La greve est grave

I am going to introduce a new word into your French vocabularies, the import of which has only sunk in, for me, after a long and difficult ten days. The word is "greve" and it means: Strike.

The metro workers are on strike, and in fact they have been for over a week now. This means that it's nearly impossible to catch a metro train. Some are running (instead of every 2-6 minutes, comme d'habitude) every 15-50 minutes, depending on the line. Some are running not at all. And if, by chance, you are in the right place at the right time and you DO catch a train, then they are absolutely, horrifically, terrifyingly packed.

I go back and forth about my feelings about this. On optimistic days, walking, I think, "How nice! I get to see the city on foot! I get to learn so much about Parisian strike culture!" And on bad days, I think "Merde." And a host of other explatives.

For example, one night, having realized there was no available metro, I got into a cab to meet Ally at the cooking class she took (my job was just to eat). But the traffic was so heavy, from everyone taking their cars while the public transportation was "quasi nul," that I ended up paying 37 euro & spending an hour in a cab...for a ride that theoretically should have cost me ten minutes and maybe ten E.

Merde. (But the food was delicious.)

It would be just to point out that just because the metro workers were on strike, doesn't mean Ally and I were. We managed to get our walk, our drink, and our goodtimes on regardless. But when have you ever known anything to get Ally down?

We visited the Musee Luxembourg for the fabulous Arcimboldo exhibit, the Centre Georges Pompidou (one of my favorites here), some shopping sites, some live music, and some great restaurants: La Cafe Constant & Chez Germaine were two of my favorites. On down nights I introduced Ally to the wonders of the Savage Lovecast: www.thestranger.com/savage.

My sympathies oscillate as far as the metro is concerned. Sometimes I think, "Democracy in action! Woohoo!" But sometimes I think the metro workers' demands are unreasonable, and that in the meantime it isn't the politicians who take the metro or the bus. It's everyone else. So all the other people of Paris are suffering interruptions in their business/work life, and yet they're in no position to meet the metro workers' demands.

Which, by the way, consist of wanting to continue to retire after 26 years of work, rather than 40, like everyone else.

But then again, I believe in unions and even to some degree in strikes. I just wish direct political action didn't have to affect me personally. I mean, I'm just a normal everyday girl trying to get to the cooking class her friend took so i can eat some g.damn mousse. Is that SO much to ask?

Apparently, in 1995, a strike like this lasted six weeks. Merde! I'm not sure I can keep my optimism up that long, especially given the drear we've been experiencing in terms of weather. It's one thing for the metro/bus drivers to strike. It's another for the sun to do it.

In the meantime, as I slurred to some Frenchmen on Saturday, Ally's last (three bottle of wine) night, I have decided to go on strike against the metro. I'm not taking it. So there.

So, marooned for the most part in my part of town, marvelling at the power of the union culture here in France, I wonder who will cave first: the metro workers (who aren't getting paid while they strike), Sarkozy (who heads up a government losing literally tens of thousands of euros each day the strike lasts), or the sun (I don't know what it's problem is). Or me. If this keeps up, I might strike against Paris, and leave the city entirely! On december 15th. Just like I planned. It all remains to be seen.

So in conclusion...er...power to the people? I guess. Merde.