I wish a whistle had blasted through the quiet morning train platform as Beth and I embarked on a trip down south on Monday- it would have lifted the sleep and cobwebs in my slighty hungover head, but also been a fitting (albeit weirdly Victorian) send off as we headed on our way.
Unfortunately the tiny bit of Britishness in me didn’t question the young lady that appeared to be sitting in out row, so instead I led Beth to a different row in the hopes that we weren’t in someone else’s seats.
Which, obviously – it was Monday, 6 am on a Paris bound train– we were, which caused an embarrassing loud scuffle of apologies, changing seats and realising that Beth and I were not actually seated in the same row, but sharing a four-space table and that the young lass was actually in her correct seat, and now we were those travellers having to disrupt them so we could get to our window seats (although, not booked that way). Had I done my job with its true effort as a mother, I would have memorised Beth’s seat in advance, and realised earlier where we were in fact seated.
Fortunately the following 100 minutes passed without issue, and following our arrival in rush hour traffic at Gare de l’Est was a 55 minute patch of heart-racing terror of locating our connecting train at a different station. That moment when YOU KNOW you can’t wait for the throngs of commuters to ease up and you simply NEED to be that person that scrambles onto the Metro with a child in your clutches as the doors close and know that someone will have something to say…. Paris is awful in rush hour. Not to forget having shit navigational capabilities to walk the last 800 metres when you could probably have just taken a different Metro route and avoid having to worry if your phone battery has enough juice to navigate you to the next station. Was Beth stressing about missing the Toulon bound train? Yeah. She was.
Look, the decision to let Beth skip her first day back at school was a wild impulsive one, but it’s not every day you get an invitation from the South African Embassy in France to attend a ceremony welcoming the Springbok rugby team to France for the current World Cup. I think it took about 5 minutes of thinking about it- the toughest decision being how could we make it up to Alex who would miss out. It was her first day at high school, a new school, and it wouldn’t have cool to let her skip. (We have subsequently found some resale tickets for the SA vs Tonga match in Toulon on October 1st, so Anton and her will travel down to Marseilles for that.)
The cost of our almost last minute train tickets was eye-wateringly expensive. In fact, its cheaper to fly Anton and Alex to Marseilles by half (or less) which is obscenely annoying given carbon footprints and all that. But truthfully, I love a train trip, so I was in my element.
Do you know what’s nice about European trains? They arrive in city centres.
Beth and I were able to alight from our train (the second leg, post Paris carnage, was only a 4 hour trip, really fast, given the almost transversal cut we travelled through France) and take a slow meander down through the Toulon city streets, to the military harbour, ferry and marina to where a friend has an apartment on the other side which we could borrow for the night.
Honestly, having received the opportunity to attend the Welcome Ceremony of The Springboks to France was the last thing I thought would feature on my calendar this month. What I need to figure out is how to get on the Embassy’s mailing list for more invitations like this, but this one arose from The Oracle of All Things Sud Af in France, and the SA In France Facebook Group. I’d popped off an email to the embassy, asking if I could be included without thinking I would get in. But since last November, post apocalyptic Autumn Internationals, my kids have become quite obsessed with The Springboks; Alex more so to admire Faf’s blonde hair, but Beth’s admiration for all things Kolisi related has seen me trying almost everything I can to maintain a happy equilibrium between reality (people like us don’t get to shake the hands of the heroes we worship) and hope. A meeting, a handshake, an autograph, it’s all she wanted from the man himself. She literally cried when she heard the Kolisi family were leaving South Africa, she cried when we went to Ellis Park and the team wouldn’t come to the edge of the field to sign autographs. She cried when Siya ‘liked’ an Instagram reel wherein I tagged him.
But without her middle name being an actual thing, somehow there we found ourselves, meandering round Toulon’s harbour in search of a meal while secretly praying with fervour that this trip would actually proffer an autograph and handshake or 2, and not just be a face in a sea of fans as we listened to the welcome ramblings from a selection of old Frenchmen.
Surely the event would be at least a little more intimate than, I dunno, anything else? Or was I going to have to spend a sorrowful night trying to placate The Drama, again?
All these questions filtered through her chattering as we walked down the Avenue de la Tour Royale, just a hop, skip and a jump away from my digs that evening. It was sweltering in Toulon, and as desperate as I was to wear my Green and Gold colours, I couldn’t deal with that on top of trying to stop the makeup from melting off my face. (Don’t @ me, I don’t wear make up often, but this time, it felt good and necessary to gussy myself up a bit). The length of the road was broken up with policemen stopping cars from going down to The Tour- what a welcome feeling knowing I had the right to be there. We signed in at the entrance, our names on the list and it was as easy as that.
The first thing though, that I realised, was that the event was not actually for us South Africans really! The various rugby playing clubs in and around the Toulon, Provence and Mediterranean metropoles had all invited their various dignitaries as well as mayors and chairmen to attend. Toulon had been asked to host The Springboks while the tournament is on, and given the enormous rugby playing community in the south of France, as well as the various South African rugby players that have made France their rugby playing home for various years, the event was a HUGE deal. As it is, we had been met at the train station with advertisement signs saying Welcome to the South African rugby team with a variety of pics of fans kitted out in SA flag and sport colours (did I get a massive lump in my throat when I saw that???).
So between the handful of South Africans who had made the trip to Toulon as Embassy guests, the venue was quite full of young school boys who were wearing their rugby kits from their various rugby clubs.
We navigated ourselves around the kids and French dignitaries and found a clutch of green and gold clad bodies, familiar with an accent and a smile. It does make things easier when you can find common ground. Having set myself up to meet some of the South Africans, an unfamiliar voice called my name- we’d been chatting online prior and with likeminded daughters of a similar age, I was happy to join her where she had found a place to stand near the stage. She definitely had a good eye, because it was as close to the players seats as we could get, and when the players did arrive, dressed in their finest (what’s the equivalent of Officers Whites?), I could have walked over in 3 steps and touched Siya’s shoulder. (I didn’t. I have way to much respect for peoples space and personal boundaries. or I am just incredibly shy.)
Watching those giants, those soldiers, formidable and kind at the same time, under the glare of the French media was a momentous thing. My emotions swung between pride and happiness and sadness that there is so much focus on these guys, and I don’t think it is really the kind of fame they actually sought out. They’re there to play rugby, something that they excel at, and yet it renders such hero worship, it’s hard to escape the fame aspect.
We stood and listened to various speeches (all of which were done twice as they were translated), and the Frenchmen who spoke off the cuff and literally stood on the stage in absolute awe of the Bokke was my favourite. We were entertained by a French choral group singing our national anthem (amazing!) and a Toulon based dance group doing a tribute dance to France, Rugby and South Africa. The event was a cocktail party, and was held under the old Royal Tower, at the edge of the Mediterranean ocean and the entrance to the harbour. They couldn’t have asked for a more magical setting (even if people were grumbling that it was too small and intimate, and they could/should have used a bigger space like a stadium and allowed more people in. Meh. It’s not the damn Opening Ceremony. I’m glad it was intimate. Especially since I managed to get on the list!
Eventually after an hour the team was capped and asked to move away for photos. That was some great backdrop to those formal pictures- nothing quite like the sunset of the Med with Green and Gold blazers to set up a great phot-op. Sadly, with the throng of media and other fans, I didn’t try to get close, but eventually we saw the players drifting away as the photo crowd got smaller, it was time for the high paparazzi chase to begin for the small fry. Can you picture me trailing Beth who was scooting up and down seeking out her favourites for a signature?
Aside from getting a handful of signatures on a rugby ball, she also managed to get a couple of photos with her favourites: Alex’s blondie is not much taller than Beth, Eben is twice her height, and Siya was completely inundated by so many that she ended up forfeiting a photo-op with him. She did, however, succeed in 4 signatures from him: on a cap, her ball and in his autobiography which she is reading. He also signed her arm- she’s hoping I’ll let her get it tattooed in time and for now, refuses to bath to avoid it rubbing off. And as a result, there was no posed photo with him.
The reality of this (in my cynical opinion) is that none of these experiences bounce back both ways between fan and hero. Beth was just another face in the crowd and while she’ll remember it for life – which is a pretty damn incredible memory and story to tell- wouldn’t it have been so much more amazing if she could have had 5 minutes to actually talk to him? To any of the players in fact, and just say how wonderful and how proud she is to be South African?
Ah well. One day is one day. We never actually thought we would even ever get simply one autograph, did we?
And after a parched 3 hours sans refreshments, I was finally able to get my hands on a glass of water and a delightful Provençale Rose wine having done my duties of clamouring for the attention of the players. For Beth, mind you. 😉 The next best thing to watching rugby players signing autographs is being able to enjoy a chilled glass of Provençale rose on the Med coast at sunset.
The team packed up and left within half an hour after their photo ops, and we wondered around chatting to some of the other South Africans still there. I chatted to one of the members of the dance crew, a fantastic Durbanite in fact, who claims she sort of knew where Boston was, I met the Acting SA Ambassador to France another government representative in international public relations. Beth and I, not quite ready to head back to the apartment then decided to walk over to the beach where we wanted to at least dip our feet. En route we stopped and chatted to another 2 SA ladies who we’d met at the event, and we had a delightful chat with them about their lives in Paris, so all in, we just felt such a beautiful sense of belonging, all over!
It took a long time to fall asleep on Monday night, my heart full and content. Early the next morning we took a slow walk back to the station and I kind of fell a little bit in love with Toulon. I get the appeal now.
Our return trip was a lot longer, stopping in at several stations across the route back home. Exhausting it may have been, I wouldn’t have changed one moment of our trip away. What else would have I done on my day off right? Cleaning? Running?
It’s official, we’re back to school now, with the bonus of rugby actually starting up on Friday. What’s on the cards for October? We’ll have to wait and see.
Anyway, thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed my scribbles. Sending love and wishes today,
Love,
Me.
Xxx
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 