First Postcard from Paris
Swimming our way around town
Initially, it was me, age 66, and Anna, age 74 who rented a flat on the outskirts of Paris for 11 days during the Paralympics. Our adopted son, Abbas, had qualified to swim for the United States, and we insisted upon attending in person to see him realize his dreams. We’re called “Team Abbas” given that us and many others had come together to support this young man over the past three years.
When he arrived in the United States, Abbas had no family or support system. However, this handsome, driven, swimmer quickly accumulated a family within our swim team. Anna and I have been a part of Team Abbas since almost the beginning. In 2022, he became a US citizen and hence eligible to participate for America in international sports.
Anna and I, both avid swimmers, realized that an 11-day trip to spectate for a total of seven minutes of competitive swimming was a little crazy. However, this was a trip of triumph. We each had cheated death in the past few years and won. As we hopped on the plane, we were at the top of our game. So, we thought.
Obviously, we had several days of down time in Paris. Olympic athletes are heavily protected and sequestered. This meant that we wouldn’t be able to see “Our Boy,” as he is called, and Coach Marty, who is also our coach back in Florida. We took matters into our own hands.
We walked the streets and dreamed of being young women in Paris, joking that the men should “dress us back up with they are done undressing us with their eyes.” Obviously, this was a fantasy, but it was fun to live it; each man we came upon was more beautiful than the last. Each belly full of laughs became bigger and bigger, until we were so full of laughs we quit looking at one another for fear of bursting from laughter.
We soon realized the days of seeking handsome men and sleeping around Paris passed us by in 1980. We stood out like sore thumbs, obviously older women tourists in a hamlet that tourists don’t normally visit. The dead giveaway was my conspicuous USA T-shirt and matching jacket which eventually bore two holes from cigarette burns, obviously imparted upon me by a smoker in some crowded place. Those burn holes became my “Paris tattoos.” I love those little cigarette burns; they’re my only tattoos.
Next, we decided the most interesting, age-appropriate, activity was to swim around Paris.
Parisian’s love swimming, and swimming loves Paris, except if it requires stroking through the Seine. Paris is filled with iconic, historic pools, too many to swim in over 11 days. We identified several close by, and with our newfound confidence in train transportation, took off to explore what makes swimming so popular in Paris.
Our first pool was within walking distance of our flat. On a beautiful day, we walked there seeking to “test the waters” so to speak. The morning was crisp as we walked across the Seine and found our way to a hamlet called Clichy. We ended up at the Piscine Municipal Gerard Durant, a neighborhood pool, old but not ancient.
As we later discovered was a trend, we had to wait for an hour to enter the pool, and we watched with intrigue what was happening inside. The lobby contained a vending machine with all the equipment needed to swim. I’ve never seen anything like this before. “What a concept,” I thought, they even had swimsuits in this machine for $6 Euro. I was tempted to buy something, such as goggles, just to see how it worked.
The wait was worth it. Even though the pool was crowded beyond comprehension, we didn’t notice. The swim reset us emotionally and physically. As we walked toward the locker room, a young, handsome coach stopped us, and said we were “good swimmers.” He went on to say “you may want to come at 1300 (1 pm) or after, because all these swimmers are on their lunch break from work. The pool is less crowded in the afternoon.”
Ouch. I just suffered two emotional wounds. First, he realized we were old and retired, and thus could swim at any time. Secondly, he led us back to our Parisian man fantasy; he was the best-looking man we had seen, by far. But there is no future in swim coaches, so we moved on to the biggest peril ahead.
Faux Pas #1: Beware of Nudity
Running is prohibited on pool decks — but the walk to the shower room was nearly a sprint after swimming 2000 meters, to escape a handsome French coach.
Entering a room of communal showers, I stripped my American flag suit off just as I do at home. A wave of horror passed over the faces of half a dozen young French women who were also showering. Much to my surprise, this pool prohibited nudity, but the sign was in French. I couldn’t read it, but that was no excuse.
Reaching for a towel, I covered up, and retreated slowly with my backside, while barely covering my front side with what I realized was a hand towel. As my shower mates recovered from my faux pas, I regretted traumatizing those poor strangers; it’s a sight they can’t unsee. I hope they were able to later eat their lunch.
Next, we visited Piscine Pontoise, a classic Art Deco pool far from our flat. We confidently boarded the train and made two transfers before arriving at an exit into the middle of the biggest and grandest pop- up flea market I have ever seen. “Torture” was my initial reaction; we felt like groundhogs emerging from the dark into a sea of bargains. While we wanted to swim badly, we knew we had found something we desired more, shopping for Paris bargains. After spending an hour and too many Euros at the flea market, we headed to the pool.
The Piscine Pontoise is a 33-1/3 meter pool; few exist anymore. Built at the turn of the 20th century, this pool had private “cabins” where swimmers change. Fresh off my first faux pas, I knew to always remain dressed, except within the privacy of my own cabin. Attendants walked around opening and unlocking cabins constantly. I felt safe, yet another faux pas lurked around the corner.
Faux Pas #2: To take a photo or to not to take a photo?
I snapped the picture above from cabin 61 on the second floor. “Just one picture,” I thought to myself. Sonic whistles blew and all hell broke loose, as the lifeguards and staff looked upward waving their arms frantically. “No pictures, no pictures,” they yelled. Their voices echoed off the pool walls and ceiling. The place came to a standstill, as I retreated into my cabin. I got a “big stare” from staff and patrons as I emerged wearing my USA flag swimsuit. After the swim, Anna and I walked back through the glorious flea market. I was an animal licking my wounds; this faux pas redefined the meaning of “conspicuous.”
Our final pool visit was to the Piscine Josephine Baker. The pool literally floats on top of the Seine river, not in the river, but on it. Thus we had no issues with cleanliness or safety. The co-ed changing areas were spotless.
“Co-ed,” I thought, “hmmmm what a way to throw a monkey wrench into our swimming routine.” But, there was a French solution to this situation. It was called the “cabin,” that glorious space of privacy we’d learned about a few days ago. Unfortunately, I shared my cabin wall with a man. Anna and I doubled up out of fear of the unknown; we had never showered or cohabitated with the opposite sex at swimming pools. We had a glorious swim, followed by a tense co-ed shower. I was able to snap the picture below from the exit, to avoid sonic whistles.
Faux Pas #3: don’t wear your shoes in the dressing area.
Feeling confident that we were finally “locals” in terms of swimming, Anna and I dressed together, carefully drying our feet, slipping on our shoes for the long walk to the train station. Two locker room attendants reacted in horror as we walked across the freshly mopped floor. We were cussed at in French; it sounded romantic. The attendants led us to a side exit to the outside.
Swimming in Paris reminded us that the sport is ageless, and so is its participants. Parisians take their swimming seriously, their respect for the sport is refreshing; just like jumping into an unknown pool for the first time. We triumphed and flourished in the wonderful waters of Paris.
Our adventures didn’t end at the swimming pools. Stay tuned.
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