staring in the metro

There are a lot of reasons that people tend to stare at me in the metro.  One is La Trotinette (my ultra-chic, girl-on the go collapsible scooter normally meant for people with ages in the single digits, pictures below), and another is that I giggle at random (bear in mind that most Parisians don't even smile in public, much less giggle alone in the metro).  I've also recently taken to wearing colors other than black before labor day.  I don't tell all those staring people, but I've got very good reasons for flouting so much Parisian social convention.

Let's start with why I have recently thrown to the back of the (proverbial) closet my usual uniform of black boots, black pants, black sweater and black (but leopard-skin lined) overcoat.  This is because in the last week, something very strange is happening here in Paris.  It all started on Monday, when I woke up, and the sun was shining.  Like, in the sky, and not covered by monster lowlying clouds.  I thought this odd, but Benoît chased away any suspicions over morning coffee by reassuring me that it would be raining by noon.  Thus reassured, I went off to my 4 hour cooking class.  But when I came out . . . the sun was still shining.  And I was hot in my overcoat.  But I didn't take it off.  After all, this is April, in Paris.  The freezing rain must be just seconds away.  

Tuesday morning, the sun was shining, again.  I looked sideways at the long-unopened drawers full of summer clothes . . . and then got out my regular clothes.  I'm no fool.  In my two years in Paris, we've probably had a total of 15 genuinely sunny days, and never in sequence.  The one time, two summers ago, that we did have a multiple-day sunny spell, I went out and bought a nearly four-foot high industrial fan that we nicknamed Marie-Antoinette for her exorbitant price.  Needless to say, after about two days in the beginning of August, there was no longer any need for Marie, as the rain and sleet returned.  In August.  Marie-Antoinette has since languished in my in-laws' basement.

On Tuesday, I put on my bulky, black Parisian uniform again, but I was hot all day!  This time, fashion conventions be damned, I carried my coat.  

Wednesday morning was kind of like Christmas.  In Australia.  I woke up, and it was, for the third day in a row, sunny.  Santa Claus had finally brought me what I wanted.  I opened my summer clothes drawers, and threw everything out onto the floor in the same way that used to make my father ask if we had been robbed when looking into my room.  Flowery dresses, tank tops, and even sunglasses appear!  What to wear, what to wear?

I settle for jeans and a bright pink tee-shirt, with matching ballerina flats and a pink cardigan just in case.  I take the metro to my cooking class, wearing sunglasses, scooter in hand and giggling randomly (more on that later).  People stare.

Today is Saturday.  It is still hot!  I know that in 2003, 15,000 Parisians died in a heat wave, but God has made up for it with rain in Paris ever since.  Could we really be seeing the return of a real spring and summer?  

People seem to have varying opinions.  This morning, it is downright hot outside.   I go out into my garden in a light sleeveless dress, to catch up on my vitamin D.  Outside to greet me are my neighbors and their kids, in (not kidding!) puffy parkas, scarves and boots.  As I settled into a lounge chair I asked, "It's a little hot for the parkas, isn't it?"  They just looked at me with weak smirks.  I obviously didn't realize that the sleet was coming any minute.  

Anyhow, moving on to why I giggle in the metro:  If any of you don't already listen to The Moth podcast, download it right now!  It is the antidote to all boring commutes and will make you laugh while you clean house.  The Moth is a series of recorded performances of people telling true short stories about their lives.  The stories are funny, poignant, perfect.  (Although warning:  they are sometimes a little bit risqué, but not always.  Some good non-risqué ones are by Malcom Gladwell and Ari Handel.)  Also the stories sometimes make me cry - just a little - in happiness.   (In fairness, I also cry for marching bands, kids' sports and even dolphin shows - they all jump together! It's so amazing, and happy!  The last time I went to a dolphin show, the three-year old sitting next to me asked her mother "Why's that lady crying?"  Her mother seemed flustered.) 

And finally, La Trotinette.  La Trotinette seems to have a special , fascinating something.  Yesterday,  as I popped open La Trotinette on the sidewalks of Paris, an entire group of businesspeople headed off to lunch stopped in their tracks, watching and smiling as I hopped on La Trotinette and floated past them.  This morning, Benoît, upon stumbling into the kitchen and finding La Trotinette leaned up against his chair, put off breakfast for five minutes in order to sleepily ride La Trotinette in circles around the kitchen table, in his pyjamas (much to the enjoyment of the cat, who chased after him).

The allure of La Trotinette did not escape my father, who was recently visiting.  It didn't take an excessive amount of urging for him to hand me the bag he was carrying and try his hand at La Trotinette as we made our way to a metro stop.  His first attempt was a bit halting, with most of his weight being placed on the foot on the ground, and not a lot of real costing since he didn't seem to dare to transfer his whole weight onto the scooter.  As a righty, he had his right foot on the scooter, which is how I had started out, too, but had quickly realized was wrong.  For a righty, the left foot goes on the scooter, and the right foot pushes.  I show my dad.  He doesn't seem convinced.  

We're at the metro stop, and we all are waiting on the sidewalk for my mom to find her ticket.  I tell my dad he has to just try the other foot.  Skeptically, he takes the La Trotinette, puts his left foot on the board, and pushes off  . .  .  it's a revelation.  He's gliding, barely needing to touch the ground, zig-zagging lazily along the sidewalk.    And then . . he's gaining speed.  On a bit of an incline. And not touching the ground at all anymore.  Heading straight towards a busy avenue.  I realize I forgot to show him the brakes.  My dad has now also caught the attention of two English ladies, stopped in their track on the metro steps.  We're all kind of holding our breaths.  And then, in what we must assume is a calculated move, he veers toward a parked car, jumps off the scooter, and runs along, off balance, until he stops himself by crashing into the car.  He picks up the La Trotinette and comes back over to the metro station.  He's laughing, the English ladies are laughing.  My mom has found her metro tickets, and she wants to know what happened.  She asks the English ladies, did you see him ride the scooter?  They reply, "I think we saw his first time . . . and last."

In hope that that's the last picture of me in an overcoat and beanie for awhile!  Instead, if you come to Paris, look for me giggling, in hot pink, alone with a scooter, in the corner of the metro.