By Leone Belotti
I was just looking for a place to disappear to on July 28th so I wouldn't be available on my birthday, when my friend Ben from the Rosti knitwear factory called me.
He says to me: «Leone, come with us to Paris to see the arrival of the Tour».
«Plane, hotel, VIP stand on the Champs Elysées, everything is in order.»
"A small group of healthy people, a backpack, two beers, a laugh."
It seemed pretty calm. I was about to give in.
If he had said things like, “We’re going to have a lot of fun, we’re going to do this and that,” I could have resisted. Instead, he said, “You Leo don’t have to think about anything.”
And so on Friday at dawn, obviously without having slept, I make myself a coffee, get on my café-racer and rush to the Rosti knitwear factory. The meeting is at 5:30. “On time, no one is expected”. I arrive at 5:33, and there is no one. At 5:59 I am anxious, then everyone arrives.
"You know, Leo, knowing you, I brought your time forward by half an hour."
Then on the Rosti van towards Milan Malpensa in magut formation, that is, one drives and the others sleep. A few hours later we get off another van under the Arc de Triomphe.
"Okay people, freedom today."
Freedom means let's take a walk without a destination.
The city is full of happy people in yellow jerseys, angry people in yellow vests, plus me in yellow Rosti socks. Just look down and you can see me even in the crowd. Towards evening we find ourselves on the Mont Martre hill with the pedometer watch that says: 22km traveled. It seems enough to me even on a bike, 22km, but I won't say it.
Instead I say: "Let's have a drink." Great idea. Ten spritzes, 150 euros.
Okay, so what do we do now? “Let’s go get something to eat.” Another good idea.
Ten chicken legs with beer, 400 euros.
So we decide, enough eating and drinking, let's take some group selfies, like ten rosti and a black cat, or something typical Parisian. Okay.
"Leo, you put the titles." Okay.
Let's start at the Sacred Heart of Mont Martre: ten sacraments and a sacred heart.
Then in front of Pei's pyramid: ten records and a pyramid.
On the Pont Neuf: ten madmen and a Seine.
At Notre Dame: ten burned and one burned.
Until someone wisely says: "Enough!". Too bad. I already had ten bastards and a Bastille ready. Let's leave aside the nocturnal events.
Second day, and five more subjects reach the tribe.
Now we are fifteen: six couples and four couples and a little girl, a baby Rosti, about 7-8 years old, with glasses, who I thought was used to launch the baby Rosti line, but in fact it turned out that she works for Nutella. That is: she was walking around Paris smearing herself with Nutella, and immediately two or three of the tribe, ego inter quos, ready to serve her: one takes off her glasses, one offers the handkerchief, another wipes her face. Ego inter quos means: and I among these.
Meanwhile, the Rosti tribe takes selfies with the Bardet mannequin, entering right inside the AG2R windows in the Levi's store. Detestable.
We are approaching the paddock stands.
All day long we do nothing but approach the paddock stands, passing dozens of queues, checkpoints, checks, pass scanning on the phone, and even the phone is exhausted.
At 5 we are in the stands. The Tour arrives at 9. You can't smoke. From 5 to 9 you do nothing but go and smoke, go back to your seat, drink a can of beer, go and smoke, and so on, and also piss. As soon as I dozed off I hear shouts of "Lion!", then I turn around, and there is the steward three rows above and to the side laughing and throwing me a can of beer, a half-liter I want to be precise. I think it happened six or seven times, and I can say that I didn't miss a catch, as everyone can testify.
Unfortunately, however, when the Tour passed (they told me it passed ten times) I was sleeping lying between the plastic bins under the stands, having never returned from my last cigarette-pee break. When I went back up I saw four or five of them crossing the finish line, I thought they were the last ones, then I realized that they were going too slow, and above all in the opposite direction. The Tour had finished about a minute before.
From the big TV screens the commentator is saying something like: “This was the Tour of illusion and of the collapse of the French winners, like Alaphilippe and Pinot, and of the triumph of the French loser, Bardet, who in the end instead took home the polka-dotted jersey.
"But are we happy with the polka dot shirt?"
"You can say I swear: pois happy with this not pois!"
Coming out of the paddocks, we see in order: a dozen or so mice walking calmly in the flowerbed we were about to cross, a sudden mass of female masses in motion, perhaps assistants or hostesses from the awards area, a sudden mass of Indians with in the center with their respective bikes, what seemed to me to be two nice old men among friends after a village race, instead one was Valverde (I understood when one of us called him “Alehandro”) and the other was Quintana, who I also recognized.
We go up the Elysian Fields, slowly, wearily.
When we arrive at the Arc de Triomphe, they are already dismantling everything. We all think poetically that when we first passed by they were still assembling everything. From dawn to dawn. C'est la vie.
The tribe returns to ten-man formation.
As the Orly Bus takes us away from the Triumph, passing in front of the Eiffel Tower, the last selfie. Undecided whether to call it “ten elves and an Eiffel” or “ten steel and one iron”. I ask the tribe but the tribe, as sometimes happens, bursts into insults and undoubtedly reprehensible comments.
On the return flight I fall asleep. In the Rosti magut van I fall asleep. I wake up to say goodbye to the RostiTribe. I get on the motorbike, start the engine. Baby Rosti waves to me from the window of dad's car. I lift my foot off the ground, put it in first gear, I still have my yellow socks on, baby Rosti looks at me, and I see the scene again.
In the Louvre gardens, a strand of Nutella dripped on the shoe, and these two ex-professional athletes as true gregarious to the aid of their captain, and on their knees one to hold the foot the other to clean it. Reviewing the scene, I see the ad, including the slogan. Of course the baby Rosti must wear and indeed become “yellow socks”, the Rosti icon.
FROM YOUR FIRST STEPS, THE WORLD AT YOUR FEET.
Yes, of course, the “pink socks” line will be there, and the model will be a child, surrounded by three loving sexy aunts in a pleat, et coetera, as we like, but the slogan will be the same.
Finally, baby Rosti launched the baby Rosti line by eating Nutella.
I go home, I fall asleep, I can't sleep, so I jot down this report, just like that, in a state of agitation. 16 hours later I wake up to a message from my friend.
«Leo, if you wrote something for the blog about the Paris trip...».
I reply: "But wasn't I supposed to think about anything?"
"I bet you didn't succeed."