On Speaking to a Migrant on the Parisian Metro

Diary, 4th June 2023

SPENT a number of days in Paris this week to escape the intolerable heat in England. Mother took some convincing before she relinquished the funds from the private medical fund she keeps for me, but after explaining that the elevated temperatures in Britain had provoked my condition of lethargy, and that I would be more productive in carrying our my responsibilities as a minor civil servant remotely, breathing the crisp, energising air which is only to be found au bord de la Seine, she reluctantly surrendered.

I was afforded only a pittance of £500, which necesitated that I find humbler accomodation than I would have liked. I installed myself, then, in a private house located in Le Boulevard de la Chapelle, in the 10e arrondissement, a slum neighbourhood designed by the French to teach migrants looking for a decent life a lesson in humility. From here I was to take the second line and depart at Alexandre Dumas, after which I would take a fifteen minute walk to the Seine.

The Metro station in La Chapelle is constantly packed with migrant ticket-touters, which seems bizarre considering the relative cheapness of an allez-retour. It appears, however, that these ticket-touters acquire partially-used tickets, or else buy them themselves at a bulk discount, before selling them off to tourists. I was approached by one of these ticket-touters, who held a number of carnets (that is, a ticket that can be used ten times) in his hand, who said to me:

—Carnet à prix réduit!

To which I responded:

—Sorry, I don’t speak French.

To which he responded:

—Train ticket, reduced price!

To which I responded:

—Disculpe, no hablo inglés.

To which he responded:

—¡Billete de tren, a precio reducido!

To which I responded:

—Desculpe, eu não falo espanhol.

To which he responded:

—Bilhete de chuva, preço reduzido!

To which I responded:

—Scusa, non parlo portoghese.

To which he responded:

—Biglietto del treno, prezzo ridotto!

To which I responded:

—Entschuldigung, ich spreche kein Italienisch.

To which he responded:

—Bahnticket, zum ermäßigter Preis!

To which I responded:

—对不起，我不会说德语。

To which he responded:

—火车票，降价！

This went on for some time, and I ended up purchasing the carnet from this man, who I think may have been Senagalese (judging by his pronunciation of the character 降) in Amharic, which was the final language which I could manage to excuse myself in, but not the final one in which he could sell me a ticket, moving on as he did then to Tigrigna, a semitic language which I have only a cursory knowledge of. But what, then, has three years of studying letters gained me if I am to be outspoken by a migrant ticket touter, and indeed by every migrant who walks this Earth, and by every Brazilian child in every slum of São Paulo? I went to the Seine and spent the afternoon throwing large chunks of baguette at the ducks’ heads.