Garoo

I always hated thongs (I’m talking about the footwear kind—I don’t know if there’s a better word out there, sorry) and everything that’s basically a sandal. But I’ve got to say I hate them with a particular force when I’m curling up in semi-foetal position on the subway’s jump seat (as I often do) and my nose ends up twenty inches away from the filthy toes of a group of tourists. Actually, it’s not just tourists: everybody wears them now, even Paris residents, even gays, it’s horrible, a true crime against humanity.

On the subway subject, I find the gregarious instinct and lack of patience of Parisians astounding. It’s impressive to witness, a few minutes after the end of the National Day fireworks, everybody rush into the same subway, and packing up even more tightly than at rush hour, just in order not to have to wait for the next train. I can swear I’ve never felt so compressed in a subway before in my life (except when there were strikes, actually), and it was a holiday at half past noon. (And why didn’t I wait for the next train? Uh, let’s just say I was carried away by the flow. Oh well, I’m a Parisian too, so I can’t see why this paragraph shouldn’t apply to myself).

As for the fireworks themselves, not much to say, because we couldn’t see much from where we were standing (and yet lots of other people had chosen the same place). Okay, it was cute, but fireworks without the sound of explosions are just like watching them on TV—except that on my TV the picture would have been bigger. The most interesting point of the night was watching a boy of my group get his back signed by a French comedian. And I really should take my camera with me more often, despite the heat, the risks of loss or theft, and more generally the not wanting to carry a backpack around. I just miss too many opportunities.