We have been in both the London Tube and the Paris Metro in the last three weeks and have noticed some striking differences. First of all the trains in the Tube are really busy. Jammed, usually, during busy hours and fairly heavy the rest of the time. . it stands to reason because they only run once every five minutes or so.
In Paris the trains run every three minutes almost precisely and the trains are rarely so busy that you can’t sit down if you really want to . . I always try to ignore the blockheads who offer me their seat because of their wrong-headed predisposition that gray haired, wrinkly faced, doddering gentlemen are too fragile to stand up in a train. Although, I must admit that I almost took a header trying to lift a woman’s suitcase exiting an airplane. . . the plane must have moved 😊 .
In Paris the trains are used by everyone, young, old, all races, with suitcases, inebriated, singing, puppeteering, a grand mixture. The tube in London is rarely used by older citizens. It is too uncomfortable. I am not particularly claustrophobic, but the only two times in my life that I have felt anxiety from being crushed in a crowd was in the London Tube. You cannot literally move your body or your arms or legs. The last time, yesterday, I was being crushed against the side of the train and could not move. I can’t imagine what would have happened if I weren’t so young and virile.
In Paris the trains allow you to have mobility regardless of your age or infirmity. In London the train trips are more of a survival experience. This is in part due to the fact that the Tube’s tracks are perhaps 30 or 40 feet underground on average . . the Covent Garden tube line is 15 stories underground! In Paris it is usually 10 or 15 feet . . . and, of course, Parisians openly offer to carry down or support the infirmed, who just stop at the top of the stairs.
Now this time in the Tube, some blockhead offered to carry my bags up the stairs in the Holloway Station. I thanked him and just chuckled as I swooped up my bags and leaped up the spiral staircase. Then I realized that the staircase was 50 feet high. I had to stop about five times to make it up with our bags. I wasn’t chuckling then. As a matter of fact I thought I was going to die. Another young man offered to help me to the exit. I would have chuckled . . . if I could have.