Where can a person go when all the world cup shouting grows too loud? You might consider Paris. We have been here since Saturday and have encountered it only un peu. If they learn that we are New Zealanders, people seize it as a conversation point, but the nation is, as you probably would imagine, not gripped. Yesterday we happened to be in the neighbourhood of the Hotel de Ville, so we dropped in to the Rugby World Cup exhibition which opened that morning. It was imaginatively conceived. Astroturfed rooms are decorated floor to ceiling with glossy pictures of the game and quotations of French writers and thinkers who have turned their minds to the deeper meaning of the scrum, lineout, and forward pack. There are recurring references to the turtle formation of the Roman Centurions. The exhibition steps you through match-day, hour by hour, from the liniment of spartan changing rooms to the after-match drinks.
Star attraction is a giant-screen All Black haka led by Carlos Spencer. Everyone stops to look, and by everyone I mean the two or three dozen people who were there. Quite a few chaps in blue blazers, not so many chic Parisiens. Perhaps the crowds will grow; the exhibition got a fairly gratuitous plug on the evening news. They also covered a reunion of captains of the French team: many cauliflower ears and heavy necks too large to bear a stiff collar and tie.
Outside, it’s Paris. We are in Montmartre in an apartment three floors up old wooden stairs with a wrought-iron balustrade. We are having the time of our lives. Karren lived here for two years and I have been promising we would come and holiday here for a long time now. We will be in Paris for two weeks and then going south, ending up near Toulouse. We’ll be home for Christmas.
Mary-Margaret is taking home schooling from Mum and Dad to maintain her maths, reading and writing; but her real learning is happening outside the apartment. We came home from the Picasso museum and she lay down on the floor and began sketching. She can grow tired from walking her little legs around the city, but she’s drinking it all in.
Karren’s French is very good; mine is sufficient to make my needs known. My phone battery est mort. What deals do you offer for internet mobile? Comprehending rapid speech is still generally beyond my capability. In a butcher shop yesterday, a woman asked if that bottle of wine was all I was buying. Non, I replied, failing to grasp her meaning, but responding in a way that seemed appropriate to the tone. It gradually dawned on me as the butcher carefully sliced, pared and minced, that she had meant: I’ll be a while. My pride was the butcher’s gain. I improvised something else to buy. Merci, au revoir.