Swimming and Begging

Went swimming for the first time in ages last week. It's been a long time since I've been in a 50-metre pool, and I was breathless after one lap. This one was in the massive Leo Lagrange sports centre, which, like almost everything, is only a 15-minute walk away. It is amazing how many activities are offered there, in addition to normal sports, there are courses for Capoeira, yoga, tai-chi, african dance, an art studio, a comic book studio, theatre etc.. A real change from London, where the nearest pool to us was closed for over a year and a half because it sprung a leak.

So I went back today, expecting to feel a little stronger and maybe actually do some sets. I was excited to swim again after only 5 days. It was the closest to "regular" I've been in the last 2 years. I knew it would be a real shock to the system after so long, but a far cry from the double morning and afternoon workouts of club and college swimming. I got to the front door and there were several people waiting around. It turned out the pool hadn't opened at the published hour and was opening 30 minutes later.

How French, I thought. Maybe people felt like taking an extra long lunch, as if the enforced one-and-a-half hour lunches weren't long enough!

Eventually, the ticket window opened and everyone gathered round. Not in a neat queue (line) like they would do in England, but amorphous, unorganised, more .... French. :) I got to the window and there were a number of people behind me. I was extremely conscious of that fact because I had many small coins in my pockets and would have to count them out when paying. And I am talking about a lot of 1 and 2-centimes coins. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as I counted them out at the window.

Then the woman at the window stopped. "Il vous manque 5 centimes."

My jaw dropped. My knees must have buckled. But it took me only a second to decide to turn SDF (homeless French) and beg for it. I turned around to the people behind me with the best puppy eyes I could manage. "Excusez-moi, avez vous 5 centimes pour donner?" (Am I begging? With bad French? Yes, I am. I want to swim! Look at me, I really need to swim!)

Two female students behind me stopped talking and stared at me. I was officially embarrassing everyone around me. Then the man behind them said, "Regardez!" and he stooped down to pick up a copper coin on the floor. How providential! Was it salvation in the form of a 5-centimes?

"Ah, c'est 1-centime," said the nice man, shrugging. He handed it to the lady at the window.

I thanked him and looked back at the people. The French people. I would have sung them the Marseillaise. "Est-ce que quelqu'un a 4-centimes?" I asked.

I felt about as large as an ant. Did I ask the right question? Was it grammatically wrong and impossible to understand? I wanted to tell them all how much it meant to me to swim again, how lovely their pool was, how bereft of good pools London is, how the chlorine beckoned, how my arteries were now probably nearly clogged with butter and bearnaise sauce and this might be the last chance to blast them clean with some sport.

The same nice man smiled and dug in his pockets and extracted a 2-centimes. I thanked him again. He seemed to dig in another pocket. I am not sure. Then miraculously, he placed in front of the window another 2-centimes. "Merci! Merci beaucoup!" I smiled with all 32 of my American teeth. I wanted to cry and hug the little man. But instead, I muttered, "Desolé" to the woman at the window, who scowled at me. (Who would want a begger in the pool? If she has no money, does she ever bathe? Or does she use the pool, our pool, to bathe?)

It was okay if I was a social leper. I got in. I was in. I was going to swim. Thank you, France, for letting me swim.