It was a Friday evening, I was leaving work, and was in a mood of vague dissatisfaction. As I arrived at Esplanade de la Defense, I thought of the metro stops that were to come. Charles de Gaulle Etoile was going to be busy, and the transfer at Concorde was going to be busy. I thought about these underground tunnels, with their concrete floors and tiled walls and curved ceilings. I pass these stations all the time, and sometimes I forget what is above them. I decided to get off at Charles de Gaulle and take the bus instead. Seeing the Arc de Triomphe grounds me. Paris has a way of doing that, when you stop to observe and think about what you're seeing.
I was listening to a podcast and one of the speakers mentioned that we spend so much of our time alone. It made me wonder what other people do when they are alone, those little habits or routines that never get mentioned in conversation. I have spent hours removing pills and lint from my winter coat. I take out all my shirts from the dresser, refold them and stack them vertically in Marie Kondo style. The other day I put my spice bottles in bowls of water to more easily remove their labels. I make lists. Lists of books I have read, books I want to read, books to buy. Sometimes when it's cold, I turn on the heater, stand in front of it, and spend ten minutes looking at the metro map of Paris, memorizing the stations. I collect receipts to write lists on the back of them. I copy down phrases from books. Occasionally I write to others in full sentences. I try my best to leave the fragmented sentences and sentimental messes for myself.
In an Orwell essay, he wrote that he continued an ongoing story in his mind, a description of the things he was doing and the things he was seeing. This evoked a feeling of kinship and recognition within me, and I wondered if others do the same.
One time on the metro I saw a tall man lose his balance and bring his foot down hard on the foot of a girl. I expected anger. Instead the girl doubled over in pain and did not look at the man. He gave a brief apology and then it was over. Another time, a middle aged woman, round and inelegant, came into the car, carrying an old and dirty dog in her arms. She was sad and tired. She stroked the dog's head. The only times I have seen anyone look at their pet that way is when they are about to say goodbye. The car was crowded, every seat was occupied. After a couple of stops, a girl - skirt, heels, red lips - stood up, looked at the woman, and gave up her seat for the woman and her dog.