Like it or lump it Parisians, the Olympics are here

The Olympics is in a city that can outstrip the Games’ grandiosity but there is one confronting aspect that puts tourists on edge.

Cranky Parisians are falling for the oldest trick in the book.

Thinking their home Olympics will be a pain in the derrière. You never realise how great these things are until the athletes start going faster, higher and stronger, and crowds are going ballistic and you feel immensely proud of your city for showing its most beautiful face to the world and the streets begin rocking and rolling and you cannot help thinking … this ain’t so bad after all.

A few sights around town are a bit odd, though. This is Paris but not as we know it. The awe-inspiring Eiffel Tower was touching the clouds as ever on Tuesday. I was a bit knackered and took a luxurious lunchtime nap on the grass under the names of Petiet, Le Verrier and Sauvage. Few things in life beat taking a nap on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower under the names of Petiet, Le Verrier and Sauvage. When I awoke, I could see a beach volleyball court. Le Tower has seen it all – two world wars, the declaration of the Fifth Republic, the riots of 1968, the terror attacks of 2015 and a billion marriage proposals – but I’m guessing it’s never seen a beach volleyball court until now.

Sacre bleu. At Place de la Concorde was the Olympic skateboard arena. Not the most beautiful setup Paris has ever seen, I will grant you. It’s yet to be finished and unless I’m mistaken, madams and monsieurs, you’re cutting it a bit fine. The world’s finest skate punks are meant to be ripping, zipping and flipping into action next week. The sport is popular here: on Avenue de New York, half-a-dozen boarders in dirty black jeans and ripped T-shirts were doing jumps off the famous old steps of the Museum of Modern Art. A compelling, fascinating sight. Old and new.

Gendarmes patrol The Eiffel Tower adorned with the Olympic rings Picture: AFP

I’ll tell you what is a bit confronting. The gendarme. The police presence is overwhelming. Everywhere. It’s no joke. They’re not bumbling around like Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther. They have stern faces and walk the streets in packs. Stationed, they stand with feet shoulder-width apart, looking at you sideways, fingers on the triggers of their guns. Which gives the impression there’s going to be drama any second. Spooky.

Pedestrians were held up for about five minutes at Pont de Alexandre when 30-odd squad cars went roaring past with sirens blaring. Is security an issue at these Olympics? Is the Pope a Catholic? Do Parisians like a piano? A giggling couple were getting married on the River Seine. The gendarme marched past and put a chill in the air. A shotgun wedding, perhaps.

There’s not too much of an Olympic presence, to be honest. Not from what I’ve seen. The Arc de Triomphe has not a single IOC banner hanging from it. The Tower has the Olympic rings on one corner but given the Iron Lady stands 330m without her heels on, they look tiny. It actually feels like Paris is bigger than the Olympics. Most cities consider themselves lucky to host an Olympics.

I suspect the Olympics is fortunate to be getting a run in Paris.

The locals who have their French knickers in a knot – they just need to see the bigger picture. The Games are a potentially glorious chapter in their nation’s history. How proud are we of Melbourne 1956? Sydney 2000? Majorly proud. You put up with the traffic snarls and road blocks and gendarmes and 10,500 athletes and foreign journalists sweeping your women off their feet, and the influx of tourists, and understand it’s a historic moment for your homeland. It’s a bit rich to be bemoaning visitors. Paris in July has always been a rather popular tourist destination.

An English Rose of a lady at the Eiffel Tower asked her friend, “Why are there so many police?”

Her friend: “They’re here to help with the Olympics.”

The English Rose: “Oh. When are the Olympics?”

Point being, the crowds aren’t too much bigger than they always are. Paris is more than a city, it’s a giant open-air museum, brimming with art and beauty, and so of course the portable dunnies and scaffolding and barricades are unsightly.

But I bet the whole thing goes down a treat. I bet there’s a French connection. I bet Parisians end up revelling in their dazzling opening ceremony and then become totally invested in the day-by-day, centuries-old majesty of athletic endeavour.

Paris still celebrates hosting the 1904 Olympics. There’s tributes to it everywhere. A century from now, people will be flying across town on their hovercrafts and seeing monuments to the 2024 Games. It’s nothing to be pissed off about. It’s historic. It’s something to be proud of.

At every Olympics, the natives are restless until the opening ceremony and the first 24 hours of competition. If there’s an early flurry of French gold medallists, they’ll be celebrating from one end of the Champs-Elysees to the other. The Arc de Triomphe will go cartwheeling all the way down to the Trocadero. Once these 10,500 athletes do their stuff, everyone will remember what an Olympics is.

A celebration of sport and life.