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.
The crowd were guided on their way by an American-accented announcer, who helpfully explained every nuance of the action. “That was a spike,” he would say. Or “this is an automatic technical timeout”. At which point half a dozen young dancers, probably fresh from their exertions on barges the evening before, bounded out to do some prancing, while behind them a small army of volunteers with brooms waited to smooth out the sand.
The principal coordinator of the crowd, though, was Moliner. Despite being about 10 inches shorter than his 7ft giant of a partner, the Cuban was some showman, constantly conducting the crowd’s applause, urging them to up the volume. When the pair triumphed by two sets to love (each set comprising the first team to reach 21 points) he milked his moment, whooping with delight. You suspect he more than enjoyed being where he was, in such a magnificent setting. And that he can’t wait to be back. That is if he can find his way in.
Paris cannot help the weather. That beach volleyball, a sport that in its very name is redolent of sun-blessed tropical expanses, opened its competition in conditions more redolent of the fifth day of an Edgbaston Test match is not the fault of the organisers. Volunteers were out constantly trying to sponge down seats soaked in the torrential rain, the spectators huddled under umbrellas, everyone was doing their best to make the opening day of action look and feel like something special.
The signage, however, was something altogether different. Actually to get in to watch the sporting action was akin to a competition in itself, requiring gold-medal levels of orienteering skills. At London 2012, everywhere you went there was a volunteer pointing you on your way with a giant sponge finger. In Tokyo in 2021, because of the Covid restrictions, there was almost a volunteer per attendee, a personal helper always smilingly willing to be of assistance. In Paris you are on your own. And your sense of isolation is not helped by a woeful lack of signs, most of which stop well before you reach your destination. What volunteers there seemed confused as to what was happening. The truth is, as the Games began, nobody appeared able to help you on your way.