Katie O’Donnell: Tales from the Métro

Prior to moving to Toulouse, public transport was not my friend. Growing up in the isolation of North East Fife, my social life was dependent on the temperamental 96A (R.I.P.), trundling along every two hours/when it felt like it on public holidays/not at all if there was more than a centimetre of snow on the ground. Needless to say that when I finally passed my driving test (fourth time lucky) I put the key in the ignition and never looked back.

Now, for the first time in my life, I live in a place with frequent, reliable and cheap public transport. For the first few weeks life was a breeze. That was before I became aware of the completely bizarre behaviour that only seems to be acceptable on the métro. Turns out I had a lot more to learn than how to tell if it’s socially acceptable to offer somebody your seat (pregnant or too many patisseries?)

My first lesson in “métro etiquette” (as I like to call it in my ever-increasing franglais vocabulary) was a bit of a shocker. I was practising my “indifferent métro face” when I noticed an unmistakeable black, metallic, GUN-SHAPED object out of the corner of my eye. I panicked, as the hooded gentleman passed said object to his 4-year-old son. Was I about to witness one of the most heinous crimes imaginable? The boy examined the gun, took aim at an elderly man seated by the door and fired – *click*. No blood, no screams, just hearty laughter and “what an adorable little scamp” comments. Lesson learned: pretend shootings are just a novel form of commuter entertainment, and toy guns are a completely acceptable traveller accessory.

Lesson number two was an introduction to the not-so-subtle art of métro flirtation. It was the 6pm rush hour, and everybody was in each other’s faces. Someone tapped my friend Hayden on the shoulder. The man wedged uncomfortably between Hayden’s back and the door was proudly brandishing a love letter typed on the screen of his phone: “you are beautiful”. Hayden gestured at me, but the target was clear – the note was intended for him. The man remained intimately close until we could make our escape into the crowds of the next station. With a proposal like that I don’t know how Hayden managed to drag himself away.

Finally, I experienced the métro snack. Personally I’m not one for eating on public transport. I’m a self-confessed germophobe, and after the whole ‘Women Who Eat on Tubes’ fiasco it has even less appeal. I don’t disapprove of a cheeky cereal bar or packet of crisps, but this lady took the biscuit (sorry). Of course I’m talking about the lady WHO ATE A CHEESE on the métro. No I haven’t forgotten how to speak English; she ate A ROUND OF CHEESE, on a busy train, in the 26 degree summer heat. Perhaps the most French of all métro experiences, but also the most repulsive. I have since acquired a bicycle.