On Paris 2024, part VIII

I see the short but poignant thread of Simone Biles on the big screen passing the Hôtel de Ville:

you guys really gotta stop asking athletes what’s next after they win a medal at the Olympics

let us soak up the moment we’ve worked our whole lives for

She's so right, we should think of better questions. And yet, what do you ask a fresh medallist?

I think about going inside to see what free entertainment they have on offer, but the queue is so long I decide to have a coffee in the cafe opposite.

I want to work, I'm on a mission to find strong representations of women after a certain age, but first I scroll a bit. I was wondering what the big croissants were that people were posing with. Why would Parisians do that? I read in a British newspaper that 'Giant croissants prove even Paris has succumbed to the TikTokification of food. Social media has sparked a viral trend for dishes that are designed to produce 'content' rather than be delicious.’

I open my Mac and decide to just check the news before I start. And then I'm distracted again. It was bound to happen. The commentators. This harmony over the summer games couldn't last forever. The Norwegians being Norwegians. Isn't it all a bit pompous, the speeches, the scenery, it's too much,' writes one. What about the sport, he complains halfway through the tournament. Where I'm from, we love sport. I still wonder why the Minister of Culture in my country is also the Minister of Sport. Is it really culture?

This comment only confirms how far away we are from the continent. I'm glad it's in Norwegian, so few people read it, because I feel the same way as my friend does when he comes to Paris. That everyone can see through him, see what a savage he is, from the outskirts of Europe... Look at the one Belgian who fell ill in the Seine, the writer argues. But are we sure it was the river? Theories now point to a virus in the Olympic village.

The café is full. I smile at the young waiter as I go to the counter for a refill. He smiles back and asks me if I'm with the mothers' group. I tell him no and he looks relieved. He blurts out that in the few weeks he's been working here, he's never seen so many breasts in his life. ‘I love breasts,' he insists, nodding his head vigorously to show how much he loves them. He goes on to tell me that the women who come in with their empty cups for refills often forget to put their bras back on after breastfeeding. They stand there with their huge breasts covered in milk and other things he doesn't want to know what they are. He looks on the verge of tears and apologises profusely. I looked over at the large group of tired mothers and their babies, who looks as if they hadn't slept for weeks. I'm with them; he has to fight this battle alone.

I don't really know what to type into Google. I spend a long time with Artemisia Gentileschi's Self-Portrait as Allegory of Painting. I look up at the waiter cleaning the tables nearby. He smiles at me, a little embarrassed. I smile back and look down at my Mac again. I find a good quote from Gentileschi, she is supposed to have said that as long as she lived she would be in control of her being. This could be something to ask the athletes to reflect on.

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