The Ride

It was dark and my friends and I momentarily made base on the second floor of the train. The benches, a dull off-white masked by our fortress of bodies, seemed ill-fitted as we sat waiting.

To me, foreigners in a strange land must’ve all felt the same way. The joy of being somewhere new with unlimited sights to take in often gets overshadowed by the thought that you might not be doing something right or that people will surely recognize you for the outsider you are.

There was text on the walls inside. I found myself unintentionally sounding out each syllable while mouthing a language I’ve studied since I was 12, albeit on and off, but nonetheless one I held familiarity with, enough of which to display some sense of confidence and advantage among the group. The matte resin that spread over an illegible route map looked flat, almost like it had been painted and then immediately covered with a sheer layer of powder while still wet. The warning signs were mostly cartoon depictions of what we should replicate if, god forbid, the train were to spontaneously set ablaze. For this interpretation, no foreign language skills were needed.

The baggage alone was enough for the local Parisians to know we weren’t of them or in the least, that we were returning after some time away. I wondered what they thought of us.

We waited and stop after stop, the doors swung open – almost uncomfortably so. The process was somewhat of an attraction. The full train came to a stop, followed by an exhale as the car seemed to decompress sometimes even letting out a scream. Then an unlatching of the safety bar followed by the agonizingly and somewhat amusingly slow separation of the doors. I must’ve watched it three times through.

I looked out the window, mostly by habit, but there was nothing to see. The underground tunnel painted the glass black and the inside cabin was mostly lit by that same dull, off-white color that seemed to have light reflect off of it and onto us. It brought detail to my friends’ faces as I sat back into the seat, crossing my knee over.

Jackie asked a question about the culture or maybe the language. The anticipation, paired with unease, left me wondering how I would react to something so raw when for years I painted a very, very precise picture. The city in my mind was made of gold and love scenes and tender refrains and dark chocolate and unapologetic intoxication and flaring disregard for ‘living to work’ and gemstones and fresh bread and for the first time in my life, I’d bear witness to it.

I didn’t know what to think or how I would feel. I knew my tendencies were to build up castles of ideals only to be disappointed by the disarmingly unsatisfactory reality, yet I told myself again and again that this would be different.

The train was rough. Nearing to stops, we all felt the need to hold on to something. We braced to avoid hitting our heads on the hard plastic boards during kickback. Why haven’t they renovated these cars? Josh nearly flew into the window once saved partially by his carry-on which acted as a barrier between his body and the car’s inner lining. For a moment, we all held our breath, but then we’d laugh about it. 

More passengers boarded, all with a different look in their eyes, and I questioned each of them.

Are they late for something? Heading home after a night out? It was only Monday. How close to the station did they live? Was their family in Paris? When would they get to travel next?

I sat closest to the aisle – preference after years of sitting on buses and planes. It gives me the sense that I could spring up at any moment if the need should ever arise. An old woman with patchy skin and pale white hair moved at us. We made eye contact while she shuffled, replacing each hand grip on bars, or walls, or any real surface she could balance on. Does she need help?

She approached me, met my gaze yet again – this time with intention – and asked a question in French. Her eyes were glossy but charmingly the warmest part of her.

I believed she was asking if this was the train going towards La Défense. Looking back, I have no idea why an elderly woman would be in need of the city’s business district, but at the time it seemed incontestable. I froze in the moment.

I looked at her again, broke our stare and cocked my head forward to gesture, “come again?”

She repeated her question clearly, this time with a subtle irritation that transcended the need for linguistics. I summoned up enough to answer back, “je ne parle pas francais, Madame.” I don’t speak French, Ma’am.  This time it was she who brought her head forward, leading with her temple as she clung to the bar overhead. Her grip was tight, a confused, open-mouthed expression on her face that I knew. I’m hard of hearing, can you say that again.

With an unsettling ease I sat up and repeated myself. This time with a louder tenor. She retracted, shook her head in affirmation and continued past us with that same sluggish yet necessary grip of seatbacks and overhead bars. I wondered what difficulty of labor took place in the moments leading up to our interaction and how she managed to mimic the path we took to get to the train. I felt like I failed her.

I looked at Austin and let out a faint smile.

Surely, I knew enough to understand she needed directions or at least just the reassurance that we were going the right way, but for some reason I wasn’t ready. The whole situation felt out of my control like being out in the middle of the Atlantic with nothing but a small buoy. Sure you’ll stay afloat, but for how long? 

We had one more stop to go before our exit. By this point my legs had gone tight and my back started to feel damp under the layers of clothing. It was warm on the train, but I couldn’t pinpoint where the heat was coming from.

I looked as the locals glanced at their phones, read the newspaper, and cautiously closed their eyes for one final moment of rest. They all looked so unbothered. One young woman with dark skin and curly black hair looked like she could’ve been with us, her bright red jacket with leather straps that mirrored something out of an American fashion magazine. Her lips were stained with a color I knew I’ve seen in a department store back home in Tampa. Her eyes fogged by the early start of the day. I tried to imagine what a conversation with her might be like as she crossed her legs at the knee and sat back into the bench, my solace taking shape in hers.

“This is the one,” Natasha said, already standing up.

Like a carefully orchestrated parade, we all started getting up and retrieving our things huddling towards the doors like a determined mob. I held my luggage handle with my left hand, the strap of my crossbody with the right and felt as if I were bracing for a million things.

Surely this part of town was apt to be busy. I didn’t want to get separated from the group or look like I was an easy target. I knew I was carrying too much cash.

The doors didn’t shoot open as much as they strained to detach in what felt like a harrowing defeat for the once well-oiled and progressive work of human engineering. We moved forward and out of the train to find more people and noises filling the stale underground air. The brick walls of the tunnel looked ancient and I was sure that they were. I felt like just touching one might make me feel something trapped in the façade from hundreds of years ago, maybe a breath or a melody. 

We turned right and then right again and found the exit. There was no escalator in sight, just a series of steps. Going up the stairs in a group of seven with sets of suitcases was routine by this point in our travels.

One by one, yet almost in unison, we lowered our handles and grabbed the bags by their bases. Natasha, our undeclared group leader, broke a smile and let out the most recognizable half-hearted laugh as we paused for the moment of levity. We always found humor in The Climb. 

The steps up felt heavier, slamming each flat sole on the stone floors that held the slightest bit of grip, like fresh dough on cold marble. I shrugged down, my weight pressed forward so I could keep my balance while carefully and assertively replacing the lopsided tracks back into the earth. It all felt like something I shouldn’t be taking for granted as I wondered who the men behind these underground caverns were.

We plateaued at the station lobby, evident that we had more steps to climb before making it to the streets. Everyone scavenged for their Metro tickets which were, anecdotally, the sizes of stamps. The scene that followed was all the indication you needed to spot a group of seven young Americans unsure of where they were or how they should be conducting themselves.

One by one, we filed through the metered metal bars in what felt like a stalemate of some sort. I slid my voucher through one end, anxiously waiting for a green light on the other side of the machine. The last thing I wanted at this point was to look like I’d need saving or worse, that my ticket was invalidated for some technical reason I didn’t know enough about. The light flashed like neon and my stub rose at the opposite end. I passed through, retrieved it, and breathed a sigh of comic relief.

We made it through with one more flight till the city.

Again, I pulled my suitcase up by the side and dragged my boots up the slick steps. When we got to the street exit, a rush of cold air hit my face. The familiar sounds of street traffic and voices echoed a space that felt infinite.

One more step forward and I saw it. 

The Tower looked like a portrait, gilded in steel strokes and detailed with the backdrop of a sky I didn’t recognize. My mouth peeled open. At some point I had let go of my strap. I was frozen in enamor, studying the structure from its head to the cascading base that had no definitive end. I felt like my vantage would never stop or wishfully could refrain from beginning. The sooner everything good would come to an end.

Jaime and Jay pulled their phones out and began to document the sight. Nothing at this point could pull from my fixation.

I moved forward some more.

This time, I was studiously glaring through the image. The iron, woven like an intricate basket, with arcs that thinned out to a magnificent spire, looked like it had always been there. Before the other buildings, before the buses and cars, before the trees and the flowers at its base and before the people. This was the alpha and everything that could’ve possibly existed in this world came after its grandiose.

I wandered around the outline, examining the build from every possible angle as though I had jurisdiction to define it. The color, a gentle lovechild of gold and silver, promptly drew the portrait from the silky blue skies in the foreground. I walked my way up the latticed planes and wondered what the top of the world looked like from such a glorious peak. 

A wave of emotion hit me after the cold. I was moved by something that felt new, yet familiar. Distant, yet palpable. Seeing the frame for the first time after a lifetime of idolizing from an ocean away brought out an unexpected relief.

I swelled up and let down a single tear. My mouth opened again as I let in the cold, dry Parisian air. The sunshine came down upon my cheek. Its warmth was different from that on the train. I looked back at the marvel, and a shape figured around it like a halo traced by the wind and the birds in the sky. This all existed on top of us.

I lifted up, breathed in the world around me and felt an embrace like one I’ve never known.