ratped

La RATP a clairement passé trop de temps sur tumblr. C’est quoi cet emoji avec les yeux ronds et la petite goutte de sueur, en mode sourire forcé super stressé ?

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“Thank you again for your patience” (following a one-month complete stop of the train line due to renovation works)

What is even this emoji. With the round eyes and the sweat drop, it looks like a super forced and nervous smile. The Parisian public transport spends too much time on tumblr, pass it on

audre-w  asked:

pour revenir sur mon histoire de train, moi aussi je me plains de ouf. la SNCF, la RATP, tout le monde y passe. par contre, c’est sur le matos et le gars qui veut pas débloquer les fonds pour rendre le réseau ferré fonctionnel que je m’énèrve. XD

Une fois j'avais mon train qui était annulé et ça me saoulait trop, j'avais une pote à côté du coup je me suis plaint à elle, un peu fort je l'admets. La personne d'à côté m'a bien fait comprendre que c'était par leur faute (et elle a eu bien raison de le faire).

Paris Gothic
  • You’re walking in the middle of the paved street. Any paved street. The streets are all the same. They cross and turn, the old, Haussmannian buildings leaning over as titanesque small-windowed walls, and soon you find yourself at the big, dark green door where your journey began. You frantically search for the round, glowing M, your sole beacon of freedom. The maze has no exit, and the M still doesn’t show.
  • You know this is your end. A sea of contradictory signs and colors lies before you, silhouettes swimming desperately not to drown. You had heard the rumors, yet you did not suspect the RATP would build huge underground stations to trap people in and feast on their flesh. You catch a name. You’re in Châtelet-Les Halles.
  • You have heard before of the dark side of Paris, where overpriced buildings are visited by middle-aged Catholic families and boys who are exact clones of the singers from One Direction, eagerly waiting to ensnare you into their trap. Your mother makes you promise never to go in the 16th arrondissement.
  • Your friends from Rive Gauche hate your friends from Rive Droite. Your friends from Rive Droite hate your friends from Rive Gauche. You remember, then: no one has friends from Rive Gauche. Rive Gauche doesn’t exist. Rive Gauche is Mount Olympus.
  • The people around you all seem to have the same, blank face, tall silhouette framed in black clothes and suits. They all walk fast, slaloming between others with practiced ease that reminds you of a ballet. A lost soul asks you where the closest Métro is. You don’t want to admit you’re as lost as he is. You show him the opposite way.
  • You often wonder how long the cars around Place de l’Etoile have been driving. You wonder if they know they’re going in circles, and that there is no escape.
  • You see them, watching you greedily with round eyes as you eat your overpriced ham-and-cheese sandwich. Pigeons, everywhere, grey spots over greyer pavements. You hated them at first, always kicking them when you had the chance. You don’t mind them that much now. They become company. Some even have personalities. Some have atrophied or missing limbs. They eat the same overpriced ham-and-cheese sandwich.
  • You rush down the stairs of the Métro. Someone else rushes alongside you, pushing people around and breaking necks on the stairs in his murderous rage to enter the next train. You step on the platform as the man passes the automatic doors. They close on his body, pressing into skin, crushing bones. The passengers don’t try and pry him out.
  • The doors to the train open, and a man with an accordion makes his way in. The people around you slowly turn to you. Their smiles show rat-like teeth.
  • It is a beautiful, late summer afternoon. You sit on the terrace of a café, which serves the same 3-euro espresso as any other. The terrace, as the people, all look the same. A woman smokes an extremely long cigarette under sunglasses that cover half her face, but you can still feel the disdain in her missing eyes as she sips on her happy-hour mojito.
  • None of your neighbors owns any instruments, yet you still hear the distant sound of piano keys every night when you come home from work. They always play the same song.
  • Just like a virus, they spread, green and white as Pestilence. Teenage girls with the same Longchamp and sequined Vanessa Bruno handbags come out with glasses full of ice and milk as they idly light a cigarette. When you tell someone to meet you there, they ask you “which one?”. You remember. There are six Starbucks Coffees at St-Lazare, and all of them are a trap.
  • A wall of tourists block the path, walking excruciatingly slow in front of you. You feel the wave of rage building in you before you have time to control it, and you know the Parisian brainwashing takes over. Your shadow moves, and you hear bones breaking.
  • You reach the exit of the Métro. The stairs coil around like snakes, and you begin your ascension towards polluted air. You climb and climb and climb, yet you do not seem to ever reach the top. You wonder how much time you’ve been stuck in the loop of stairs.
  • You walk through a wave of tourists in Montmartre, and you see it. Starbucks has spread even through immune arrondissements. A woman screams.
  • July in the city is hot and sunny. Clear blue skies contrast with the dark green of the Seine and the pale yellow of sand dumped on the quays. Children play in bathsuits and women tan in bikinis, while someone sells expensive ice cream. Paris-Plage is in full bloom, yet you still stare at the murky water. A diver comes out, oxygen tank on his back and what looks like a decaying arm in his hand. You see the arm wave at you.
  • You hear it. Melodious and still deeply uncanny, the repetitive clinking of metal against metal, as you reluctantly elbow your way through the Champs-Elysées and the overwhelming mass of tourists, sad pile of consumerist bodies. You see it then: the illegal seller, and in his hand, the hundreds of pocket-sized, golden Eiffel Towers. You turn your head away, yet the Eiffel Tower is still here, always finding its way into your field of vision. There is no escaping the Eiffel Tower. 
  • Some people tell tales of what lies beyond the périphérique, but they all come from an aunt’s second cousin. You heard no one has ever come back from there. You hear the RER is a one-way train towards miles and miles of stinky rapeseed fields. Your brother tells you he leaves today, for the flea market in Saint-Ouen. You tell him goodbye one last time.