It was a desperate dash down London’s Victoria Street with a overstuffed backpack strapped to my back. Sweating the sweat of both fear and exhaustion, I screamed into the station and pleaded my way to the front of the queue. I could not start with a miss! Ticket moistening in hand, I rushed to join a mercifully late boarding where I was allowed a brief pause.
My mind was already in Paris. I was so looking forward to joining the Parisians watch France play Senegal in the opening match of the World Cup. Paris would be the first stop of many in my endeavour to join locals from all over Europe in watching their teams compete in the World Cup. My mission? To learn what is so special about this game they call football.
For the first leg of my adventure, I boarded a bus. I felt like a Senegalese moving uneasily before meeting France in tomorrow’s big game. Except that, for me, the games had already begun. I normally prefer companions and compassion to hoarding a seat beyond my share, but not on that night. Paris would sleep and I wanted to do the same. I needed two seats.
I dived through the isle and reclined across two seats, posing to emphasise my uncomely appearance. Broad, bald and bison-arsed to be sure. I sneered and offered the other passengers a glare before hiding my face to avoid all further eye contact. Then, I let out a loud burp. I pushed my face to the window, aiming my bison bits at the isle. Just one more burp for good measure perhaps.
An age seemed to pass. My body strained and complained about its overhanging parts, mere twinges compared with the pain to be felt if the seats had to be shared. I did not move, but sat listening in waiting.
And then. The bus! It started up!!
GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLL!!
I felt like running the isle with my shirt on my head, but managed to withhold the urge. Instead, I reviewed the itinerary I had prepared after conceiving the idea for my adventure barely two weeks ago. My plan is to spend the first fortnight of the Cup watching matches with locals in France, England, Ireland, Belgium, Slovenia and Poland. After that, my movements will be dictated entirely by the success or failings of the European teams. Where this will take me, I have no real idea. As an Australian, I know nothing of the relative strengths of the teams or this strange game that they play. I hope I like football.
The bus edged out of London and I tried to settle down to sleep, marvelling all the while at how truly uncomfortable I was, even with my two seats. I must have slept for a while or at least cut off the blood flow to my head as I recall opening my eyes to an unpleasant surprise. A ferry.
I had thought the bus would go a’chunneling to France, but it drove us all straight into belly of a ferry. After being swallowed whole, we were brought up from the bus and into the overly buoyant environment of the ferry’s top decks, complete with all the things that one never dreams of being woken to see.
I managed to fight the urge to buy expensive perfume or teaspoons commemorating the ferry ride and instead sought out some rest. I positioned my body across a couch and my feet in an ashtray near the exit. I did not fear a ferry disaster, but would have been damned if I was going to give up my extra seat on the bus. And sure enough, after an hour of not sleeping in the ferry, I was the first one in the bus not sleeping again.
At six in the morning, the bus weaved its way through vast concrete concourses to drop us in ‘Paris’. I woke up to none of the green efielled views I had so much expected. Not that I think my body enjoyed much sleep, except of course for those bits that hung from the seat, made to go without blood. My neck felt a bit sore. My arse, mighty numb.
I was anxious about my first football game, feeling in no shape to face it. As the bus disgorged, I groped around on the floor for misplaced possessions, wanting to just lie there and hide. And then I felt it. I had packed it and lost it and now here it was. My ‘Rescue Remedy’! Everything was going to be alright.
By bleating around the bus station, I attracted the attention of Jack and Jean-Pierre, a Brit and a Frenchman with no interest in football, but bursting with care. They guided me through the Metro and dog-turded streets of Paris to find me a hostel. (Wherever the hell it is!?) They even invited me to join them for breakfast with their friend named Jean. He was a gentle Parisian with a minimalist flat, balconied and so meticulously tidied that I felt somewhat nervous about making a mess. Though, I took some comfort from the fact that everything was disposable. Everything! You could kill a stranger in that flat, dispose of the evidence and no one would ever know!
Oh…
We munched on croissants and exchanged observations about the English and French, their differences in manner and also in tea. Jean, bless him, boiled the milk with the water, reminding me of Indian chai wallah. I enjoyed my tea sweet, just like the man himself, and felt right at home.
Jean was also not much of a football fan, but he spoke of the pressure felt by France. I had heard it before. Even I know that France are the reigning champions and ranked number one, but the self assuredness, even arrogance, I had expected to see in its capital city was lacking. Could this be self-pity, uncertainty, humility? Could this be Paris?
I filled up on croissants and sweet tea before getting back to my plan. Just the night before, I had met two fabulous French women, Laetitia and Eliza, who told me to go to the Hotel de Ville. It is Paris’ town hall and I was promised there would be a big screen and many French fans, probably nervous French fans, but French fans nonetheless. I left my new friends to brave the dog turds alone.
The Hotel de Ville stood in quiet grandeur overlooking a splendid plaza, flanked by pale buildings enlivened with ivy. It was a perfect day for the occasion with clear skies and soft sun (and rain back in London no doubt.) The last day of the year to enjoy Paris in the spring.
Kick off was approaching and the masses had gathered in their thousands. They sat like school children. Serenely. Orderly. Nicely. Europeanly?
France’s flag was being waved all around, though Senegal drew its own strong support. Senegal is the France outside of France, with more players playing professionally in the country than France has itself. The irony of the enemy was not lost on all, with support for Senegal being shown not only in its own colours, but in France’s as well.
The big screen showed highlights of French glory passed. The crowd was appeased, but of course I was lost. There was no grace was given to mere speakers of English, the only concession being the Beatles’ ‘Revolution’ blaring from behind the screen. The highlights grew higher and the music more musical as match time approached. The crowd were now frenzied. Or at least as frenzied as seated French folk can get.
I surveyed the scene with a tear in my eye. It meant so much just to be there. You can keep Seoul. Anyone can go there to attend World Cup matches with ease. I wanted Paris. I want all of Europe to follow. I stood firmly at the Hotel de Ville. There was nowhere else I would rather have been in the world at that moment.
Kick off! Now I am no football fan (no, really, I’m not, I’m more of a fan fan), but things seemed to start solidly for France in the first game of their World Cup defence. They retained control of the ball, made some gutsy attacks and maintained a strong defence, particularly in its last line.
The punters seemed happy. And patient. My how patient. They sat in near complete silence. One could hear a guillotine drop. No chanting or cheering or much carrying on. After all, ‘we are France, are we not?’
There was an early missed goal for France, but the fans showed little disappointment. They even found reason to applause. I was impressed with their positivity. I do not know if that is just France, or perhaps the true nature of football. If so, the Game’s Beauty is indeed real.
Then, thirty minutes in, Senegal scored! A not insignificant number of people sprung from the ground to give a good cheer. The seated French covered their heads to hide from reality and reveal their dismay. France rebounded to make some hearty attacks, though each was well resisted by the now leading Senegal. The French continued to cheer and nurture their team like that rare parent who offers ever constructive support for their offspring’s sporting endeavours. I felt it a treat to watch how they watched.
Half Time. With the score one-nil, it seemed that some were moving off. It was, after all, a working day. Not to overstate the fact of course. In their thirty-five hour working week, I was confident that a great many Parisians would find time to fight back.
I was transfixed on the crowd and at first failed to notice that a Japanese camera crew had appeared next to me to create a little media corner (except of course they were professionals who are paid for their work). The presenter stood, fixing his hair, his back to the crowd. Then, I smelt a joint! I bet Mr. Fancy Pants Presenter Man missed it. There he was, to report on the grassroots, but I fear that he was out of touch. Except with his hair, which he was curating constantly. Not something you would never catch me doing.
I sought out a new vantage point, moving seamlessly through the crowd, my purple sarong now on top of my reddening scone. Yes, Parisian style was rubbing off on me. I felt sure of it.
I found my new place in time for the reseating to begin. Now, this I was interested in. I wondered how polite we would all be if our compatriots blocked our view? But, as the players ran back on, everyone sat down together, demonstrating the ‘fraternite’ clearly so valued to be inscribed atop even the Hotel de Ville.
It was then that I noticed that I could not see even a single police officer. When a crowd of this size gathers in London, well into its thousands, perhaps even tens of, you can guarantee a police presence, riot gear and all. In such a crowd back home in Australia, you would wish for that police presence to quash the “Aussie, Aussie Aussies” and the “Oi, Oi, Ois”. But in Paris, there was not an unruly wave, or broken bottle or defaced statue. Little wonder so many Brits still resist the EU. What to make of such order?
The second half started and the crowd shared a real sense that France was going to come back. They wanted the world from their team that dared to promise it all, but could never quite deliver. Senegal stood its ground and the clock moved relentlessly on.
Senegal was clock burning. The crowd was consumed with distaste. France made one last attempt, a final shot at goal, which was just, oh so just, captured by Senegal’s mighty keeper and then everyone stood.
We all knew it was over.
The final whistle came and Senegal’s supporters ran wild with joy. They clambered the screen and pounced on the media to show their flags to the world. Flares and fireworks lit up. Soon all was awash with red, yellow and green. A victory over France! For them, none could be sweeter.
The French were gracious in defeat, making speedy, but tasteful exits. There were even a few pats on backs in recognition of a job well done. There was no violence or bitterness, only quiet disappointment.
Senegal one. France nil. Not for lack of passion or professionalism, from the crowd at least. What the papers will say, I do not know and could not care. I am off to savour a baguette and some wine before making my way back to England to watch my next game…