The passenger next to me on the train to Reims was clearly an English-speaker and affiliated with the World Cup. She had a serious face and one of those IBM ThinkPads and was going through some instructive PDFs. "Are you working for FIFA?" She nodded, and responded, "And you must be supporting the Americans." We were clearly on the same train of thought. She had been with FIFA for many years, working U17 and youth events before getting her chance organizing security for the Women's World Cup. It was a 5 week sprint of a job with almost no days off.
Reims is a fairly random city for a World Cup match, a town of 180,000 with a grand cathedral where kings of yore were crowned. I was extremely excited to be in a real French city not spoiled by excess tourism, for the chance to speak French and learn more about the country.
The ride was a disarmingly brief 45 minutes. Emerging from the train station, I added to a mess of disoriented Americans. The taxi line was quickly overwhelmed. Hotels had been well-booked, and so I had found an AirBnB way out of the city, a full 50 minute walk from the stadium. With the help of a physical map and passable French direction asking, I took a public bus filled with high school students into the suburbs. This neighborhood could've housed the French Harry Potter growing up on a Privet Drive. Stepping off onto the quiet sidewalk, the normality of the place jarred me during such an abnormal time in my life. I rang a bell outside the gate to a modest stone house.
"Bonjour! Je suis Cal." I greeted the woman who emerged."
"Elcome! Et vous parlez français ouais!"
"Ah bien sûr! Merci pour votre hospitalite sûr Airbnb!" I stepped inside.
"Comment êtes-vous arrivé ici? Par voiture?"
"Ah non, par bus."
With the host I had my first real French conversations out of necessity in years. I was surprised by our level of communication. I had not put any concerted effort into French since high school. The last couple years I'd been learning Spanish, but on this past trip in Basque country, I'd used to Spanish to get by and nothing more. Upon crossing the border, I'd had to suppress the instinct to say "si!" or "por favor." It was bizarre to discover I could have Spanish instincts, as if discovering a new crease on the back of your hand. And yet now French was flowing out - not as fluently as Mandarin - but good enough to have a real conversation. I learned that my hosts Mireille et Hervé have six adult children - three living in Lille, two in Paris, and one in Ankara, Turkey working as a professor. They'd been getting a handful of guests since they started Airbnb a year ago, and now were receiving exciting volume from the World Cup. Hervé expressed surprise that I'd come explicitly for this match, and I had to clarify that no it's a longer story.
Hervé drove me into town where I maneuvered to meet future teammates. I was picking up with a team in Windmill Windup in two days, and knew only two of my teammates, but our shared GroupMe had allowed me to connect with two stranger teammates who'd also be at this match. Lauren and Mo were part of a group of 4 who were eating dinner before the 9pm match. When I did find them upstairs at a restaurant bar, my awkward insertion into their evening was somewhat reduced by my recognizing one of their friends! Glenn had coached the Georgetown team after I left but I'd met him at alumni events.
For global time zone reasons, World Cup schedules can result in some strange match times, and this match started at 9pm. For no apparent reason, alcoholic beverages were not sold on premise. Even stranger, at 49 N and the middle of June, it was still very light out. Walking over a bridge towards the stadium, we were quickly immersed into a very American crowd split between blue jeans and soccer jerseys. There were the USA-USA cheers that might come out of a college football tailgate, but intermixed with a staidness that comes with an international footballing match on French territory. The first dozen minutes the Americans dominated pace and possession but couldn't quite convert. And then they did. And again. And again. Very quickly I had found fellow Americans to high-five. Everyone I spoke with was either already living in Europe (mostly military in Germany) or in Europe on a pre-existing Eurotrip (like me). Across the stadium, I saw a section filled with the Thai contingent, increasingly less jovial. As Alex Morgan powered and finessed her way past the Thai defense, many of whom came up to her shoulder, I never stopped cheering. Goals are awesome - World Cup goals are even better. The joy of scoring didn't dissipate even when we reached 13-0. I spent most of the match watching with Brian and Diane, brother and sister from Texas who also had tickets for the finals in Paris.
Reims is a fairly random city for a World Cup match, a town of 180,000 with a grand cathedral where kings of yore were crowned. I was extremely excited to be in a real French city not spoiled by excess tourism, for the chance to speak French and learn more about the country.
The ride was a disarmingly brief 45 minutes. Emerging from the train station, I added to a mess of disoriented Americans. The taxi line was quickly overwhelmed. Hotels had been well-booked, and so I had found an AirBnB way out of the city, a full 50 minute walk from the stadium. With the help of a physical map and passable French direction asking, I took a public bus filled with high school students into the suburbs. This neighborhood could've housed the French Harry Potter growing up on a Privet Drive. Stepping off onto the quiet sidewalk, the normality of the place jarred me during such an abnormal time in my life. I rang a bell outside the gate to a modest stone house.
"Bonjour! Je suis Cal." I greeted the woman who emerged."
"Elcome! Et vous parlez français ouais!"
"Ah bien sûr! Merci pour votre hospitalite sûr Airbnb!" I stepped inside.
"Comment êtes-vous arrivé ici? Par voiture?"
"Ah non, par bus."
With the host I had my first real French conversations out of necessity in years. I was surprised by our level of communication. I had not put any concerted effort into French since high school. The last couple years I'd been learning Spanish, but on this past trip in Basque country, I'd used to Spanish to get by and nothing more. Upon crossing the border, I'd had to suppress the instinct to say "si!" or "por favor." It was bizarre to discover I could have Spanish instincts, as if discovering a new crease on the back of your hand. And yet now French was flowing out - not as fluently as Mandarin - but good enough to have a real conversation. I learned that my hosts Mireille et Hervé have six adult children - three living in Lille, two in Paris, and one in Ankara, Turkey working as a professor. They'd been getting a handful of guests since they started Airbnb a year ago, and now were receiving exciting volume from the World Cup. Hervé expressed surprise that I'd come explicitly for this match, and I had to clarify that no it's a longer story.
Hervé drove me into town where I maneuvered to meet future teammates. I was picking up with a team in Windmill Windup in two days, and knew only two of my teammates, but our shared GroupMe had allowed me to connect with two stranger teammates who'd also be at this match. Lauren and Mo were part of a group of 4 who were eating dinner before the 9pm match. When I did find them upstairs at a restaurant bar, my awkward insertion into their evening was somewhat reduced by my recognizing one of their friends! Glenn had coached the Georgetown team after I left but I'd met him at alumni events.
For global time zone reasons, World Cup schedules can result in some strange match times, and this match started at 9pm. For no apparent reason, alcoholic beverages were not sold on premise. Even stranger, at 49 N and the middle of June, it was still very light out. Walking over a bridge towards the stadium, we were quickly immersed into a very American crowd split between blue jeans and soccer jerseys. There were the USA-USA cheers that might come out of a college football tailgate, but intermixed with a staidness that comes with an international footballing match on French territory. The first dozen minutes the Americans dominated pace and possession but couldn't quite convert. And then they did. And again. And again. Very quickly I had found fellow Americans to high-five. Everyone I spoke with was either already living in Europe (mostly military in Germany) or in Europe on a pre-existing Eurotrip (like me). Across the stadium, I saw a section filled with the Thai contingent, increasingly less jovial. As Alex Morgan powered and finessed her way past the Thai defense, many of whom came up to her shoulder, I never stopped cheering. Goals are awesome - World Cup goals are even better. The joy of scoring didn't dissipate even when we reached 13-0. I spent most of the match watching with Brian and Diane, brother and sister from Texas who also had tickets for the finals in Paris.
Upon exiting the stadium around 11pm, the light was just fading. The mass of soccer fans were crossing the river Vesle from the uninhabited stadium area to the city proper. As I maneuvered through the crowd in this modest sized French sub-prefecture on a Wednesday, night I had never been more desperate for a drink.
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