Updated: November 12, 2020
Originally Published: November 6, 2011
Standing on Avenue des Invalides, I found myself anxiously waiting for the bus for what felt like an eternity. It was an exceptionally frigid day in early January, and I couldn’t shake the worry that my five-month-old daughter, Little Claire, wasn’t adequately warm, even though she was bundled in a thick snowsuit and wrapped in a cozy blanket. She resembled a tiny Michelin man, and as I bounced up and down, circling her stroller to prevent her from crying, I felt every minute of the biting cold.
When the bus finally arrived, I positioned myself at the back entrance, which was spacious enough for strollers. To my dismay, the door refused to open. A man in a sharp business suit gestured to the driver to assist me, but still, nothing happened. Confused, I rolled Little Claire’s stroller to the front, signaling the driver again. He simply shook his head, indicating that I would need to wait for the next bus.
Is he serious? I thought, incredulously. On the coldest day of the year, I couldn’t stand outside with my baby waiting for another bus. The driver shut the doors, and frustration bubbled inside me as I began a slow jog down the street. My stomach churned with anxiety. I was a good 45 minutes from home, and the metro was out of the question; there was no way I could navigate the stairs with this enormous stroller. Even if I could find a taxi, it wouldn’t fit in the trunk.
My heart raced, not from the jog but from panic. I would have enjoyed the walk normally, but all I could think about was keeping my precious little girl warm. What kind of mother was I for subjecting her to such extreme cold? Sure, this was Paris, not Antarctica, but it felt bone-chillingly cold. I reassured myself that other moms around the world faced harsher climates—like those in Minnesota or Alaska—but I couldn’t help but feel inadequate.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of jogging, I spotted the next bus. It pulled over, and the back door opened. I quickly wheeled the stroller on and parked it in the designated area, relieved but still on edge. The bus was packed, as it was rush hour, and I realized that the ticket machine was at the front. There was no way I could make my way through the crowd while the bus swerved precariously.
Just as I contemplated my next move, a hand tapped me on the shoulder. “Madame, votre billet?” I turned to see a woman in a navy uniform with a scowl that could freeze the sun. I handed her my unstamped ticket, fully prepared for what would come next.
“But this is not stamped. You have not validated your ticket,” she said, her tone unyielding.
“I couldn’t leave the stroller while the bus was moving,” I replied, switching to English to express my frustration.
“This is an infraction of the rules. C’est interdit!” she continued, her face void of empathy. Little Claire was making her usual goo-goo faces, but the woman didn’t budge.
I felt a surge of anger. How could she expect me to leave my baby unattended in a swaying bus? I wanted to tell her to move the ticket machine to the back for parents like me. Instead of exploding, I forced myself to remain calm. “I didn’t know it had to be validated right away. This is my first time on the bus,” I explained, my voice steady despite my frustration.
After scrutinizing me, she finally relented, “I will forgive the infraction this one time. This is your warning. Next time, validate your ticket immediately.”
Relieved yet still shaken, I thanked her and made my way towards the exit, maneuvering the stroller through the crowd. Once outside, I took a deep breath of cold air, still trembling from the ordeal.
I barely made it up the two flights of stairs in our apartment before I burst into tears. I felt so exposed and alone. Why was everyone so unfriendly? As I sank into the couch, Little Claire latched onto me, hungry after our chilly adventure. Despite my exhaustion, I yearned for connection with other moms, but the encounter with the transport officer had only deepened my sense of isolation. The winter chill mirrored the coldness I sometimes felt in Paris. If only we could hibernate until spring, I thought.
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Summary:
In the hustle of Paris, a mother recounts her struggle with public transport while caring for her baby, facing the challenges of cold and unfriendly interactions. The emotional toll of motherhood is palpable as she yearns for connection and grapples with feelings of loneliness and vulnerability.
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