Surviving the Strike

Whenever I learn a new French expression, I try to incorporate it into my speech as much as possible to reinforce my knowledge. It was uncanny that I should learn the phrase “c’est la galere” (it’s a disaster) recently, because the past week gave me ample opportunities to use it in conversation.

The transportation strike has certainly put the city into a collective tizzy. Unlike the last strike, when services stopped entirely for one day, this strike has produced extremely limited transportation services and is set to last a week. Some Metro lines aren’t running at all, some are “quasi nulle,” some are “non assurée,” and some are running in intervals of 30-45 minutes. Only one line is running fairly regularly, at 10-minute intervals. The operational lines therefore not only require long waits, but also force passengers to pack themselves into hazardously crowded trains. Because of these conditions, the trains also stop for a longer time at each station in order to allow enough time for passengers to disembark and get on safely…Well, at least that’s the intention. The words muttered under my breath every time I had to take the Metro? “C’est la galere.”

Why are the transportation agencies striking (again), you might ask? The seed was planted when civil servants announced they would go on strike Tues the 20th. Their beef? Sarkozy’s initiative to increase the time a public employee must work in order to receive full pension benefits – from 37.5 to 40 years. [Granted, that’s a long time, but the same standard was implemented in the private sector not too long ago as well.] The transportation agencies span both public and private management, but in a gesture of solidarity (or in a ruse to simply work less – hey, it’s a national sport here) they decided to go on strike for a FULL WEEK leading up to the 20th. This decision inconveniences millions of people and impacts the economy. But the workers don’t really care, because the unions have enough money to pay all the strikers for at least a full week of missed pay. My contribution when discussing the politics with peers? “C’est la galere.”


So maybe I’m being insensitive, but I just can’t muster all that much sympathy. I’m admittedly particularly miffed because while the strikers are off enjoying a free week with pay, my livelihood has suffered the consequences. You see, I have to travel to various parts of Paris and its outlying ‘burbs throughout the work week and get paid by the hour to boot. Many of my students have cancelled, leaving gaping holes in my schedule (and my paycheck). Plus taking into consideration the two days I missed last week due to my unfortunate malady, I was a bit stressed about recouping teaching hours. While at the office, moaning and groaning over the impact to our business, my colleagues and I all heaved a heavy sigh and intoned, “C’est la galere.”

The work I did do this week was some of the best I’ve done – I had great groups of students, felt so on my game as a teacher, and taught some stimulating content. (In addition to my usual language instruction and business English curriculum, I got to teach a four-hour course on regional foods of America and another four hours of creative writing – SO FABULOUS and that’s a whole other blog post in the making.) But however fun-filled my working hours were, commuting was a journey to hell and back. C’est la galere.

I had two full days booked in the ‘burbs, one on the day before the strike and the consecutive day, when the strike was to commence. I’d have no trouble on Tuesday, but how would I handle Wednesday? My manager (of sorts) happens to live a 10-minute walk from the client, so she offered for me to crash at her place Tuesday night. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being displaced from home, but the pressures of needing work convinced me. My company was classy enough to allow me to expense a cab ride home to Paris Wednesday evening. While it was really the only way I could get home, the traffic was insane, especially once we got into the city and needed to cross the Seine. Amid small talk with the cabbie (entirely in French – I was proud), while sitting in a dense thicket of gridlock, I griped “C’est la galere.” “C’est la France,” he replied with a chortle and a shake of his head.

Thursday wasn’t so bad (relatively speaking). I walked 20 minutes from home to the 1 line (which has been running fairly regularly – the 10-min interval success story), rode it as close as I could to my client, and then walked 20 minutes to that office. What is usually a 15-minute door-to-door trip took an hour, but at least it was doable and the weather was cooperating.

Friday was a total nightmare. I had to get to Boulogne Billancourt, an area just outside the Péripherique of the city, to the southwest. On a normal day the trip would take about 40 minutes by Metro. The line I needed was running, albeit in 20-minute intervals. I gave myself 90 minutes, thinking it would be enough. Two hours later I disembarked from a claustrophobic ride, crammed into an awkward pretzel-like standing position. I was late, which I never feel good about, especially when meeting a new client for the first time. However, I won the students over when I finally sat down at the head of the conference room table, exhaled deeply, and said, “My name is Jessica, and this is only my second strike.” Well, just a little bit of dry humor had the room erupting in sympathetic laughter. Disaster somewhat mitigated.

The ride home that evening was even worse. The line was running in even longer intervals. I wound up waiting an hour just to get on a train because I couldn’t fit on the first one that passed. The train I rode was even more packed than the one I took in the morning and people were getting cranky, aggressive, crazed, and downright nasty. People were shoving and elbowing their way onto the train car before people could even disembark, which resulted in a lot of yelling from the people ensconced on the car. The doors often couldn’t close because so many people were in their path, which made the conductor occasionally join in the collective rage. Some of us were able to handle the situation more civilly than others…one section of my train car was on the verge of mass rioting for my entire ride and all I could think about was the headline: “American Expat Squished to Death by Apeshit Commuters.” C’est la galere, indeed.

Needless to say, the weekend has been more relaxing, but we’ve walked quite a bit! I have a forced holiday on Monday and possibly Tuesday, as classes have been canceled and I’m not even sure I can withstand a repeat of Friday’s commute. The strike is supposed to come to a close Tuesday night. I’m just praying that when the strike ends, it really ends…unlike last month, when transportation services were disrupted for days afterward. It is a huge disaster, but at least it’s no 1995. That was the year the transportation agencies went on strike for a whole month. A whole month! C’est la France.