The next day was Thursday. We thought a good way to see as much of Paris in a short space of time was the bus tour, and we were right. I had a weights session in the afternoon and then a rugby session over the other side of town. The Clermont Auvergne match was held at the Stade Yves du Manoir at Colombes (a northern suburb) which was built for the 1924 Olympic Games where Eric Liddell performed his heroics. In between both of those I managed to explain the whole Eric Liddell story to the physio using the words (in French, obviously) ‘100m...400m...religion...christian...Sunday...win...film...’
For the rugby session in the evening one of the players again procured the use of the van to ferry those of us who lived in the south of the city to Colombes, in the north. I knew I was in France when the big second row lit up and started smoking. I opened my window and stuck my head out. For the French, playing rugby and smoking are definitely not mutually exclusive.
And then at the start of the session, a momentous thing happened, signifying a major leap in my French odyssey and a major boost towards being accepted. That’s right, I was kissed. I put out my hand for the customary handshake and was drawn into the left and then right cheeks. I nearly burst into ‘La Marseillaise’ right there and then.
After training I met Fino in a restaurant near-ish the flat for a steak. It was late and we both were tired.T
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