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Wednesday, August 30, 2006  
The Parisian Chronicles: Part IV - Build Me Up, Headbuttercup
At this point, I should probably be writing either my 6 page paper on the Latin Quarter or my 10 page paper on god knows what - something about French culture - but instead I'm writing the next entry in the Parisian Chronicles... for my beloved, avid readers... all none of you.

Le foot is a force in France. It's not like the football and baseball fans we're accustomed to. These people have foot fever seeping out of their pores. For that reason, we were unbelievably excited to be in Paris with France in the finals of the World Cup. We knew we wanted to be at a veritable "hot spot" of Paris to watch the game (St. Germain des Pres) but not somewhere where we would get killed in the process (les Champs Elysees). So we decided to leave relatively early in search of a cafe where we could watch the penultimate finale of the sport that everyone in the world except for Americans love. At that point, there was no talk of a head striking anything other than a ball and only jubilance pervaded the streets of Paris. Those cheeky Italians would be defeated in a blaze of Bleu glory....even us young foreigners had the utmost confidence in Zidane and his troops... that's why I bought a crappy knockoff jersey for 15 Euros by the Eiffel Tower. But first, we had to find somewhere filled with the genuine French spirit we wanted to observe.... and a plasma TV....preferrably 32 inches or greater...or 81 centimeters...whatever.

After perusing the Boulevard de St. Germain for a while, we found a lively "cafe/bar/club" by the name of Cafe Mabillon. How they fit that description of cafe/bar/club I have no idea, but they seemed pretty sure of themselves. There were no open tables, but there were chairs lying around so, after some chatting up of the manager by our lady companions, they lined up 10 or so chairs along the edge of the sidewalk outside the cafe, you know, so we wouldn't get run over by SmartCars, and rolled over two tiny tables for us. The setting seemed perfect. A clear view of the big screen, outdoors on the famed St. Germain des Pres, World Cup Championship, in Paris. Not even the effeminate guys sitting 2 centimeters from me smoking clove cigarettes non-stop could deter my contentment. Even when the waiter took away one of our tables for someone else, I maintained my exuberance.

















It was, however, after the spikey haired waiter denied us a Happy Hour that my delight began to dissipate. You see, we arrived at the cafarlub at 6:45 pm, while Happy Hour began at 7:00 pm. So when le garcon came to take our drink orders at 6:45 pm, I asked him to give us a little bit more time. After all, we were a party of 10 or so, but really, we wanted to wait for Happy Hour to start. When he returned at 6:46 pm, it seemed he had already caught on to our shenanigans or forcibly took our drink orders. Upon delivery of our beverages, he also made us pay right away...because it would be really easy to dine and ditch with 10 fat American students. Needless to say, my mojito was quite nice.





















By the time the game started we had already placed our dinner orders, the crowd was electric and we were kinda buzzed. It was time for some football... errr, le foot. Once again, it was amazing to observe such excitement during a game in which almost nothing happens. However, when something does happen, it's really really exciting.



I swear, we were all ready to make the "Zidane Il Va Marquer" song our ringtone at that point in the night. Behind us, there was a young American kid with his mom watching the game. He couldn't have been more than 8 years old but that kid was so into the game, you'd think he owned stock in the team. "Oh, Zuhdayn, yuh shouldn't have done that. Mother, why did he do that!?"
"I think he was trying to hit it into the goal, dear."
"Mother, don't be deceitful."
"Those lousy Italians. We'll get em."
Come to think of it, I hated that kid.

After that penalty kick, a guy sitting in front of us (not one of the fruity guys smoking clove cigarettes) turned to me and asked, "You guys are from ze states, yes?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"How does zis compare?"
"To what?"
"Oh what eets called...euuuhh...ze Supehr Bowl?"
"Oh yeah, no comparison. The French spirit is amazing."
"I know, eets true! I was in eeuuh Meenehsota for ze Supehr Bowl last year...ze town was dead."
"Why were you in Minnesota?"
"Allez les bleues!!"
"Oui, bien sur! Allez Zidane!"

I never did find out why he was in Minnesota.

By the time overtime came around, it was utter pandemonium. The cafe was surrounded by people gripping their Tri-Couleurs, their attention gripped to the TV screen. We still hadn't received our club sandwiches, but we didn't really care at that point. The game would eventually go to penalty kicks but not before the headbutt felt around the world...



There was anger, saddness, shock and arguing all around. Why did he do it? I totally called it that that Italian prick talked trash about his momma... and for that, the guy got what he deserved - perhaps not enough - but the game continued. At the break right before the penalty kicks, the whole crowd at the cafe broke out with a rendition of La Marseillaise.



While La Marseillaise was being chanted around us, I inquired as to where le fuck our order was that we'd placed 3 hours earlier. It turns out Frenchy McDouchebag forgot to place our order. "Ohh, desolee monsieur." Les oops. By the time the penalty kicks began, our order came. When I asked if we could have a couple beers or something because we had a senile waiter, the manager's face contorted into such a way that I had never seen before. Disbelief, disgust, confusion, constipation, who knows. Maybe I was rude, but m'damn club sandwich came damn near when the game was ending. So screw Mabillon. And with rapt concentration on the game, and us on our sandwiches, we watched the culmination of that night.





















In any case, we all know how the game ended. The one Italian fan in the crowd cheered "Alla Italia," he was promptly killed. And he crowd dissipated into the night. But before leaving, I had to make my mark on the Mabillon. I was a little buzzed so before leaving I coldcocked the spikey-haired waiter right in the kisser....ok not really, but I sure as hell thought it. And he knew. He knew.

Outside Shitadines, there were rowdy Italian fans hootin' n' hollerin' (that's not a saying that translates easily into French) into the wee hours of the night. But really who cares. The game wasn't about Italy winning. It was about a momma's boy getting vengance. And for us, it was about getting into the bleu spirit with native bleus, wearing cheap jerseys, ordering drinks, hanging out on the St. Germain trying to not get hit by cars (WE WERE ON THE CURB) and one assholey waiter. And when I wear my France jersey in L.A, no one really knows what the hell my shirt means, but I know. And that's all that matters.


Coming up in Part V: Our Lady, 1/3 of a ballet and illegal pictures at the Louvre
2:08 AM
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