Monday
The alarm rings at 4am—time for games! I board the Eurostar for my fourth stint as Olympics editor. Seated beside a charming family, I overhear them surprising their son with a trip to Disneyland Paris. But where will the excitement be greater? Thunder Mountain or the stomach-churning Olympic rollercoaster? We shall soon find out.
Later, I find myself at the Élysée Palace for a speech by Monsieur Macron, addressing the global media. A delightful buffet awaits, as you might expect. I cheekily drop a piece of ham, quickly snatched up by the Macrons’ elderly dog, Nemo, who is locally renowned for once urinating on a decorative fireplace during a presidential meeting. Thankfully, the floor remains dry today.
Emmanuel and Brigitte make the rounds. I attempt to get close for some insightful quotes, but bodyguards keep me at bay. My colleague Nick Ames pushes through and extends his hand: “Bonjour monsieur, le président!” They exchange greetings, and Macron acknowledges Nick with the memorable words: “The Guardian? Thank you for being here.” Nick walks away with the story, while I’m left empty-handed. This is why he’s an intrepid war-zone journalist while I munch on packed lunches at a desk.
Emmanuel Macron and his dog Nemo. Not a dry leg in sight. Photograph: Ludovic Marin/AFP/Getty Images
Tuesday
I feel like Mark Cavendish speeding to victory on the final stage of the Tour de France. In reality, I’m riding an electric bike up a closed Champs-Élysées toward the Arc de Triomphe at dawn. My illusion is shattered when two officers tell me to use the Paris 2024 lane instead of the cycle lane. Going a mere 100 meters further, another two cops direct me back to the cycle lane. Ah, bureaucracy—if only the French had a term for that.
I achieve a personal milestone by being first in line to validate my accreditation at 7am—a gold medal moment! Returning to the hotel, I find our chief news man Sean Ingle having breakfast. “I know this might not be the best time,” he says, “but with only 18 months until the Winter Olympics, we need to start planning.” Mon dieu, Sean. I need more coffee.
Wednesday
Horse racing, espionage, and pitch invasion madness—news abounds to triage, distill, and analyze. Just another typical day at the Olympics, and it hasn’t even officially started! I steal an hour to dine at a local restaurant and consult the chef-owner about his thoughts. “Les Jeux Olympiques?!” he exclaims. “They’re a complete disaster. My earnings are down 35%. Businesses are shutting down. Tourists are not coming.”
As someone just along for the ride at the Olympics, I feel a bit guilty. To make amends, if you find yourself in the 15th arrondissement, please visit 750g La Table for dinner. Their poached egg with ratatouille starter is incredible.
Thursday
I wake with a throat like sandpaper and isolate myself. Suddenly, I am transported back to Tokyo—a world of Covid, hotel quarantines, empty stadiums, and routine saliva collection for my colleagues. I’m not complaining; we were kept safe, after all. My heart goes out to the people of Japan who funded those Games, experienced a wave of infections, and never got to enjoy the occasion.
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Paris has a different vibe: the Stade de France is alive for Antoine Dupont’s dazzling try against Argentina, and it’s thrilling to witness such color and excitement. “Magnifique! Magnifique!” exclaims French TV. And they’re right. I reflect on the chef-owner’s sentiments, the children of Japan who missed out, and the corporate greed tainting the Games. I can’t help but feel guilty for enjoying this splendid spectacle.
Friday
A ring of steel casts a military ambiance over the city. Tensions mount with news of sabotage on the train lines in la France profonde. It serves as a reminder that not everything can be protected. Thankfully, Céline Dion made an early entrance on a budget ticket, delivering a spectacular performance to lift the spirits at the end of a dreary ceremony.
Saturday
Après le déluge—and a bizarre sighting of a naked man painted blue with a stick-on ginger beard—was that real? Time to get on with the actual show. I head to the hockey venue in Colombes, the only location still in use from the 1924 Paris Games—the iconic Chariots of Fire Games. As a child, I imagined myself at the Olympics while running around the track at Bebington Oval, used as a stand-in for filming. Now I’m reporting pitch-side at the real thing. It’s the closest I’ll ever get to being an Olympian—and that’s perfectly fine with me. On y va!
