Three Paris Stories

Drama and stories are all around you. Images. Ideas. Snippets of conversation. It's all there and it's all material. Here are three little scenes – examples of the joys of observation.

1. The Shoe Tier
The Paris Metro is full of all sorts. To mention the weirdos would be like mentioning the smell. It's a given. Weirdos are to public transit what ham is to cheese. And pissing in the stations just goes with the territory.

I remember one day when I lived in Toronto, a drug-addled woman made her way down the aisles fixing us one by one with her weird vacant stare, asking 'Can you spare me two dollars?' And yesterday two Middle Eastern men got on the train, turned on a really loud and dated backbeat and started rapping. Well, the older one started rapping. The younger one just stood there, looking tough but embarrassed. The older one shoved a cup in his hand and made him go up and down the aisle collecting change. They got off at the next stop, rolling their sound system behind them.

But today was the Shoe Tier. He was nearing forty but had a youthful sense, like a person who had never grown up. He breathed heavily, working under some immense but invisible strain and his face dripped with sweat. He spent the better part of five minutes just methodically wiping and wiping his face. He was wearing two coats and I couldn't help but think that taking them off might have helped, but I stayed silent.

He wore shoes with large velcro flaps over the laces and when he stuck one leg straight out and bent forward a strange and violent scar was visible on the back of his head. No hair grew around the scar, emphasizing its shocking whiteness even more. He slowly, awkwardly untied his shoe lace and then slowly, awkwardly re-tied it. His hands had trouble with the whole ordeal. As though they refused to move the way his brain told them.

After he was finished one shoe, he moved on to the next, breathing heavily and sweating away. The same painful ordeal followed and by the end, most of the passengers in the train were watching him. His task had compelled us all. I think we all sensed that this shoe tying was part of some larger, more profound journey.

He picked up the magazine that had slipped out of his overfull plastic bag. With the same awkward, methodical movement, he turned the page. He had underlined most of the article and made notes in the margins. He leaned back, closed his eyes and sighed.

2. Petit Palais
I sat outside the gallery, working my way through a not-so-great sandwich, while eavesdropping vaguely on the couple sharing the bench. While I was sitting there, he arrived apologetic and late. Now, it appeared, he needed to make her laugh to make up for it. A chauffeur waited beside a pristine black Benz, bending to brush the grime from the gleaming tire rims.

I didn't notice the two limos pull up, and when the group of them moved happily towards the ornate staircase, I noticed him. He lagged behind them, only it seemed intentional. As though he was watching, making notes. I thought, when I looked at his too-perfect madras shirt tucked into his too-perfect khakis, that he seemed like the control freak college boyfriend of one of the elder daughters. His blondish hair was in a pseudo-military flattop and he wore sunglasses.

He also wore a giant backpack, which I noted with a smirk. They'd never let him through with that thing. And that's when I noticed his ear piece. The transparent coil tucked behind his ear, descending into some kind of receiver. Mr. Control Freak Boyfriend was a bodyguard.

I looked quickly at his charges, wondering if they were celebrities. The blond woman smiled and flashed perfect teeth, but looked more royalty than Hollywood. I imagined them to be a Swiss diplomat's family or Princess Something from Somewhere. They breezed up the stairs and the bodyguard hoisted his backpack and followed them. I kept watching.

A man wearing a long coat stood sentry on the steps. He fiddled with his cell phone and it struck me that these highly trained combat-ready professionals really just stand around a lot and wait. That is the real skill set for a bodyguard: ability to do nothing for long periods of time. And to not talk, I imagine. To conceal one's profound boredom with a mask of surly intimidation.

The chauffeurs of the limos made sure the Royal Whoevers were in the building before turning on their stereo and pulling out sandwiches. I kept an eye on the staircase. I couldn't imagine Bodyguard submitting to the indignity of a bag check. The backpack was probably full of plastic explosives, high-tech surveillance equipment and more than one gun.

He came running out moments later. He sprinted towards the limos and the drivers stood up in an effort to look professional. He unloaded the backpack, put his sunglasses back on and ran back up the stairs, probably thinking, 'Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!' It was a rough start to his bodyguarding day. I wonder if his charges were still alive when he got back.

3. The Maboro Men
One of the entrances to the nearest Metro, Barbes-Rochechouart, is lined with African men. They say a word that sounds like 'Maboro' over and over and over again: Maboro. Maboro. Maboro. They sound like the market vendors that gather to the same station on Wednesdays and Saturdays calling out 'Un Euro' over and over, trying to entice the thronging crowds to their stalls. Although I have a feeling the Maboro men are selling something more illicit.

I've been trying to figure out what Maboro means for 24 days.

Coming down from Metro Line 2, elevated high above the street, I noticed people reaching through the bars, exchanging things with the dealers who stand just outside the station. The people, on their way home from work, make their way to Barbes, buy their drugs without leaving the station, get back on the train and go home.

I saw a stylish 50-something couple buy what appeared to be packs of cigarettes. The other day, it was an African woman who looked profoundly sad as she palmed the white packet.

The stairs from the station to the street are full of these guys, at least twenty every time I've passed. Maboro. Maboro. It's like a chant, a mantra. At the base of the stairs is a newspaper stand. There, older men lean in lines presiding over sales with their brown folded skin and brown folded arms.

Today, though, the Maboros were silent. No dealers stood at the gates and nobody reached through the bars, grasping for powdered relief. The men were still standing around, but they looked falsely casual.

As I left the station, I understood why. Four police officers jostled towards the entrance, wearing kevlar vests and holding back a muzzled and anxious German shepherd who strained at his leash.

The crackdown made me convinced that Maboro was the Tunisian word for crack or meth. Something horrible and highly illegal. I was sure the people of Paris were ruining their lives with their five o'clock detours to Barbes-Rochechouart. I searched the internet for some kind of translation, spelling this mysterious word every way I could think of. Moboro. Mabaro. Mabodo. Nothing. And then, finally, it dawned on me.

Marlboro. Marlboro. Marlboro.