Atop my escooter, I am a human in a city of apes. With my back straight, I tower above my fellow road-users who are hunched over car steering wheels and bike handles. This newfound poise, however, lasts for only seconds at a time. At junctions, it is replaced by another emotion: the fear of being squashed by passing traffic. After a 20-minute ride, my hands ache from tightly gripping the handle. I am too scared to go much faster than 10 kilometers per hour, enough to keep pace with an amateur jogger.
This is my first time on an escooter in Paris or, in fact, anywhere. I glide gingerly past signs
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