Welcome to the Concrete Versailles

Tomorrow night, at about midnight, I expect to drive past the Stade de France on my way to Madrid. Two Decembers ago, I’ve visited the stadium on the last day of my stay in Paris. Given the choice between the Musee Rodin and the UFO-like structure I had seen on my way into Paris, I opted for the latter. Rodin will wait, and I will be damned if the second stadium Barcelona ever won a Champions League final in will be torn down before I get to see it, much like the first was. I know, and knew then, that such a demolition isn’t in any way impending, but I figured to be better safe than sorry.

Saint-Denis, where the stadium is actually located, is rather dreary, which is as much of an understatement as is calling Paris quite nice. I arrived early, meaning I had to wait on the concrete and rain-soaked tundra’s around the stadium for about an hour, while a couple of local youths, which sounds incredibly more idyllic than it actually was, walked around menacingly without shirt. Because why wouldn’t they? Uneasily, I stepped into the one store that was open, which I remember being an enormous building filled with all sorts of gardening equipment.

After finally being allowed into the stadium I was confronted with the disappointment of encountering a stadium which did not remotely resemble a football stadium. I was welcomed by a kind French girl, dressed in an enormous purple-white cow’s outfit, to Milka’s “Dream of Snow”, an event whose attendance record did not seem to equal this girl’s enthusiasm.

But in spite of this initial disappointment, I did experience one particular moment which I would like to share with you. This December was the one in 2006, or as it is probably known in France: the year Zinedine Zidane retired. When my group was guided into the dressing rooms and we were asked if anybody had any questions, every single French person in my group, which was everyone but me, wanted to know the exact same thing; where did Zidane used to sit?

I hope this is the story I remember when I pass by the stadium tomorrow, and not the fact that this stadium is yet another example of the exodus clubs have undertaken in the past ten years to leave the neighbourhoods that made them great for more accessible but identity less slabs of concrete.

- it may or may not be clear to you after this post, but tomorrow I’m leaving on a rather ill-advised roadtrip to Madrid and back. This will take me a couple of days. I don’t know if I’ll have the time to post anything, but if I don’t, at least check back next week for a post on why I and my friends will be the undoing of Atletico Madrid.