Then, early during this year’s trip, I happened to notice a sign alongside the “Aquaboulevard” complex and the adjacent helicopter landing field just down the road from my hotel.
Aquaboulevard is the kind of high-rise indoor mall you could expect to find in someplace like Tampa, and it has its own attached outdoor water park. Yeah, with its “Forest Hill” Club, McDonald’s, and 16-screen cinema, among other things, Aquaboulevard probably is as unappealing to an experienced to a romantic traveler as I’m making it sound. But then, the place seems to be very popular with locals, and especially the kids, and there’s no law saying the French have to stick with crumbling but quaint apartment buildings with lovely window shutters, or put an accordionist on every street corner, just to keep the Francophiles happy.
Anyway, the sign tucked between Aquaboulevard and the soccer-field sized heliport read, “Parc Omnisports Suzanne Lenglen.” How did I not notice that before? Beneath the sign, a simple turnstile and a wide, paved pathway led into the park. The green refuge is as sprawling as it is well-hidden in plain sight.
The circular interior path is roughly a mile-and-a-half long and it winds its way over gently undulating hills alive with fora, including some spectacular, well-tended flower beds. There are tennis courts, a couple of rugby fields, basketball courts, soccer fields, and a rubberized Olympic spec track.
While running here, I’ve seen an elderly Chinese lady on the basketball court reach in and make a quick, nifty steal from a 10-year-old curly-haired French boy who happened to be dribbling a soccer ball. It was sport’s equivalent of the ultimate mixed metaphor. I imagined that the crone was no coach, merely a babysitter.
Running past the tennis courts reaffirmed my feeling that, per capita, France probably has more male individuals who play tennis in short shorts, black socks, and running shoes than any other nation on earth. This is particularly odd, given that French men are not without the style gene (more about that a little later).
I also suspected, from the syncopated heavy “thwock!” that issued over and over from the courts, that players seem to have an aversion to using anything but old tennis balls. Presumably, this is the end result of some sort of green initiative promoted by the city fathers. I don’t believe that a No. 2 optic yellow tennis all is bio-degradable, although it’s pretty easily re-cycled into yellow Labrador retriever dung if you give the dog half a chance.
Ah, that French sense of style. I never cease to marvel at it. I was particularly struck by the penchant French men have for yard-long scarves in every material from white silk to calico cotton. They’re dangling around the necks of men everywhere; there are even a few scarf-wearers in the International (non-French) Writer’s Room at Roland Garros.
