The crowds came, the stadiums were beautiful and the sport was great at the Paris Olympics. Farewell, Paris. Farewell to mornings of “bonjour”, cold croissants and someone else’s laundry handed to me.
On Sunday, the road outside my hotel, beside which the Seine quietly flowed, was blocked. The Olympics were ending and to symbolise an exhausted city the women were running the marathon. Last golds had to be given and the cheering had to stop sometime.
Oh damn. Farewell the cute Juliet balconies, cafes built for lounging and the creme brulee. Most mornings I’d cross the road – paying attention to pedestrian lights is only a suggestion in Paris – and walk to a Metro station named after John F.
Kennedy where double-decker trains would convey me to history. What a way to make a living. Farewell to Nathalie, the volunteer who instead of giving directions just walked me and photographer Mark Cheong through a maze at the Grand Palais to the bus stop.
Transport wasn’t the Games’ strong suit but kindness was. Language anyway was no barrier. Say Teddy (Riner, judo star) and everyone smiled.
France loves that bear of a man. Farewell to cobblestones, ugly mascots and security folk at stadiums who didn’t even pat me down when I made the metal detector beep. They shrugged.
I must look trustworthy. Everywhere the architecture was as divine as the design of a Simone Biles vault. Never will a stadium feel the same again after fencing at the Grand Palais.
There is a lesson here.