Sunning by the Seine

Just because I’ve left San Francisco doesn’t mean that I left the beach behind. Each summer, the city of Paris transforms the autoroute on the Right Bank of the Seine into Paris Plage. This temporary beach has pool chairs, umbrellas, ice cream, and even sand. As with a real beach, you can play bocce ball or swim in the pool. Apparently, they offer aqua gym in the morning at the pool. I know a girl who went once and decided it wasn’t stimulating enough. According to her, there were too many old people and not enough vigorous exercise. My least favorite part of the plage would have to be the clowns. They are spaced out along it making balloons and entertaining little kids. French clowns are even creepier than American ones.

Paris Plage is directly across the bridge from where my foyer is located. Last night, I took my book and read by the river, surrounded by picnickers and couples cuddling. On Sunday, I went to plage with my friend, Emily, and another of her friends from England. We strolled along it for about two minutes, found a place to sit under some trees, and promptly decided to rest. This entry would be quite dull if we had remained there for the entire day. Luckily, we were able to finally get moving and continue to explore the plage.

This Sunday was also the final stage of the Tour de France. After missing the parade on the 14 juillet, we resolved to get to the Champs Elyées early enough to get a good place. While we were able to get close, we did have to wait for hours in the sun. I suppose that there is always a trade-off. I amused myself by chatting with the American tourists next to me. They had just gotten off a plane from Cleveland and only had 5 days to see Paris. It feels odd telling other Americans that I actually live in Paris.


Before the cyclists arrived, there was an endless parade of cars advertising the sponsors. It dragged on for an hour and mostly consisted of cars and trucks decorated with the sponsors’ logos honking and women waving what looked like thunder sticks at the crowd. Imagine an hour’s worth of commercials without the jokes and you’ll have an idea of what it was like.

The actual Tour de France was more interesting, although it would be hard not to be. The bikers went up and down the Champs-Elysées eight times. The first time, I wasn’t ready and was shocked by the speed at which the block of cyclists zoomed by. After a few times, I knew what was coming. First, a yellow car would come charging down followed by motorcycle with two guys in yellow. They would be followed by the block of cyclists. A team of support cars with bikes strapped to their roofs tailed the cyclists. A few minutes everything had passed, a black car would come flying by as if it were desperately trying to keep up.

The cyclists were bunched much closer together than it seems on television. I could easily spot the yellow jersey, which the leader wears, because it so much brighter than all the others, but it was impossible to pick out the green, polka dot, or white ones. These pictures capture the speed at which they went by. I think the way in which the cyclists flew past got everyone excited, even people like my friend, who had no previous interest in the Tour. It was thrilling to have everyone start cheering and have the little boy next to me shouting “ils arrivent, ils arrivent” and then to suddenly be confronted with the blaze of color and cyclists practically next to me.