A funny thing happened to me on the way from the Louvre...

This week 'Bananas about Bikes' offers you another tale from the last stage of the 2011 Tour de France. Our previous story about the event had been written by Marleen, but this time our banana-reporter is Susan, a Canadian student who went on holiday to Paris and was lucky enough to watch the final stage of the Tour de France and stalk her favourite riders. Enjoy her great tale and, if you want to see her pictures in a bigger seize (it's worth it!), check them out at http://individual.utoronto.ca/montag/stage21.html :)

I write this in the slight headiness of having just returned from France, and in the delirium of jet lag.

First, a random observation about France, and its ASTONISHING ceilings! Honestly, it's like some kind of national sport over there—it’s like when a French architect, and artist, think of designing a building, the thought process goes something like this: “Let's take a ceiling, vault it to high heaven, and gild it with acanthus ornaments, a Jupiter-sized chandelier, and gold. Lots, and lots of gold.” For example, the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles Palace

 Does anyone else feel a compulsion to wander, when you’re exploring a city for the first time? I feel like there’s nothing quite like a stroll to surprise you, and walking along the Axe Historique leading up to the Arc de Triomphe on Saturday night, I was able to see some of the preparations for Stage 21. I guess I’d read somewhere that grandstand tickets could be purchased for watching the last stage of the Tour, what I didn’t realise was that there are different “levels”, if you will, of seating:

For the unwashed masses, awning-less seats, with no shelter from the elements.

For the slightly richer, an orange canopy, with unadorned steps, and a portable toilet.

Notice how the Presidential ticket holders get a portable toilet with a dainty tent over it, and topiaries on their stairs—because it would just be crude, and uncivilized to go to the loo without artfully clipped shrubs.

I don't quite know how I managed it (I expect I was loaned a Time Turner, and my memory wiped clean of this fact—OBLIVIATE!—later on), but last Sunday, I attended Mass at Notre Dame, visited Saint Chapelle, saw a bit of the Sully wing in the Louvre... and Stalked-a-Schleck(s), not once, but twice! First, on the Rue de Rivoli, and then eventually, on the eastern side of the Champs Élysées.
I literally happened upon the Place de Pyramides tunnel, and Rue de Rivoli intersection through sheer dumb luck, when I exited the museum about 15 minutes before the cyclists arrived. I thought that I’d missed the arrival of the peloton on the Champs, as I had seen the publicity caravan passing through the city, when I was wandering along the Île Saint-Louis earlier that day. For the bewildered tourist, who knows, or cares nothing about the Tour, it must be both frustrating, and inconvenient to suddenly find the major Metro, and RER stations along the Axe Historique, shut down - from about 12PM, trains do not stop at the Palais Royal–Musée du Louvre, Tuileries, Concorde, Champs-Élysées–Clemenceau, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Georges V, and Charles de Gaulle–Étoile stations, for the duration of the final laps, podium ceremonies, and the valedictory lap of honour. Moreover, the sidewalks, and roads, leading to the Champs-Élysées are blocked off from the Place de la Concorde.
Anyway, I noticed a throng of people gathering around the Musée des Arts Décoratifs, in the area of the Tuileries gardens just before you approach the ferris wheel. I asked someone in the crowd if the peloton had arrived in Paris already, and to my great shock, I was told that they were expected to arrive at any moment!
Time for another random note! To the men folk who give VAGUE advice on internet forums, about where to watch the Champs Élysées stage of the Tour -THIS is how you give directions. Not with useless, nebulously ill-defined instructions like “go to the Louvre, and the Tuileries” (which both cover a large area), but a precise location, with pictures! The Tunnel is located on the intersection of the Place des Pyramides, and the Rue de Rivoli. Look for the Musée des Arts Décoratifs (107 Rue de Rivoli), and the Hotel Regina (2 Place des Pyramides) on the corner.

While the crowds in this section of the route were considerably thinner than what one would see on the Champs, make no mistake, it’s still a lot of people, and unless you’re especially tall, or find inventive ways to see over the crowds—some people climbed the lampposts, and others the trees—you may not see much of anything, which I can say from experience, is kind of disheartening; a little like looking in on a lavish party, from the outside. There were several hilarious false starts, with people prematurely cheering, only to see a Tour car go through the tunnel, with no cyclists in tow.

Now, being a short person, all I could really do was try to see in the space between people, and here we have the parable of the Don’t Be a Douche Bag to a Catholic Who’s Just Attended Mass at Notre Dame, Because God Will Find a Way to Help Her. From where I was standing, just above the entrance, to the left of the tunnel, there was an obnoxious couple at the front of the barrier. When the peloton finally did arrive, even knowing that he would effectively be obstructing the view of those behind him, the thoughtless idiot man stood on top of the barrier—thus creating a thoughtless idiot eclipse. I had to look at the incensed-looking couple standing to my right, with an intent look of, “Don’t look at me, I’m not with these two bozos!” His lady companion (that is, assuming she isn’t a cross-dressing eunuch) was more of a harpy than an idiot. She deliberately put on a HUGE sun hat when the cyclist’s arrived. That’s okay, because after the first lap, God intervened, as if to say, “Take this you mangy cur, thou shall not use sun hats for evil”, and I was unexpectedly given a space at the front of the barrier, by a kind-hearted French family. Their little boy was rooting for Thomas Voeckler, and I won't dare malign that man ever again, out of gratitude for the generosity that family showed me. Basically, on the first lap, I had to literally jump up-and-down to see anything, and I guess that pathetic spectacle elicited their pity. But to that kind, kind family, wherever you are, thank you.
The cyclist’s emerge from the tunnel on an incline, which is meant to slow them down a bit, but it seemed to me that they we’re still going at speeds upwards of about 40mph. It occurred to me that I was actually looking at the peloton in real time, and in person—so what was that like? I liken it to being in the Louvre for the first time, and seeing paintings that you’ve studied in school. You realise when you're in the presence of an actual Delacroix, that reading about stuff in books, is nothing like experiencing the real thing—or what was it that the late David Foster Wallace wrote about watching tennis live, versus watching it on television, it would be like “comparing pornography, to the felt reality of human love”. I would say the same is true of watching cycling. You might get a better view on television, but there is nothing quite so electric, or thrilling, as being there.

The atmosphere is positively festal, there are flags draped everywhere, and I was particularly encouraged to see the presence of the Norwegian flag. I don’t think anything quite expresses national solidarity than sport, and I am glad that Norway has two champions to cheer for, and rally their spirits. I think my heart nearly burst when I saw highlights of Stage 21 that night, and watched Edvald Boasson Hagen bravely try to outsprint Mark Cavendish.

After the bell for the final lap, the crowds around the Rivoli began to disperse, and here the second part of my adventure begins. As I walked through the Tuileries, I saw spectators sitting under trees, and watching the podium ceremony on a big screen in the distance.

People watching the Tour from their balconies over the Rue de Rivoli

Remember that I mentioned that all the paths leading to the Champs are closed off, starting from the Place de la Concorde? Well, I made my way there anyway, to try my luck. Initially, we were all herded like sheep in an enclosure, with French Republican Guards, and Gendarmerie officers, forming a human barricade. All of that security, what on earth could they have been protecting, I wondered.

Then I saw the Team Cofidis bus, and parked right in front of it, Leopard Trek. Now I can’t be certain if these were just equipment buses, but you can imagine my agitation at being so close, yet so far away! We were finally permitted to cross the street away from the Tuileries, but redirected north, to the Rue Royale, away from the Champs. Here, I must have wandered a few kilometres along the Rue Saint-Honoré, trying to find a way back. Terribly frustrating, as there were officers again, blockading the way. They were permitting people past the barriers if they had just come from the direction of the Champs, but not if you were headed towards it. It was a bit of a harrowing experience, as at one point, a man of Indo-Pakistani appearance was stopped by officers. He was walking on the left side of the road, which the guards had kept screaming at us not to do, and when I saw him last, he was pinned down by an officer, while his knapsack was being searched.
Finally, I reached a side street, the Avenue Matignon, where there were no guards, and I ran fast, just in case the security there were just uncharacteristically lax. I passed some café, bought a postcard, and ended up somewhere west of what I’m sure was the Palais de la Découverte (a science museum within the Grand Palais), between the Champs-Élysées–Clemenceau, and Franklin D. Roosevelt Métro. I had missed much of the podium ceremony, and really wasn’t expecting to see anything, until I saw what seemed to be what was left of Team Radioshack! Again, through sheer dumb luck, I was going to see part of the gala presentation—from a fair distance, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.
And now for a random note about postcards / carte postales in the French capital. For a city so prepossessing, Paris sure does have a lot of UGLY postcards! I rather pride myself on choosing good ones, but it was a downright challenge most days. You're best bet is a museum (the D'Orsay sells particularly beautiful prints from their collection), but if you want postcards of the city, there's a newspaper stand just outside of the Anvers Métro (68, Boulevard de Rochechouart) that sells fairly good ones. The cost of sending a postcard within the European Union is €0.77, and €0.89 worldwide.

A bit of comic relief for those of us who follow Andy Schleck. I heard his name uttered in about three languages, not by teenagers, but by mums, and grandmothers. First, on the Rivoli, I overheard an Australian mum ask her husband if Andy Schleck had passed by yet, to which he said no, but that he had seen Cadel Evans. To which she replied, “Who cares, where’s Andy?” Second, in what I’m going to guess was Dutch, there was a woman, again accompanied by a man who must have been her husband, burbling, “Dutch Dutch Dutch Andy Schleck, Dutch Dutch.” Later, on the Champs, I heard what I can only conjecture was a Korean woman, speaking to an elderly lady, whom she seemed to be trying to persuade to leave. The elderly woman just stood her ground stubbornly, and said somewhat plaintively, “Korean Korean ANDY SCHLECK!” What is with this guy? He’s even got Korean grandmas on his side. You are a lucky man Herr Schleck.
Anyway, as each team approached, I was too busy taking pictures to notice what the cyclists’ were doing. It wasn’t until I reviewed the photos later on, that I realised that both Fabian, and Jakob, had looked in the direction of the crowd where I was standing—good thing I didn’t notice at the time, otherwise, I might have ducked in panic, and crawled away. Incidentally, I have no idea how Natasha survived her close encounter with Jakob Fuglsang at the Amgen—he was a cricket pitch away from me, and I still felt blindsided. It did not help that by the time he was on the other side of the Champs, he seemed to be donning a Viking helmet. Erk, stop being so adorable!

So there you go - I came, I saw, I Stalked-a-Schleck(s), and a Fuglsang, and a Fabian! And totally by chance, a Gesink too. If you ever have the opportunity to attend Stage 21 of the Tour de France, don’t pass it up. It doesn't matter if you don’t have the best view in the world, or stumble onto it haphazardly like me, it is joyous, exciting, and so much fun to watch! Really, even if you have no interest in cycling at all, what these men endure for three weeks, is a testament to what the human body, and will can do, and surely that deserves an ovation. Don’t just cheer for your favourites, cheer for the guy who is DEAD LAST, because he made it. Finishing the Tour is a massive personal accomplishment, and I’d like to think that in our moments of triumph, that there will be someone there to cheer us on.

Mischief managed. Susan, signing off.

Postcript, A conversation with a statue in the Jardin des Tuileries
Statue: Okay fess up, did you travel all this way just to Stalk-a-Schleck(s)?
Susan: No. I also came for the ice cream!
Statue's response: