Call me a brat, call me a superbrat, call me whatever you will… but when I landed in Paris, there was one thing I knew for sure: the Metro and I were not going to become friends.
Me: How do I get to the Eiffel Tower?
Them: Oh, bah oui, it’s très facile, non? You just take the métro, et voilà!
(And just like that, I was lost in the magic of their accent, as if it could make anything sound so… effortless.)
Me: Urgh never! Have you lost your actual mind?….I’ll walk, Merci very much!
…And that’s how it was for literally a year.
The mere mention of the M word and I would ewee and urgh and try as hard as I could to hold back the vom sneakily pushing its way up my throat.
The truth is, I’m not a brat. OK yes I am. But not the kind that turns her nose up at public transport. I literally spent everyday of my working adult life on the London Underground. Can you get worse than the Central Line on a Monday morning in the middle of August? It’s the remnants of a 45 minute spin class, without the spin! However, I did it!
The Paris equivalent, well it could definitely be better.
If the London Underground were a box of Ladurée macarons, then the Paris Metro, well, let’s just say it’s more like a bargain box of Monoprix milk chocolate. It gets the job done, but you wouldn’t exactly make it your chosen mode of transport. It took me 11 months of living in Paris—and a moment of absolute necessity and force (by a colleague)—to finally brave the metro. The experience was less “Emily in Paris” and more “Sharks Under Paris”.
My first time? Let’s just say it was trés hard. I felt every ounce of discomfort and doubt. How did I let myself get talked into this? Into something that went against everything I stood for—cleanliness, luxury, and the hope to make it alive to my friend’s wedding that summer.
37 minutes later, which equated to; 37 minutes of putting my Pilates classes to good use -engaging my core so hard that I didn’t have to hold on to any poles. 37 minutes of avoiding eye contact, body contact, or really any contact. 37 minutes of not pulling out my iphone for fear of theft and therefore- 37 minutes of missed emails and social app scrolling…
…And there I was, finally at at my destination, emerging from Dante’s 7th circle of hell. Clutching my paper metro ticket as I climbed the stairs out of Arts et Métiers station. And then, something unexpected happened—a tiny smile crept across my face.
“I did it,” I thought. “I just rode the Paris Metro. I’m alive, intact, and there are no rats scaling my legs.” Victory, in its most unexpected form.
To be fair, I went straight home and jumped into the shower.
What I came to realise was this: yes, the Paris Metro is SO gross. But that wasn’t really why I avoided it for so long. The truth? I was scared. Scared of the unfamiliar— I didn’t understand all these lines and numbers and names of stations. And trying to pronounce them, lets not even…
Starting a new job and a new life in a new city was already overwhelming enough. I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to confront the parade of horror stories I’d heard or the TikToks links that had haunted my Whatsapp feed: rats, thieves, the stench, the bed bugs (Oh god, Paris and those the bedbugs) and generally suspect humans doing suspect things. Not exactly the romantic dream of Paris we expect.
Eighteen months later and no I don’t use the Metro everyday. I’m still a brat and I will still choose Uber. However, if it so happens that i need to take Line 7 to get from the office to say a sample sale – then yes of course I’ll take that metro and get myself to that sale! There is no bigger motivation in Paris than a sale with 70% off your dream shoes!
Btw, that walk to the Eiffel Tower was 1 hour and 47 minutes.
I know that, because i did, in my first week in Paris. No regrets!
Bisous, Bisous
PS. Remind me to tell you about that time we almost got pick-pocketed by a bunch of girls on the train! Next time…
Loladoes 