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lots of luggage and took a taxi between the overground stations. This is my first time on the metro. I find myself temporarily walking against the flow of commuters. I must have misread a sign and entered at the wrong entrance. I don’t know. I’m confused. I retrace my steps and see the ticket office. I have rehearsed my lines from the phrase book and taken notice of its advice. I ask for a
carnet
of tickets. Now I have ten small rectangles of green cardboard and I am ready to use the first one in the automatic ticket machine. I watch the lady in front of me and copy the procedure. It is easy and I am now a commuter in Paris.
    The labyrinthine passages through which I must venture at the Bastille seem shabby and dimly lit. I am jostled by the crowd, which is moving with me and I take care to protect the mandolin by holding the flat top of the case close to the front of my body. My body feels weary and my legs ache, even though I have spent most of the day sitting. This is a low point in the day. I hear in my mind all the complaints and lamentations of my friends who have to cope everyday with the underground at home. I decide that underground train travel certainly is the worst kind of travel in the world, and that I am probably on the worst underground system in the world. I have forgotten all the grim stations at home.
    Just as I am being assaulted by this deluge of negativity, I step onto what must certainly be one of the most beautiful underground platforms in the world. I am stunned first by the shaft of natural light and then by the breathtaking views of the harbour with all its moored boats down below. To one side of the water’s edge, a vibrant market is in progress. All this is visible because one side of the platform tunnel is exposed above ground and is covered by glass. I could wait forever for the train, so entertaining are the comings and goings down below. I am right over someone’s houseboat. I have a privileged view of a little slice of Parisian life through this glass and it reminds me of watching exotic reptiles in the reptile house at the zoo. My thoughts are interrupted by a turquoise train, which might have emanated from the pages of a Tintin cartoon.
    At
Gare du Lyon,
I head for a new looking development of subterranean shops and restaurants. I find the restaurant we had eaten in during the previous spring. It is an unpretentious establishment and I feel a sense of security knowing that I have visited it on an earlier occasion. I am also encouraged by knowing that they cook quite an acceptable French version of pizza. I am nourished by a pizza
forestiere
, which is topped by ham, mushrooms and an egg. I have a window seat and as I quietly sip my mineral water, I watch, from the safe haven of my table, anxious commuters hurrying along outside. I also have a salad and then a coffee. I take as long as I can over my meal. I read the menu three times, translating all the words I am able to, and I watch the progress of the other customers, listening carefully to the spoken language. I am comforted by the food and warmth of the restaurant. Eventually I am unable to waste any further time having a leisurely supper and I pay my bill, remembering to take advantage of the ladies’ room before departing.
    It is half past six and I have about an hour and a half before the departure of my train to Italy. I am at a loose end and find myself wandering aimlessly. I look in the windows of some of the shops. There is a wonderful chocolate shop. I feel as if I am on automatic pilot. The pleasure of window shopping eludes me. There seems nowhere suitable to sit down and rest so I am trying to occupy myself by looking at the shops. Normally I enjoy window shopping, but now my eyes seem glazed over. I have seen so many images flashing past me during the course of the day and it is probably only natural that I should feel tired. I long for a comfortable, inconspicuous chair where I can sit down and relax,