Do you know what the French word for ‘close doors’ is? Until a few weeks ago I would have struggled to tell you, but I now know that ‘porte à fermeture’ is the correct French formulation. writes David Massey. This is purely down to the number of times I took the elevator at the hotel we stayed at in Paris during our recent weekend getaway to the Arc. I hear the words in my dreams now, my wife starts saying it every time I leave the room and leave the door open, and it is so ingrained in my memory that I now remember it better than the names of my own children.
Maybe this is the right way to teach older idiots like me French, just bash them until they can no longer forget. My wife Caroline was most impressed by my beautiful blending of two beautiful languages in the pizza restaurant of “deux more beers, s’il vous plait”, but for less than four euros per drink I definitely wanted it two more.
I’m jumping ahead here. Let’s start at the beginning, when we decided earlier this year that we would go to the Arc for the first time. We booked through Racing Breaks #notanad and given my absolute fear of flying – actually a fear of crashing – it was always going to be the Eurostar that would take us to Paris. I’ve been on a plane three times in my life, once to Belfast, once to Dinan and once before to Paris, having been there to Auteuil for Champion Hurdle Day a few years ago when One Track Mind took a chance. That was a fun day, and there are stories to be told that can’t be repeated here, but it was the last time I flew: after a rocky landing in Birmingham I swore off the air, preferring to stick to the wheels and tracks.
So we, along with apparently half of England, take the Eurostar to Paris on Friday afternoon. For a 56-year-old man who has not been abroad for years, this is actually quite exciting. The Eurostar rattles along; there’s a handy video explaining how to break the window in your carriage and get out safely if something goes wrong, or perhaps you get trapped with one of the many racing “personalities” that seem to be on the train. One of them is in our carriage. I’ve seen him more since he retired than I ever did when he was commentating.
We arrive at Gare du Nord an hour late. No, wait a minute, my phone only adjusted to local time. I forgot that. Metro, then a short ten minute walk to our hotel, less than a million miles from the Eiffel Tower, and we are all checked in and in our hotel room, 28 floors above the Parisian ground. I’m not afraid of heights either, but here we are.
As things are progressing a bit, we decide to eat somewhere nearby and find a great little pizzeria two blocks away. It’s run by, it turns out, an Iranian family, and they couldn’t be more hospitable. The pizza is excellent, the beer is cheap and we have a delicious meal for over forty euros.
The Saturday morning breakfast at the hotel is incredible. So many people, so many nationalities, but everyone is really well taken care of. You name it, it’s there. Puts to shame the standard breakfast buffet I’m so used to during my domestic travels. And of course the croissants are too So much better than they are here. I have lost a stone and a half in the last five months by eating better, and I strongly suspect I will gain a lot more weight in the next three days.
We are also going to Longchamp for their Saturday card. 80 euros for two tickets that will take us pretty much anywhere we want to go is very fair considering the quality of the racing. I immediately fall in love with the place. I like the simplicity of it; Paddock to bar to show in less than a minute, and despite my love for a battle with the old enemy on a British racecourse, the PMU machines fascinate me.
Unfortunately, what I thought was a winning prediction in the Cadran was just a swinger, which teaches me a valuable lesson in knowing which bet I’m actually betting, rather than what I think I’m betting. I guess having three beers down doesn’t help at the moment – I can’t drink like I used to, the Skegness years are long behind me – but I’m having such a good time that I don’t really care. The racing is great, but what about the idea of two commentators for each race? Even for shorter matches they change halfway through. Imagine that here. Over to John Hanmer halfway through the Epsom Dash. It would be done before you’ve identified what’s in front of you.
On Saturday evening we eat with about ten others in a steak restaurant near the Champs Elysees. It’s an incredible place, the steaks hang in old cupboards and you can pick your own if you want. Our waitress for the evening is great fun, her English is excellent – even her swearing is top class – and she keeps our rowdy mess in order. Suffice it to say that the forty-two euros we paid last night barely got you a look at the menu. Throw in a few Ubers there and back and the night isn’t cheap. On the way back, however, we do see the Eiffel Tower glittering. That’s nice.
But a lot more fun than the traffic in Paris. As someone who travels over 20,000 miles a year, driving to and from racecourses, I like to consider myself quite competent, and can handle whatever the British roads throw at me. But Paris is on another level. This is actually a real Mario Kart. Diving into every hole that presents itself, queuing wide at intersections clearly intended for two cars, cutting into pieces at roundabouts, this is all completely normal for the average Parisian Uber driver, it seems. I asked our driver why there was so much traffic on the road at 11pm on a Saturday evening. “Paris!” he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders. Two more engines dive for the same gap at the lights in front of us. I think I’d rather fly.
Sunday is Arch Day. After more hotel elevator related chaos (slim lifts my ass) and another delicious breakfast (I eat more than yesterday as I’ll probably start drinking again and probably won’t eat again until tonight) our coach arrives to take us to the track. One lady thinks we’ll miss the first one, but she made the rookie mistake I made at Gare du Nord on Friday. Add an hour to Racing Post’s free times and you’ll be fine.
There are ten times as many people here as there were yesterday and it’s like being at one big party. What a fantastic atmosphere there is. I meet a lot of friends along the way, and we meet my friends Alex and Sophie, regulars on the northern circuits. The beer is flowing, the racing is fantastic. “Make some noise!” the racecourse announcer shouts as they head to the Arc. I’ve been drinking beer, readers, and am more than happy to oblige his request. Daryz turns out to be just too good for Minnie Hauk, too bad for the Irish but good for my bank balance when I tipped him at the steak restaurant last night. Alex and I spend the afternoon playing bandits – as we called the PMU machines – and that’s another thing the French do so well. They are not afraid of you making a bet; in fact, it is almost encouraged. In front are five large platforms showing young people waving huge flags that read “Time To Bet!” five minutes before the start of each race. I’m not saying there aren’t flaws with a Tote system, but my word: it has its advantages too, with some huge jackpot bets on offer for small stakes.
The afternoon flew by and it was a lot of fun. It really whetted mine and Caroline’s appetite to do this again; both Auteuil and Le Lion d’Angers are mentioned (well, it has that beautiful X-Country trail after all). At 56, I think I can finally become a traveler. Ludlow on a Wednesday of course has its undoubted charms, but this weekend was a real eye-opener for me.
Monday morning. And after a final breakfast it’s back to Blighty. We arrive in St Pancras an hour early. No, wait a minute…
Let the jumping season begin. I’ll see you all in Cheltenham this weekend, yes?
– DM
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