Marseille Metro Morons

The title stresses metro, but in no way am I limiting it to the metros. And in no way am I implying that all Marseillais are morons because it’s not that; it’s just that I have a Moron Magnet, which usually switches on in the presence of, well, morons. Of Marseille. That’s how charming I am!

I don’t know if I’m an easy target because 1. I am a foreigner; 2. I am small; 3. I look like I cannot defend myself. I’m getting the feeling that it’s 4. All of the above. I have, on several occasions, confronted my tormentors but Christ… after telling them off, they just won’t leave me alone. My haughty, well-prepared one-liners simply amuses them, which is even worse.

Admittedly, the act of confronting the Marseille Metro Morons scares the hell out of me. I know some people are blessed with the talent of telling off someone twice their size, but if only you could see the morons I attract! The most common type are the Jogging Pants: They’re usually tall, beefy, and wear a uniform of jogging pants (that are hitched up to their ankles and bitin), football shoes (I imagine they find the spikes useful when they start kicking someone’s ass?), matching sweaters, baseball caps and these low-slung, tiny bags where they probably carry their manuals of How To Intimidate People: Metro Edition.

Commuting in Marseille is a horror if you are 1. me; and 2. me and alone. Ten times more when I was working there, because my work hours were from 10am to 6:30pm. In the mornings, I’d encounter schoolchildren since my office was so conveniently next to a school. In the evenings, the children would be gone from the streets – but they still hadn’t reached home: they would be in the Metro.

Exhibit A: Sidewalk
Like this one morning when I was hurrying to work. Of course, the sidewalk I had to use was the narrowest goddamned sidewalk in the whole of France. Jogging Pants guy with his group of friends were blocking the entire sidewalk. When they saw me they moved close to the walls with the intention of letting me pass – but when I was about to do so, this idiot stuck out his arm and his leg so I couldn’t pass (and I couldn’t walk on the main road, because of all the cars). I bumped into him, surprised at this random act of idiocy. “Could you move?” I asked him angrily. He kept his arm and leg there for a few more seconds, me glaring at him and he smiling at me; his group of friends laughing their asses off, until he finally withdrew. I uttered a curse word and they all burst out laughing, shouting after me, “Where’s your humor? Can’t you take a joke?”

If I had had an atomic bomb with me that day, I would’ve found that funny, the fuckers.

Exhibit B: Tickets
In Marseille metro stations it’s not unusual to see people standing by the turnstiles, asking people for their used Metro tickets (since they’re valid for one hour after purchse). I used to have a month’s pass so I had no ticket to give to them. You’d think simply ignoring them would make them leave you alone.

“Mademoiselle, ticket? Ticket?” one dude would call out. I’d shake my head and start for the escalators. He’d follow me. “No ticket? What about a chat, then?” Then he’d start conversation, all the way to the escalators. And get this – just after safely stepping onto the escalators, he’d call out, “Connasse!”(bitch)

Yes, I’m such a bitch because I have 1,60€ to pay for my metro ticket, no?

Exhibit C: Walkman Phones
I knew it was a bad sign, last Wednesday, when I boarded the metro from the terminus going to Jules Guesdes station. Two Jogging Pants got into the same car as mine. Coming back from a job interview, I was wearing a skirt and heels (not my usual getup, and friends who have seen my battered Adidas sneakers can attest to that). So. The two Jogging Pants sat infront of me. One had a Sony Ericson Walkman phone; I have the same phone and believe me when I tell you that putting that damned phone to mid-volume can rouse the dead. These Jogging Pants were playing music from their phone full volume, and it was giving everyone a headache.

They went down at my stop as well, and walked very close behind me. I held my breath and waited for it – one, two…

Et voila. “Mad’moiselle! Ey, mad’moiselle!”

Me: *ignore, walk faster*

Once they realised that I was not going to pay any attention to them, Jogging Pants held his phone to my ear. Up close, at full volume, this is not a pleasant experience.

“What the FUCK are you doing!!!” I shouted, enraged, in English.

“Mad’moiselle, c’est quoi, ce bouquin?” said the Moron, as if nothing happened. He leaned close, pretending to read the title of my book but his eyes were looking down my shirt (well, I was wearing my special bra, heh…) so I had to lean back on the banister.

“I don’t understand you. I don’t speak French. Fucking idiot. Leave me alone.”

“Oh!” he said. “You donz zpeak Frensh?” he laughed along with his buddy. And by laughing I mean those ugly, jologs, piyok-ing kind of guffaws. They both fell back a few steps, watching me climb up the stairs. They tried and tested a few moronic sentences in English, laughing boisterously, then started looking up my skirt, which I knew they were doing, because they were speaking in French, asking the wind to come and lift my skirt.

My latest pasttime is combing through Yahoo! Ask. Tonight I asked how to un-magnetize a magnet and someone answered:

You must apply an electrical current exactly 180 degress out of phrase from the magnet. Then attach the flux capacitor to the cathode and induce inductance.

Hmmm. Interesting. Now, about that flux capacitor…