Phew

Imagine me wiping the sweat off my brow. Is it the 100 degree heat? No. The pregnancy due to end in 29 days? Guess again.
Rather, France scored JUST ENOUGH goals in last night's final 1st-round game against Togo to advance to the 2nd round, referred to by the France as the "huitième", which means, 1/8 finals. Of the 32 original teams, half have been eliminated as we move into the 2nd round (1/8) - among those eliminated include the Stars and Stripes, for which many French people have offerred me their condolescences since Thursday's loss against Ghana.

Yesterday was a busy day. Taught a 2-hour lesson in the morning to a 40-year old ivy-league schooled engineer, a man with whom I've been working since January. He's a big player on the Riviera-Monaco construction scene, and makes deals with Prince Albert himself. 30 minutes was devoted in English to how, and when, France could score the requisite 2 goals needed in order to make them be one of the 2 teams in their group to advance.
Then I took a train and a bus back home, had a little lunch, and waddled off to pregnant lady swim class. Isabelle, a woman who was due next week, and a regular at all these classes, was nowhere to be found. The buzz was on in the pool amongst those of us left behind: could it be? Perhaps she has delivered! The curiousity and excitement mirrored the frenzied discussion of the group of men on the train next to me an hour prior - of course they were focused on the match, not when my water might break.
Sure enough, after class, everyone turned on their cell phones and all got the same message: her baby boy had entered the world after only 8 hours of labor. We all looked at each other. Who will be next, the underlying thought. Sort of like waiting for the executioner's squad to come for you, sort of like knowing you are going to win the lottery.
Then a private lesson with a 16 year-old girl, straight off the beach and dripping sunscreen on my table, talking about how she knows a lot about America because she's got a 3rd cousin in Wisconsin. What do I know about Wisconsin, she asks me? Cheese, I reply. I realize I know nothing about Wisconsin. Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House in the Big Woods? Football? Am I loosing touch with my own country and culture? Moment of panic, but then, time to go off the my "kiné".
A "kiné" appears to be a physical therapist. I'm a bit unclear, but frankly I don't care. My doctor gave me a "prescription" to see this Kiné 10 times for massages. So, I walk to this lovely little place 5 minutes away, on the Port of Nice, and Gilles strips me down and lubes me up and massages my back and legs for 30 minutes. Sometimes he cracks things in my back. He puts warm towels on me after, and we discuss things like the Ironman competition taking place tomorrow in Nice and how the human body wasn't made for that, esp in this heat. We touch on more pertinent things like my scoliosis, how he's grateful to the Americans for saving France from the Germans 60 years ago, and, of course, will France win tonight against Togo.
The best part about seeing Gilles is that I don't pay him one red cent. Everything is covered by the French national health care. I've slept better the past 3 nights than I have in a month. It's because I see Gilles every day. Wouldn't you have a massage every day if it was free?

Then I walked home, and there was my husband, his panic level mounting. Eat, quick! he said. We only have 75 minutes until the game started, and we were to go into old town and watch it outside on a terrace with friends who had reserved a table. It was a big night out for me. After staying in every night for weeks, I decided to treat my husband to a night in public with others. Well, let's just say that it was so fun to be out in the ambiance of "Fervor for France", as I like to think of it. We were on a patio of a restaurant, a huge pedestrian zone known as the Cours Saleya, in the heart of Old Nice, probably it's most famous area. The American tourists would pass thru, momentarily blocking someone's view of the big screens, and the French people, even middle-aged women, would throw ice chips at the tourists to get them to move out of the way.
When the first goal was scored, I had to hold onto my Perrier or it was going to go flying. When the 2nd goal was scored, my husband and his friends began to sing the Marseillaise. My gay friend and I looked at our watches, and went down the street for gelatto. At 11:30 we walked home along the Mediterranean in the moonlight. Cars drove by with men hanging out of sunroofs, waving the French flag and horns honking from every direction. In the port boats were alive, foghorns blowing. For a moment I even forgot I'm pregnant, there was so much to try and take in.
All for a soccer game.
Like I said, Phew. On to round two, against Spain, Tuesday.