Confession: I thought the 2024 Olympics might be a disaster. Maybe it was just my acquired French pessimism, or maybe I had seen too much French bureaucracy and the way it makes simple things complicated. Maybe I’d seen other cities struggle with the Olympics, or maybe I’d learned to complain like the French. I wasn’t alone—most Parisians I know planned to rent out their apartments to tourists for a million dollars a night, go to Grandmère’s house in Provence and sip rosé until La Rentrée.
Boy, were we wrong! From the spectacular opening ceremony, sexy and fun and quirky, to the heart-warming athletes’ stories, to Scoop Dogg and Martha, it looked like non-stop fun. Things that started to turn south (racism, sexism, cardboard beds) resolved themselves. Women of all shapes and sizes were championed, and French masculinity reigned supreme after a single pole vault. Bien-fait, monsieur!
My Parisian friends told me about the Metro improvements, the new sanisettes (self-contained, self-cleaning unisex portable toilets), the spruced-up streets, and the impressive crowd control. That’s when the FOMO – Fear of Missing Out – set in.
I miss my city. More specifically, I miss seeing Paris in party mode.
I saw Paris go through a lot of stuff during my years there. There were the public transportation strikes of 2019-2020, where I walked all over Paris, discovering new neighborhoods and cafés and hidden treasures. I have never surpassed that winter’s step count.
Protests? There was the farmers’ protest, where they drove their tractors in from the countryside and blocked traffic around the Arc de Triomphe. There was May Day 2017, when the parade turned violent, and we sat in a cafe watching les casseurs (anarchists dressed in black) smash windows until the police showed up in riot gear to shoo them away.
Most notably, there were the Gilets Jaunes protests of 2018-19, where yellow-vested protesters swarmed the city every Saturday torching cars and buildings and bus stops. What started as a protest of rising fuel prices turned into a general airing of grievances by people who struggled to pay their bills and taxes.
Paris is usually an elegant, sophisticated city, so when things get ugly, it’s a stark contrast.
Even their regularly-scheduled joy is classy. For example, Bastille Day is usually a city-wide fête, with fly-overs and parades and fireworks. Very civilized.
La Fête de la Musique, during the summer solstice, programs live music all night long, with dancing and celebrating all over town. Also very chic.
Once, however, I witnessed happiness that almost got out of hand.
For the 2018 World Cup Final, France vs Croatia, my friend Kate, a big sports fan, invited me to meet her at Le Dôme, our favorite neighborhood spot, to watch the match on their big screen TVs. We stood on the terrace, crammed in with our neighbors, sipping drinks and shouting Allez les Bleus! Every time they scored, the crowd busted out the Marseillaise at full volume. Kate and I sang lyrics from our phones because even though I had learned the words in Mrs. Witte’s French class in Graham High School 1982 (Go Steers!) I didn’t remember them.
France won, and Kate and I joined the crowd streaming toward the Arc de Triomphe. Traffic was at a standstill, people pulled each other up to the top of bus stops and danced, the air was full of red and blue powder shot from color canons. I clutched Kate’s hand as she dragged me through the mob, down Avenue Montaigne to Pont de l’Alma. We watched the Eiffel Tower sparkling, with people dancing and singing, until the fireworks started flying sideways and the police came out to shut it down, sending us home in a blaze of glory.
Another time I saw complete and unbridled joy in Paris, on a smaller scale, was at a Mamma Mia Sing-along. I went with my friend Elizabeth. We went because we love ABBA, but I had not known the absolute banger that this event would be. There were Gen X-ers like me who had listened to the group on vinyl back when we were pre-teens, millennials like Elizabeth, and adorable Gen Z-ers sporting ABBA jumpsuits, all absolutely giddy. Elizabeth and I sang and danced along with 2,000 other women and a few lucky guys. Our American voices and their French accents rang out together. We were high on life.
Those moments in Paris were rare, that exuberance. I had plenty of joy in Paris, but it was the quiet kind—stroking a cashmere scarf or sampling perfume in Galerie Lafayette, kissing a friend on both cheeks and drinking coffee on a terrace, sunlight on the Seine, standing in front of a Monet or Degas and feeling tears prick my eyelids, indulging in wine and chocolates and freshly-baked baguettes. The small joys of Paris added up to a lifestyle full of grace and charm and contentment.
But a festive atmosphere, with laughter and dancing and face paint and glitter? That was rare, and I’m sorry to have missed the Jeux Olympiques et Paralympiques. It looked like a blast.
So, Paris, what do you have for me during my next visit? A Rugby World Cup? World’s Fair? Lollapalooza?
Let me know—I’m ready to party!
