Paris didn’t make the best impression on me. I spent my first night in the city in the most unromantic way possible.
During my stay in London I made friends with two of the girls in our group, January Jones and Kim Chapman. The three of us were enthralled to be in the city of lights and wanted to make the most of our time there. We decided our first night to visit Moulin Rouge.
We noticed the night started to go wrong on our subway route change. While standing on the empty platform, an eerie difference from London’s crowded stations, we heard loud shouts. At the opposite platform a man laid on the ground as another brutally kicked him. The abuser took the grounded man’s coat and continued to yell what I assume were some French obscenities. Our tram car came rolling up and blocked the view of any further events.
As we ascended up the steps to the district we were greeted with the large, red windmill that we’d seen in the movie, Moulin Rouge. The windmill was outlined in bright white lights as were the words underneath it that spelled out the name of the area. We snapped a couple of pictures, at that point the three of us were used to being pegged as tourists and didn’t seem to care anymore.
January, a budding photographer, continued to snap photos as we began to walk the mile long street, outlined with large billboards and bright lights. It was as if a little slice of Las Vegas was cut from it’s location and dropped on this street in Paris. As we walked on, the stores became more and more vulgar, the pictures more and more detailed and the men more and more aggressive. Being three young, respectful women we quickly decided this area was not for us.
The same steps we ascended up in a sense of awe of the giant windmill we hurriedly descended down with a sense of disgust. Apparently the “ignorant American” had gotten the best of us as we found out that scenes in movies are just that- fictional movie scenes and not real life. Moulin Rouge was anything but the glamorous picture portrayed on screen.
Quickly we navigated our way through the subway station and found our way onto a tram that would safely lead us back to our hotel, or so we thought.
After a couple stops on the line, our tram left the XXXX station and went on it’s way when the lights flickered and then the tram car, traveling at a good speed came to a sudden stop. The lights still flickering then completely went out.
There we were, three American girls stuck on a dark subway car underground.
Instantly the heat from the underground tunnel and body heat from 50 or so nervous passengers engulfed the tram car. Everyone was silently waiting and hoping the car would continue on it’s way. Hope was slightly fulfilled when reserve lights came on. Though we were still hot and not moving, at least we could see.
The driver came over a loud speaker and announced something in French. The three of us talked quietly, putting our little knowledge of the language together in attempts to decipher the announcement. In our attempts we must have looked like puzzled Americans because a man sitting behind us asked if we spoke English. The sweet sound and comfort of our language coming from the man’s mouth was like a soft, warm bed. He quickly translated the driver’s message to us. “They think the protestors cut the electrical lines. Or there could have been a suicide and someone fell on the line. The driver is trying to restart us.”
We made small talk with the man while we waited. He was from the south of France only in Paris for a week on business. Our chatting with him was actually more of an attempt drown out the drunk woman sitting next to January. The old, graying lady had no teeth, an open can of beer in her hand and a fake leg in which she insisted on knocking on every couple of minutes. She then proceeded to light up a cigarette, directly under the no smoking sign, and loudly sing a French tune in her scratchy, slurred voice.
Now we were stuck undergound, hot, lost, and smelling cigarette smoke. This is not how we’d pictured Paris.
Finally the police, dressed in their dark blue suits and carrying rather large guns, came aboard our tram and yelled another announcement. Our friend from the south of France explained that we would be evacuating the car and walking back to the station that we’d just departed.
There was a small ladder attached to the tram floor and we were asked to climb down. Luckily our translator friend explained to the police that we were American and didn’t speak French. The police ensured us not to be afraid. They then proceeded to tell us that we must be absolutely sure to not touch either the wall or the tram car and tracks. There were still electrical currents running through them and we wouldn’t want to get electrocuted, would we?
We descended the ladder and stood in a 12” pitch black space between the tram and the wall, that we were not to touch. Kim and I were shaking in fear of electrocution yet trying to hold our bodies as still as possible. January meanwhile, the adventurer of the group, kept a calm demeanor- laughing with the drunk old lady and talking with the police.
As we made our way through the black space, electrical currents whizzing by us, I finally got a glimpse of the romance in Paris. A tall, strong policemen gently grabbed my hand, leading me through the dark, cramped space all the while reassuring me, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help you.” My dream of a tall, dark Frenchman coming to my rescue had come true.
My dream was quickly awoken when the policeman dropped my hand at the terminal and rushed back to help the next trapped victim. The romance was over.
The three of us rushed up the steps from the subway and hailed the first taxi we came across. We’d just experienced the most unromantic night in Paris.
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