I was already running a little late. And today, the 4 metro — the easiest way for me to get from my neighborhood in the 10th to SciencesPo in the 6th — was unfortunately broken.
Well, not broken. There was a problem with another train a few stations down the track, and the problem would be fixed “sans accune delai” (You don’t need a translation there, I hope).
Apparently, this wasn’t enough for most of the other passengers on the crowded train at midday. People started pouring out of the train cars and pushing their way to another line, hopping to catch another train that would take them closer to where they wanted to go.
I decided to follow suit, and jumped on the 7, which doesn’t exactly go to the 6th, but comes awfully close.
While on board, I consulted my ever useful Paris Pratique map, and discovered that the best thing for me to do in order to make my 12:30 class was to get off at the Pont Neuf station, run across the Louvre courtyard, hurdle over the Pont du Carrousel and run up Rue des Saints Pères to Boulevard Saint-Germain, where I would soon after come to the main SciencesPo building and my Media in Transition lecture.
I did this, sprinting in my tight, slightly-heeled Royal Oak, Michigan Salvation Army purchased dress shoes, feeling good but growing increasingly worried that some as yet unforeseen traffic problem or red light or slow-moving Parisian child would prevent my perfect, on the go plan to get to class from actually succeeding.
I did get to class on time, albeit a little sweaty and a tad bit ruffled.
But as I sat down, catching my breath and opening my school bag, I reflected on what I had just done.
In order to make my afternoon lecture at one of the best universities in France, I ran through the outer courtyard of the Palais du Louvre, sprinting past I.M. Pei’s controversial glass pyramid with the Arc du Triomphe just on the other end of the forced persecutive.
I dashed across the River Seine, glistening in the early spring afternoon sun and playing games with the reflection of the Notre Dame to my left.
I hurried up Boulevard Saint-Germain, dodging students and smokers and tourists alike, and made it to class on time.
It suddenly dawned on me that, despite my old ennui about my term here and my homesickness and my seeming poverty and my worry about grades and procrastination and declining work habits and future concerns and all of that wretched business, it is simply impossible to be truly unhappy in this city.
No matter how lousy things might seem, I am in Paris. So things can’t be that bad.
And they aren’t.
The Whether Man 