Sister Cities

France and Chicago are sister cities. This designation is probably no more than the occasional dinner between mayors. Who has said, “thanks to the relationship with our sister city, my life is profoundly better”? Not even the occasional sharing of the “velo” idea will deeply impact the respective denizens.

Good thing corruption is alive and well.

To be fair, corruption is a strong term. In France, this can be good fiscal policy. Not only do you keep people employed, but by their employment, they can purchase goods created by other people. The economic circle of life marches.

St. Cloud is a lovely suburb inhabited by a very nice coworker. Upon returning home from said suburb, one can take the tram into Paris. The tram is different than the train in that it is set up more like a bus on a rail. There is no place for your ticket to enter the track; you must do so on the tram itself.

Unless you live in the suburbs, you have little experience with the tram. Normally, you can get your bearings and realize that you should scan your Navigo or ticket into the appropriate place. This is different than the train or metro as the ticket scan is done at the station. One has no reasonable way of immediately knowing this for the first time.

The tram pulls in, and the first thing you realize is that in spite of a long track, it is short. So short, in fact, you may have to run to jump aboard. I run.

I swipe my Navigo, and so does another person in my party. A third is ticketing around Paris and does not put his ticket in the appropriate slot. This is an honest mistake as the tram is a new French system of public transportation to this person. Also, the six men with batons standing around the machine look a tad threatening.

Good rule of thumb, stay away from French men with riot gear.

A man stops us and performs the usual public transit inspection. I and my one friend show our Navigo’s. Ding! Success.

My other friend shows his ticket. He did not swipe the ticket. This is a tram sin. It does not matter if you are new, or that the French police block the dispenser, or that this system of payment, though train-like, is not like the other train-like systems, or that you had a ticket with the intention of paying. No, this bureaucracy demands prompt insertion into the ticket machine, regardless of circumstance.

You should know or you should be able to talk your way out of the situation.

So the fine is paid. As a final spite, my friend pays the 25 Euro fine with a 50 Euro bill. If you know anything about the French, they despise anything but exact change.

I snap a photo of the guys. They did not like this. Thinking that it could be illegal, I delete the photo for the kind man with the baton. I have a new phone, of course, and cannot quite figure out how to use it.

I ask him when the last RER train is. He tells me even though I use “tu”. Officers are usually “vous”. He is not special, I make this mistake often. At any rate, he realizes my American deficiency and seems fine with “tu”. That, and in the spirit of French irony, he probably thinks this system is bullshit as well.

We all get to our respective homes without further incident.

This episode reminds me of every Chicago parking ticket glued to my car. Regardless of every intention to follow the rules, miss one Draconian clause, and you are poorer for it.

At least we have family.