IT’S TRUE, I DO LIKE THE FRENCH. I LIKE THEIR FRENCHNESS. I LIKE THEIR LANGUAGE; I LIKE THEIR STYLE; I LIKE THE WAY THEY HAVE OF LIVING THEIR lives through their senses, paying attention to the important things like food, clothing, sexuality, wine, and even movies. Everything is about enjoying life and that applies to all classes of French society, not just the wealthy bourgeoisie. By comparison the Anglo-Saxon obsession with duty and the endless American pursuit of money are simply second-rate ways of being. I live from time to time in Provence (someone has to do it), and there are times when I really miss it, and today is one of those. I am having huge nostalgie. I can smell the lavender, hear the buzzing of the bees and the chirping of the cicadas and the clicking of the boules in the square.
I like the French. Someone should be doing the job of the Democrats.
Jen and I escape for lunch at the magnificent café L’Express on the Boulevard St-Denis. It is perfectly French, from the paper tablecloths on the small square tables to the handwritten menu in its glossy wrapper with its huge list of wines. The food is delicious, freshly cooked, and excellently served, and we succumb to the temptations of dessert: a fine almond chocolate thing for her and an unhealthy but delicious orange crème caramel for me. Tomorrow we are back in the land of the Big Mac. The people at the next table are drinking Sancerre, and that always reminds me of Michael Palin. We used to drink buckets of it and swap cases as presents back in the days when I was a trainee alcoholic. Sadly I never qualified. Who could rival Graham? Now my inebriated days are over and I sip unhealthy diet colas in hope of a minor caffeine buzz. I wonder where Mike is now? Probably halfway up a Nepalese mountain wishing he was on my tour.
Commander Palin’s Diary
Mount Everest. Sunday. Sherpa Biggles says he can get me to 2nd Base. But sadly he doesn’t seem to have tits. Wish I was on Eric’s tour having to have lunch with cute blond actresses in French restaurants in Montreal.
Jen and I discover a treasure trove of tiny bijoux shops and manage to cram in some shopping before limping lamely back to the theater. Last time I appeared at the Théâtre St-Denis was in the Just for Laughs Festival in the summer of 2000, when I hosted one of their galas. The magnificent Terry Jones joined me onstage and we did Nudge Nudge together for the first time since 1847. The show was great fun and at the end I was whisked away by limo to a deserted private airfield, where a tiny light in the sky landed and picked me up. It was Robin Williams, celebrating his birthday, and together we flew to Paris for the final day of the Tour de France, to watch his pal Lance Armstrong ride in to the Champs-Elysées for his second consecutive victory. The sun was shining, and the tree-lined boulevard was filled eight-deep with fifty thousand Frenchmen on their bleachers, and Paris was at its most glorious. Blue skies, tiny streets, big wide Napoleon III boulevards. Ah, oui, ça c’est la vie. On the last day of the Tour the riders, who have just cycled three thousand kilometers around France in three weeks, ride proudly into the center of Paris, sipping Champagne and waving to the crowd. One of the U.S. Postal team even wore a woman’s wig. They complete the race by circling the Champs-Elysées eight times on a two-mile course that takes them in front of the Louvre.
Michael J. Fox, a very sweet and brave man, was there with his family. Robin of course was being irrepressibly hilarious, among a bunch of Lance fans from Texas, including the mayor of Austin and some representatives of the Lance Armstrong Foundation. We were having a blast enjoying the sunshine and the occasion, knowing that the race was over and Lance, ahead by six minutes, had effectively won.
Robin and I were interviewed by OLN, the Outdoor Life Network (which should really be called the Outdoor Death Network, since most of their programs seem to be about killing as many living creatures as possible). We say we are not interested in who has won the yellow jersey, we are concerned about the pink jersey, awarded to the cyclist with the cutest butt…and, well, you know Robin, half an hour later we are still demonstrating effete pedal pushing…swish, swish.
The tour is down to its last two laps when we are invited to ride in one of the lead cars. We climb over the barriers and jump into a small red Renault, which pulls out onto the Champs-Elysées. Now we are on the course! We drive slowly up the cobblestones toward the Arc de Triomphe, the vast crowd on either side of us chattering and listening to their portable radios, awaiting the arrival of the peloton—that’s about a hundred and fifty cyclists pedaling in unison—and as I look behind me I see the bright headlights of the gendarmes, heralding the approach of the race.
“Erm,” I say to the driver, “you’d better watch it. I think they are coming.”
The driver gives a Gallic shrug of immense proportions. I am clearly an English idiot who knows nothing, so we sit by the side of the road as this huge flotilla rapidly advances on us. I am getting very anxious now. We are definitely in the way. Suddenly the blue cars of the gendarmes flash past and there, quite clearly, is the big wide line of cyclists approaching like a cavalry charge. At the very last moment our driver guns the car and we pull out directly in front of them! Oh my God. The riders are fifteen feet away. We can practically touch them. We are leading the riders around the final stage of the Tour de France! Normally, this privilege is reserved for French presidents. The television cameramen, standing up on their motorbikes, grin at us and laugh at our astonishment. This is unbelievable. We are all yelling out in excitement as we belt up the Champs-Elysées, around the Arc de Triomphe and back down the big wide boulevard, pursued by a bunch of brightly colored cyclists. A squealing tire noise as we slide round a big wide bend, past the enormous Ferris wheel, and then a stomach-lurching dive into a sudden underpass. Behind us we watch the breathtaking sight of a hundred and fifty peddlers streaming downhill after us.
“It’s like a dream,” says Michael, “a dream where you are being pursued by a hundred bikes.”
Now, as we come sprinting past Hôtel de Crillon we clearly hear the bell for the last lap. No time to stop now, we are going to be on the final lap of the Tour de France. We are so close that on TV you can see us in the same shot as the leaders! They are on their final sprint, and our driver has to accelerate sharply to prevent them running into us. This is the most exhilarating thing in the world. We are kneeling backward on our seats, looking through the rear window of the Renault, cheering, yelling, and screaming at the top of our lungs. We are like three kids in our unabashed joy at this unbelievable ride. Now, two leaders have broken from the pack and are dueling it out behind us, their bikes shifting furiously from side to side as they stand up on their pedals. They angle dangerously around the corners, skim the curbs, and slide perilously over the cobblestones, racing for the finish. It’s the final stretch and we lead the entire Tour under the finishing line and then pull in. There is a pause. We are all utterly shocked, our minds completely blown by what we have just experienced. Then Michael says, “Well, we’ll always have Paris!”