Creative Nonfiction: Metro Sonata

This is a memoir-style nonfiction assignment I completed for my Creative Writing class inspired by a snippet of my semester abroad.

“Porte Maillot!”

The disembodied, singsong voice of the Parisian Metro system reverberated through the crowded car, at last announcing my stop.

“Porte Maillot!”

I scooped up my bag and rose quickly, stumbling slightly as the train screeched to a halt. When the doors slid open, I followed the sea of suave, impeccably dressed Parisians on to the platform, standing up straight in a vain attempt to emulate the air of almost impossible coolness they exuded. Despite the French University student I.D. card in my wallet and my new address on Rue Peirrere in Western Paris, I couldn’t possibly have felt less French.

I had come to Paris a few days earlier, anxious to start what I thought would be a relatively quick assimilation process given my French heritage and exhaustive studies of the country's language and culture. I had imagined myself sitting in one of those iconic Parisian cafes, sipping a café au lait and reading some deeply symbolic work of literature while I casually tapped the ash off the end of my cigarette. Perhaps I would be joined by an exotic looking Frenchman and some scintillating conversation would ensue (en francais, of course). No one would ask where I was from or respond to my fluidly posed inquiries with disjointed English; they would simply assume I was Paris born and bred.

Much to my dismay, I found myself stuck firmly in the role of etrangere - had become the very tourist at which I had rolled my eyes so many times as I weaved through the throngs of camera-toting foreigners on my way to work in Times Square. Far from the chic Parisienne of my imagination, I was the puzzle piece that accidentally got into the wrong box – the unidentifiable bit of green that so clearly doesn’t fit with the blues and grays of the cityscape.

Keeping pace with the crowd, I continued on my way to the exit. Just before the stairs, a violinist was setting up a music stand. The performer was certainly a far cry from the striped-shirted, beret-sporting accordion player I had imagined would be ubiquitous in my new home city. A puffy brown winter coat entirely covered the figure, obscuring any suggestion of a shape. A gray wool hat and a flesh-colored eye patch shrouded the hair and face. After much consideration, I decided it was utterly impossible to determine whether this performer was male or female. This was certainly a stark contrast from the usual dainty women clad in trendy skirts and scarves and dapper men in tailored suits that formed the almost uniform pieces of the Parisian puzzle. Intrigued by the arresting eccentricity of the scene, I waited as the performer dutifully prepared. The musician shuffled through a scattered pile of sheet music, placed some on the stand, lifted the violin, and gingerly placed the bow on the strings.

The resulting sound was unlike any I had ever heard. It somewhat resembled the cry of a wounded animal. Or the noise a knife makes when one overzealously scratches it against his plate. Each frenzied stroke of the bow emitted a staccato squeal. A stabbing squeak. A note that sliced into my eardrums with overwhelming force. The shrill whines slashed at the alter of refined perfection, of unblemished artistry, that the French hold to be so sacred.

Actively restraining myself from covering my ears in an attempt to block out the grating sound waves, I couldn’t help but smile. If there was room in the puzzle for this vivid splash of red, perhaps I could find my place after all.