Just a Small Fish

The town I have lived in for my entire life, Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, is relatively small. No matter where you go you will always find somebody you know. I was never able to gain perspective of how large the world really is until spring of 2008 when I traveled to Paris, France with my family. My experiences have always told me that I was a big fish in a small pond, but I quickly learned life is in fact the complete opposite. I learned this in about ten minutes.
After taking a small van to the hotel in Paris, we decided to just drop our luggage in our rooms and head to our first attraction. It was France’s largest war memorial, Les Invalides, and we had to take the Parisian Metro in order to get there. The echoes of the fast moving train the troubadour’s accordion became white noise blended with the mumbles of Parisians and tourists surrounding me. I felt like such a minority, being American, which is the extreme opposite of how I felt in Stroudsburg. I am comfortable and it feels familiar there, but not in Paris.
Every time I exhaled I breathed on somebody forced to be squished up against me. In front of my face were people standing and grasping thin, metal bars attached to the ceiling. The myriad of the colors, patterns, and fabrics reminded me of a rack of clothes on clearance. The only resemblance they had to one another was their swaying in perfect tandem from the slight movements of the train. It was the first time I was in a public place where absolutely nobody was speaking, as if they were all strangers to each other. My family and I were separated by others, so I figured maybe other families were not talking for the same reason.
Through the forest of torsos, I attempted to glance over at the three people sitting on the metallic bench opposite mine. To the far left of the bench was my Dad sitting with arms crossed. He was gazing out the window at the grey cement wall flying by, and his eyebrows were raised in a surplus of amusement. In the middle was my aunt, wearing her funky shirt covered in Swarovski crystals. Noticing my admiration of her top she flashed one of her famous and comforting smiles my direction and blew me a kiss. On her other side was my uncle. He was busy performing a magic trick for his three-year-old daughter, Lucy. She made him do it over and over again until they, myself, and the rest of the people on the train were all suddenly forced forward as the train screeched to an abrupt halt. Glancing over at my family slightly hidden from my view, I noticed how insignificant they were to all the other people. My family is my reason for living, yet the strangers surrounding from them never even gave them a second glance.
A recording of a female Parisian’s voice declared the station, “Invalides,” and the doors glided open. My family rose in unison, as if we were all attached by strings like marionettes. The swift, quick movements of the people who buzzed by me felt similar to how they would move while swimming underwater, and it was dark and cold, like a medieval dungeon. I felt almost like I did when I was seven years old and lost in a department store. It was a total awakening for me, stepping onto that that busy underground sidewalk. I never felt so out of place, like I was on a different planet.
I turned around and noticed my Dad and uncle making their way up the steep, cement stairs leading to the frenzied streets of Paris, ahead of the rest of us like usual. Only a few steps in front of me, my sister and aunt were both pushing the pink, floral strollers holding my two cousins. I rushed in front of them, dodging the people, and grab the fronts of both carriages, helping them carry the strollers out of the Metro tunnel. As I reached the top I feel the cool, crisp wind slap my back. We picked up our pace to catch up with the men, but they had already stopped walking a few feet away. My Dad’s neck was arched back and his eyes gazed up. I traced his line of vision, and across the flooded field of brown grass and beige pebbles was the tall, taupe building with three stories of large columns and real gold decorating its exterior. The intricate designs snaked up to an immense dome with a sharp needle at the very top. As all seven of us made our way toward the entrance, Les Invalides seemed to grow larger. It was the most beautiful building I had ever seen.
Weaving through the crowds of other families, we became just another addition to the swarm of tourists and natives. In my eyes, I saw the people in my family, my life, differently than the rest of the people we were walking through. However, as I looked over my shoulder, I realized this swarm of people from all over the globe proved how unimportant the people in my life really are. The things and people I love, the things I value, and I myself are all just a very small fish in a very huge ocean.