performance metric here that confounds the process. Last year on the 96 bus
that wends a near hour-long voyage from the eastern edge of the city to
Montparnasse, a controller approached a well-dressed lady who it appeared was
not in possession of valid proof of paid travel. She put forth a spirited defense,
about 98% of which was beyond me, but drag on it did, and I purposely stayed
beyond my stop to catch the resolution.
The normal result would be for the
controller to demand a fine of about 40 Euros. But here the demand and repost continued
through the Marais, across the Seine, along the student quarter and into trendy
St. Germain de Pres district. When the bus pulled into the terminus at
Montparnasse, the lady breezily departed, hotly pursued by the controller, discussion
continuing with no apparent result.
##########
As promised, a discourse on why bus
drivers never question the hordes that jump on their conveyance without paying.
Simple Cartesian logic: It’s not their job. They are drivers, not ticket takers.
Years ago a story was related to me by
an acquaintance of an American manager at the newly opened Disney Park outside
Paris. He had hired several Mickeys, Minnies, and Plutos to dress up and mingle
with the anticipated throngs. One day he approached an employee and noted that
as several Pluto’s were down with the grippe, today he would be Pluto. “But I
am Mickey,” the astonished staffer responded. “Well, today you are Pluto, and
as you are head to toe in a costume, it’s no matter. “But I am Mickey,” and no
amount of threat or persuasion would sway the worker. Simple Cartesian logic. “I
am Mickey, not Pluto.” As frustrated as was the manager, more so the employee
who could not fathom the request. “How can I be Pluto when I am Mickey?”
##########
Perhaps Ernest was right (or was it
Oscar [Wilde, not the Grouch] who writing in “The Importance of Being
Hemmingway” remarked it is easier to write in Paris?
Bientot.
