On Paris 2024, part X

We did it. The Games have done their thing. We are watching the first ever Olympic breakdancing final, over-excited in our seats bought online with a visibilité réduite, which means we have a crane right in front of us, or actually only me, my teenager sees every move the women make on stage.

We didn't think this was going to happen and spent the whole morning refreshing the site without finding any tickets. I went to the local coffee bar, hoping someone would know someone who was selling theirs. I bumped into another old friend from when I lived here in my twenties. She tipped me off to a black market site where tickets cost as much as a month's rent, and my hopes were dashed. Her hands and neck didn't match her face, something had been stretched and fixed. I wondered why she felt the need to do anything. I looked at her hands, still beautiful with just a few wrinkles. While I moved back to Oslo, she stayed and studied, now a professor at the Sorbonne. She was reading an American poet, mentioning someone I'd only heard of, never read. I made a mental note to Google later, for now nodding as if I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Without tickets, we went to the photo shop with the lovely ladies, one of whom repaired my broken mju again. I think I may have to return it to the guy who sold it to me after this summer, so it will have served as my Olympics camera, which is significant in itself.

We ate a crêpe next to the oldest monumental fountain in Paris, called the Fontaine des Innocents. It had been a long time since I had seen it, as I rarely walk in the centre near Les Halles, but I was accompanying my ado to a vintage shop. She's looking for the perfect bag for when she starts high school in a few weeks. Just for fun, I updated the ticket app again and there they were, two tickets next to each other, we almost screamed with joy, it was happening.

There is more screaming here. ‘You are witnessing history,’ the presenter shouts, and we shout back. The French speaker gets more applause as the crowd is full of Parisians. Our side loses in the interval when the presenter wants the audience to battle each other. We sit close to the VIP section—full of celebrities we don’t know who are—many of whom think they are too cool to get up and dance.

This breakdance battle is for everyone. I am moved by how good the dancers are, how they keep the rhythm and the smiles on their faces, and how they cheer each other on in the battle, even hugging at the end. I am more moved by their sportsmanship than by the interval show with the Paralympic dancers or the ballet dancer and the hip hop dancer in the second interval. We have lost our voices, cheering so much, it feels as if we are all here, many nations.

Japan and Lithuania make it to the final, and as we are surrounded by Lithuanian fans—and, coming from the Nordic region, we feel closer to those from the Baltic—we cheer extra for their athlete. The one guy who stands up every time the Lithuanian dancer makes a good movement brings tears to my eyes, it is so beautiful. But Japan is better, and a Japanese fan is filmed crying with shaking shoulders as she is declared Olympic gold medallist. The first ever.

There is a bit of a struggle with the flags, there is such a serious ceremony to bring them in, and when the Lithuanian flag gets stuck it is painful to watch the uniformed man attempting again and again. But the attention is on the medallists and their quick selfie on the small podium. A picture to remember forever.

And what do we see on the way home? The cauldron in the air. At the time it was supposed to be there. I felt better than those who were struggling to get a picture, I only take a few pictures nonchalantly, as I had never tried to catch it, and then we find the métro home.

The last day is almost here and we will be watching the closing ceremony from a beach in Normandy. We don't know it yet, but another French favourite of mine, Zaho de Sagazan, will be singing Sous le ciel de Paris—which I've put on all my stories—and my daughters' absolute favourites Angèle and Billie Eilish will also be performing, and the old Hollywood sign is there, as expected, with the Olympic rings, using the two existing O's. For a brief minute it feels like time has gone backwards as the bikini dancer twerks behind one of the rappers, Paris did it so much better. All the fun sarcasm of the Games can be summed up by one of the commentators saying that Leon Marchand is faster in the sea than on foot because they think he spent too much time taking the Olympic flame from the Tuileries to the Stade de France. I have high hopes that this humour will be found in the Californian city of dreams.

The front page of Liberation calls Paris a superstar, saying that the capital has been won over by the festivities and is showing the world its best side. Paris, this new ville, as a Parisian lovingly told me over a verre, with its caring people, its empty streets, its smooth transport, will remain as it is until the Paralympics begin in a few weeks' time. But these games will be without me, because this art residency has come to an end.

These texts relating to Paris 2024 are a work in progress.