And given that the beach volleyball is taking place alongside the Eiffel Tower, the most-visited tourist destination in the Paris, on the opening day of competition the outcome was chaos. As the rain fell, mudding up the cinder paths around the monument, dozens of spectators wandered around, bewildered as to where they should go. There was no point following someone in a cagoule and shorts as everyone was wearing a cagoule and shorts, whether they were heading to watch the sport or trying to stand on the very spot halfway up the tower from where Celine Dion had dazzled during the opening ceremony. I personally circumnavigated the tower twice, given completely contradictory directions by harassed officials apparently unaware of the terrain. On my way round I met a lost American reporter who said he had walked five miles in his failed attempt to find a way in.
Though in truth, once access to the arena had been finally achieved, once you had swabbed your seat dry, once you had tightened the hood of your anorak against the Scarborough-like downpours, boy was it worth the schlep. What a view awaited. There, right in front of the court stood the tower, in its effervescent sparkling glory the undoubted star of the previous evening’s opening ceremony. Beyond it lay the Trocadéro, the grand crescent-shaped swoop of a building, in front of which President Macron and his fellow dignitaries had sat to watch five hours of interpretive dance the long night before.
And down in the middle of the steepling temporary stands was the sand-covered court where the matches were to be played. Beach volleyball, fortunately, doesn’t worry about the rain. After all, beaches by their very nature tend to get wet. Which was just as well as the downpour fell relentlessly on the opening doubles match between the Americans Miles Partain and Andy Benesh and Cuba’s Noslen Díaz Amaro and Jorge Luis Alayo Moliner. So bleak was it as things got under way, the floodlights were required to illuminate the court. Which is not what you might expect at 2pm on a July afternoon.
Yet despite the elements, the place was packed. Noisy too, full of good cheer as the Americans dispatched the opening serve of the Olympic programme. From that moment on, every piece of athleticism (and there were plenty) was cheered to the echo. Extensive rallies were treated as if they were the highest drama. And each time a player blocked a shot at the net, everyone engaged in a collective mime of the action, making it look as if the entire place was on bended knee in supplication. They did a couple of Mexican waves too. But we’ll forgive them that.