Marseille to Paris – France

Marseille had been a great success. Rut was more than happy to watch Argentina beat Wales for her first international rugby match and I got to see England scrape past Fiji with yet another far from impressive display. Still, both our teams had won, and we boarded the train to the airport on Monday nursing both impressive red wine hangovers and Rut’s newly enhanced love for rugby. Ten days later and I was back on a train to Paris to watch the third place play-off and the final. The previous three weekends spent in France had been with family, the lads, and the WAGs; the final weekend was back to just Phil and I having nothing more to worry about except a potentially unhealthy intake of ham and cheese baguettes. It was our second rugby weekend in Paris. The first time, last year, we made it to Sacre-Coeur and the foot of the Eiffel Tower, failing to see much else due to my peculiar aversion to using public transport that I’m unfamiliar with. This year I was made to embrace the metro which I did with gusto, and as such we saw quite a bit more of the city in between the rugby games and lie-ins.

The famous view of the Eiffel Tower, where all the news reporters like to stand whenever there is something going on in Paris alluded us last year through nothing more than our own stupidity. This year we emerged from a subway station, followed the crowds for a minute, and were immediately greeted by one of the most famous views on earth. However, we were hungry and so we turned on our heels, dismissed all the expensive looking cafes boasting views of little more than construction works, and settled on a little bakery on the corner of a backstreet that served up a scrumptious baguette and a cup of coffee. With breakfast done, we went back to get some photos of what is essentially a pointless metal tower, before once again turning away and heading down the road to the Arc de Triomphe. In another display of pointless construction there was at least an incredible amount of entertainment provided by the traffic that encircles the Arc de Triomphe. There appears to be no rules, no lanes, no etiquette, and no sense to it all. The only consistency is that traffic at least all goes around the roundabout the same way. You enter this merry-go-round at your own risk, injecting yourself into the tiniest of spaces when one becomes available. I don’t think you have a choice where you get off as momentum will just fling you off down one of the main streets as randomly determined by some strange force of nature. As pedestrians, Phil and I took to the underpass and sat under the Arc de Triomphe watching the chaos unfold all around us until we were told to leave due to a security alert. The whole area was evacuated within minutes through the guidance of a few people in yellow jackets and a solitary copper although disappointingly nothing else followed. I was expecting an armed response team or the bomb squad, but nope, it appears they had just had enough of tourists for the day.

The subway took us onto Notre Dame, another one of life’s idiosyncrasies. I never did understand the fuss generated when the French burnt it down a few years ago and now I’ve visited, I still don’t. No doubt it is impressive, no doubt it is steeped in history, and no doubt it is important to Paris, but the beauty of buildings made from stone is that they can withstand fire. What we forget is that most ancient buildings have undergone intentional and accidental transformations over their lifetimes, this was just another chapter for Notre Dame. I sat on the little wooden grandstand that has been built for tourists to sit on and look at Notre Dame and I guess, like me wonder how on earth it will be re-built in time for the Paris Olympics as originally demanded by the President. Such questions are too big for people like me to answer and so we headed off for a lunchtime baguette and back to the hotel for an afternoon nap. The nap had been strategic. It provided a clear line between sight-seeing and rugby and provided an opportunity to dress accordingly considering that autumn was well and truly with us. We left for the Stade de France early to give us time to grab a good feed at the stadium’s fan zone but failed miserably when Phil was refused entry for some non-sensical reason. With the rain driving down we made our way to the stadium for another baguette and several beers. After another dismal England display despite managing to edge aside the Argentinians we headed home in torrential rain ending the night with not a baguette, but a shawarma. 

The following day kicked off with lunch. We changed our approach favouring a later start but remaining out for the entire day. After a baguette-heavy first day we found a wonderful little French restaurant. It couldn’t have been more French if it tried, dark wooden furniture, red walls, an aging but polished bar, excellent food, a bottle of water as standard, and sat in the middle of a protest and the largest police presence I’ve ever seen. No idea what it was about but I was too busy contemplating the French seating arrangement outside cafes where chairs are arranged side by side next to tables and not facing each other. It’s an astonishing concept yet one that makes a lot of sense. From lunch we walked down to the Louvre where I learnt that it is much, much bigger than the little glass pyramid I’ve seen in pictures. We obviously didn’t go inside because we weren’t on a school trip or trying to seduce a lover of art, but there was no need to go inside because the whole place and surrounding area is simply colossal. An unexpectantly long walk along the river delivered us to the foot of the Eiffel Tower where we embarked on a boat tour along the river taking in the sights of pretty much everything we had seen already but obviously made much better by the fact we were on a boat. Despite the large number of homeless people found all over France, I dare say Paris could be a tad better than London, which breaks my heart even contemplating the idea, and actually one month on since my visit, yeah scratch that, London still has the edge. I dare say though, Paris is a little grander than London with a few more pointless objects lying around as already touched on. Of course, the grandeur of the two cities is why we love to visit even though all of it was funded through empire; we should therefore expect both to be erased from the map in the near future. In keeping with our day of healthy eating we popped into an Italian restaurant for dinner and a few beers and then made our way back to the Stade de France and the Rugby World Cup final. All was not how it should have been with New Zealand and South Africa taking to the field yet again. As a neutral I couldn’t help but think a large amount of atmosphere was missing since the Irish and French teams had been unceremoniously dismissed. Sat five rows from the pitch, incredibly we stayed sober in order to fully enjoy the moment despite having to watch Mika mime his set and South Africa win the match. We finished a great night with another shawarma thanks to our new Lebanese friend whose little shop was always empty and where the food looked like it had been on display for several weeks too long.

I’m starting to think France is a little like marriage. As with the husband or wife, it’s impossible not to be infuriated by France from time to time but no matter what, France will always be there, and more often than you care to admit you feel an unexpected shiver of love that reminds you why actually, it’s pretty damn good, and even more remarkably, despite our own insecurities, they actually find us quite endearing. It’s a relationship dating back 1,000 years, one that was cemented with the colonisation of the English (I’m yet to learn where we draw a line under such historical facts, and also, I believe the Normans were more Viking than French) and one I’ve learnt to love more the more I’ve visited France. Jealousy is a problem for sure. Take France’s high speed rail network, it’s incredible, while the United Kingdom turn their backs on such efficient transport. Patriotism is more or less frowned upon in England, apparently reserved only for right wing nutters or those of a colonialist predisposition, while in France, you are expected to be proudly French and nothing less will do. And good God, who doesn’t love good food, the sun, wine? Would you rather be seduced by someone with a Liverpudlian accent or a French accent? Finally, everyone will greet you with a resounding ‘bonjour’ as you enter their premises, no matter the following interaction, it will always start positively, unlike in the UK where people try much harder to avoid interaction. Despite all this, France will always be irritated by English history and that the English language prevailed over French. The French, as with the English, will never change as was reflected in the rugby. England, no way near their best, unconsciously wondered into the World Cup semi-finals; an outcome all French wanted as they were confident of beating us. Unfortunately for them, France was knocked out by South Africa in the quarterfinals. Countries, as with people in relationships can’t easily be changed, but in the very best of relationships we wouldn’t change a thing, no?