Standing on Avenue des Invalides, I’ve been waiting for the bus for twenty minutes. It’s an exceptionally chilly day in early January, and I can’t shake the worry that my five-month-old, Little Emma, isn’t warm enough despite being snug in her snowsuit and cocooned in a blanket. She resembles a tiny Michelin man, and to keep her from crying, I bounce on my toes while maneuvering her stroller in circles. Finally, the bus pulls up. I position myself at the back entrance, which is spacious enough for a stroller. Yet, the door remains shut. A man in a tailored business suit gestures to the driver to open it for me, but still nothing happens. What on earth is going on?
I wheel Little Emma’s stroller to the front and signal the driver. He shakes his head, “no.” What do you mean “no”? I’m here with a baby stroller, and he refuses to open the door? The driver finally opens the front door and gives me a pointed look, “There are already two strollers on board. That’s the limit. You’ll need to wait for the next bus.” Seriously? It’s the coldest day of the year! I can’t stand outside with a five-month-old waiting for the next bus. As the driver closes the doors, I mutter a few choice words under my breath and start jogging slowly down the street.
My stomach is in knots. Home is a good 45-minute walk away. Taking the metro is out of the question; there’s no way I can navigate this giant stroller down the stairs and through the turnstile. A taxi wouldn’t work either since my stroller is too big to fit in the back seat. My heart races, fueled more by panic than by my brisk pace. If I were alone, I might actually enjoy this walk, but right now, I’m terrified of freezing my precious little Emma. What kind of mother am I, exposing her to such extreme cold? Sure, we’re in Paris, not Antarctica, but it feels downright frigid—damp and bone-chilling.
Sure, she’s bundled up, but what about her little face, which is exposed to the elements? I feel like a terrible mom. I should have kept her cozy at home, but I let my own need for social interaction drag us out into this icy day. I try to convince myself that people in other parts of the world endure much colder climates. Minnesota, for instance, can be brutally cold. But I doubt mothers there walk their babies in strollers outside; they probably drive them around in heated minivans. Alaska is freezing—don’t people plug in their cars to keep them warm? And what about Eskimos? They have a culture built around surviving extreme cold. Yet, as I race down the streets of Paris with Emma’s stroller, the thought of Eskimos doesn’t provide much comfort.
Finally, I reach the next bus stop. To my relief, the bus pulls over, and this time the back door opens. I manage to roll the massive stroller inside and park it in the designated stroller section. The bus is packed since it’s rush hour. The ticket validator is at the front, and I glance at my unstamped ticket. There’s no way I can push through the crowd while the bus sways from side to side. This route must be the most tumultuous in all of Paris; every few seconds, the bus swerves, sending passengers lurching to the right and then the left. I make sure the stroller’s brakes are securely locked, holding onto the handle just in case. I can’t leave my baby unattended in a rocking stroller while I try to navigate my way to the front.
While I’m contemplating my next move, a hand taps my shoulder. “Madame, votre billet?” I turn to see a woman in a navy uniform from Paris Metro, her expression stern. I hand her my unstamped ticket.
“This is not stamped. You have not validated your ticket.”
“No, I haven’t been able to leave the stroller due to the crowd and the bus swaying,” I reply, choosing to speak in English with my most American accent.
“This is against the rules. C’est interdit!” she insists, her frown deepening.
I gesture toward the stroller, where Emma is smiling at the woman. Who can resist a smile from a baby? Apparently, only in Paris. “I have a ticket! I just couldn’t validate it.” I feel the frustration boiling within me. “How am I supposed to stamp it when the machine is at the front, and the bus is full of people?”
“You must validate your ticket, Madame. That is the rule,” she repeats monotonously.
She pulls out her ticket pad. Is she really going to write me a ticket? How does one even issue a ticket to a person and not a vehicle? I’m curious but don’t want to be ticketed. I keep playing the clueless tourist while I ponder how on earth I’m supposed to get this ticket stamped without leaving the stroller.
“You must leave the stroller, make your way to the front, and validate your ticket. Or board the bus properly from the front, validate it, and proceed to the back,” she explains robotically.
I’m on the verge of losing it. How can she expect me to maneuver the SUV-sized stroller through the front door? Does she not see that it only fits through the back? Does she honestly expect me to leave Emma unattended in a moving bus while I push my way to the front? I’m about to explode but remember that confronting a transport officer won’t help me get home. So, I take a deep breath, force a smile, and reply in the calmest tone I can muster, “I didn’t realize, Madame. It’s my first time on this bus. I’m visiting a friend and bought a ticket. I wasn’t aware it needed to be validated immediately.”
She squints at me, her demeanor still unfriendly. “I will let you go this time, but this is a warning. You must validate your ticket next time.”
I glance out the window and see we’re almost at our stop—well, not quite, but two stops away is good enough.
“Merci, Madame,” I say gratefully, unlocking the stroller’s brakes and awkwardly maneuvering it through the crowd. Once outside, I inhale the frigid air, still trembling from a mix of anger, embarrassment, and vulnerability. I jog down Avenue du Maine, Emma bouncing along in the stroller, clearly enjoying the ride.
I barely make it up the two flights of stairs to our apartment before I burst into tears. The loneliness weighs heavy on me. Why are people so unfriendly here? Why don’t they smile? I feel isolated. The encounter with the transport officer was the cherry on top of a difficult day. All I want is to hide away. The cold weather only amplifies the chill I feel from those around me in France. If only Emma and I could hibernate until spring, when life might feel a bit brighter.
This article was originally published on November 6, 2011.
For more insights into motherhood, check out our other blog posts, like this one on pregnancy and home insemination. And for fertility tips, visit this site which is an authority on the subject.
Summary:
A new mom in Paris, Ava, faces the challenges of navigating public transport with her baby, Little Emma, on a frigid January day. As she struggles with the unfriendly transport staff and the complexity of the city’s bus system, she reflects on her feelings of isolation and vulnerability as a new parent in a foreign city, ultimately yearning for a sense of connection and warmth.