La Fièvre du Rugby -- a.k.a. Rugby Fever

For the past three days, Paris has been overrun with Scots.

That's right, the kilted, sporraned, bagpiping, slurring, drunken Scots are all over Paris. And why, the inquiring mind may ask, is this so?

Because, the well-informed and insufferably knowledgeable mind may answer, the Rugby World Cup is currently taking place all over France, and the Highlanders strolled straight out of Braveheart and into Paris to support their countrymen in the game Wednesday night. I almost wish I could have attended the all-night bar brawl that followed a Scottish win over France. However, I feel like I have been attending it for the past several days -- in the streets, in broad daylight.

Whenever two or more Scotsmen gather, it seems the only proper activity is to drink, yell loudly, drink and then maybe have a drink or two before yelling loudly again. They seem to take it as their birthright that anywhere in Paris labeled "bar," or heaven forbid, "pub", is theirs to own. The Scots are by nature a ruddy, boisterous race, and their drinking only enhances these qualities. Also, if you have ever attempted to understand a sober Scotsman, you will empathize with me when I tell you the drunken slur does not sit lightly upon their tongues.

However, this Scottish brand of inebriation lends itself to some excellent photo ops and stories. For one, hundreds of Scotsmen gather on the street leading to a building where I have class every day. There was one knot of young Scots singing a rousing chorus of "Hey Baby" to any good-looking female that passed by. Someone was actually playing the bagpipes in the street. And there were masses of them thronging a bar on a side road, where Scottish flags spanned the buildings and drinking songs sounded from hundreds of throats. I encountered a splendidly kilted but extremely drunk man who was trying to get back to his hotel. It seemed all he knew was the name of his hotel -- he had no clue where the hotel was, or really where he was or which way he had walked to get there. As such, I couldn't help him much. When I left class about two hours later, he was still there, wandering around the same corner in a very similar state of inebriation. Somehow he did manage to recognize me and he asked me for directions again, as though I had somehow managed to find his hotel during my absence.

Here are some of the many photos I took of/with the Scots:

My favorite guy, the drunken one who couldn't find his hotel. It's a shame you can't see his kilt here.

This guy was pole-dancing (don't worry, Mom, he still had his kilt on) in a pub at 3:00 in the afternoon. What inspired him to do so? The song "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" by the Proclaimers.



The throngs outside a bar. Just look at all those kilts!

The bagpiper (one of several), plus a few of the "Hey Baby" crowd.

We found a few remaining Scots and took our picture with them before they left forever. The other girl is Leah. PS- Check out the hat on the guy on the left.

*EDIT* Since this post was written and somehow never posted, it is now Friday. Most of the kilted hordes have left, but in their place have arrived the South Africans and the English. They are an infinitely better behaved crowd than the Scots, mostly sitting quietly in pubs and cafés and conversing in delightful accents. A girl named Leah in the EDUCO program had a birthday yesterday, and we convinced some South Africans to sing to her in Afrikaans. It was quite cool.

I just remembered that I had previously promised a post containing drunken Scotsmen, Neanderthals and musical harassment. You have heard plenty about the Scots, and the musical harassment bit was the "Hey Baby" chorus, but you haven't heard yet about the Neanderthals. I guess it's really just Neanderthal, considering it was one guy. Last Friday night, I watched the opening match of the Rugby World Cup (France v. Argentina) in the Hôtel de Ville square. The actual game was being played just down the street in the Stade de France, and there were thousands of people gathered in the square to watch on the giant screen. It was amazing to be there with so many crazed fans. There's one French player in particular that everyone went wild for, and he's probably the single scariest-looking man I have ever seen in my life. He looks like he eats babies for breakfast:



You can see why I called him a Neanderthal, or why the French call him "l'Homme des Cavernes" ("The Caveman"). His name is Sébastien Chabal, and he is in fact as ruthless as he looks -- and thus an excellent rugby player. As for the match, we lost to Argentina, but it was an incredible experience regardless. Combine rugby on Friday with watching football (French football, of course) in a pub on Saturday, and you have a very sporty weekend -- not at all like me, but I had a ball (groaaaannnnnnn).

I am packing now to leave for Normandy early in the morning. I will be gone until Sunday night, but I will post then about my hopefully awesome weekend. Au revoir!

MK