A steamed beet at Gare du Nord, Paris

Il fait 40 degrees la-non? Forty degrees Celcius, 100 degrees Farenheit? Only emergency lighting and oppressively hot, stagnant air. Periodically a train passes alongside, offering a scant breee. I'm taking deep breaths trying to still my heart which is slowly crawling its way up my throat. I calm down a bit. This is good as the lower adreneline levels cool me off slightly. I imagine rescue by means of one of the passing trains stopping and lettin us cliumb aboad. I envision the train rolling backwards to the nearest station. After a good 15 minutes the electricity comes on and along with it, the ventilation so not at least some hot air is circulatino in the car--a relief even if its the same temperature as before. We advance a few feet and stop. And again. And again. We roll backwards due to the incline of the track. There's no power at the main station but better yet, a train in front of us is disabled. I'm saying "oh for F*'s sake" but the Parisians really keep their cool. Amazing people, given the circumstances. I really just can't hold in the snide, sarcastic comments. There are people in the train who are texting their families (if they have a signal that is--this section of the tunnel is a long one, and it's a black hole, no bars on the phone; you can forget about 3G). People remark that they have kids at home, now alone waiting for their parents who are stuck on the train. Some tired commuters sleep like dogs in a hot car. But overall they're rather stoic about the situation. They, like I, know that trains run full out on this line, pulling up one directly behind another during rush hour; at times, it's certainly more than one train every two minutes as advertised. I pay about 90€ for a monthly train pass, and live 15 km outside of Paris--a steal, but in my opinion I get what I pay for. Can I please pay more? My hubby laughed at my idea to write a letter to the train company SNCF, offering to donate a couple hundred € in order to have A/C on the train--a totally preposterous idea to the French--paying more, that is. One hour after boarding the train at Luxumbourg, I stumble onto the platform at Gare du Nord to a crush of people trying to board the train, a steamed beet, and the same color. Normally it's a ten-minute trip. Sigh. For once, the fetid warm air of the ugliest station in Paris feels cool and inviting. None of the passengers are complaining; they are pressed together boarding the hell hole prison that i just spent a pretty panicked hour in: sardines in a metal tin, soon to be just a juicy too. I'm angry and exhausted, because I know that it's just the status quo. I trudge to my train and buy some ice cream on the walk home. That'll cool me off, I hope.