I Never Attended Summer Camp, But I Can Ride the Metro
At 1:30 a.m., you race down the stairs of the Bir-Hakeim metro station. The rubber souls of your Converse don’t make a sound. You don’t need to pause at the map — you know your way. The subway graffiti doesn’t catch your eye — you memorized it yesterday. You reach your platform, fingers crossed that you haven’t missed the last train. The digital sign tells you that it will arrive in 11 minutes. That’s when you realize you’re the only person waiting for the train. There isn’t a soul in sight. Suddenly your dress feels a little too short, your handbag a little too expensive, the latest terrorist attack a little too recent. You take a seat on a metal bench, distract yourself by practicing your French on the adverts on the opposite wall and wait. Eleven minutes feels like an eternity.
Isn’t this the situation they warned you about back home? Travel smart. Don’t get caught in dangerous situations. Be alert. You normally wouldn’t be alone, but the love of your life left for home 72 hours ago. Tears streamed down your face as you watched him pull his red suitcase across the courtyard of your Airbnb to his waiting Uber. He glanced over his shoulder and gave you a sad smile. He wanted you to be brave. You wanted to make him proud. But you swore you’d never be able to navigate the city alone, much less figure out the bustling, intimidating, metro system. There was no way you could find your way in this suddenly foreign city, the city of your dreams just a few days ago, without him holding your hand.You contemplated booking an early flight home and had visions of spending the week holed up in your appartement reading Mark Twain.
But you didn’t do that.
You did cry for 24 hours, mascara smudges under your eyes like some sad girl in a Lana Del Rey video. You walked the city streets in the rain. You ate in restaurants by yourself and ordered the wrong thing. Your heart ached at the sight of couples making out at the Luxembourg Gardens. Everything — posters of cats, girlfriends giggling over glasses of rosé, football matches on TV — reminded you of what was happening half a world away.
The next day you pulled your shit together and got on the metro because that’s what your heroines would do.
It was crowded with girls in messy ponytails, boys wearing headphones, couples arguing, immigrants pushing strollers and shifting shopping bags. And it was thrilling — like the first time you rode a roller coaster or your first day of college or signing the paperwork on your first house. You practiced nonchalance. You slouched your shoulders to fit in. You willed your expression into boredom when actually you were thrumming with adrenalin and confidence and self-reliance and grit. You aren’t used to this feeling — you have to fight for it. You suddenly think about sixth-grade summer camp. You didn’t go. And more often than not, slumber parties happened at your house, within your control. New isn’t really you. Neither is brave. Or uncomfortable. Or alone.
But against all odds, you’ve got this. In fact, you’re good at this.
Five days later, you sit on the edge of that bench and watch the clock count down from 11 minutes to 10 and then nine and then eight and then lucky number seven. You hear trains coming and going on other platforms. You watch the stairs out of the corner of your eye. You look around for abandoned backpacks. You tug at the hem of the too-short dress that seemed like a good idea when the chic saleswoman talked you into it. You count backwards and realize it’s 4:30 p.m. at home. The love of your life is still at work, and the sun is shining outside his office. One of your friends is starting her bartending shift. Another is ending her day teaching summer school. Another is bringing in her horses for the afternoon. The cats are probably sleeping near the air-conditioning vent. And you’re waiting for the last train. In Paris. Alone. Alive. At last.
The train pulls into the station two minutes early.
