A Gold Medal in the Attention Olympics

Attention is a limited resource. So much is not worthy of attention that it can be hard to recognize when something is. What should we look at? What should we see?

When I was 16, my greatest ambition was to ride in the Olympics. My world was small. This ambition seemed as likely to be achieved as any other I could envision at the time, like going to the moon, so the stakes were low. However, a group from my stable, led by my trainer, were going to watch the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. This ambition seemed attainable. My desire to go along with them burned hot.

In a decision my parents would argue was “sound parenting,” my Olympic dream was quashed. I went on the family vacation instead.

Forty years of simmering resentment later, I attended the Individual show jumping finals held on the grounds of Versailles Palace outside of Paris last week. I don’t have a bucket list but if I did, this would be on it. Everything you’ve read or seen about these games is true: absolutely flawless in conception and execution. France put aside its petty bitterness about…everything… and did what no one else can do: Be France in 2024.

It asked, politely but firmly, that you focus your attention on what it was saying about itself.

To arrive at the arena, you walked about 30 minutes through the fields and forested allées around the palace. If you couldn’t walk, you could take an electric shuttle. Helpful volunteers stood by to make sure any banal orientation question you might have — should I go pee or buy a hoodie? — didn’t trouble you for more than a second. They knew the correct answer. Even when 20,000 people left at the same time, the tree-lined walk was dramatic yet at the same time, serene. Taking the train into Paris was absolutely friction-free. After nuclear, friction is France’s second most powerful energy source. I don’t know if it can wean itself off it permanently.

If you’re looking for symbols, you won’t do better than equestrian events held at Versailles palace, the most powerful symbol of France’s last royal oligarchs. It was a genius selection. Equestrian events, particularly show jumping, have never accommodated those of modest means. But forty years since I dipped my toe in the water and as one, who, as an adult, has acquired a copy of the code book, Saudis and Emiratis competing at top levels indicate that the sport has moved to a level that ordinary mortals cannot breach. The only members of the global oligarchy unrepresented were Russians. I had my Ukrainian flag ready to wave, just in case one slipped through.

When a Peacock commentator threw shade on those who “buy horses they can’t ride,” I felt seen. The Emiratis, especially, have the best horses money can buy. I enjoyed watching them take down fence after fence. [In fairness, it was a very difficult course and a couple of them were quite good. Better riders struggled too.] Most of them train in Europe, obviously. Everyone benefits from this arrangement. No one says a thing.

With or without oligarchs, I loved every minute of it. I wish American Karl Cook, who rides his catlike mare like the west coast cowboy he is, had done better. I wish Laura Kraut, who broke her own record as the oldest female Olympic medalist (59!) when the US Team won silver, had done better. It’s not a sport that rewards youth, in riders or horses. She gives hope to middle aged ladies that they could still do it, even if they haven’t ridden in 30 years and have no horses.

When there’s so much meaningless bullshit to consume, it’s easy to miss out on things that reveal something important. For two weeks, France has forced you to look at it, listen to what it says about itself and accept that it means what it says. France is diverse, creative and full of wildly talented people. In addition to being breathtakingly audacious, the opening ceremony revealed the hollow vapidity of people who can’t tell the difference between the Last Supper and Greek myth, or lack the acuity to recognize where myths overlap. Even the mascot of the games, la Phryge, is a symbol to some, if you know what to look for (IFYKYK).

The games are almost over. Something remarkable has happened. France has (mostly) stopped complaining. When cheers fill my neighborhood, the only question is “What did France win?” Once a source of cynical derision, the games have become a source of pride, even among Parisians. To me, the city was glowing, even midday on a Tuesday, and surprisingly chill with fewer cars than ever. There were plenty of outdoor spaces for Parisians to watch the games in the shade for free.

Yes, the games are expensive. Of course the IOC is a filthy den of corruption (is there a sport that is not?). Yes they are disruptive. But it’s all over now. They were accessible, reasonably green and gender balanced for the first time in history. France is telling you what it is. If you insist on ignoring it, Paris Mayor Anne Hidalgo, who herself swam in the Seine she helped clean up so the triathlon could be held in it today and Parisians can swim in it next year, said, “Fuck the reactionaries, fuck this far right, fuck all of those who would like to lock us into a war of all against all.”

Vive la France, Vive les JO.

*Where are the photos? Well of course there are lots, but my current internet is so weak I can’t add them so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . Just imagine.