The Boulevard Périphérique runs right behind our apartment at Cité Universitaire in Paris. We have been here three weeks now and the Boulevard Périphérique is the noisiest road I have ever come across. It never stops. Police cars, ambulances, fire-engines, Harley-Davidsons.
On Saturday afternoon, there was a sudden rise in decibel levels, ushering brand new species of noise into the noisescape. The constant honking of cars, motorcycles vroom-vrooming, whistles and loud human clamour. I peered out of the glass windows — there were cars with huge blue flags. Paris Saint-Germain flags. A quick Internet search and I realised it was the night of the UEFA Champions League final. Paris Saint-Germain were playing against Inter Milan at Munich’s Allianz Arena.
PSG in the Champions League finals? I had to stop and think. There was a time when I thought the UEFA Champions League final was the most important event of the year. I have stayed awake nights, suffered heartbreaks and soared on waves of pure joy. Things are different now. This year, I didn’t even know it had arrived till I heard the honking cars. But wasn’t PSG’s history in the Champions League a tale of glittering ambition, star-studded line-ups, and heartbreak on a Continental stage? The kings of domestic football, but nearly-men in Europe.
I have never been a fan of PSG, except perhaps for the years the Brazilian Rai weaved magic on the field. But even then, PSG reached the Champions League semi-final only once in the 1994-1995 season, where they lost 1-2 to powerhouses AC Milan. They won at home with a David Ginola goal, but were crushed at the San Siro by Dejan Savicevic and Marco Van Basten strikes. A classic heartbreak.
This year they were playing on the biggest stage. The only other time they have reached the finals was in 2019-2020, where they lost to Bayern Munich 0-1.
And there I was in their city. I knew I had to show up, I had to witness history being created.
My son studies in Paris, and on Saturday we had planned a dinner outing with him and his friend. Away from their homes for long, both wanted Indian food. They chose a charming little Indian place named Indy, nestled in the vibrant 10th arrondissement of Paris. It was a 15-minute ride on RER B to Chatelet Les Halles and then a 20-minute walk through the lively eclectic streets.
It was 8.15pm when we walked out of the Chatelet Les Halles station, and already the air was electric. There was a frenzy around — something big was brewing. Everyone was in their blue and red Qatar Airways jerseys. The cafes were brimming, the bars were packed wall-to-wall, the excitement spilling onto the streets. A big screen showing the match live in each of them. As we were walking, a homeless man, also sitting with PSG flags, shouted “Paris sera champion” (Paris will be champions).
Our restaurant was empty, but it had gone all out — a big screen, projector and the works. We had just ordered butter chicken and garlic naan, the match kicked off.
Luis Enrique’s boys
PSG were on the offensive right from the starting whistle. And by the 12th minute Achraf Hakimi had already opened the score. The entire neighborhood erupted in a thunderous cheer. Then in the 20th minute, the 19-year-old Desire Doue had doubled the lead.
Across the street, a barber shop had a TV on — the telecast running a good two minutes ahead of our projector. Every time a deafening roar burst out from their side, we braced ourselves. We already knew what was coming.
Just before half-time Doue had netted his second. PSG were already 3-0 ahead. As I had lost track of the game during the last few years, PSG, under Luis Enrique, seemed to have become a brand-new phenomenon. And their supporters were losing their minds. There was absolutely pure and beautiful chaos.
As we finished dinner, the match had settled into a steady pace, with Inter Milan failing to pose any serious threat to Gianluigi Donnarumma’s goal. We decided to walk to the nearby Amorino gelato shop and try and catch the rest of the match there. The Indian owner of the restaurant thanked us and suggested we come back on Tuesday — they were going to show the IPL finals as well. How would the Parisians celebrate that one, I wondered.
We were standing near the giant marble arch at the Porte Saint-Martin, when PSG scored their fourth goal. The already pulsating cafés nearby exploded into chaos. Shouting rattled the glass, men and women ran out into the streets with their arms raised in the air. Paris! Paris! Paris! PSG was on its way to rewrite football history books. And Khvicha Kvaratskhelia? He had just carved his name in history, becoming the first Georgian to ever score in a European club final.
By now, firecrackers had started exploding, the air smelling of burnt gunpowder. PSG flags were flying high. The usually packed Amorino gelato shop was empty, the bar next to it erupting. The final minutes were being played, people were standing on chairs, sitting atop lamp posts. There was another thunderous applause. Senny Mayulu had netted the fifth. Absolutely unbelievable!
The final whistle — people poured out in waves. There was dancing, singing, shouting, red glow of firecrackers, hugging and laughter. Their team were champions of Europe for the first time ever.
My daughter wanted to wait till the frenzy had calmed down a bit. But half an hour later, nothing had changed.
As we weaved our way back home, at the Strasbourg-Saint Denis metro station, fans were chanting:
PSG! Ton nom nous unit
PSG! Ici c’est Paris
Tous ensemble, le cœur à jamais
Rouge et Bleu, pour le PSG
Allez Paris Saint-Germain!
(PSG! Your name unites us
PSG! This is Paris
All together, hearts forever
Red and Blue, for PSG
Go Paris Saint-Germain!)
For me, Saturday night was a dream come true. Watching Paris Saint-Germain march towards football immortality with their die-hard fans on the magical streets of Paris.
Ananya Dasgupta