Letters From Paris

Le Coq Sportif

The third letter in ROSECRANS BALDWIN’s series from France, in which Parisian attitudes toward the sporting life turn up in politics, philosophy, and what fashionable joggers choose to wear for “le running.”

Also by Rosecrans Baldwin

• Things We're Denying Ourselves (Of Recent Note)
• The Last Great Thing You Downloaded (Of Recent Note)
• Paris, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down (Letters From Paris)

» SEE MORE

Also in Letters From Paris

• Paris, I Love You But You're Bringing Me Down (March 19, 2008)
• Bonne Année (January 10, 2008)
• Language Arts (July 25, 2007)

» SEE MORE

When we arrived in Paris in July, Nicolas Sarkozy had just been elected president, and it was all anyone talked about. At dinner parties, at garden dances, at lunch: Sarkozy, Sarkozy, Sarkozy. “Is this the end?” our socialist and communist friends asked, vowing to move abroad if things got bad. “Might France finally modernize?” wondered a French girl we know who went to Penn State. Since then, Sarkozy and his tan are on the front page every morning. The tan is his shell. Some say he’s modernizing the end of France, others that he’s ending its modern era, but whatever he’s truly got planned behind the caramelization is unknown.

What he’s doing is better understood. Two days after we arrived, an alarming story appeared that Sarkozy was in great shape. This wasn’t news in itself—it’s well known he’s a dedicated runner, often wearing an NYPD T-shirt, like Giuliani in a sauna—but now that Sarkozy was president, wasn’t there something despotic about his fitness? The city’s leading left-wing newspaper, Libération, ran a story asking, “Is jogging right wing?” A trainer told the sports paper L’Equipe the problem wasn’t that Sarkozy was running, it was that he was running wrong—his stride was off, his feet hit the ground in odd ways. On television, a French philosopher said, “Western civilization, in its best sense, was born with the promenade. Walking is a sensitive, spiritual act. Jogging is management of the body. The jogger says I am in control. It has nothing to do with meditation.”

At a cocktail party in the 11th arrondisement that week, a Sorbonne philosophy professor told me all this worrying was a little out of date. “Le running”—as compared to the more dated terms “le jogging” or “le footing”—is in fact very chic, she said, and I’ve since found supporting data in the parks, which are full of French people out jogging early in the morning or on the weekends. However, most are the serious types who do it for sport, not exercise, which is the distinction the Sarkozy-watchers were poking at. There is great passion for athletics in France, but none for working out. Diets are popular, not aerobics. To exercise without a sense of sport, of camaraderie or play? Pure body management. From Paris, the American gym addiction seems fatalistic, as though we’re fine-tuning our bodies for some future nuclear fallout, where only those who can climb stairs for 20 weeks while curling rebar will survive.

To move to France, my wife and I spent some time in the French consulate in New York. Steps off Fifth Ave., it seemed authentic: a handsome sitting room in a mansion full of artwork, pleasant bureaucrats, a pervasive air of dislike. Everyone we talked to said this was their sixth or 11th time visiting. They still expected to be turned away for bringing the wrong forms. When we finally met with one of the staff, he told us yes, we’d also brought the wrong forms. But it wasn’t a big deal, he whispered; no one would notice anyway. He looked like John Malkovich in John Lennon glasses. “Really?” we asked. “Are you sure?” He shrugged, sneering, “We’re all in the system.” With that he filed our applications and all but winked at us, his fellows in admitting powerless-ness.

The system is rigged. Civilization is being shoplifted. No one knows when they’ll die or how it will come about; and what you should do, the idea is, is reflect a moment, enjoy oneself, have a cigarette. Is now really the time to run three miles on a treadmill, going nowhere?


* * *

In that Libération article, a sports journalist commented, “Jogging is of course about performance and individualism, values that are traditionally ascribed to the Right.” They’re also ascribed to the Fashionable. Parisians are very deliberate about their running outfits. Either people take the sport seriously and wear tight-fitting synthetic fabrics like professional athletes, or they run as though it’s just occurred to them to pick up the pace, wearing outfits that are better for shopping, or going to the market. Which is probably what they were doing when the urge to jog took hold.

Notes on a few people I’ve seen on the trails:

1. Husband in a white Oxford shirt, khaki trousers, loafers, no socks, with the cuffs of his pants rolled up to mid-calf. His wife in black tights, a black sleeveless top, ballet flats, enormous black Chanel sunglasses, makeup, and a gold pendant necklace. Both chatting, running probably a 10-minute mile.

The pool turned out to be the size of our kitchen, enough for a very short game of Marco Polo. Disco music played in the background. The water was bathed in black light. 2. Handsome older man in blue jeans, T-shirt, and boat shoes, practicing lines while he jogged holding a script.

3. Girl in tights, skirt, and flats who jumped into the running lane, did a lap, hopped out again, and called a friend on her cell phone.

4. Elderly man running in a headband, sweatpants, T-shirt, sneakers, and a buttoned green wool houndstooth blazer.

5. Woman in blue jeans, suede loafers, a button-down shirt, flailing, swinging an oversized Vuitton bag.

We were leaving the Luxembourg Gardens one afternoon when my wife asked, “Where do all these people come from? Do they run here from home?” It’s true that you never see people on the Metro in workout gear. Baggy shorts and Under Armour T-shirts get looks. Perhaps they all take taxis, I said. Only half an hour later, walking home, we passed a big group of teenagers in cargo pants and clingy black striped shirts. One of them shouted at me, “Hey, here come the athletes!”

I thought, only in Paris do the Goths bully the jocks. I shouted back, “Yeah!”

That made them laugh. The guy yelled, “Keep going! You’re winning!”

In New York, of course, it’s odd to meet someone who doesn’t have a gym membership. Gyms are partially New Yorkers’ second homes, partially sanctuaries where you bring your own padlock. I used to go three or four times a week. On my last day, right before the Paris move, I was changing out of my gym clothes when an enormous bodybuilder appeared naked from the sauna and set up his shaving kit at the sink. He was bald and tall, maybe 6'7", incredibly muscular. First he lathered up and shaved his face and scalp. Then he shaved his chest, forearms, shoulders, and underarms. When I left, he was shaving his testicles one at a time—giant white foamy snowballs, held out over the sink while he carefully maneuvered his razor. I remember thinking that this was New York saying goodbye, telling me my house had already been moved into by someone new, with bigger balls.

In Paris, my wife belongs to a gym near our apartment. The day we went to check it out, the manager was very excited to show us the pool. It was one of the members’ favorite perks, he said. The pool turned out to be the size of our kitchen, enough for a very short game of Marco Polo. Disco music played in the background. The water was bathed in black light. A woman in a black bikini was floating on her back, glowing slightly purple, her eyes closed, her hands paddling her body slowly around in circles.


* * *

This week the Sarkozy news is about Cecilia, his wife. He used to compare her in the press to Jackie Kennedy, for looks and poise, though he may begin muttering less flattering comments. Cecilia is about to divorce the president, the papers say. One wonders if he’ll run more or less if she does, and what the newsmen will say then. The other big story has been the Rugby World Cup, or it was, until France lost in the semifinals to England over the weekend, and everyone at work on Monday was sad about it until about lunch. I watched the match at home Saturday night, wearing my new French Rugby Nike T-shirt, and fell asleep before halftime. A football game where anyone can quarterback, but everyone throws laterals, is a setup for mediocrity, no matter how elegant it looks from the sky cam.

The next morning, I ran three miles in Buttes Chaumont, a park in northeastern Paris full of hills and dales, a lake, a mountain with a temple on top, and a cave with a waterfall where the pompiers sometimes practice their rappelling. As a jogger, I’d probably disappoint the philosopher’s theory as I am rarely in control, I yelp and spit a lot, and though it’s not exactly meditation, it’s definitely not about body control.

The song I’ve listened to most while running in Paris is “North American Scum,” by LCD Soundsystem. I didn’t realize the irony until about the third or fourth time running circles around the lake, surrounded by dozens of French orthodox Jews out promenade-ing. Some lyrics:

I hate the feeling when you’re looking at me that way
‘Cause we’re North Americans
But if we act all shy, it’ll make it OK,
Makes it go away.

Sunday afternoon, we got our first nice weather after a week of clouds. My wife and I told ourselves we’d take a long walk down the Seine, but we only made it about four blocks from our apartment, to a bench in the sun. Behind us was our neighborhood’s town hall, a squat old mansion where they hold concerts and lectures. In front, no traffic’s allowed, so on weekends young families take over, the parents relaxing while kids rollerblade, skateboard, play soccer in the street. And it’s authentic playing—chaotic, sweaty, done because it’s fun, whether solo or in groups, done because it feels good and the weather’s nice. My wife and I watched for an hour, discussing the children’s lack of skateboarding technique, then went home and took a nap.