Not only is it possible to be fashionably late for the World Cup, it is preferred. Because this is, after all, France, where insouciance is both a historical given and a fashion accessory.
A shrug is as common as hand gestures among the locals, who are capable of carrying on entire conversations without opening their mouths, though I cannot say that is also true of chewing.
Alighting from the London Chunnel train at the Gare du Nord, I find the welcome kiosk for the Coupe de Monde completely abandoned, save one tattered brochure on which someone has scrawled the only French obscenity I know.
World Cup souvenirs are already discounted by 50 percent, whereas, of course, the World Cup field has been reduced by considerably more.
On the day I arrive, Brazil has not yet dispatched the hearty Dutch, meaning that only four of the 32 guests remain, and none of them, to the great relief of the French, are English.
“American,” I say to a gendarme eyeing me and my accent suspiciously.
“Ah, Michael Jordan,” he says.
“Ah, Fabien Barthez,” I say.
We smile at each other and he helpfully directs me to the taxi rank. A French cop. Imagine that. Sports, not music, is the international language.
England was eliminated from France for a reason possible only in soccer. One of the English players, David Beckham, kicked a man while he was down. I mean, while Beckham was down. The man he kicked was standing up. England wound up losing in a shootout, soccer’s version of sword swallowing.
For this Beckham has been permanently included with other great villains of British history, somewhere between Jack the Ripper and Yoko Ono.
Someone asked Queen Elizabeth if she planned to take in the England-Argentina game, a game being hyped as a rematch of the Falklands War, which I imagine to be a little like us getting excited about a return match with Panama.
“What time is it on?” the queen asked.
A wise lady, for, indeed, “When?” is my first question. My second question is “Where?”
When I am told Brazil is playing Holland in Marseille, not in Paris, I remember a story of Hakeem Olajuwon, who arrived in New York from Nigeria, claimed his luggage and told the taxi driver, “Take me to Houston.”
Thus I catch the game on television and in two foreign languages–soccer and French.
The Brazilians are all style and speed and touch, and yet the Dutch match them dash for wiggle before losing in a shootout.
And no, the Dutch do not play in wooden shoes, the reason being, apparently, they have no contract with Weyerhauser.
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I have come to admire the World Cup because it inspires the most creative sort of journalism. In an attempt to discover who would be starting, a scribe asked this actual question of the England coach:
“If Michael Owen was the Beatles and Teddy Sheringham the Rolling Stones, which tune would you sing in the shower, `Twist and Shout’ or `Satisfaction?’ “
This is a technique I plan to apply the next time the Bears’ quarterback question arises, as it inevitably will.
“Dave, if Erik Kramer was Mr. Bean and Rick Mirer was Uerkel, would you dream about . . . oh, wait, they are.”
After the game, Paris turns into Rio, the boulevards and avenues aswarm with samba-dancing Brazilians, a considerable number of whom, like Olajuwon and myself, apparently did not have cab fare.
Most alive is the Champs Elysees, where it is possible to find more American fast food on one block than in any shopping mall food court. We may not be much at soccer, but we did not underestimate the world’s appetite for a Potato for One.
At the top of the street, the eternal flame burns gamely on. French and Mexican officials had to relight the fire under the Arc de Triomphe after a couple of World Cup tourists had put it out by urinating on it.
A familiar-looking gendarme stands guard at one of the symbols of French honor, his foot tapping to the music.