"First we strike, then we negotiate, then we strike again", my friend explained me the system of the French society when the third strike of my week there occured and I wondered aloud aren't they obliged to give out a warning first and take up negotiations. Well of course not, that's way too organized and unpassionate, so very Finnish indeed.
It wasn't so funny when my co-Finn in this circle of friends arrived to Paris, some days earlier than me and the train workers were on strike. My friends survived well since one of them was French, but the rest of the poor tourists taking the RER from Charles de Gaulle to the city of Paris were probably stroke too by their visit's shortness, when the train turned back from Gare du Nord and took them to the airport again. With no announcements, of course.
The comical aspect was more obvious one evening when we were watching TV and waiting for the national news broadcast. Finally we got the news, but it was from somewhere middle of nowhere, a place the French themselves didn't recognize, a regional news about how some road was being repaired again and a mayor of a small town proudly presenting the process. By the time of the weather forecast that was presented by no one we had figured out there must be a strike in the national television.
The third strike was on the morning of my leaving - the high school students. They were marching around the Bastille. "People here seem to like walking on streets", my friend concluded.
Once again I liked walking on the Parisian streets, too. Even though it was cold, colder than it had been so far in Finland either, and the wind was dry and almost arctic and there was even some snow, yet I liked the city more than ever. And I never get tired of being impressed by the breathe-taking grandness of Notre Dame cathedral, my favourite spot. We witnessed the Eiffel tower being frozen and most parks being closed due to the slippery ground. It was my first time there in the winter time and maybe it was the weather that made it even more home-like, this time Métros being the ones in which to seek for warmth instead of to escape from due to the suffocating hotness in July. And the music of Métro announcements that bring memories of European railway stations in summer...
And apparently, I look like a French. I was waiting on the top of Métro stairs on Boulevard Saint Michel, waiting for my friend when I was called by a young man speaking in French and probably looking for directions. To which I immediately responded that my French is not that good and actually I am not from here anyway. He seemed to forget the question while continuing insisting my French seemed perfectly well and that I actually had the style of a Parisienne. The conversation turned to English when my French finally met its borders (pretty fast, I assure you), and even though I tried to look down the stairs, hoping to see my friend coming up and saving me any second, she didn't show up just yet and the guy went on. He looked decent and nice but all those stories of not talking to strange men in Paris have stuck to my head well. (To be honest, I don't even know why.) Finally, assuring him kindly I did not want his email address and that I was about to leave soon so that there was not really time for him to take me for a coffee either he left, wishing me bon séjour. What did we learn? Don't know, except that I am such a Finn. (I tried to correct my subconscious fear of strangers today by starting a conversation with an apparent exchange student sitting opposite to me in a student restaurant. Worked well for both of us I guess, since it is probably always nicer to eat with someone than alone. However, I would never do that with another Finn. Why is that?)
And so a week went by, faster than ever since it's like that I guess: in a new and strange place days go slow but somewhere we enjoy and know our way time flies. And I returned, kind of numb to feel any sadness anymore of those goodbyes we've said so many times during these past years, luggage filled with teas from my favourite tea shop and books from my favourite English book shop and my mind settled more than ever to live in that city some day. In spite of the strikes and the almost impossible language and my sticking Finnishness I still find something familiar in the French culture that I enjoy so much and would like to know more of. Paris grows on you, I conclude.
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