Merci
On July 15, 2018, the day after Bastille Day, France had a different kind of revolution. Our team won the World Cup for the second time in twenty years, defeating Croatia 4-2. For the occasion, I made the trip back home yet again hoping that it wouldn’t be to watch “les Bleus” fail so close to their sacrament. When the final whistle was blown, Paris erupted in cheers and prepared to descend on the Champs Elysées to celebrate this incredible victory.
For me, this finishing signal also announced the beginning of a race against the clock as the game ended at 6:45pm and the last train to the Netherlands left Gare du Nord at 7:25. Thankfully, I spotted a taxi making its way down the famous Alma Bridge. Horn blaring and tri-color flag waving, the cab driver seemed to be caught up in a race of its own, proclaiming its joy along with the rest of the country. Seeing him as my only salvation to make it to the train station in time, I nearly jumped in front of him and quite literally begged him to give me a ride. After a solid dose of reprimand—even in victory French people tend to be slightly rude—and to my utter surprise, he grinned and told me: “get in, Miss, we just won the World Cup; today we can accomplish anything.”
Now while it is true that Parisians are not necessarily known to be careful drivers, nothing could have prepared me for this trip. After the victory, streets in the capital were more akin to what you would except to see in Cairo or Bangkok. Two-way streets turned into four-lane highways and deafening cheers and sounds echoed throughout the city. Unfortunately, the general euphoria also meant atrocious traffic. Upon crossing Rue de Rivoli, we came to a complete standstill for what felt like an eternity. But suddenly, the cab driver looked at me in his rearview mirror and muttered a curse word that I shall not repeat, before turning and racing into a one-way street. I was almost excepting him to scream “for glory!” à la Gerard Butler in 300. Perhaps more aligned with the theme, as he ran through red light after red light, the scene seemed to be taken directly from one of the countless Fast and Furious movies. Closing my eyes for the remaining of the journey, I could not begin to fathom how it came to be but I got to the train station perfectly on time to catch the Thalys back to The Hague.
In the end, this World Cup brought me both a sense of renewed pride for my country and a sort of admiration for cab drivers. More importantly though, this victory seemed to give Paris back its collective and carefree joy. While there is no doubt that it will take much more than a sporting feat to purge the pain inflicted on so many bereaved families, Paris on Sunday finally felt like Paris again for the first time since the 2015 attacks. This victory brought life to the motto “fluctuat nec mergitur,” which was adopted as a symbol of perseverance after the Bataclan. So thank you “les Bleus” for representing the changing face of a diverse, multicultural country with which not all French citizens have yet reckoned. Thank you for making the Champs Elysées look like De Gaulle liberated Paris all over again. And thank you for giving us back our beloved insouciance and joie de vivre. Simply put: merci.