My Life as a Circus

« Return to Latvia

I should briefly furnish some details about Brad. Friends from high school, we travelled to Europe together when we were 18 (which he painfully reminds me is 15 years ago), and then again for a couple months to Kibbutz in Israel in the 90’s. We’ve met up for a Gonzo weekend in Copenhagen, attacked the good life in South Africa and London, New York, Vancouver and most recently Tokyo, where he works for a major bank and lives with his wife Tamar. Brad is the only person I know who has lived in London, New York, and Tokyo, and he should throw Paris in there just for laughs. If travelling is about the people you meet, than travelling to meet the people you know means good times.

The Arc de Triumph was glowing in the late afternoon sun, the sky a crisp blue. For the first time, I realized just how unusual my destinations have been of late - Lithuania, Ethiopia, Colombia -for Paris was packed with thousands of tourists, many of whom wore national rugby shirts. France and England have a rivalry that can only be put in the context of centuries of warfare, and here together they would contest the first semi-finals, the French favourites to win. I heard that 35,000 English were crossing the channel for the match, which might explain why they weren’t in the clubs of Riga. Fortunately, rugby is not soccer, so the true hooligan would probably not make the journey - spirits were high. We stopped at the Eiffel Tower, sparkling in lights, a giant screen broadcasting the game live. Brad and Tamar had tickets, so I resigned myself to a festival tent set up outside the Stade de France, surrounded by thousands of French, English, a smattering of South Africans and disappointed Kiwis and Australians, who had surprisingly been knocked out the tournament. The atmosphere was worth the journey alone, Viva les Blues!, for many nations argue about many things, but just about everyone wants the English to lose (that is, except the English). Of course, being a sport jinx, they didn’t, a surprise, devastating upset, instead of Paris exploding into an all night party, English supporters painted in white and red went bezerk and the French, shoulders hunched, went to sleep to ponder what might have been. This night I learn that it is nigh on impossible to catch a cab at 2am in the morning from the Gare du Nord, and also, the French can be very accommodating when they want to. I crash out hard in the hotel , on the floor, by the door.

Go Bokke! It’s the Springboks vs Argentina, an unlikely match up for a semi-final but the Argentines are undefeated in the group match (including a surprise win against the French - it’s been the most bizarre World Cup in rugby history). After I reignited my South African taste buds in Dubai (thanks to a handful of South African chain restaurants), my national pride was stoked seeing so many Green and Gold jerseys. I don’t write about it much, but I grew up South African and will always consider myself South African, no matter how much my accent bastardizes into some sort of globalized pidgin. I grew up watching rugby, rooting for the Bokke (The Springboks), and it doesn’t come bigger than the World Cup. Sport, it has to be said, has long driven ordinary people to go to extraordinary lengths. I was amongst thousands of sleep deprived sport-tourists, outraged by $9 bottles of Coke, $400 tickets, and loving every minute of it. The spirit of a major sporting event should be experienced by everyone at some time in their lives. It makes travel all the more sweet.

The game comes, the game goes, the Bokke Go, winning comfortably, the crowd appreciative of both teams, blue and white and green and gold. Fully attired in Springbok gear, a jersey, a bright green wig (my gween rig), the French are high-fiving us too because they can’t wait for us to beat the English in the final. Champagne has been drunk, absinthe suffered, victory seized, old friends connected, old roots unearthed. Brad wakes me up on the floor, early Monday. Tamar has taken off to New York to do some Green Card chores, he’s off to Tokyo, and I have to catch my flight back to Latvia, in order to meet up with the crew and fly to Bangkok in two days. These days, I’ve been thinking: My life is a circus.

These days, I’ve been thinking a lot about air travel.

Flight 882
Prague to Riga

Gonzo Gallery for My Life as a Circus

view full gallery

Tweet