I have a choice of three different ways to get to work using the public transport system. I like to mix it up a bit, to keep my brain mildly occupied by a sneaking suspicion I probably should’ve chosen one of the other two that morning.
I most often take the RER, a regional rail system that extends a good distance to the surrounding Ile-de-France areas. I can generally get a seat (though, sometimes it’s puzzlingly packed to the doors, and I’ve not yet discovered the causes of these random fluctuations) and it’s a lot nicer than the metro which is generally like a tin of sardines – packed to the brim, and funny-smelling.
Sometimes, if the timing is right, I take the bus instead of the metro for the last section of my daily commute. There’s hardly anyone on this particular section, and I can have a nice warm seat, breathe and read whatever book I’m engrossed in (with said book at normal distance from my nose rather than pressed up against my face).
While I wait for the bus, midway between the hellish stretch of road that links La Defense with L’Arc de Triomphe, I amuse myself watching the morning flow of vehicles where traffic merges at a horrific intersection. When I say ‘merges’, those cars can get themselves into such a tight crossweave that D&G could probably sew a garment out of it.
There’s quite often a couple of traffic police in place to do the work that a set of traffic lights can no longer manage. I love to watch them whistling, pointing, waggling their white-gloved hands at naughty motorists. And I love to watch the motorists who, much in the way of children playing ‘freeze’, try and creep through unnoticed every time the white-hands and whistles turn their backs. But they do a great job, considering the stunts drivers try and pull off even with the traffic police in full view (sometimes you’ve just got to give them points for sheer inventiveness).
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