So, I'm on the 95 bus heading cross-town from my apartment, where I have spent the afternoon packing up many of my things for the official upcoming move. Although we'll be renting a small van to schlep most of the heavier and bulkier items, I've been transporting certain things myself using a small suitcase and a shopping bag from Champion in Day-Glo Pink. Today it was various small electronics, some scarves (you can never have too many in Paris), a few more pairs of shoes (again -- no such thing as too many), and my American pillow.
I manage to score a seat that will allow me to keep my baggage just in front of me without inconveniencing my fellow passengers. I decide to stay on the 95 all the way to Georges' quartier, preferring the scenic route to being trapped in the metro today, since the weather is so mild. The 95 is a great bus line as it slices right through the heart of Paris, and en route I spot many of the city's most recognizable landmarks: the phallic Tour Eiffel and the monolithic Tour Montparnasse; the Deux Magots and the church at Saint Germain-des-Prés; crossing the Seine with the Musée d'Orsay and the Grand Palais on my left, and Notre Dame and the Pont Neuf on my right; the Louvre and the Palais Royal; the stunning beauty of the Opéra; and the grands magasins of Printemps and Galeries Lafayette. It takes a bit longer to travel from point A to point B by the bus-only route, but on a beau day like today when I'm not in a rush, the views are infinitely preferable to getting there 10 minutes sooner.
There's only one problem with the voyage today. It's the man who gets on the bus somewhere around Pasteur and decides to sit next to me. He bears a somewhat scary resemblance to the méchant and portly grocer in Amélie Poulain, and he has some kind of nervous habit or condition that makes his leg twitch about every 7.5 seconds -- the leg that is unfortunately squeezed against mine from hip to knee. When you take public transportation in a city like Paris, you have to get used to unwelcome physical contact with strangers when things get crowded; and there is a very different concept of "personal space" here in Europe, I have learned. So it's bad enough that you have to sit thigh-to-thigh with a complete stranger, but one with a jumpy leg? Oh la la... get me outta here.
To top it off, the guy smells like... something unpleasant and odd. At first I can't put my finger on it. Oh, wait a minute, there it is. He smells like soup. And not a yummy soup, the type that reminds you of visiting your favorite grandmother, where the delicious aroma greets you at the door and makes you feel like you're home again. No, this man smells like a really bad soup. (For a moment I think, "Hell, maybe he is a surly green grocer in the 18ème, and he falls asleep in the choufleur every day.")
There's nothing much I can do unless I am prepared to give up my great seat, which I am not. I decide not to suffer alone, though. I send Georges a texto to share my sad tale of woe, knowing he will surely get a laugh out of it. He responds by threatening offering to make la soupe for dinner tonight. I am now getting so irritated with my neighbor that I am on the
verge of changing my travel plans by hopping off the bus and onto the metro at Saint Placide, when I am saved: Twitchy Soup Guy gets off at the stop just prior. After that, a succession of harmless senior citizens take that empty place, a desirable one on the aisle just near the doors. And I am able to enjoy the rest of my tour of Paris by city bus.
Alas, I am not one of the fortunates in Paris who can afford to hire a taxi to go everywhere they want, or to keep their own car in the city, so I am relegated to using public transportation. If only it wasn't quite so... public.
