SOMETHINGS UNPLEASANT

Here is a story or so about living here:

At Saint Denis, one of our class locations, there are two Norwegian girls who teach, but they aren't with OM. Unni and Carrie-Helen.

Well today the three of us were walking though the tunnel to the train when the staircase in front of us erupted with shouts and a man fell head-first onto the floor. Almost into our laps. His head hit the tiles and the rest of his body slumped down the steps beside it, all twisted. My first impression was that he must be dead; I did not feel well myself.

The man was breathing, however; he looked drunk and he was bleeding from the head... we knew not to move him, so all we could do was keep the flood of people from stepping on him. Nobody seemed to know what to do. They would pause and, seeing that we were standing there, assume that everything was taken care of. Someone finally called an ambulance and the health workers arrived and shooed us away, and I could never be a nurse, and I hope I never hear that sick thump of a human body again.

That poor man.

Unni said as we got onto our train, Well girls, the first thing we all do when we get home is look up the right numbers to call.

Also, continuing in public transportation:

Often when you are walking through the metro you hear musicians. One or two man shows playing harmonicas, violins, guitars, saxophones, singing for tips in front of advertisements of clothes, movies, and museums. They are usually quite good, and it's nice to hear music down there in the dregs of the city.

About a week ago Katie and I got onto the train and found ourselves standing in front of this very old man, probably in his 80's, playing his heart out on a violin-- and not very well. He obviously enjoyed it, though. The train was packed with people, all acutely aware of his presence there, and all of us scrambling for our change when he finished the song.

Most of you probably know this, but I love old people. I love them. Him especially. He was as tall as my shoulder, shuffling up and down the isle holding out a tiny cup for money and smiling at us through his wrinkles and saggy eyelids. I wanted to cry. No one deserves to beg on a train.