Is there any good subway writing? How about, if you’re French, metro writing? I don’t mean graffiti, that scourge of 1970s New York whose disturbingly beautiful scribbling can still be spotted on the odd metro car in Paris. We thought of it as a sign of impending chaos back then, but now, seeing it in full flower here, I wonder whether New York should consider having graffiti artists re-spray its trains. There’d be a lot more to look at in the morning, without the old menace.
Back to the first topic: Surprisingly, I’ve never come across much writing about riding the subway. You’d think it would be a common topic, considering that it’s such an important aspect of millions of people’s daily lives. But maybe important is the wrong word, and maybe the lack of subway lit shouldn’t be so surprising. A daily train ride is dead time, in-between time, something to get past, something you don’t even have to try to forget. It’s something not to talk about, let alone write about.
All that changes when you're on a different transit system. Suddenly we take everything in, notice the details, remember what we see, and maybe even—am I really saying this?—enjoy ourselves. My hotel in Paris is eight stops and one change of lines from Roland Garros. At first I bailed on it and opted for the press transport vans, which are more inconvenient and take you from the hotel door to the gates of the grounds. But the urbanite side of me felt like that was cheating somehow. No standing, packed together with my fellow man and woman, trying to avoid eye contact? No lugging my computer bag, filled with laptop, cords, chargers, dozens of Euro coins, and a few heavy books I’m never going to get a chance to read on this trip? I was drawn, irrationally, to the metro.
In Pulp Fiction, John Travolta details, with stoned amazement, the “little differences” between Los Angeles and Amsterdam. Of course, his little differences mostly have to do with eating at fast food restaurants. “You get a royale with cheese!” There are plenty of tiny differences between the subway and the metro; for a veteran rider of one, the other can seem like a Star Trek-style alternate universe, the polar opposite in even the most miniscule details. Here’s a sample of one traveler’s trip from one of those universes to the other.
*
The man in the ticket booth is on the phone, laughing, showing off the big gap in between his two front teeth. He’s annoyed to notice me at the window, holding a crumpled 5 euro bill. “Use the machine!” he yells back over his shoulder. He goes back to his conversation. I hear him laugh harder.
The machine, the machine, it’s in French only, it won’t take paper bills. A 10-ticket pack? Why not. Good for Zones 1 and 2. Is that where I am? Seems like a good guess. Turnstile to my right. How does it work again? The ticket goes where? Let the Parisians going to work go through first. Can’t screw it up and have them sighing behind me. The ticket goes in and comes out in the right place. The bar moves when I push it. I’m in! If only I could get this excited about working the turnstile correctly every morning in New York. Might look pretty pathetic after a while.
Play it nonchalant now that you’re in, like you’ve done it a million times before. Keep moving, like you’re going to work. Wait, you don’t know where you’re going. The map on the wall is clear. Take a left, go downstairs, no problem, it’s all working. Steve Tignor: citizen of the world.
The station is small, human-sized by New York standards; the trains are endlessly long there, more people than the eye can see. Even four years since I last rode on it, the metro station, its sights and sounds, is immediately familiar. The curved white roof—lighter than in those New York dungeons—the yellow seats, and that drone. The drone, what is that drone? It’s ominous and soothing. The train is here already, mushing in on rubber wheels instead of screeching in on steel. Paris does it slow and steady. No long waits like in New York, no people standing at the edge of the platform leaning out perilously over the rat-filled tracks, waiting for 10 minutes to see a light at the end of the tunnel. But then again, no express in Paris, no 2-train rocking and careening from Times Square 30 blocks to the Upper West Side, like a ride on Space Mountain.
Right, you have to open the doors yourself here. The first time I rode the metro I made sure I followed a Parisian in, but I couldn’t keep doing that forever. I had to leave the train by myself eventually. Crowd of dull-eyed French people watching; I couldn't screw it up in front of them. Pulled the lever up and prayed. It worked; the little jarring jolt when the door opened sounded good, felt good, like you were in control of the train for half a second.
It’s 9:00 this morning and all the cars are crowded, but not New York sardines-against-the-glass crowded. I can maneuver into the middle of a car. The doors make that drone sound when they close; make a short ding-dong sound in New York. Alternate universe. Police sirens in Europe are two-toned, they sound like they’re going up and down. In New York they sound like they’re swirling.
Riders are less comatose here. Part of riding the subway in New York, of walking in New York, is having to compare yourself to everyone you see, gauge your place in the world every few seconds. A few days before I came to Paris I stood in front of a young guy, better dressed than me, good shoes, dark suit, hip hair, cool oversized glasses. How could I measure up? I thought: I’ll bet this guy pays his bills on time. I’ll bet he mops his floors regularly, I’ll bet he knows how to cut a bagel in half without slicing his finger. Just then, he opened a little bag he was carrying. A bottle of something had spilled inside it and was leaking. He looked disgusted. I smiled a little, on the inside.
You don’t have to worry about any of this in a new city. Everything is observation and curiosity, without the terror of judgment. I take a seat and a older, white-headed gentleman—his hair is still cut at a rakishly cool length—in a brown suit makes room for me with a small smile and a nod. That’s way too much politeness for New York. The train goes above ground and cuts through a neighborhood of fine apartment buildings. I sit up; I’m the only person looking outside, craning his neck to keep the Eiffel Tower in view. This little dose of the urban gives me a thrill, the same thrill I see little kids in Brooklyn get when the F train rises up and offers a view of the Statue of Liberty. Across from me is a serious-looking woman in her mid-40s, reading, with that unique French style that seems young for her age yet totally appropriate to it.
We approach the Porte d’Autheil station, where I get off to go to Roland Garros I stand up next to a young woman with long brown hair in a trench coat and a blue-and-white nautical scarf. When I first moved to New York in my early 20s, seeing an interesting-looking girl get off a subway car could give me a mysterious, deathly sort of pain, as if I were seeing a potential future life of mine being killed off in front of me before it began (subway rides aren’t totally forgettable experiences after all). That was a long time ago, and that feeling is long gone, too, thankfully. You come to know eventually that you don't have infinite lives.
Seeing this brown-haired woman calls up only the pleasure of curiosity: This is a Parisian girl. But there is something I recognize about her when I walk past. Her eyes are raised upward a little, and her lips are pursed just slightly. It’s a look that says to the car, in a polite but firm way, “Don’t even think about trying to talk to me.”
Yes, there are little differences between New York and Paris. And then some other things are exactly the same.