Magic

I'm not even French, but I have to say, my water almost broke last night when France beat Brazil in the quater final of the World Cup in Germany.
My policy has been to root for the underdog in these games, and most anyone would have agreed that France was the underdog last night. Brazil is the recent World Cup champion, and carries with it an aura of the Gods of Soccer. The French were secretly, or not so secretly, hoping for some kind of miracle last night. But it was no miracle that France won - they simply outplayed the Brazilians. Les Bleus were lead by the French hero Zinedine Zidane (who has announced his retirement after this tournament is over) displaying an agility, startling ball techniques and a cool-head that belies his 34 years.
Long story short, Brazil never got past the French defense, and Thierry Henry got past the Brazilians to score the one goal in the 2nd half.
On a personal note, my husband and I watched the game from the comfort of our own apt. My due date being in 3 weeks, and it being our 1st wedding anniversary, we decided prudence might best see us safely indoors on what could be a volatile night, assuming France's hopes would be dashed by the dashing Brazilian squad.
When Henry scored, I can safely say that I witnessed a new side of my charming and young husband. Looking for the vocab to do justice to this is, as the French would say, "dur". What I can only describe as a sort of cross between "scampering", "skittering', and quite frankly "The Hustle". Then he ran to the balcony and began hollering out, along with everyone else on the Port of Nice.
After the whistle was blown, and the madness started, I looked at him, looked at the clock reading 11 pm, and said "let's go for a walk, we'll never get to sleep now anyways." And so off we went, flip flops and adrenaline. Into the bowels of the Old Town, passing firecrackers and screaming men, flares being carried along with flags on the backs of scooters everywhere you turned, various chants I recognize but cannot imitate....
Everyone was, (is, I should say) hot, as we are in a heat wave that probably will only get worse. Men were stripped down, bare-backed, painted with the colors of the French flag. Alcohol, however, was not a big factor in this celebration. I saw no violence, no fighting, nothing that made me fear to be out. The love of the sport seems to even overcome the human vice.
In the middle of a square in the old town we stumbled on tables set up where there usually are none, big screens all around, and salsa music playing - the socialist party was having a "fete", marking some anniversary and combined with the World Cup. That in and of itself was worth going out to see in the middle of the chaos.
We got a gelatto and strolled thru all the streets, me very amused at the relentless pride. Along the seaside, the beaches were hopping, the roads blocked, cars stopped, honking, people hanging from rooftops and sunroofs and riding on hoods. I intermittently saw 5 other pregnant women walking with their partners. We gave each other the "well, it's a little crazy, but at least I'm cooler here then I would be at home" look of sympathy.
Now on to the Portugese Wednesday night, whom the French hate, who play dirty, and who beat the English yesterday due to various factors which may not be based on their talent alone. The English world star David Beckham sat on the side-lines crying when England lost, and I can only hope the same fate does not await the French, and my husband, Wednesday night.