The Metro is a Cattle Car

The Metro is like...a cattle car. This is the sixth day of the second transportation strike I've experienced in Paris, and people are starting to get antsy. Today, I decided to will metro line four, from Strasbourg-St. Denis to Montparnasse Bienvenue, to work so I could get home. Upon this first glimpse of the underground tunnel since last Wednesday, my willing seemed to be working. "4 Min" until the next train, the board said. Six minutes later, after carefully avoiding the black mice scurrying along the sides of this unkempt, neglected platform, the board now read "4 Min." C'est la vie of the Parisian citizen, constantly waiting on something that may never follow through.
Twelve minutes later, a solitary train stumbled along, already impeded by the weight of the excess number of people crowding its cars. Parisians and foreigners alike glanced at each other worriedly on the platform, shrugged. Time to initiate that stubborn Parisian determination. If this was going to be how it was going to be, well then, so be it. We're still getting on that train.
Hundreds of overly-eager, impatient businessman, students, bent-over old women, bums (who can take advantage of the free passage through the turnstyles during the greve), and friends loaded with shopping bags pushed, shoved, catapulted their way into each separate metro car, forcing everyone to instantly lose ten pounds and learn to appreciate the smell of their neighbor--wedged in inches from their face.
I had about .002 inches to move, myself, between the twelve people pushing me and the bearded man in front of me whom I was being pushed into, face-to helpless-face. If this were in any other location besides a Parisian metro, it would be impossible to fit so many people in such a small space. But fire hazards aren't observed in France.
Luckily, when the creaking train began braking for the next stop, the entire group of fifteen people pushing against me fell forward--onto me. And thus, onto bearded man. Train stops. Everyone waits, bated breath, in anticipation and prayer that someone--even one person--will open the door and get off the train. When nobody dares to make a move toward the door, each person stubbornly claiming their rightful place, a brief moment of stunned silence ensues. How are we, crammed together like cattle pancakes, going to make it unscathed to the next stop? When the moment of disbelief passes, a discreet snicker is heard. Then another, a bit louder. Then another, and another, until the entire car of that train on line 4 is cracking up at the image of ourselves, and, for me, at how ridiculous this would look in almost any other society.
The greve may be grave, after six days of striking and another--bigger--strike to begin tomorrow, but even in Parisian society, with all the constraints and expectations, at least we know that when pushed to the limit, foreigners and outsiders and locals alike--we're all in this together.