A Long Way from Malleswaram: Skating Lessons in Paris

About two decades ago, life placed me in Paris for four wonderful years. My flat sat right beside the Seine, barely a kilometre from the Eiffel Tower, close enough that its evening sparkle often felt like a personal greeting. From my window, I watched tourist cruises glide along the river, their lights shimmering across the water.

My office was less than 3 km away, and depending on the season, I alternated between the metro, bus, cycle or even a peaceful walk. All routes except the metro, dutifully and proudly, passed by the Eiffel, as though she wanted to check on me every day.

Summer Temptations on the Seine

Parisian summers were a spectacle. The banks of the Seine came alive with music, dance, and joy. Near Notre-Dame, Salsa dancers twirled away with enviable grace. Youngsters zipped around on skates as if they were born with wheels.

And somewhere in that happy crowd was one Bangalorean banker thinking to himself: “If they can skate, so can I, and why not to, even work.”

Given my history of learning cycling in school by jumping straight onto the road, such confidence was not new.

The Decathlon Decision

One Friday evening, convinced of my athletic destiny, I bought a brand-new pair of skates from Decathlon. Saturday morning was reserved for learning. After breakfast, armed with theoretical lessons generously provided by my friends’ children, I began the adventure.

The first discovery of the day: wearing skates is a full-fledged project. After wrestling with straps and buckles for a good while, I managed to stand, and immediately realised that standing was its own challenge.

I rose from the sofa with the elegance of a newborn calf and clung to the wall like a long-lost companion. Inch by inch, I reached the door.

Then came the moment of truth: the lift. To reach it, I had to let go of the wall. Not happening. I surrendered, removed the skates, slipped into normal shoes, carried the skates, and headed to the 2nd-floor walkway, my training ground for the day.

The “Olympic Track”

This walkway, a long stretch between buildings lined with plants and benches, was perfect for strolling. But for me that day, it was the skating arena of the century.

I strapped the skates on again and began my wall-hugging practice. A couple of gentle falls later, I could balance. Within two hours, I was proudly rolling, at snail’s pace, from one building to another without touching anything.

According to my generous self-assessment, this meant I was now ready for: Public roads.

The Road to Disaster (Literally)

After lunch, I decided to visit a friend who lived 500 metres away, to showoff my newly acquired skill. Three road crossings. Any normal person would have walked. But my primary-school cycling instincts were in charge again.

The first crossing went surprisingly well. The second too, helped by a kind stranger at the signal. The rough surface of the road actually gave me more grip than the walkway.

The real struggle was climbing onto and off pavements. What normally took 5 minutes on foot was taking me double the time on wheels.

The Great Parisian Traffic Jam (Caused by One Man on Skates)

Then came the final crossing, just before my friend’s flat. The road was empty. Perfect. No audience.

I sat down on the pavement (still wearing skates) and slid down onto the road. Very graceful. Very professional.

A car appeared about 100 metres away. He had the green, I had the red. I waited for him to pass. But the moment he saw me, he stopped, because European drivers assume pedestrians always have priority.

He insisted I cross.

I insisted he go.

We went back and forth in an international diplomatic negotiation.

Another car arrived behind him. Within seconds, I, one lone man on skates, had stopped traffic on a Paris street. The one thing I never expected to bring from Bangalore to Paris was my ability to cause a traffic pile-up.

Finally, with encouragement from the driver (and the laws of physics), I crossed inch by trembling inch.

Skater Returns

I rolled into my friend’s flat triumphantly.  He listened to my story with utter horror. After the evening treat at his place, he insisted on walking me back, for my safety and possibly his peace of mind.

The next morning at office, my weekend adventure was the talk of the town. Some local colleagues were so moved that they offered to teach me skating properly.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.