Bum on tiny hard green seats under the afternoon's hot sun, or lounging at home on Talenti's exquisite chaise lounge, in ambient temperature?
French cuisine shared under a luxury tent, only champagne served before the game; or home cooked comfort food within arm's stretch?
At both scenarios, the grunting sound accompanies a thud of racket hitting a served ball; either selection, eyes glued to two famous people fighting for the trophy.
But I am happier to squeeze my butt cheeks into this cheap hard green bucket at Roland Garros's Philippe Chatrier Court, sipping Grand Cru at The Legend Lounge. The sexy grunts that accompanies the sound of racket hits ball draws the spectators to root for them, the louder the grunt the more it resembles the road to orgasm. We all are aware of it, pretend it's non-existence yet the louder it becomes, the intensity of the fight going either way and the possibility of the game at finis, how it resembles that climatic peak.
Guests of Longine, the official Time Keeper of the French Open, I witnessed the rise of Djokovic, from his first entry in 2007 only 20 years old; too young for daughter's interest. Watching him twelve years later, still too young for daughter, the Serbian's strength, the gift of his return serves is well known and talked about.
Reading this you would think that I am a tennis aficionado only I hate to disappoint. It is the best of France that attracts me, Paris. George Cinq, Eiffel Tower, French Champagne, Longine, Lobster Thermidor, Brie....Lourve, French impressionists, Macron..... don't let me bore you; anything to take my mind off Brexit, Trump, May and my country's ineptitude at finding a Government after 10 weeks of a supposedly democratic election; we still have an empty chair to run the country.
It must be the alignment of the stars; the tilting of the earth, the mystical black hole. I await the return of forward-thinking minds to bring a modernistic approach to doing things better - steal a little of Lee Kuan Yew's approach.
