Friday, Sep 5, 2008
Ethan Zindler reports from Paris on France's grand celebration of its World Cup victory -- and on the larger meaning of the competition.
Jul 13, 1998 | PARIS, July 12: I'm far too young to have been around the day World War II ended. But I imagine that Paris that day must have felt something like it does at this very moment.
Fifteen minutes ago, the French national team completed an astounding upset of the vaunted Brazilians to win the 1998 World Cup. Around the base of the Arc de Triomphe thousands pack the streets, screaming, yelling, singing, embracing, dancing, rejoicing. Cars honk their horns in time to the chants. Strangers high-five or hug one another in pure joy.
On the left side of the Arc itself is a 40-foot projected image of Zinedine Zidane, scorer of two goals tonight. He has instantaneously become the greatest sporting legend France has ever known. Along the cross bar of the Arc the words "Zidane for President" are projected in blue laser light.
The crowd slowly surges around the Arc toward the heart of the party, the Champs Ilysies. Under a lovely yellow moon, hundreds of thousands are packed onto the grand boulevard. For as far as the eye can see, there is nothing but people and flags.
Since early this afternoon the Champs has been buzzing with excitement. Around 4 p.m., supporters of both France and Brazil jammed the sidewalks chanting, cheering and singing. Motorcyclists sped up and down the street using giant flags as flowing capes. Scantily clad girls in French face paint roared by in convertibles, singing "Allez les Bleus."
But there are almost no cars on the Champs now, just one massive river of humanity flowing slowly but so, so happily away from the Arc in the direction of Place de la Concorde. Children sit atop their fathers' shoulders waving French flags. Teenagers light off alarmingly large firecrackers. Lovers cling tightly to one another as they make their way through the mayhem.
Amid the thousands of French flags, quite a few green, white and red Algerian ones can be seen as well. Tonight's victory is particularly sweet for the millions of people of North African descent living in France. After all, Zidane is the son of Algerian immigrants. They wildly chant "Zee-Zou! Zee-Zou!" with understandable passion and pride.
Every now and then the river slows momentarily to a halt. Shouts of "Assis! Assis!" can be heard and suddenly hundreds of people crouch down. A moment later they jump to their feet, launching a massive human wave down the Champs, the kind you ordinarily see only in football stadiums.
Down the side streets are large police trucks with cops standing outside at the ready should any trouble break out. But they have little to do and one of them borrows a fan's cell phone to call his wife and celebrate the victory with her.
Parisians are never averse to public displays of affection and many young couples celebrate tonight's victory with heightened amorous displays. Against one of the police vans, two teenagers passionately make out. The young man slips his hand up under her blouse and fondles her left breast. A cop stands by looking bored.
Back on the Champs, a 50-foot-wide French national jersey is being put in place on the side of a business building by men dangling from long ropes. A bank flashes the game's final score every minute or so and fans stop to watch it, as if they want to double-check that it really has happened. Every time "France 3, Bresil 0" comes up, they roar.
There are no cabs to be found in Paris tonight. The buses and metros are not running either, so I have no choice but to walk to the opposite end of town where I am staying. At the enormous Place de La Concorde, hundreds of cars are at a standstill but no one seems to mind. Fans honk and sing over and over: "On est champions! On est champions! On est, on est, on est champions!"
Or simply, "On a gagni!" ("We won!")
The party continues down the Rue de Rivoli. As cars and motorcycles roll by, their drivers reach out to high-five each and every one of us walking in the opposite direction. Fans dance for joy, then hop into complete strangers' cars for rides back toward the Champs.
Parisians complained their way through the entire run-up to the World Cup, then showed little interest in the tournament during the first round. But once it became apparent that France might actually win this thing, the town came alive. Tonight is the culmination of celebrations that have been growing in size with each successive victory by "les Bleus." When France advanced for the first time ever into the semifinals with a victory on Wednesday, 300,000 people jammed the Champs Ilysies. Tonight, there must be at least half a million out there, if not more. One police officer well into his 50s told me he's never seen anything that compares to this. Neither have I.
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