One cannot deny that Paris 2024 has been a brilliant Olympiad, one of the three finest modern Games alongside London 2012 and Sydney 2000. Yet the fact is that most locals have barely seen a ball kicked, an oar pulled or a javelin thrown.
The business districts traditionally empty for the entirety of August, a period when tourists have the Tuileries to themselves. At the height of summer, the only Parisians not sunning themselves on the Riviera are those who work in the hospitality industry.
This year, the exodus began a week early, to avoid the disruption of impassable bridges and closed Metro stations near central Olympic venues such as Place de la Concorde.
A similar phenomenon was predicted before the 2012 Olympics, and indeed most Londoners knew friends who legged it faster than Mo Farah – whether because of the carrot of high rental prices or the stick of anticipated transport chaos.
But one never got the feeling, as one has here, that the restaurants are populated entirely by out-of-towners. I’ve eaten alongside orange-clad Dutchmen, Americans yammering away at 100 decibels, and a Chinese party who had never seen a wasp before, judging by their panic. Far from curling a lip in the anticipated manner, waiters have mostly smiled and dug out the English menus.
And yet, it’s not as if the Games have been stateless. They’ve retained a distinctively French flavour, with home prospects being roared on with genuine élan.
In another echo of London, the venues have been electric, with every seat filled, every fan invested and every nerve jangled. It’s just that the patriots have largely hailed from the provinces.