Paris Metro

My heart beats faster on Le Métro, ligne 12

Paris Metro
Station: Marx Dormoy, mon amour.

Le Métro de Paris connects the city. Step in, step out. Go ahead and jump the turnstile if you dare. Run away from les contrôleurs, don’t look back. Unless you have somebody waiting, running behind you. Then always look back.

As it turns out, the person I ended up staying with gave me the keys to all of Paris…


Breathe girl. Ok, you just got fired. It’s fine, no big deal. Oh god. No, big deal. Very big deal. Shit! this bag is heavy. What did I pack? Who on earth packs their entire wardrobe before they move to Paris? An idiot, that’s who. Oh look, a rat. Oh. Big rat. At least he isn’t looking at me, unlike these Métro-goers who clearly don’t want to help a girl or her wardrobe up 2 flights of stairs climbing what seems to be all of France.

Passing glances and les glares didn’t help the fact that I realized at that very moment drinking cocktails, writing fairytales, or applying Dior Addict (often) with the same arm gives you zero upper body strength.

That’s right Mr. Man, out of my way, homeless girl trying to lug her entire life up and down Saint Lazare station coming through.

The train sped past, but I knew the route by heart. One good thing made up for these charmingly pitiliess French people catching the 7 o’clock train, direction Porte de la Chapelle, and that was the blessed fact that trains in France’s capital come about every 2 minutes. So curious Claude over here would be soon gone, through the marble arches of underground Paris. And so would I.

He was waiting for me at the end of the line, the boy I had met only weeks ago by chance. Past Marché de l’Olive, I thought, and past the bakery at the corner, where I buy paper cups of hot coffee because he only has instant café.  

But between the way he sleepily makes it in the morning and the light blue of his apartment walls, it’s captivating anyway.

I see the signs though the train moves too quickly for me to read them. But I knew them, like a refrain.


Lamarck, Jules Joffrin. Marcadet…something I can’t pronounce. Almost there.

My heart was beating faster on Le Métro ligne 12, and no, it wasn’t just because I was heaving around my entire wardrobe.


Catch up with the the story, Homeless in Paris

Pleats and KeatsBLOGLOVIN’



11 thoughts on “My heart beats faster on Le Métro, ligne 12”

  1. It makes me so happy that someone with so much talent as you, would praise my writing. I really can’t wait to read more of Homeless in Paris. The descriptions of the metro and people reminds me so much of my time spent in the city of lights. I was born there and it’s an unforgettable place! Thank you so much for visiting my blog and please keep writing!!! All the best- Ses

    Liked by 1 person

    1. wow- what a truly kind thing to say. I appreciate it so much! writing in such a public space is still really new to me. Please keep writing yourself, and keep in touch. I think your opinions, perception, and understanding of injustices in our world (especially for us gals) are really relevant to our society today. much love!

      Liked by 1 person

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