On Paris 2024, part VI
The heatwave is on. Voices in the métro tell passengers to remember to drink water. People in vests lead us out and we walk together like sheep. My daughter and I go to see Uzbekistan play the Dominican Republic, thanks to friends who have extra tickets. Their boys love football and we're in the old stadium of Mbappé, who impressively spoke fluent Spanish at his first press conference for Real Madrid, telling reporters that he learnt Spanish at school because it was his dream to play for this team. Enthusiasm is as high, especially when they see the red mascot and wonder if they can take a selfie with it.
The spirit of JO follows me some days after as I drink my morning coffee and read the news, the female athletes taking part in the triathlon are actually jumping into the Seine. I didn't think we'd see that, Macron didn't even go in as promised. I look at my sleeping teenager. I don't want to wake her, but I think I need to see the next round with my own eyes to believe it. I use another precious normal fare métro ticket to get to the Invalides bridge and stand next to a nice French group to see the men’s competition. I envy the photographers closer to the water and wonder why I hadn't applied for press accreditation.
A woman sneaks in next to us to get a perfect spot from which another is leaving. The group next to me scolded her. ‘It's not fair play,' one of the French people says, 'You should think of those who have been here since the morning.’ She pretends not to hear us and it is forgotten as the race continues. Last night's rain has created a strong current, the swimmers are struggling and the smell is demotivating even for those of us above water. My heart goes out to the last two who are fighting so hard against the steam that is taking them across the river. I am already drenched in sweat, not just from the scorching sun, but from the stress I feel for them. Later, in a cafe, I meet an Icelandic support group called Team Edda for their friend, who is the first triathlete from her country to compete in the Olympics. She came 51st out of 110 athletes. I guess it is better to be in the middle than the very last.
Inspired I go to the piscine Pontoise to swim with my daughter. I hear the music from the film Bleu in my head as I take my strokes. I make sure to say bonjour to everyone I pass, as it is frowned upon not to. It’s hard to talk while swimming but one must. I think about Juliette Binouche crying in an interview I saw. The MeToo wave is here. When she was asked about the hundred men who signed a petition supporting the movement in the French edition of Elle, she cried. She talked about the importance of recognition. And how it needs to be acknowledged by everyone, not just women. ‘Men have to say something,’ she insisted, adding tearfully, that women can't change this alone. Juliette was still crying when she presented an award to Meryl Streep at the Cannes Film Festival. Several people in the audience were also crying as she struggled through her speech to the American actress. Perhaps they were all still emotional from seeing Judith Godrèche and her daughter standing with their hands over their mouths on the red carpet leading up to the theatre before the screening of her film Moi Aussi. Godrèche is leading on for France to finally have its MeToo, years after the rest of Europe had theirs. When she was at the same age as my daughter now, she asked to be emancipated as an adult and went to live with a 40-year-old film director. She talks about how she has lost important years, on how he stole her childhood. She just shared a picture of Simone Biles on her Instagram, also a victim of sexual harassment, I wonder what the status is within the sport.
Once outside the 33 degrees are again very present in this gorgeous city. I just talked about Paris with some LA-people that I met, laughing together at memes mocking the different backdrops for the sporting events in the two cities. How can a big Walmart compete with the Grand Palais or the Eiffel Tower, one of them said. We were standing in a street by the Tuileries Gardens, waiting to get a shot of the Olympic cauldron that rises over Paris every evening after sunset. We waited. And waited. Lots of people there, phones out, ready for the best shot to be posted on their various platforms. The unique design of the cauldron is, according to an article I read, a tribute to the first flight of the hot air balloon at the same place. On 1 December 1783, a hydrogen-filled gas balloon took off from the garden with its inventor. This was not the first one, a few months earlier one was built by the brothers Joseph and Étienne Montgolfier, and took off from Versailles under the watchful eyes of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette.
I think of my visit to the Basilique Cathédrale de Saint-Denis, where many kings and queens are buried, including the remains of Louis and Marie-Antoinette. It is said that they were thrown into a common grave after being guillotined, but were then exhumed and reburied. The statue of her fascinated me, bent over as if in apology or prayer, with her arms crossed. In this part of Paris, the only noise was that of the workers dismantling everything related to the Games in front of the Hôtel de Ville.
Today, the skateboard ramp is set up on the Concorde square, where the guillotine used to be. We want to see these competitions next week as well as the breakdancing. As a second best, we will go to see the ramp built in front of the Centre Pompidou by the artist Raphaël Zarka in collaboration with a local architect Jean-Benoît Vétillard. Together with the Fontaine Stravinsky by Jean Tinguely and Niki de Saint Phalle, it looks like a beautiful addition to the Beaubourg. And if no one skates while we are there, we'll see art.
These texts relating to Paris 2024 are a work in progress.