The XXXIII Olympiad in Paris, or the Summer Olympic Games, will kick off on Saturday, July 27, with a spectacle along the Seine—that glorious Parisian river.
Unfortunately, so far, only the valiant mayor of Paris, Anne Hidalgo, has dared to dip her toes in those murky waters, and the nation is still waiting for President Emmanuel Macron to squeeze into his swimsuit.
One can only hope the boats carrying 10,500 athletes are equipped with industrial-strength air fresheners as they celebrate the opening ceremony.
Let’s also spare a thought for the bold gendarmes—bless their baguette-loving hearts—who have sealed off the Seine with all little enthusiasm.
Imagine the delightful conversations between bewildered tourists and stone-faced officers: “But monsieur, I simply must reach the Eiffel Tower!”
“Non! You have no QR code. Go back to your hotel and look through your window.”
Of course, we mustn’t overlook the potential for strikes. Because what’s a French event without the threat of disgruntled workers downing tools at the most inopportune moment?
Perhaps we'll be treated to the sight of 3,000 performers doing the can-can while holding protest signs and wearing yellow vests and waving some sort of flag.
But which flag will Australia be marching under as we seem to have more flags than a United Nations convention.
Jokes aside, it might be more Gallic grumpiness than sporting prowess that the Paris Olympics will be remembered for.
The locals are absolutely thrilled to have their city overrun by foreigners and their entourages.
Nothing says Vive la France quite like closed metro stations, blocked traffic lanes, and the constant presence of 45,000 police officers. It’s like a nationwide game of escape room, but with more beret-wearing gendarmes and fewer clues.
But perhaps they’ll be cheered up by grand debut of “breaking”—a sport that sounds more like a description of the French economy than a dance form.
Our very own Rachel “Raygun” Gunn, and Jeff “J-Attack” Dunne will be there, no doubt leaving the Place de la Concorde looking like a scene from Saturday Night Fever meets The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Although we’re competing in 33 of the 35 sports, we Aussies couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm to qualify for fencing or handball.
Yet we’re sending a veritable menagerie of athletes, from the sprightly 14-year-old Arisa Trew, who'll be attempting to defy both gravity and child labour laws on her skateboard, to the venerable Shane Rose, who at 51 will be showing the youngsters how to stay in the saddle without the aid of a zimmer frame.
And let’s not forget our surfers, who‘ll be braving the waves of Tahiti’s Teauhupoo—a name that sounds like something you’d catch from drinking the water in a Parisian fountain.
It’s supposed to represent liberty, but it more accurately represents the confusion of anyone trying to navigate the Paris metro during the games. A fitting symbol, perhaps, for a city where even the pigeons have perfected the art of looking perplexed.
Perhaps it’s because of the deaths of 300 of their ancestors over 100 years ago when Paris also hosted the games in the year 1900 when real pigeons were used for clay shooting—300 of the poor birds met their end.
This was also a time when medals were eschewed in favour of fine art. But who, pray tell, gives a fig? Are our nations so splintered and fragmented that the sense of unity, much like the pigeons, has gone belly up?
So as the Seine flows relentlessly, carrying with it the dreams, hopes, and perhaps a few questionable floating objects, we stand on the precipice of another Olympic journey from the Seine to insane.
Let the Games truly begin.
