STOP PISSING! WE'RE GOING TO SNEEZE NOW.
Holy Moly, this has got to be the most WTF moment EVER.
SO, Cathy and I are on our way to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Metro station ... everything's going smoothly. She's pretty much put her pretty little feet down and declared that we're "going on top of something" and that's pretty much that. We go through the M10 to the M4 to get to the M1, at the Chatelet Station, one of the largest stations in Paris. In fact, the acoustics in the centre are so intense and compact, it's not unusual to see small orchestral performance troupes in place where the lines meet, full of violins and violas and cellos and bass. It's a concert hall in miniature, busy busy busy, in a white-tiled tube veering off in all directions with blue and white signs hanging from the ceilings and hundreds and hundreds of people pushing past and through and then there are some that are stopping and taking pictures and staring and just leaning against the walls and listening to the Bach and relaxing.
This is one of those stations. It has the acoustics, and the small orchestral troupes know it. It's fucking wonderful, if you ask me. SO.
We make our way to the M1 headed to La Victoire. We enter near the tracks, and glance at the Approaching Train Clock -- 3 minutes until the next one. Loud voices are heard. Cathy's usual manoeuvre is to just go to the centre of the station; that way your just as close to one exit as another. So we didn't really pay too much attention to the shouting. At first.
I have to say - and I don't mean any disrespect to the lovely French people out there - that when I hear French people arguing heatedly, there's something about the tone and the rhythm of the language that just doesn't register completely with me. So, when people in France are having blow-out disagreements, they sound kind of comical, for the most part. However, this exchange was pretty fucking intense. It was one that that was impossible to ignore. We by then had gotten to the centre of the tube, and it was then that we were able to discern the source of the argument!
I thought it was an odd confrontational group; a single yuppie kid and two older craggy wino-guys, next to the Orangina drink-machine, were really getting into it! Over what, I still don't know, and probably won't for the rest of my days. But man oh man, they were screaming at each other! Or at least the yuppie kid was. I think the wino dudes were just screaming back at him. But the little yuppie guy just wouldn't let whatever the fuck it was go -- he continued to scream, and then he gave a hauling push to the older and portlier of the gents de vin, who slammed into the vending machinge with a loud *WHUMP!* At this point people started to spread out from the ruckus and everybody started to stare. I glanced at the ATC - 1 minute left! Then the pushed dude's friend grabbed the yupster by the scruff of the neck and butted him violently in the head, which sounded in those brilliant acoustics like a successful break in a game of billiards!
The young man did not go down alone. He staggered back a bit, and then just THREW himself at the elderly head-butter. They both slammed into the innocent Orangina machine -- making a much larger *WHUMP* sound -- and then went to the floor like seasoned wrestlers.
It was an ugly fight. Maybe the monsieur de vin was drunk or something, because he didn't really seem like he was fighting back all that hard: The callous youngster was on top and just pounding his face in with blow after blow! I looked about for one of those yellow telephones to call the Metro chef de police, and Cathy just nervously held my arm. That's when the Fightin French started to roll towards the tracks. A quick glance up at the ATC, and the clock went down from 1:00 to a flashing 0:00! The wind from the approaching train began to waft through the station with just a little bit more urgency.
The guys were fighting with a bit more urgency, too! Actually, they were tussling pretty hard-core right next to the dimpled pavement at the edge of the platform! The light of the train was approaching, and the little yuppie scum person pushed himself away from the ruckus! The train came out of the tunnel, and when the yupster tried to depart his situation with the wino, his legs were grabbed. His arms flailed about as he lost his balance!
I swear to God, I really and truly thought I was going to be witness to a grisly Parisian underground death. I really did! The train wasn't even 50 meters from him, and he was beginning to fall -- a woman somewhere let out a muffled shriek, and a pretty hard gasp was preparing itself from my heart (which was in my throat, by the way!). The little dude's eyes got pretty fucking big, and I think maybe he was wondering to himself if fucking with those two winos was worth paying his life for, to be honest!
Well, he managed to fall forwards instead of back, and landed on the platform. The train pulled up next to them, the doors opened, Cathy and I quickly joined the flux of people pouring into it, and then the doors closed. We moved on.
That was a strange afternoon, it was.
SO, Cathy and I are on our way to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Metro station ... everything's going smoothly. She's pretty much put her pretty little feet down and declared that we're "going on top of something" and that's pretty much that. We go through the M10 to the M4 to get to the M1, at the Chatelet Station, one of the largest stations in Paris. In fact, the acoustics in the centre are so intense and compact, it's not unusual to see small orchestral performance troupes in place where the lines meet, full of violins and violas and cellos and bass. It's a concert hall in miniature, busy busy busy, in a white-tiled tube veering off in all directions with blue and white signs hanging from the ceilings and hundreds and hundreds of people pushing past and through and then there are some that are stopping and taking pictures and staring and just leaning against the walls and listening to the Bach and relaxing.
This is one of those stations. It has the acoustics, and the small orchestral troupes know it. It's fucking wonderful, if you ask me. SO.
We make our way to the M1 headed to La Victoire. We enter near the tracks, and glance at the Approaching Train Clock -- 3 minutes until the next one. Loud voices are heard. Cathy's usual manoeuvre is to just go to the centre of the station; that way your just as close to one exit as another. So we didn't really pay too much attention to the shouting. At first.
I have to say - and I don't mean any disrespect to the lovely French people out there - that when I hear French people arguing heatedly, there's something about the tone and the rhythm of the language that just doesn't register completely with me. So, when people in France are having blow-out disagreements, they sound kind of comical, for the most part. However, this exchange was pretty fucking intense. It was one that that was impossible to ignore. We by then had gotten to the centre of the tube, and it was then that we were able to discern the source of the argument!
I thought it was an odd confrontational group; a single yuppie kid and two older craggy wino-guys, next to the Orangina drink-machine, were really getting into it! Over what, I still don't know, and probably won't for the rest of my days. But man oh man, they were screaming at each other! Or at least the yuppie kid was. I think the wino dudes were just screaming back at him. But the little yuppie guy just wouldn't let whatever the fuck it was go -- he continued to scream, and then he gave a hauling push to the older and portlier of the gents de vin, who slammed into the vending machinge with a loud *WHUMP!* At this point people started to spread out from the ruckus and everybody started to stare. I glanced at the ATC - 1 minute left! Then the pushed dude's friend grabbed the yupster by the scruff of the neck and butted him violently in the head, which sounded in those brilliant acoustics like a successful break in a game of billiards!
The young man did not go down alone. He staggered back a bit, and then just THREW himself at the elderly head-butter. They both slammed into the innocent Orangina machine -- making a much larger *WHUMP* sound -- and then went to the floor like seasoned wrestlers.
It was an ugly fight. Maybe the monsieur de vin was drunk or something, because he didn't really seem like he was fighting back all that hard: The callous youngster was on top and just pounding his face in with blow after blow! I looked about for one of those yellow telephones to call the Metro chef de police, and Cathy just nervously held my arm. That's when the Fightin French started to roll towards the tracks. A quick glance up at the ATC, and the clock went down from 1:00 to a flashing 0:00! The wind from the approaching train began to waft through the station with just a little bit more urgency.
The guys were fighting with a bit more urgency, too! Actually, they were tussling pretty hard-core right next to the dimpled pavement at the edge of the platform! The light of the train was approaching, and the little yuppie scum person pushed himself away from the ruckus! The train came out of the tunnel, and when the yupster tried to depart his situation with the wino, his legs were grabbed. His arms flailed about as he lost his balance!
I swear to God, I really and truly thought I was going to be witness to a grisly Parisian underground death. I really did! The train wasn't even 50 meters from him, and he was beginning to fall -- a woman somewhere let out a muffled shriek, and a pretty hard gasp was preparing itself from my heart (which was in my throat, by the way!). The little dude's eyes got pretty fucking big, and I think maybe he was wondering to himself if fucking with those two winos was worth paying his life for, to be honest!
Well, he managed to fall forwards instead of back, and landed on the platform. The train pulled up next to them, the doors opened, Cathy and I quickly joined the flux of people pouring into it, and then the doors closed. We moved on.
That was a strange afternoon, it was.