A sign at the Fontevraud Abbey near Saumur
One of the reasons I have so enjoyed the equestrian writing these past dozen years has been the opportunity to travel. I am a self-confessed travel addict, the bug having bitten hard when I was a teen – probably even earlier. Covering a WEG, an Olympics, a Pan Am Games, has been an excuse to hang out in some pretty interesting places. From the moment I learned that Normandy would be host to WEG 2014 I had it marked on my calendar. My husband Jan and I have spent a great deal of time in France over the years – we were even married there, in Versailles on a chilly December morning way back in 1992. All told, I’ve probably woken up close to a year’s worth of mornings in some part of France. Hell, even Chorizo has now been to France three times.
Chorizo hanging at the Chateau of Saumur with my favourite ex-pat Vancouverite pal, Marina
So for me, even with all the obstacles-to-enjoyment thrown in my path by the WEG OC, the highlight of Normandy 2014 (apart from all the pretty horses I mentioned in my previous BOW WOW) is still the cultural and visual feast of being in a country not my own.
Every WEG ends up inadvertently defined by something that no organizer could have predicted. For many who decided hot dogs with nuclear yellow mustard were not up to their European holiday dining standards, a little boulangerie across the street from the main entrance at d’Ornano Stadium was the place to grab something actually FRENCH for lunch. People from all over Creation cheerfully endured long, soggy line ups in the rain to get a croque monsieur, or a baguette sandwich, or even a hunk of bread to eat with some cheese and a piece of fruit purchased from the produce store next door. I doubt the staff at either of those shops will ever forget what life behind the counter was like for 16 days this summer. And for the people who patronized those little shops, there was satisfaction in knowing they weren’t blowing any more of their Euros padding the pockets of the ignominious mecs who deemed mystery meat and preservative-drenched pre-packaged croissants good enough for our palates.
Normandy was an opportunity to learn about the French. With all my previous time spent there, I thought of myself somewhat presumptuously (yes, I admit it) as something of an aficionado of all that is good and bad with the French. I’m more than a little familiar with the extraodinary attention they pay to the quality of what they put in their mouths, their arrogance, their talent for obtuseness that renders even the simplest questions somehow unanswerable. So I was also probably one of the most shocked at how shabbily this WEG was presented. I thought the French would be good at this. I’ve been to wine salons in Paris with over 800 wineries and over 8000 wines that were well oiled (and lubricated) machines. I’ve been to the ballet, to concerts, to operas, in France. Clockwork. I had the pleasure of attending the inaugural combined CDI and CSI at Lyon in 2008 in the run up to their ultimately successful bid to host the World Cup Finals. It ran perfectly, and the quality of experience was second to none.
The day we left the lovely house in the country that had been our home for the duration of WEG, the owner, who lived next door, told me about the experience she and her family had had for the final four show jumping, which was sold as a single bill with the closing ceremonies. Now, this woman had gushed about the opening ceremonies, so I know her attitude was good going in. She told me she was ashamed of how lousy the closing ceremonies were. ‘J’ai honte’ were her exact words. And this person liked the opening ceremonies, which leaves me wondering how awful the closing ceremonies were. I was also made doubly glad that I didn’t bother with the closing ceremonies. We opted instead for a lovely Sunday afternoon visit to a place that exemplifies what the French do well: we made a tour of the village of Camembert – and yes, we bought some cheese.
So I learned that the French are as capable of incompetence as anyone. I also learned that at some point, all that Gallic shrugging and upturning of palms eventually does wear off, and what is left is resignation. Here is what the Normandy 2014 committee sent out by email regarding logistics for getting to the Driving marathon: “No parking solution is available in the area surrounding the racetrack.” There was of course no accompanying apology for the complete absence of any parking (because the OC put the only parking lot for this venue in the racetrack infield, right where the Marathon took place), just bald acceptance of a far-from-optimal situation. At least they were honest.
I suspect the FEI knew what was going to go down in Normandy. To say they kept an arm’s length distance from anything to do with the actual running of the event is to imagine 100 foot-long arms. Media parking? Not our problem. World-record setting traffic-jam getting to cross country? Nope, not us. Appalling conditions in the grooms’ quarters? You’ll have to talk to the OC about that.
I have just one question for the FEI in that case: exactly what is Tim Hadaway’s job description? Because according to your own announcement, the smooth execution of Normandy was one of his main tasks when he was hired last year.
One day soon I’ll sit down and compose a list of handy hints for the Bromont organizers. But for now, I offer this message in regard to what unfolded in Caen: everything has a purpose, even if it is only to serve as a bad example.
