“Sometimes people give them money just to get them to stop playing!”
That line—delivered with a subtle air of mischief—made the whole room laugh.
I was at a lunch hosted by the Alliance Française in Sarasota, sipping wine and nibbling on flaky quiche when I first heard it. Our guest speaker was Mr. Marouane Rachem, a former Métro driver turned storyteller, and he was weaving tales about the Paris Métro—yes, the very one you’ve likely ridden on if you’ve ever found yourself in the City of Light.
And that quote?
It was his tongue-in-cheek nod to the many musicians who frequent the Métro tunnels and train cars. But here’s the twist: those performers aren’t just hoping for a lucky coin toss. They’re auditioned.
Not Just Any Street Musician
Yes, believe it or not, to play music in the Paris Métro, you need a permit. Twice a year, hopeful artists audition for a coveted six-month spot, all overseen by the RATP (Régie Autonome des Transports
Parisiens), a French state-owned company that operates public transportation systems. This isn’t a ragtag group of amateurs. It’s “an underground symphony with standards.”
Suddenly, those saxophonists who hit just the right note between the Châtelet and République stations? They’re part of a very Parisian kind of order beneath the surface-level disorder.
Paris Below the Pavement
I’ve always loved Paris. There’s something intoxicating about a city where the scent of freshly made croissants hangs in the morning air and where a trip underground becomes a cultural immersion.
Mr. Rachem’s talk offered a rare perspective—one from the operator’s seat. He took us back to the 19th century, when Paris was bursting at the seams and gasping for room to grow. Horse-drawn carriages clogged the boulevards. The 1900 Exposition Universelle (World’s Fair) loomed. Something had to give.
Enter the Métro, one of the oldest and most emblematic underground transport networks in the world.
A marvel of engineering, yes—but also a logistical nightmare. Paris’s subterranean terrain was already a maze of sewers, catacombs, and canals. “Trés difficile,” as Rachem put it. It took 10 years to build the first 10 lines. Still, they pulled it off. On July 19, 1900, the first train rolled out of the Vincennes station, and nothing was the same.
Beauty in the Details
The first time I rode the Métro, I noticed them: those glimmering white beveled tiles. Practical? Yes. But also—somehow—romantic. They reflect light and echo the past, a design choice full of Parisian charm. Rachem called them “tiles that shine in the dark.” I call them little mirrors of history.
Have you been to the Concorde Station? At first glance, it’s just white tiles etched with blue letters. But look closely, and you’ll see: it’s not graffiti. It’s a message. A puzzle. A piece of the Déclaration des Droits de l’Homme et du Citoyen, France’s founding human rights manifesto, encoded across the walls like a giant crossword. Designed by Françoise Schein in 1991, it reminds us that even beneath the streets, ideals endure.
Shadows and Ghost Stations
But the Métro hasn’t always been a place of whimsy and art. During World War II, it became a shadowy artery of the Resistance. Too shallow to serve as bomb shelters, the tunnels became rendezvous points. Some stations—like Arsenal and Porte Molitor—were built but never opened. Today, they’re known as ghost stations, haunting relics of a different time.
And then there’s the story of 21-year-old French Resistance member Pierre Georges, who shot dead a German naval midshipman on August 21, 1941, at Barbès-Rochechouart Métro station in occupied Paris – the first deadly attack on the occupiers. His tale is woven into the Métro’s lore, like so many others that echo through the tracks.
More Than Just a Ride
Today, the Paris Métro serves over 4 million riders a day, charging 2.50 euros per ride. It’s one of the most efficient and affordable systems in the world. And to me, it’s one of the most magical.
You may get lost. You may get pickpocketed (here’s hoping you never have to visit les bureaux des objets trouvés, the Métro’s lost and found). But you will also, most certainly, fall a little more in love with Paris every time the doors slide shut.
As for those musicians? Maybe give them a coin. Not to make them stop—but because, just maybe, they earned their stage.