The Final Week

On Sunday I was still recovering from Friday night’s excesses and the mental strain of the French exam. But given that I didn’t want to let the day slip away in my room, I headed into Paris. I didn’t have a destination, just took a couple of metros and got off at a stop which I liked the name: La Motte Picquet Grenelle. This was a good, if random choice. The Eiffel Tower rose above me and Napoleon’s alma mater the Ecole Militaire was behind me. I spotted a Paris velib (the bike scheme) station and was tempted. I gave in and was haring off through the 8^th arrondissement before you could say ‘sacré bleu’. Sure I got myself into several compromising positions at traffic lights, put a few Parisian noses out of joint, but on the whole it was brilliant fun. The video I posted a couple of days ago is by way of proof.

Monday I begun the immense operation of tidying my room. It would have to be tidied before packing could begin, so I worked away with my woefully inadequately small black bags. The late afternoon saw me getting cabin fever so I packed a rucksack with some water, digestive biscuits and my French textbook (oral exam the next day) and headed to the Parc de Sceaux. The afternoon sun was still fighting for its existence and so I found a spot, kicked off my flip-flops and took off my t-shirt, causing many small children to be called back to their parents out of fear of this unhealthily pale creature who had just set up camp on the grass. After about 5 minutes of lying around I got bored so got up for a stroll. I then bumped into my flatmate (the one I still speak to) and his girlfriend which took awkward to new levels. I think the Parc de Sceaux is more beautiful than the gardens of Versaille. I traversed the whole park and went home via a short walk through Sceaux, possibly the wealthiest Parisian suburb and therefore home to the club president and Seb Chabal.

My oral exam took up 5 very pleasant minutes at 8.15 on Tuesday morning. I speak much better French than my classmates. This is because they spend their afternoons sitting in pavement cafés chatting about Oprah and internships at the Huffington Post (in either English, Spanish or Chinese) while I swear and banter my way through training. I read the Midi Olympique in a café and chatted to the owner about rugby in the south. He gave Beziers as an example of a great club, fantastic little town whose two passions are the bullfights and the rugby, but who are being left behind as French rugby changes.

Wednesday was spent at Roland Garros on the main court Philippe Chatrier. I turned up very early like a hyper-active, excitable 12 year old and nothing happened throughout the day to change that. I saw 4 matches on the main court. First, the umpire struggled to differentiate between Mademoiselle Wozniak and Mademoiselle Wozniacki but we got there in the end. The came the two Frenchmen Monfils and Rufin – the crowd just got behind whoever was winning, an easily contented, fickle bunch. Then Djokovic won his 41^st on the trot against a hapless opponent who eventually retired hurt. The talk around me was about what the Serb was wearing; and I was forced to agree that he looked like a remnant from Top of the Pops in the 1980s, though no one else understood that. In the evening I trekked across Paris, from south-west to north-east to join my French class ‘gathering’ in a pub in a park. There were only about 6 people there and not the 6 that I would have hoped. We got along fine, sipping on dodgy French beer, making polite, grammatically incorrect conversation about our futures... It was quite amusing but I don’t know why I went.

The packing is nearly there. My room is looking awfully empty. Marseille tomorrow for the semi-final of the Top 14 – Racing v. Montpellier. Apparently it’s to be around 32/35 degrees which will do my sun burn from the tennis no good at all.

I gave Serge his Famous Grouse yesterday, which set him off on a story about when he ate Grouse in a restaurant once. He gave me this letter. Written by a 19^th century aristocratic harlot, mistress to many, including Chopin, it’s quite a tame love letter. Now read every 2^nd line. Even if you speak only the most basic French, it’s quite amusing. At the bottom, Serge wrote “esprit francais!” which harked back to a conversation we had about the French a couple of weeks back. I thanked him for his friendship, his conversation and not least the ability and knowledge he has invested in getting me into a decent physical shape. He retires this year and heads off to the World Cup in a caravan where I’m sure he will find many rugby fans keen to listen to his tales. Whenever I heard, “Hello my dear boy, how are you?” in an attempted posh English accent, it lifted the mood. I hope that isn’t the last I’ll see of Serge.

Cher ami,
Je suis heureuse de vous dire que j'ai
bien compris l'autre jour que vous aviez
toujours une envie folle de me faire
danser. Je garde le souvenir de votre
baiser et je voudrais bien que ce soit
une preuve que je suis aimée et désirée
par vous. Je suis prête à vous montrer mon
affection toute désintéressée et sans cal-
cul, et si vous voulez me voir ainsi
vous dévoiler, sans aucun artifice, mon âme
toute nue, daignez me faire visite,
nous bavardons finalement entre nous ;
je vous prouverai que je suis la femme
sincère, capable de vous offrir l'affection
la plus profonde, comme la plus étroite
amitié, en un mot : la meilleure épouse
dont vous puissiez rêver. Puisque votre
amour me sera doux car la solitude qui m’ha-
bite est longue, bien dure, immense et bien
insupportable, et mon âme en est fortement é-
branlée, venez vite, vous pouvez me la
faire oublier et à vous, je pense me sou-
mettre entièrement.

-          George SAND (pseudonym) (1804-1876)