THE platform is crowded on both sides – the colours of Brazil, India and Norway struggling for space amid a sea of red, white and bleu.
Trains come and go in a blur, two tiny uniformed women with megaphones charged with herding the masses onboard in whatever fashion necessary. Stuffed carriages leave arses hanging out doors, yet still the two women want more.
They want this ungodly mess cleared, as many clammy bodies stuffed onto that capsule as is humanly possible.
“CHARLES DE GAULLE! CHARLES DE GAULLE! ALLEZ!”
Post traumatic stress disorder has already begun to take hold. Just like that, I’m back in Madame Emmanuelle’s fifth form class at Knock, her eyes bearing into my soul as – not for the first time – a mishmash of irregular verbs eventually give way to a dramatic “sacre bleu”.
The Tricolore oral tapes are running like Le Metro around my brain, in particular the contrast of the lady conversationalist’s sunny “bonjour monsieur” with the impossibly gruff, 40 Gauloises a day, Cognac hangover-soaked “bonjour Chantal” of her male counterpart.
La Rochelle, the only place anybody seemed to go, assumed a kind of make-believe allure. Like Summer Bay, or El Dorado, except with Ronan O’Gara sat in the corner, squinting over disdainfully.
And it is O’Gara’s words, bastardised with enough Cork English moxy to infuriate Madame Emmanuelle, that have nagged away since the day and hour these Olympic Games got under way - c’est f**king enorme.
Because it is. Like, in a totally off the scale kind of way, to the point it can become completely overwhelming and mess with your mind; that’s before even attempting to absorb the emotional highs and lows that occur from morning until night, or the seedy sub-texts that have become an inevitable part of every Games.
It is exhausting, exhilarating, a total assault on the senses. And it is brilliant.
Just look at the beautiful beach volleyball arena, which sits in the shadow of the iconic Eiffel Tower – up there with my favourite towers alongside Broadway, and High.
Then there’s the majestic La Defense Arena where Daniel Wiffen walked the walk after months of talking the talk, and the quirky Bercy Arena, a pyramid-shaped behemoth covered completely in grass, where, inside, the gymnastics floor is akin to Duffy’s Circus on acid.
It was here that Rhys McClenaghan banished the ghosts of his Tokyo nightmare to claim gold – and he wasn’t the only one. Crowds queued around the block each day to catch a glimpse of Simone Biles, back on the sport’s greatest stage after a bout of ‘the twisties’ wreaked havoc three years ago.
They were rewarded when the Queen dutifully returned to her throne.
Typically, boxing was stuck out in the arse end of nowhere, its reputation as the Olympics’ problem child exacerbated further by judging controversies and the shocking social media witch-hunt against female boxers Imane Khelif and Lin Yu-ting – collateral damage as the power struggle at the top of amateur boxing claims more victims.
The sport’s Olympic future, its lifeblood, is surely next.
Not far from Charles de Gaulle airport, the North Paris Arena was more business park that showbusiness. Thankfully the latter stages of the competition were at least granted the prestige of a move to the classier surrounds of Roland-Garros.
And it was here where, bizarrely, we got an unexpected window into just what an Olympic gold medal, or a medal of any kind, means. Parachuting in professional millionaires from football, golf and tennis has always sat uneasily as part of what is supposed to be a celebration of ‘amateur’ endeavour, even though that horse has long bolted.
No price, though, can be put on national pride. That’s the thing about the Olympics – there is no place for broad brushing, because everybody’s story is their own.
After leaping, Pat Cash-style, into the stands at Roland-Garros after Sunday’s final victory over Carlos Alcaraz, Novak Djokovic could not control the flow of tears. The hundreds of Serbians who had made the pilgrimage to the home of French tennis swiftly followed suit.
Few, it seems, have much love for Djokovic – always seen as something of an unwelcome outsider while Roger and Rafa waged war for the guts of two decades, his achievements are often asterisked as a victory for power and athleticism over aesthetic beauty.
The day after defeating Alcaraz, the 37-year-old took part in the Champions’ Walk at a sun-drenched Trocadero. Forget the 24 Grand Slam wins across a career stretching back 21 years, he insisted, this mattered more anything else.
“All the achievements that I had in my career are incomparable to what I experienced yesterday,” he told waiting journalists.
“The Olympics is something unique, representing my country was always a privilege and honour. Carrying the flag of my country in London was the best feeling I had ever as an athlete, better than any other achievement I had – until yesterday.
“It’s like a dream come true.”
For the first few days here, after Armagh had been crowned All-Ireland champions, I felt like I was missing out.
Paris was still emerging from the security lockdown that engulfed the opening ceremony, surly looking army men locked and loaded as they patrolled the streets, still managing to carry menace even while wearing those wee ‘ooooooohh Bettttayyy’ berets.
The rain fell as fences were being removed and Navy dinghies did lengths of the Seine as a misty morning settled after the night before.
Yet within days the Gendarmie were posing for pictures with Mona McSharry’s family outside La Defense, wearing wide smiles as they held the Irish tricolour. You could almost have believed you were in Camlough.
Early anxiousness slowly faded out as the Paris Games soon found their mojo, the Irish medal rush settling any nerves as the class of 2024 continue to write their own story in some style. Long may it continue.
