Wherein our chickenshit protagonist makes an (atypical) descent into the (rather dull) local metro via a (fortuitously left open) access grate and spends (a lot of) time trying to figure out how to take pictures of metro trains without being run over.
I never had the guts or the know-how to go goofing around in the Paris Métro, one of my big regrets from when I lived there, so one of my goals is to go poking around in the guts of ${city} a bit more.
We didn't go in very far, as the lighting was shit, we were tired and nervous, and at some point the tunnel narrowed to a dangerous, highly visible bit. Next time. I suppose it would have been pretty easy to go in during the day, as there was only a tubby Turkish grandma sitting on the ground next to the thing, muttering to herself, but we figured it would be impolitic, given the Germans' tendency to get huffy about things that are out of order.
Like, for example, a pair of goons nervously ducking into a maintenance shaft - one dressed in full on all black commando gear, the other for a day at the beach club. Hi.
Also, the graffers who'd found the open grate initially and saved it for later that night had kept it closed via a tree placed over it. The only way we could keep the spring-loaded stair entry from popping open while we were down there was to tie it shut pretty securely. Judging from the rattling and cussing overhead, this did not make us particularly popular with the kids when they tried to get in. Fuck 'em, taggers can rot.
I never had the guts or the know-how to go goofing around in the Paris Métro, one of my big regrets from when I lived there, so one of my goals is to go poking around in the guts of ${city} a bit more.
We didn't go in very far, as the lighting was shit, we were tired and nervous, and at some point the tunnel narrowed to a dangerous, highly visible bit. Next time. I suppose it would have been pretty easy to go in during the day, as there was only a tubby Turkish grandma sitting on the ground next to the thing, muttering to herself, but we figured it would be impolitic, given the Germans' tendency to get huffy about things that are out of order.
Like, for example, a pair of goons nervously ducking into a maintenance shaft - one dressed in full on all black commando gear, the other for a day at the beach club. Hi.
Also, the graffers who'd found the open grate initially and saved it for later that night had kept it closed via a tree placed over it. The only way we could keep the spring-loaded stair entry from popping open while we were down there was to tie it shut pretty securely. Judging from the rattling and cussing overhead, this did not make us particularly popular with the kids when they tried to get in. Fuck 'em, taggers can rot.
