In many ways, France (and the entire francophone world for that matter) seems to revolve around Paris. Many business headquarters are centered there. The publishing industry is nearly exclusively located within the borders of the City of Lights. Linguistically, the French spoken in Paris is held up as the standard for French speakers throughout the francophone world. Never mind that native French speakers populate all corners of the globe from Belgium to Sub-Saharan Africa to the bayous of Louisiana, any Parisian will tell you that “real” French is spoken in Paris. The same phenomenon exists even within France. Take a look at the map of TGV train routes and you will have visual confirmation: all trains lead to Paris.
On our recent trip to the States, we had to go through Paris to get to the airport and I decided that if the City of Lights had an official sport, it would be, without a doubt, the 20-meter dash. The arena for this highly competitive activity is within the halls and the stairwells of the Paris underground: the METRO. Competitors need no particular uniform to participate. From businessmen in suits to poorly coiffed students and old men in berets, no Parisian can resist the call. It starts as a far-off rumbling and in the corridors and stairwells, the pace picks up. As the grinding of metal on metal approaches, the rise in blood pressure is palpable. And when the tell-tale sound of doors opening echoes through the stations, the 20-meter dash is on. A frenetic battle of every man, woman, and child for him or herself ensues. Heels may break, luggage may get bashed, but come what may, the true Parisian keeps his or her eyes on the prize. As the warning bell rings out and the wagon doors start to slide shut, the critical moment approaches. Competitors hurtle through the closing doors, block the doors with their bodies with utter disregard for the bruises that will ensue, and desperately pry the doors open with their bare hands. When the doors close, the race is over. In the awkward few seconds before the wagon departs, the winners allow themselves a brief smile of victory before resuming the bored and slightly annoyed facial expression characteristic of the Parisian metro, while the losers look away in shame and desperately try to pretend like they were not really trying to catch that metro anyway. After all, another one will be along in two minutes.
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