My Paris Playlist

(This post will appear on my Francerevisited blog soon, but I figured I'd give a sneak peek:)

     

      It’s not hard to recognize a “vrai” Parisian on the metro. She swipes her purse over the gates so her Navigo metro pass will be recognized immediately, allowing her to continue along her way without interruption. She never stops in the middle of the hallway to puzzle over a “Paris Pratique” or a graffiti-covered metro map- she has a memorized copy imprinted in her head. Once on the platform, a true Parisian walks to the metro car she knows will stop directly across from her anticipated exit when she arrives at her destination. After stepping inside the car, she mutters a few “pardons,” slides into a seat, and immediately rummages around in her bag or pockets for her iPod; she’s already chosen the song while waiting on the platform and earbuds are placed in awaiting ears without pause. She might have a metro seat neighbor, or a passenger standing two inches away from her nose, but it’s commonly known that no trans-seat conversation is to be initiated.

            There are also easy ways to recognize a non-Parisian. I like to think of myself as a bit above a tourist; I swipe my Navigo with ease, know (usually) where I’m going, and I only pull out my “Paris Pratique” if I absolutely need to (and only in the corner of the station as to not block traffic/continue the pretense that I have any sense of direction). I know not to try to attempt a smile or a friendly “bonjour” toward my neighbor, regardless of the fact that his hip is two inches away from my ear. However, I can’t bring myself to plug in my iPod, and escape from the world.  There is too much to listen to in Paris.

            At the beginning of my trip, during my program’s orientation, we were told to listen to the city around us, to try to understand the rapidly-speaking Frenchmen, and to do all we could to immerse ourselves in this vibrant city. I took this advice to heart, more as a safety precaution than anything else. I completely lack a sense of direction; I never truly know where I am in space and time. It’s something that I’ve gotten used to…and I really lucked out about the fact that mapquest and googlemaps just became very popular. I knew that I was in a new city, surrounded by people speaking a different language, and that I would have to try my hardest to stay alert and aware of everything occurring around me. So the earbuds stayed out of my ears. As much as I craved to be mistaken for just another Parisian student, I felt just as strongly about not getting incredibly lost and/or disoriented.

            Leaving the iPod at home proved to be one of the best decisions I’ve made. I love the sounds of Paris. A metro car is filled with murmurs of “pardon,” or “pas grâve,” when a foot is stepped on or a seat is stolen. Sometimes my entire morning is made after a young guitar-wielding musician steps onto the train and plays a rendition of Elvis’ “Hound Dog.” I’ve never been more exposed to different musical instruments and styles of music than underground Paris. 

            The Parisian metro system is one-of-a-kind in the way it treats musicians: aspiring performers must have a formal permit to play in the tiled corridors of the subway. The metro system introduced an audition system for selecting musicians in 1997, and each musician is re-examined at least once every six months. I love the guarantee of a great musical soundtrack to my ten-minute underground trek to class. Almost every day, I hurry by a fantastic Hungarian men’s quartet that sings traditional songs accompanied by an array of instruments. Every Saturday night without fail, as I wander home from a night out, an older man sits on the uncomfortable seats of the Chatelet stop, alternately playing an Asian flute and a mandolin; sometimes, without warning, he begins singing loudly, his voice carrying through the tunnels.

            The sounds of Paris travel above ground too, reaching the highest floor of the apartment building next to mine, from which the sound of a violin finds its way through my open window. I’ve been assuming for two months now that a violin teacher gives private lessons there, as some mornings I’m presented with a skilled performance lacking any mistakes (Not like I would really know) whereas other days I’m welcomed by the screeching of a beginner’s bow against string. My favorite occurrence (it’s happened twice) is when a passing police car or fire truck’s siren corresponds with an identical note to the violin’s. 

            I’ve mostly accepted the fact that I am an American in Paris; I dress in colors other than black, I speak loud English most of the time, and I cough when surrounded by a crowd of smokers on a busy street. Sometimes, however, I just want to fit in: I wear a black dress with a scarf and tights, greet friends with double bissous, and try not to talk so much as not to give myself away. However as much I want to seem Parisian, I’ll never replace the sounds of Paris with a recorded song I’ve heard a million times; although I may not be a true Parisian, it seems to me that the “vrai” Paris can be found by tuning in to the soundtrack it already provides.