Listen, no one likes a killjoy. I know this. It’s one of the reasons I ended up where I was 12 years ago. I’d been living in London for around three years by then, and I loved it a lot. Still, I knew they were coming, and I knew I had no interest in them – the Olympics, I mean.
I knew they would ruin the city for several weeks, with all their security measures and all these tourists descending on our neighbourhoods. I wanted nothing to do with it. That is, in short, the story of how I ended up spending the summer of 2012 in South America.
I only have the vaguest of recollections of the opening ceremony; the one people here keep talking about. It was showing on a small television in the background, in the common room of a hostel in the Atacama desert in Chile. I was too busy drinking and chatting to pay attention to it. In any case, I was halfway across the world.
This time I am closer, both geographically and spiritually – France, your neighbour and the country of my forefathers and my youth, is hosting the Games. Again, I just don’t care. Why is that? I’m not entirely sure.
One possible reason is that I am still slightly traumatised by the 2008 Games. I remember them like it was yesterday; I was a teenager and my brother was a boy. We were spending the summer in Morocco with our mother’s family. For reasons that now escape me, we got stuck in our uncle’s flat in boring, humid Rabat for a few weeks, with little to do.
All the adults were busy and it was too hot to do anything so instead my brother and I sat in the sweltering living room and watched the Olympics, all day every day. Realistically, it couldn’t have lasted for more than about a fortnight. In my mind, though, those weeks turned into years, into decades. They were endless. As a result, the mere idea of watching the Games again, of my own volition, brings me out in hives.
Another problem is the fact that the Olympic Games have no choice but to entirely take over their host city for a summer. I currently have a Parisian friend who lives in one of the secure zones, and was made to apply for a special pass in order to have access to his home even on opening day. His application was refused. Does this mean he will have to spend 24 hours either solely in his flat or solely out of it? Answers on a postcard.
Homeless people have been moved away from the city’s centre and students have been told to vacate their accommodation; the Métro has become twice as expensive as it usually is and vast swathes of the capital, especially around the Seine, are currently closed to the public.
French politicians had promised their citizens that the Games would truly benefit everyone but, once again, the Olympics are simply bulldozing over a city and its residents – and for what? This is probably where I end up losing you, as most people do enjoy watching athletes at the top of their game, competing against one another. I just don’t really care – that’s the terrible truth.
The only silver lining I have managed to find is that this time, the people getting angry and frustrated are Parisians, and I dislike Parisians. They’re snobbish and rude and give all of us French people a bad name. That they will either be forced to flee from their homes for a month or endure some annoying weeks is a pleasant thought. It’s payback for the way they turn their noses up at the rest of us.
Maybe that’s what they should show on television: irked Parisians trying and failing to go about their day. I’d tune in to that.
