KEY POINTS:
This is it. New Zealand's only chance, in a four-year cycle, to be world famous thanks to 22 guys in black. This is your guide to what to expect as a New Zealander in Paris for the World Cup - from a woman's perspective, albeit a rugby obsessed one.
Confusion. Never expect a Parisian to talk slowly. Every conversation you have with a local will be hurried, the French words falling into the black hole that is your Kiwi brain. English will not get you a smile, or good service; attempting French, however twisted, will.
European men no matter how old, or rotund, have a healthy appreciation of their sexuality. On the streets of St-Germain this week, about 220 mostly former rugby players and well past their prime, dressed in outfits that wouldn't be out of place at the Wellington Sevens. The penguins had bouillabaisse spilt down their previously white bibs. The cave men with grey chest hair, were no taller than five foot six. All gravitated towards the women, telling them each one was the most beautiful woman they had ever seen.
Dinner. I dined with French rugby people I met on the streets - something I wouldn't do in New Zealand. There was little English spoken, but luckily gesticulation is the French way, and you can pick up at least a quarter of the conversation - of course, rugby was the topic. Sitting across from me were former French captain Benoit Daugat and ex-All Black captain Graham Mourie. Benoit played for France more than 60 times, and I'm ashamed to say I didn't have a clue who he was. Fortunately it seems a woman's contribution to a conversation on the game is not common. Singing... red wine... singing... poulet... singing and a rendition of the Maori version of the New Zealand anthem made it very different from a night in Ponsonby.
The efficiency. Almost overnight, Paris sprang banners, giant rugby balls, merchandise tents, rugby jerseys, shops showing support for the French team. The Eiffel Tower is bursting with colour at night as if to say, "it's arrived, it's here, the party begins".
The driving. DO NOT drive in Paris. There are rules here that are not rules. If there are two lanes you take up the middle of both. At the roundabouts, the more aggressive you are, the better. The limit may be 50km/h but it seems speed is preferred. And expect to be yelled at. The Metro is the way to go.
And the rugby. While we Kiwis and the French, similarly passionate and obsessed with rugby, may watch every pass, every step, every mistake with joy, horror or fury, most in France are enjoying the tastes, wine, and company this competition throws into the fray. It has been one week and I have already made at least six new friends.
La Coupe du Monde de Rugby 2007 is better than Facebook. I'm going to cancel my account.
