A glow within, fierce and true, revives the city of light. Every night patches the day up as Paris metamorphoses into a new sanctuary for triumph, struggle, loss, gain, and all the words unsaid.
Retrospectively, the Olympics frenzy syndrome got the best of Paris city mayor Anne Hidalgo and her entourage with the infinite debate on whether the Seine River could turn into the Tahitian lagoon of Rangiroa. One billion, not pesos honey, euros later, the utopia crumbled with the umpteenth E. Coli test exceeding the upper limits of sports federations and fast food chains’ standards. Because she is a woman of her word, and perhaps the repercussion after her pledge on National Television that she would honor us with a performance in the Seine, Annie had to make that jump. “It’s pure joy,” she proclaimed after 10 seconds in murky waters. Girl, please. She has been missing since then. Coincidences? I doubt so.
The love of flex conditions the existence of French natives. Napoleon on our minds, reality becomes an abstract concept, a tangible substance only nurturing our tales. Someone slipped out, “We can do better than the 2020 Tokyo Olympics “. Twitter indelibly marked our words; it was too late to turn back. On a quest to prove everyone wrong, France slipped at the first obstacle during the Rugby World Cup in Paris, blessing the crowd with an elementary school mime production – basically, a few intermittent workers dancing around with a baguette and a beret. Modern infamy, a demonstration of French savoir-faire for others, led to a few creative memes on X (commonly Twitter if you were born before 1990). Never defeated, we capitalized on the unlimited budget generated from our precious goldmine, the 4€ subway ticket, to re-enchant the creative department.
Higher and higher, the introduction of the QR code at the Paris Olympics by a summer intern sparked unprecedented chaos. Listen, the transition to digital has been painful enough for French administrations; adding this new burden to the table is pure perversion. A grid – only understood by engineers and Rubik’s Cube experts – was set to defined restricted areas. Bottom line, the worship of the QR code, aka the holy grail, commenced – the access to safety perimeters, frameworks, and, more importantly, my house. Time ups – 3 days have passed since I applied on the government platform to return home from Italy. Shall I have invested in a bottle of wine to expedite the process? Perhaps. My loss. Ahead, the prefabricated cardboard checkpoint, a police sanctuary where fantasy get crushed, set the tone. As if I were a drug dealer, the taxi rolled down the back window next to the local authority, “No QR codes, No entry.” Waving in vain at familiar faces that made it behind the barricade only exacerbated my despair. 10 decades later, just when my deodorant was about to run out, my 4-piece luggage set and I infiltrated the neighborhood with the help of a few Parisian pigeon accomplices.
Life changes; we rewrite lines and adjust the theme just as much as the French Olympic Committee. “Come back,” they said to Parisians when over 1 million tickets were unsold one day before the Olympic festivities. We heal, rise, and grow – 5 invitations from the City Mayor to the Opening Ceremony came out of the blue. Apologies accepted. All smiles like a true flexer, flashing my QR codes unapologetically on every occasion we marched in unison to the inauguration. Rain brings good fortune, as they say, well it’s pouring. Over 10,500 athletes from 206 delegations are parading and fighting for their lives on the barges of the Seine River amid the abnormal tropical storm. Conquering a few cm2 from my friend’s umbrella is my only pursuit. From melodies of ages past to rhythms of the future protagonists, we stand side by side in unity, our common grace. As the flame ascends, a luminous guide to the rhythms of Cerrone’s Supernature and Celine Dion, we reflect on Paris, a haven where dreams reside.
