Summer 2024 Newsletter
Dear friends,
It is midsummer here. I am in the south of France where the heat is almost suffocating if one is not fortunate enough to live by the sea, have access to a pool or be able to escape to the mountains.
Up north, in Paris, the Olympic Games known here as JO (Jeux Olympiques ) are in full and glorious swing.
We had decided sometime ago to avoid the games. Our Mad Old Chateau east of Paris is but an hour and a bit from the capital. We could have stayed there and made use of the excellent train services to go in and out of the city, we could have considered renting our northern home to visitors. Instead, we locked it up and well in advance of the games set off for the south to spend two tranquil months here before departing for Greece and Michel’s annual commitment to the documentary film festival ‘Beyond Borders’ held on the tiny Greek island, Kastellorizo.
For the opening night of the Olympic Games, France 2 was transmitting the entire ceremony. We decided, unusually for us who rarely watch television, to tune in. Up at our recently-constructed pergola where there is the promise of an evening breeze we took wine, glasses, snacks and Michel’s laptop from which to screen the evening. I know there has been a furore about certain aspects of the ceremony – most of which was down to a misunderstanding, misreading of what was being portrayed – but we were both entranced. I think the most vital point was that until that evening I had not entirely grasped that Paris itself was to be the stadium.
Over the months running up to these games I had read a few articles about the building of lodgings where the competing players would stay; lodgings that later will be transformed into housing outside the city. But I had not asked myself, not given any thought to, the vital question Where are they building the main stadium? I don’t think I am alone in this misunderstanding.
The Stade de France is being used for some events but several locations within the city itself have been appointed competing zones.
After watching the opening evening with the boats on the Seine, the masked flame carrier leaping from roof to roof, introducing the audience to some of the city’s most famous building such as the Louvre, it began to dawn on me.
What a genius idea never before thought of, or certainly never implemented, in the history of the Olympic Games, to use the hosting city as the stadium. It is also very courageous. France has known its fair share of terrorism these last few years – and I am holding my breath and crossing my fingers as I write this because the games still have days to go. And then there’s the organisational side of the affair. How to keep the city running smoothly, operating for its inhabitants and also for the milli!ons of tourists who arrive into the city every summer and in even greater numbers this year.
Over the next couple of days, that is to say last week, I watched on the television the unfolding of one event or another held in La Place de la Concorde, for example, or at the foot of our slender iron beauty, the Eiffel Tower. And what of the flame illuminated within a balloon that floated skywards each evening at sunset from the Tuileries Garden.
The concept was making history.
In the middle of last week, I said to Michel over lunch that I had to go. It is history in the making and I needed to breathe it in, to inhale the breadth of its reach. I booked a flight for early Thursday morning, returning Saturday evening. Would I find a hotel for the two nights? Eventually, I spent the two nights in different establishments because nowhere was available for the two consecutive nights. Off I flew. I had no tickets for events and did not try to obtain any. That was not my objective. Paris transformed, Paris as a sporting location, Paris regarded by the entire world was what I was after.
And I was not disappointed.
I have lived in France for coming up to forty years. I had visited the capital on many occasions before that as a tourist, as a traveller moving on to somewhere else. Years ago, Peter Brook, the eminent theatre director, had invited me to the city with an eye to joining his extraordinary theatre company (which I did not do).
The Paris I walked through last week was beyond magical. I can safely say that it was unlike any other visit or stay I have made before. I plunged myself into the mood which was was joyous, adventurous. I made no plans except to walk late one evening to the Pyramid at the Louvre from where as the sun set I could watch the balloon lift off and set sail in the sky. It was illuminating the historic while also, it seemed to me, lighting a path forward into the future. Thousands of people surrounded me, children, babies, parents, old folk, foreigners, French from out of town, Parisians, all caught up in the theatre of the moment and the sense that this light was representing the finer side of life. The best of our spirits: the community, the diversity, the creativity, the beauty. I wept, but then I would because I am a softie. Softie or not, it was a holy moment. From somewhere behind me someone was busking, playing a violin.
Throughout the three, far-too-brief days that I was there, I witnessed no aggression, no negative attitudes, no unkindnesses. I sat outside cafés sipping mineral water or chilled white wine, listening to the beat of the street music, observing laughter, children screeching with happiness, silenced by wonder; adults kissing, embracing, strolling hand in hand. Close to the bridge that crosses to Nôtre Dame, almost repaired now, on the Saint Michel side, Left Bank side of the river, I spent over an hour watching a small team of policemen – gendarmes. They were lined up with their motorbikes and were there as a barricade to close off a section of the quayside because competing cyclists would be coming through later in the day. One of the flics (slang for policemen) was engaging with the tourists who were taking his photograph. He was posing with kids who sat on his powerful bike wearing his hat. Then an older plump lady climbed aboard, not quite making it. He hauled her into the seat, plonked his cap on her head. He posed with everyone, laughing. Strangers wrapped their arms around his shoulders, wore his hat. He called over comrades to swell the picture. When have I even seen this in Paris before? All these police – and there are many in the city right now, understandably – had an air of pride about themselves. Our city. ‘Notre ville’.
I was standing on a bridge relishing the evening settling about me, watching the clouds turn rose in the sky, when from somewhere alongside me a young man lifted himself onto the rails and dived into the Seine. A raucous cheer broke out. He posed for photos while in the water and then climbed out, as bedraggled as a soaked dog but with a broad smile on his face.
I am proud to live in France, never more so than now, and I pray with all my heart that the days that lead us to the closing ceremony and beyond remain as peaceful. The sun has shone, the rain has poured. Every weather except snow! No matter. When it chucked it down, people ran through the city streets with jackets, cardigans, newspapers, over their heads, sometimes in bare feet. It was all part of the fun, the participation, the discovery of this Paris.
I read that many inhabitants had chosen to leave the capital, flee, get out before all the commotion began, before it became intolerable. Then, after the opening ceremony, many, like me, have returned to taste the joy, to get a sniff of this new Paris. Paris revealed, born anew for some of us. Paris vibrant with magic, surprises and human kindness. Now there’s a surprise some cynics might say: ‘Paris rich with human kindness?’ But surely within all this lies the true spirit of what these sporting events are about? Men and women from all over the world, every creed, every colour, pushing themselves beyond their limits, soaring high, reaching into the very best of themselves.
Thank you for being here and reading this.
Love,
Carol
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