The streets of Toulouse are beautiful. I never tire of peering up at the stained art deco windows or the pointed and crenellated towers built by rich 17th century dye merchants. The sight of many wrought-iron balconies and tall, thin windows gleaming in the afternoon sun is a sight as pleasing to the eye as one can reasonably hope for in one day. Even so, my favorite part of everyday life in Toulouse lies underground: my metro ride.
Toulouse's metro system is clean, efficient, and highly accessible. With a student rate of 10 euros per month, it is more student-friendly than any other city in France. Each station boasts a unique and artistic architectural plan: for example, the one I use to access the train most often has a giant black tree statue made out of shiny black mosaic tiles that reaches all the way up the wall. It looks quite impressive contrasted against the wall's white rectangualr tiles. Another station has an enormous display of glass panels that resemble the heavens as it curves over you above the escalator. Each station is also unique in its particular combination of staircases and escalators and number of floors. The network reaches much of the city, so even without a car I can reach most any part of the city easily. That one freedom makes a huge difference!
The metro is practical and convenient, but it is also a significant landscape in my everyday life. I don't live downtown, so outside of groceries and laundry I take the metro to get everywhere, work- or play-related. It's never a task, however: I enjoy the experience of riding the metro as much as I like the freedom it affords me. In contrast to the chaotic, preoccupied, unfriendly, fashion-obsessed and generally unsatisfying world of human concerns it contains, the system itself is sleek and efficient. Since the rules of polite metro conduct forbid eye contact, touching strangers more than absolutely necessary, commenting on rude sounds and unusual baggage, or asking questions, it's easy (and indeed encouraged) to pretend that world has temporarily ceased to exist. When you descend the escalator to the underground platform, you escape to a world of bright, shiny white tile, steel rails, and concrete tunnels. Once the train has come rushing up, a strictly timed mechanism opens all the doors at once and spews commuters out. A buzz informs those ascending that the doors are about to close and the train takes off, zooming at exactly the prescribed speed. And since the trains have windows and the tunnels are lit with white lights every couple of meters, a passenger at the very back of the train may watch the tracks fall away behind her in long, gentle curves outlined in parallel tracks. She will see a passing train speed away with its human cargo packed in yellow plastic train cars as if they were lunch packed in fast-moving tupperware. She may observe platform after glass-insulated platform arrive and disappear around a twist or rise of the tunnel and imagine she has found order at last.
On every thrilling ride, the time comes when you hear the recording of a melodious female voice announce your stop (in French and then in Occitan, the dialect native to Southern France). The moment of peace and excitement ends abruptly as you fight the inelegant throng crowding out of the car and up the escalator and you surface, thrown once again into the uncertain world of turmoil and decisions.
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