Paris, in two parts. So as not to bore you twitter-bugs. Part I: Le Métro.

Something about being a New Yorker, and spending my whole life identifying and ridiculing tourists, has made me very aware and paranoid about my appearance in foreign cities. But here in Paris, I feel hopelessly foreign in everything I do. It’s obvious that I am no Parisienne when I nervously ask for help finding the miromesnil metro while standing, upside-down map in hand, about ten feet away from the station in question.

But once I descend, I regain all my confidence. The land of public transportation has never been foreign to me, and my commute is the only time I don’t feel completely out of place. The metro here is like a game - each line has a color, they intersect about a million times, and you have to figure out how to get from point A to point B with the fewest transfers possible (and fewest glances at the map- the surest give-away). But even transfers here are more fun than in New York. The trains are automated and constantly 2 minutes away from the station. I put on my “don’t mess with me, I’m stressed” face, hurry down the corridors, and feel completely at one with the français over-bookés (yes, the French have stolen and frenchified that expression) who surround me.