Fast forward to late last year. My mother was entertaining thoughts of going on a long-haul holiday during the winter, and asked if I would like to accompany her. We were considering various destinations when I suddenly had an idea and suggested we go to Melbourne. At first Mum looked puzzled, as if to say “Why Melbourne?” Then the penny dropped and she smiled knowingly.
We set out from a dark, cold and wintry Dublin to the home of the Australian Open. Being at the first day of the tournament reminded me a little of what it used be like being back at school, the first day after the holidays. With the resumption of competition following the short off-season, there was a distinct air of anticipation, excitement and expectation about the coming year - a sense of renewal. Matches and results from last year were already consigned to history and a new, fresh chapter was about to begin.
I was initially concerned that Mum, who does not follow tennis very closely, might get bored during the holiday. I need not have worried. She seemed to enjoy herself immensely, reading the official tournament magazine late into the night, expounding her opinion of several players (one of whom she met while shopping in the city centre). She also surprised me some evenings (like the time I was watching Roddick v. Safin) by turning up unexpectedly, armed with a grounds pass and bound for the outside courts.
I enjoyed the relaxed, fun, and friendly atmosphere at the Australian Open. One of my most memorable moments occurred on the second day of play, when the extreme heat policy was implemented. Never before had I experienced anything quite like that unrelenting heat – it felt like the sudden blast of air that hits you immediately on opening an extremely hot oven. We hung around the complex until late that night, clocking up something like thirteen hours on-site. That was the day that we watched what I thought was the most memorable match of all those we saw Down Under; the dramatic Rochus – Guccione encounter in which the Melbourne crowd tried its utmost to cheer its home favourite to victory.
Pete arrived on the second Monday of the tournament. He had mentioned at the blog that he was going to try to meet up with me. Unaccustomed to fraternizing with tennis writers, I thought this might prove quite tricky at such a huge event and thought it best to be on the alert. So I went along to one of the booths and hired a pair of binoculars (no, I am not a stalker). Naturally, it wasn’t as complicated as I had anticipated. But as I was scanning Laver arena looking for him, I didn’t realise that he was actually calling my mobile phone. In compliance with the umpire’s instructions, I had left it on silent mode in my bag. Luckily, I got his message a bit later on.
Not long after returning home, my thoughts increasingly drifted to Paris. Originally, I was not enamoured of claycourt tennis. I would watch it, but didn't not really enjoy it. I always associated it with interminably long rallies and immense frustration. Over the last ten years however, two factors made me change my attitude: Gustavo Kuerten and the predominance of the allcourt game. I had never been to Roland Garros and I found myself itching to go. Fortunately, I had a willing volunteer travel companion in my younger, Francophile sister, Jean. She stepped up and announced that she would gladly accompany me to the City of Light. After some last minute consternation when La Poste lost my registered-post ticket application, we took off for a three-day sojourn to the French capital.
We managed to fit quite a lot of tennis into a relatively short stay. We hopped on the navette (shuttle) that stopped near our hotel and soon found ourselves in the middle of a rather jostling crowd waiting to gain entry to the complex. The grounds of Roland Garros are wedge-shaped, with the No. 1 and Chatrier courts at one end and Court Suzanne Lenglen towards the opposite end. We were on Lenglen for our first day. The opening singles match featured two players destined to enjoy great success in ’07, Ana Ivanovic and Anna Chakvetadze. Mum’s friend, Mr. Baghdatis, was up next, followed by what turned out to be, as the French say, “le match choc du jour”: the blockbuster encounter between Novak Djokovic against Olivier Patience. This was another great example of an absolutely gripping "home-favourite-almost-beats-the-odds-against-a-top player" matches, reminiscent of the Guccione-Rochus match.
We left feeling drained but exhilarated after that match and repaired to a restaurant across the street from our hotel. One of the waiters apologised to Jean for not having the beer she ordered and made a big ceremony of suggesting a suitable but unnamed alternative. After he finished his lengthy, descriptive monologue and uncovered the bottle, we laughed when we saw that what he was offering her was…… a Guinness.
We were a little more organized the next morning (i.e. I dragged myself out of bed faster than the previous morning) and set out earlier in an effort to beat the crowds. We did manage that, but only due to the kindness of an usher who allowed us go through the turnstiles ahead of a few thousand people!
The number of player sightings we made around Roland Garros amazed me. Returning to our seats on Chatrier after a break, we went through the corridor along Tribune B and it was almost like a Who’s Who of tennis. At one stage I, literally, bumped into Martina Hingis. Most surprisingly, this was not a restricted access area.
A visit to Paris would not have been complete without a notable dining experience. On our last night of the trip, we went out to dinner to a beautifully converted former train station with TW's 2006 poster of the year, Mariej, and her sister. It was a special occasion: the first time I met any of my fellow Tennisworld readers. We were delighted to meet the girls and had a great evening with them.
We spent our final day wandering around the outside courts and watching some of the Nadal v. Hewitt fourth- round matchup on the giant screen at Place des Mousquetaires. Marie, her sister, their Dad and Pete all joined us for coffee between matches. Sadly, it was soon time for us to leave for the airport. We had a frightening transfer journey in which the driver and our two fellow passengers were at each other’s throats arguing which was the best route to take. I was utterly convinced that we were going to crash - such was the speed at which we were going and the erratic nature of the driving. I was very glad to get home in one piece.
Having been to two of this year’s Slams, I was determined that the adventure should not stop there. . .
To be continued. . .
