Play an Accordion, Go to Jail

That old bumper sticker, which I'm sure was meant to be funny, always kind of bugged me.

Probably because I've always secretly liked the accordion. Sure, in unskilled hands, it's one of the few sounds in the world that makes a continuous loop of Air Supply and Christopher Cross seem like a refreshing alternative. But like its fellow air-and-finger-driven instrument the bagpipe, in the right hands it can make some of the most beautiful, traditional music out there, able to stir up emotion and bygone memories and imagery of the days of yore.

Or sometimes total ire, to the point that you wish accordion players would, indeed, be jailed.

I was squished on to the exceptionally crowded Métro ligne 9 last night trying to listen to Kanye drop some knowledge, when at some point I heard what I thought was an unfamiliar sample. "What the hell? Is that musette?" I know Mr. West recently sampled from the French by cribbing some Daft Punk for "Stronger," but what the hell was this dissonant accordion sample?

Turns out the accordion I was hearing wasn't from my iPod, but some guy at the other end of the car, playing for a hopeful (but rarely ever materializing) handful of change.

I normally don't mind this. Busking, I feel, is a fine tradition, earning a bit of spare change by entertaining passers by, showing off a bit of light in an otherwise cruel, dark world. I often throw a few centimes to sidewalk buskers in Paris or pence to the ones in the tube stations in London - a lot of whom are damn good.

But when you invade the enclosed capsule of hard working people's commutes, you're crossing the line. Already in close quarters with people sporting various levels of BO, booze breath, week-old-ashtray breath and worse, the last thing any commuter needs is someone taking up twice as much space and making ten times as much noise. It's simply poor form to try and have a captive audience like that.

I don't care how good you are at the accordion. If you're busking on a Métro car, all you're getting from me is a dirty look, and possibly the finger if I have enough room around me to raise my arm.

This is a much gentler response than I would have given five years ago. On an early morning RER train, my Australian buddies and I were headed to Versailles. I wasn't happy to be up that early. One of them had a screaming hangover. But the train ride was comfortable and smooth, smooth enough to nap (or in Tony's case, sleep it off). Until some bastard with an accordion and a little paper cup had to get on.

After five minutes, I couldn't take it. I stood up, started yelling at the guy - yelling things that at the time I didn't think were racist (but were). Somehow, my French got really convincing when I was angry and yelling, "Get the fuck out of here, you dirty Gyppo. Why don't you go get a real job instead of bothering these poor people? Go on now! Fuck off!"

I immediately felt bad after saying that, especially when he skulked off at the next stop shortly following my outburst. But I felt excused because the RER passengers broke out in applause. Feeling OK about that, I wound up doing the same thing to an accordion-playing boy somewhere around the Queensway stop in London the following week. He was probably no more than 11 years old, but - again - that didn't stop me from yelling at him, and the other passengers from cheering.

I'm older, and I think wiser now. Being relatively broke on the US dollar in a euro world, I can't imagine how rough it might be for someone who doesn't even have a proper job, working papers, et cetera. And while I think they are crossing the boundaries of respect by trying to peddle their music onboard the Métro, I have to take the high road and not get in their faces about it.

But until then, I have my outlet, and I can at least write about one of the greatest scourges of the Paris commute: The accordion-wielding GypsyRomani.

Still beats the hell out of driving, though.

Getting Settled

I've hit the two week mark now. One week that I've been in my apartment. Things are starting to fall into place.

I can pretty much do my commute half asleep now. Which is good, considering I have a knack for nodding off on trains.

I know where to go for almost everything I need. Case in point: The pharmacy. Unlike the US, I can't just stroll into the grocery store to buy two of my bathroom staples: Listerine & Neosporin. Despite my anti-antibacterial stance (I'm squarely in the camp that blames so-called "superbugs" on an overuse of antibacterial products from wipes to hand cleaners to dish soap), I cannot live without the two aforementioned products. The first to keep my mouth clean, the second for everything from cuts to pimples to aftershave. Yes, that's right, I use Neosporin as aftershave. So what of it?

These two products do pose a bit of a problem here. A tiny bottle of Listerine costs 5€90. After the conversion, that's about $1 short of ridiculous. And Neosporin? Non-existent. Luckily, I was able to squeeze out just enough French to tell the pharmacist that I want a cream or ointment for cuts. He rang up - without telling me the price - a box of "wound cream," or at least, that's how I translated it. 6€20 for what turned out to be a little box with tiny little packets of first aid ointment...

I brought it home and tried it out. It's less gooey than Neosporin, and doesn't leave the areas shiny. That's a plus. We'll see if my jawline breaks out tomorrow, but so far I've done the math and realized that - for once - gram for gram, this stuff costs a lot less than antiseptic ointments at home. SCORE!!

I also finally got my Métro pass in order. It took a while, but I finally found a photo booth that actually wanted to accept my money, as well as had the right amount in more-or-less correct change to feed one of the few automated ticket booths that accepts cash. Long story short, I now have a Carte Orange Mensuelle loaded up on my Carte Navigo, and will no longer look like a bumbling tourist looking for my Métro tickets when I get on the train. Instead, I just swipe my card over the sensor and off I go! I've got one of these bad boys (called "Oyster") for London, as well. Why the hell is the US lagging so far behind in these affairs?

Last but not least, I walked over to an SFR store. While I'm not a big fan of UK's Vodafone (who own SFR, and half of the bow-down-to-the-Bush-administration Verizon in the US), their pre-paid phones and plans seemed a much better value than those offered by France Telecom's Orange. Though I usually do my political voting with my pocketbook, I'm still in scrimp n' save mode, which means I occasionally have to sacrifice my principles.

And scrimp and save, I shall. Despite going for the cheaper option, I'll only marginally be saving money over my overseas roaming rate on my US cell phone... the big savings come in SMS messages, which thankfully have caught on like wildfire back home in the last year or two. So unlike everyone else in Paris, I will not be walking around yakking on my mobile anytime I'm not eating, drinking, or heatedly "discussing" politics. Nay, I'll be the cheapskate guarding his airtime, actually looking up to take in the beauty, sights, and sounds of the city.

Morning Rush II

I got into work half an hour later than usual this morning...

Partially because I had to buy a new carnet of Métro tickets (I still have to hunt down a station where I can buy a non-French credit card holder monthly pass) and couldn't find a ticket window. I eventually found a machine that accepts notes and was on my way... but then the good ol' Ligne 13 got stuck in the tubes not once, not twice, but THREE times.

Following my theme of finding pleasure in the typically displeasurable, though, let's just say the view across from me was absolutely magnifique.

Crap, I think my wife reads this blog...

Morning Rush

Long have I longed for a real transit system. My former commute from San Francisco to San Jose and back on CalTrain was - despite its comfort - long and inconvenient. Within San Francisco, the only smooth part of the commute was the underground portion of the Muni Metro, running beneath Market Street, only to resurface and deal with traffic for most of its route.

With every trip overseas (except maybe Costa Rica, where nothing but freight moves by rail), I was green with envy at the big cities' transit systems. London's tube. Sydney's train. Barcelona's metro. Tokyo's subway. Even Prague's trams. And of course, the Paris Métro.

I romanticized these systems, looking even at other US cities like DC, Portland and New York City with emerald eyes, pining for days where a car - or even a bicycle - would not be necessary. I was puzzled why such progressive cities like San Francisco and Los Angeles couldn't, despite billions of dollars spent, put together a halfway decent transit system that ran regularly and - god forbid - on time.

The question is, now that I live in one of these fabled cities with good public transit, would I actually appreciate it during that most magic (or tragic) of times... Rush hour!

I'm a bit of a sado-masochist when it comes to creating test cases - blame it on the years I spent doing Quality Assurance engineering - so with my morning toast, I had no fewer than 3 cups of coffee. I'd just chugged the third before walking down about five minutes to the Bastille Métro station.

Bastille's a bit out of the way - Voltaire is much closer to me - but it's on the Ligne 1, which means it has newer, faster cars, meaning I can make it to my correspondance with the hideously slow and clunky Ligne 13 a little bit more smoothly and comfortably, right?

Wrong!

Ligne 1 westbound happens to terminate at La Défense, the massive "business suburb" occupied by the skyscrapers and headquarters of many a multi-national corporation. Unfortunately (for me) about half of Paris proper's 2 million inhabitants work there. Or so it seems from my experience getting on the Métro this morning, crammed tightly in... not quite akin to Tokyo's legendary subway stuffing, but tight enough that when the train takes off from each stop, you can still stay upright without hanging on to a handrail.

Fortunately, I start my commute a few stops further east than the biggest portion of people on the Ligne 1, business-types who work in La Défense (read: overpaid expats who live in the Marais or around the Champs Elysées). So at least I get on the train. I may be packed in like one of many black-coated sardines (it's a requirement for the morning commute in Paris to be wearing a black coat, no matter your line of work) but I can look out with extreme glee - nay, schadenfreude - at the MBAs who live and work in America Lite™, left behind on the platform to wait for the next train.

By the time I make my correspondance to Ligne 13 - arguably Paris' worst Métro line - the shoddy, slower, older cars are actually a breath of fresh air. There's room to sit, put down my bag, and actually tap my foot to the beat on the iPod.

And make it to work without my bladder bursting and leaking 3 cups of coffee all over RATP property.

Through my commute I've learned that the Métro is reflective of Paris itself. It's not always the newest, most modern, or slickest things that hold the most appeal. A lot of times, it's the battered, run down, worse-for-the-wear parts that end up being preferable.

That said, I still wish they'd replace the Ligne 13 cars with the newer ones. Or ones that don't smell quite so much.