March 23, 2010
One of our favorite Hip Paris bloggers, Tory Hoen, also has her own blog – A Moveable Beast – on which she chronicles her more bewildering encounters with French culture. Quirky, insightful and always hilarious, we’re happy to be able to share one of her memorable meetings with the French metro here.
Photo Courtesy of ЕленАндреа
Now I’ve done it. This is probably a story I should bury in the “Secret Annals of an Awkward American in Paris.” But what fun is public humiliation if you can’t share it with your friends?
Yesterday was beautiful. When I woke up, there was literally a small French child singing “Frère Jacques” outside of my window. I quickly exited happy-daydream-mode when I stepped into the metro car and realized that something was not quite right. I looked down. Ah, yes. One of my shoes was missing, and I was standing in the middle of the train with one bare foot. Quite strange, really, because this foot had had a shoe on it not two seconds earlier… I was sure of it. I turned around just in time to see the little bastard slip into the gap between the platform and the train—plummeting to its death on the tracks below.
Photo Courtesy of Pedrosimoes7
I didn’t need to gasp in horror because everyone around me on the train had already done so. So I just froze in a state of stupefied shock. Luckily, there was a go-getter next to me who pulled me back onto the platform and immediately started scheming about ways to get the shoe back. In the meantime, the conductor noticed the commotion and turned off the train, which, as you can imagine, made me quite popular with the hundreds of metro-riders within.
My shoe was down there, but it could not be reached with the train in its current position. My friend gave up (apparently not such a go-getter after all), and the conductor told me to wait there. The authorities were coming. Il faut pas descendre. Do not try to go onto the tracks. And like that, they were gone.
I sent a few text messages to alert some friends about my loss of shoe. One response read: “Guess you didn’t really need that one.” Guess not.
A few trains came and went, with passengers eyeing me, some in disgust, some in pure awe. I considered trying to jump into the tracks, either to retrieve the shoe or to put myself out of this misery; but I decided that the mortification of losing a shoe and electrocuting myself would be simply too much for one day.
Photo Courtesy of Earcos
As the next few trains passed, I noticed the conductors watching out for me with that unmistakable look of amused disdain. Finally, one of them got out and yelled, “The girl who lost the shoe?”
Yes, that’s me. How could you tell?
Finally, I spied two RER workers slowly approaching me from the opposite end of the platform. They were in no rush, nor were they amused by the havoc I had caused.
They looked at me.
They looked at my shoe on the tracks.
A few minutes later, they came back with a broom to fish the shoe out. No luck. One went to get another broom.
His partner stayed, and I decided it was a good time to make awkward conversation.
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
Then she told me to go sit down.
Then she conceded, “Well sometimes people lose phones. But not shoes.”
Finally her counterpart came back and embarked upon an elaborate shoe rescue endeavor. While the woman watched for oncoming trains, he used the two brooms in a “chopstick-like” manner and eventually succeeded in lifting my shoe from the tracks below. It was frightened, but intact.
“Thank you so much. I’m so sorry about this,” I giggled, immediately realizing that I shouldn’t be giggling.
He sort of smiled.
I looked around the platform for someone to share in my joy—or at least in the absurdity of my shame—but, strangely, no one wanted to associate with me.
The next train came and I hopped on, both my foot and my ego thoroughly soiled.
As the train pulled away I wondered, “How would a cool French girl have handled that situation?”
It’s pretty clear. A cool French girl would never have been in that situation because (1) she would not be a complete spazz, and (2) she would have been wearing cool French boots, which are what I intend to wear for the remainder of my time in Paris.
Once again, bravo l’Américaine.
*P.S. Today I took my shoe to my special secret fountain to cheer it up because it was ashamed.
Written by Tory Hoen
After attending Brown University and spending two years in New York, Tory bought a one-way ticket to Paris to pursue her dream of becoming a writer (and of drinking wine at lunch). During her time in the City of Light, she chronicled the euphoric highs and the laughable lows of ex-pat life on her blog, A Moveable Beast. Though she's now based in New York, she travels frequently to Montreal and Brazil, and she'll use just about any excuse to jet to Paris ("I ran out of fleur de sel"). A regular contributor to Hip Paris, Tory also writes for New York Magazine, Time Out New York, and she is a co-author of Gradspot.com's Guide To Life After College.
Website: Tory Hoen