PARIS—No matter how many times this American comes here, the city remains something of an alternate universe. Everything is the same in the big picture, but the little things all seem to be turned on their heads.
For instance, it’s a whoosh of tires, rather than a Brooklyn-style screech of steel, that sends the No. 10 metro line up and into the Porte d’Auteil stop, a few blocks down from Roland Garros. This is the moment when you know, after the night flight and the day of recovery, after the late steak and the tiny hotel room, that you’ve arrived. Green and red Roland Garros logos line the walls of the station, and stickers of racquets and balls dot the floor. Right in front of you is a 5-year-old who insists on touching each sticker with his foot, no matter how far away they are from each other, and keeps running right into you in the process. This part actually seems familiar; the kid is American.
But there are plenty of French children, and teenagers, and adults, all around us, and all along the tree-lined, motorcycle-infested boulevard that leads to the club gates. It’s a sunny Saturday in Paris, and tickets are sold out for Roland Garros’ Kids’ Day, the traditional afternoon of exo tennis and wall-shaking DJ music that kicks the two weeks off.
There’s a sense of preparation and anticipation, of final rehearsals before opening night, everywhere you walk. The press room begins to fill with familiar faces, while photographers smoke cigarettes and greet each other on the lunch-room balcony. The girls in the Tropicana tent in the food court fiddle with their new orange headbands, while the teenagers selling ice cream a few yards away practice a high-pitched song and dance routine. The grounds crews make their final sweeps across the red dirt, while the young women ushers in long beige dresses take their places at the bottom of each set of stadium steps. (When they curl the corners of their lips upward as you pass, are they smiling or scowling? One more Parisian mystery . . . )
Children gather along the walkways, inspecting you until they can confidently say that they don’t need your autograph. One player who they would love to get an autograph from, Rafael Nadal, shuffles away, almost undetected. But just as he’s about to disappear around a corner, a woman with a camera spots him, grabs him, and asks him to be in a shot with her. Rafa stops, grins as the camera clicks, and shuffles out of sight.
Out on a quiet far practice court, a scattered few fans sit back and watch Juan Carlos Ferrero, champion in 2003, do some last-minute fine-tuning. Ferrero, still lean and springy at 32, can’t quite get his strokes right in his mind. What appear to be perfectly struck winners to me only lead to more discussions with his coach. There’s no more time for error; Ferrero will begin his 12th French Open in a couple of days.
On Court Suzanne Lenglen, a small crowd has gathered for a set between tennis's most famous duo, John Isner and Nicolas Mahut. The clay looks fresh here, a deep red, with a layered softness that doesn’t show up on TV. Isner and Mahut seem to sink into it as they glide around the court. But they go largely unwatched today, as parents chase their ice-cream-eating children around the bleachers. The biggest cheer is for the ball kids, in their bright orange BNP Paribas uniforms, as they run off court in formation. Finally, Mahut elicits some extended applause with a nicely carved drop shot. The fans here really do appreciate the artistic. Mahut wins 6-4 (in a lightning-fast 29 minutes), the two trade shirts, and then get down to the real work of the day, signing a seemingly endless supply of oversize tennis balls that come toward them from every direction.
The atmosphere couldn’t be more different inside a jammed Chatrier stadium. Here two DJs blast a beat-heavy soundtrack as Serena Williams, her back possibly feeling better, dances in between them. On court Novak Djokovic beats Ryan Harrison 6-3 and tries his hand at some French with the crowd afterward. It’s enough to get a big cheer—never too early to get them on your side.
Nole walks off, and a few minutes Roger Federer walks on, to a deafening Chatrier ovation. He trades slices, dices, cheese-cutting forehands, and tweeners with a fellow member of the Good Hands Club, Fabrice Santoro. As they float the ball back and forth in the breeze, the DJ segues from Van Halen’s “Jump” to House of Pain’s "Jump Around," while Juan Martin del Potro, of all people, climbs up to do some chair umpiring. The audiences bounces as one.
Federer, Santoro, Van Halen, House of Pain, "Jump," "Jump Around," Del Potro in the chair: Does this make any kind of sense? I have no idea, but I’m from the alternate universe known as New York. Like everyone else who has gathered at Roland Garros, I’m ready for my two weeks in this one.