I will do this. I will conquer the Paris Metro at last. 40 years ago, I spent the better part of three days being lost during my first metro experience, wondering why the French didn’t name their stops after famous sites or at least roads. I didn’t realize I needed to know the names of the end stops of each line so that I’d proceed in the right direction. I did know how to return to the station Roquefort Dressing, near the City University where I was sleeping on the roof of the City University of Paris while visiting my college buddy Wat.
Now I know this, know Roquefort Dressing as Denfert Rochereau, and hope I’ll be able to find that spot on Sunday when I meet some Serene Lakes friends in the Luxembourg Gardens for brunch.
Today, I’ll take the olive/rust line 3 to Republique, change to the orange 5 line to Gare d’Austerlitz, then change to the amber 10 line where after 19 stops, I’ll disembark at Porte d’Auteuil and walk to the French Open.
Flaneur - strolling and people-watching - this will be my word for the day.
To quote Voltaire’s Pangloss, today Paris was “the best of all possible worlds.” I predicted my commute would take an hour and waited until 10:00 a.m. to leave, hoping the Metro would not be as crowded with commuters. I had a seat during the entire journey. I did not get lost once on the way there, remembering which direction I needed to take for each leg on each line. Yes, there were many more stairs than I wanted to climb, and I ended the day with over 15,000 steps. But I walked into the Roland Garros stadium right after the 11:00 a.m. matches started.
I was afraid that not having tickets on my non-existent phone would prevent me from entering, but the customer service was outstanding, from the first trouble-shooting young woman to the head of ticketing in a special room. Not only did he reproduce my ticket, he helped me change my account password and gave me an insider’s map of the grounds and a printed schedule of play, since I couldn’t pull it up on my phone.
I stumbled upon a young American playing in the juniors tournament. Katerina Penickova was playing #3 Laura Samson from the Czech Republic in the semi-finals. After being down 1-4 in the second set, she rallied back to win that set and force a third and deciding set. She lost that battle, but it was a very close match, 6-4. I couldn’t believe the power and shotmaking of those two under-18s and I’m sure I’ll be able to say, “I saw them when” in the near future.
According to my printed schedule, John McEnroe was due to play in the Legends tournament in the second largest stadium, Suzanne Lenglen. For 12 euros, my grounds pass meant I could enter any court except Phillipe Chartier, so I walked in, grabbed a set in the shade, and watched Mac, and another lefty French star, Henri Lacoste, play Michael Chang and Giles Simon, two right-handlers. What a dream come true. Mac threw a racket and a temper tantrum, and everybody loved it.
Outside of the big stadium, several hundred chairs were set up in front of a big screen. I bought a beer and a Mediterranean salad, pulled up a square of grass, sat on my jacket, and watched Carlos Alvarez play Sinner from Italy. Great first two sets, then I decided to explore more Paris public transportation on my way back. I took a fourth line to Trocadero, got off of the Metro, hoping to recreate a picture from 40 years ago when I sat next to the fountain with my feet inside.
Then I discovered all of the fountains were covered up and a stadium was being constructed for the Olympics. I was able to cross the bridge after taking an Eiffel Tower shot, buy a ticket to the Batobus boat taxi, and enjoy a 45-minute ride down the Seine to the final stop at Quai St. Bernard. There, I remembered the Jardin des Plantes, the first garden I had seen in 1984, and walked around the entry part. From there, a ten minute walk back to Gare d’Austerlitz to join evening commuters. I managed the rides, but never had a chance to sit down. It was as if we were playing “how many humans can fit into one Metro car.” Tempers were boiling, I stuffed my purse down my shirt, and made it to the Rue St. Maur stop without a hitch. Oh, I couldn’t wait to put my feet up and check on my little black and white bird.
My white jeans? Not a smudge!!!
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