Couscous

I am on my way from Issy les Moulineaux, where my school is, to Nanterre, where I have a rendezvous with an archaeology professor. After much lively debate on the matter, I have been advised to take the tram, which loops around the western bank of the Seine linking the southwestern and northwestern suburbs. As I am sitting on the tram enjoying the relatively scenic view I find myself surrounded by a group of oldish men wearing matching tweed blazers and slacks—some sort of French Lyons Club outing perhaps. One of the men asks to see my ticket; I notice the French metro logo embroidered on his lapel. Aha, I had heard they go around checking tickets from time to time, but I never imagined they’d be so well-dressed! I confidently pull out my Carte d’Orange, which is a monthly metro pass. Metro man, even more confidently, informs me that my pass is for zones 1 and 2 only, and the tram is in zone 3 territory. Oops. I pull the “I’m a foreigner” card, which saves me from whatever the ghastly punishment for evading metro fare might be, but they insist that I get off at the next station to buy a ticket. They also insist on waiting with me, all 6 of them; I begin to feel a bit left out without a snappy blazer.

At the station the 7 of us have a nice chat while waiting for the next train. One of them wants to hear all about the New York subway system. We end up concluding that it’s pretty similar to the Paris metro. He then asks me, as I’ve been asked a million times since moving, what New York has that Paris lacks. I pull out my default response: “In New York you can have any type of food you want delivered to your apartment.” This generally seems to impress Parisians. Metro man needs some clarification. “Even couscous?” he asks. “Yes,” I respond, “Even couscous.” Now he’s impressed. He wants to know when the best time of year to visit New York is. Seems he can’t wait to order some couscous to his hotel room. I am amused.