Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me
Or ... when I introduced Muhammad Ali to Yannick Noah
Or ... the crossroads of destiny
Here’s an anecdote I’ve only shared with a few people
But as time passes, given the fame of the two main protagonists, I’ve decided to share it with the world, to send it out onto the web via my first blog, like tossing a bottle into the sea, before I die, before either of the other two protagonists dies, just to see if it makes ripples.
The events took place in 1975, 1983, and 1996. We are now in 2010.
Let’s start with 1983, the year Yannick Noah won Roland-Garros
I remember how I trembled in front of my television every time Yannick moved to the net with his chip shot. I prayed for the ball to stay in bounds, and I prayed that Mats Wilander wouldn’t return it to score a point.
We held our breath until the very end, and then he won the match. It was magnificent! He jumped into his father’s arms as he climbed down from the stands. It was wonderful! A memory as unforgettable as when France won the World Cup in 1998.
In 1983, I had just started my own small business. After two backpacking trips around the world between 1975 and 1981, filled with countless adventures, I had returned to Paris. Having greatly improved my English during my travels and even learning Spanish and Brazilian Portuguese in South America (and even Italian in Guadeloupe, which I could explain in another blog, why not?). I naturally found a job as a multilingual guide at the “Paris Visions” tourist travel agency.
I worked as a night guide, leading sightseeing tours of Paris that ended with a show at the Lido, Moulin Rouge, Bateaux Mouches, and so on.
A Business Idea is Born
Tourists often told me they had trouble getting to the tour departure point on Rue de Rivoli. Either they had trouble finding a taxi, the drivers were rude, they were scammed, or they got lost on foot or by metro. Some were even mugged by a group of young Romani pickpockets, usually five or six kids, with one or two older girls who would distract tourists while the others cleaned out their pockets.
Since the tours ended between 2 and 3 AM, night guides like me were expected to drop off clients near their hotels. Some hotels were in small streets inaccessible to buses, or on the outskirts of Paris, sometimes even in the suburbs. We couldn’t go everywhere, so we had to drop them off somewhere in the middle of the night, often scared and anxious.
A few times, to their satisfaction, I offered to personally drive them back at the end of the tour for 50 francs. An extra service that also helped supplement my income.
This led to an idea: Instead of squeezing two or three tourists into my two-door Datsun Cherry, why not transport up to eight of them? I quickly decided to buy a second-hand nine-seat Volkswagen minibus on credit.
Even better, if I could drive tourists back at the end of their tours, why not pick them up at their hotels too? And if I could guide them on a Paris Visions tour bus, why not do the same in my minibus?
That’s how I launched the concept of semi-private excursions in Paris in 1983. At the time, this type of service didn’t exist. Between a 4,000-franc limousine for half a day and an 80-seat double-decker bus leaving from Rue de Rivoli, there was now my minibus offering pickup and drop-off right at the hotel door.
I created my first small brochure, Paris Tourisme, offering tours such as city sightseeing, Versailles, Loire Valley castles, and Paris by night in a minibus. The only challenge left was convincing Parisian hotel concierges (with motivating commissions) to book with me instead of just selling limousine reservations or Paris Vision or Cityrama bus tickets.
Believe it or not, the first year wasn’t easy. But I managed to win over some hotels whose clients returned highly satisfied. In the following years, my company grew significantly. I named it Excursions Parisiennes, a whole other story that could be another blog topic.
And where does Muhammad Ali fit into all this?
I’m getting there, but I needed to set the scene first.
A Chance Encounter
By 1983, working “on my own” was still new to me. I still had the spirit of a traveler who worked for a while, then set off again with the money earned. After six years of globe-trotting across a hundred countries, it’s hard to break free from that rhythm.
Imagine this: When I returned from my first world tour in 1977, my mind, heart, and soul were so full that I needed to write it all down. I wrote a book titled La Leçon de Vie. It sat in a drawer for 15 years.
Then one day, purely by chance, I met a publisher in London willing to publish it. Can you imagine? Just as it was about to be released in bookstores and FNAC, during a difficult financial period in my life, the publisher went bankrupt and handed me, get this, four copies of my book. Just four. They now sit somewhere in a box. How do you interpret that as a twist of fate?
I had decided to end my business at the end of the tourist season, around late October, and go visit my old friend Carole Cardinal in Canada for the winter. I made good money that summer with my minibus and planned to restart excursions in the spring of 1984.
I already had my plane ticket to Canada when the phone rang.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Hello, this is the concierge from the Hilton Orly. I have a client for you."
"Sorry, but I told you I was closing for the winter. I’ll start again in the spring."
"Yes, but this is special. I really need you to come pick up this client."
"Sorry, but I’m flying to Canada tomorrow. I can’t."
"I’m asking you as a favor. It’s someone special."
"Special? Who is it?"
"It’s someone famous, passing through Paris, who wants to remain incognito."
Of course, the concierge had piqued my curiosity. I told him that if he wanted me to come, he needed to tell me who it was first.
"It’s Muhammad Ali."
"Muhammad Ali?" I repeated. "Alright, that is special. What does he want to do?"
"He just wants a two-hour tour of Paris."
"Alright. Two hours, two hundred dollars, okay?"
Silence.
"He agrees."
"Alright, I’m coming."
And so began my encounter with a legend.
(Stay tuned for what happened next…)
It turns out that fate had already made me cross paths with Muhammad Ali, in a way.
In June 1975, I was globetrotting through Malaysia, in Kuala Lumpur, and I had heard that a world heavyweight championship match between the British fighter Joe Bugner and Muhammad Ali would take place at the city stadium.
I went there, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of the living legend "in real life," even from afar. I saw his limousine arrive at the stadium, and I was already thrilled to have caught a glimpse of him stepping out of the car. I even took a photo.
The crowd gathered at the stadium entrances was excited. Ticket prices were too high for the local population, and even more so for me, as I only had a few dollars in my pocket.
Then, suddenly, the stadium doors opened!
The crowd rushed inside, and I discovered a nearly empty stadium. So that’s why they had opened the gates. For such an event, how could the fight take place in complete silence before so few spectators? Ticket sales must have been a flop, and they had opened the doors just to create some atmosphere.
The crowd scattered into the stands but remained somewhat hesitant, keeping their distance from the ring, as if still not quite believing their luck.
Armed with my Kodak Instamatic, the kind you take to summer camp, I moved as close to the ring as possible. I watched the fight right next to the wealthy spectators, men with flashy rings and women in elegant hats. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
Joe Bugner didn’t last long against Muhammad Ali.
When Ali, victorious, was heading back to the locker room, I managed to slip through the crowd and get close enough to touch him. With my Kodak Instamatic, victory! I took a close-up photo of the legend.
I even took one of the defeated Joe Bugner.
Just like this story, that day remains etched in my memory.
It was June 30, 1975, my birthday! I turned 20.
I even celebrated with a chicken drumstick that I bought from a street vendor. It tasted incredibly delicious. After weeks of being broke, surviving only on bananas, since bananas cost practically nothing, that chicken was a feast.
Fast-forward to 1983.
Before jumping into my minibus, I dove into my closet to find the close-up photo I had taken in Kuala Lumpur.
"Hello," I greeted the Hilton Orly concierge.
"Ah, there you are. I’ll call his room. There are five of them, including his children, his wife, and his manager."
A few minutes later, I saw the legend approaching. I recognized him.
But he looked… what was wrong with him? He seemed heavier, moving like an old man, walking slowly.
The concierge introduced me. We shook hands. I led them to my minibus and opened the side door.
Muhammad wanted to sit in the front next to me. With pleasure.
The manager, wife, and children took the back seats, and off we went.
But what was wrong with him? Something wasn’t right. A condition, perhaps? I wondered if all the blows he had taken in his career had left him "disabled."
Not knowing about his illness, never having encountered anyone with Parkinson’s before, I had no idea that’s what it was.
Nevertheless, as we talked during the ride, I quickly realized that even if he spoke slowly, he was completely lucid.
We passed Place de la Bastille, Le Marais, Place des Vosges… I brought up his legendary fights, especially against George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire, and Joe Frazier in Manila. At the mention of Frazier, he made a facial expression that spoke volumes about how brutal those fights had been.
I also talked about all the money he must have earned. He admitted that he had made a lot, a lot of money… but that he didn’t have much left. Too many people to pay around him, he said: trainers, sparring partners, his manager, and a swarm of freeloaders of all kinds.
An Urgent Pit Stop
Coming down from Sacré-Cœur, he told me, "I wanna pee." And he made it clear that it was urgent.
I had to think fast. You don’t keep a legend waiting, but I couldn’t exactly have Muhammad Ali relieve himself between two parked cars.
I quickly found a spot, badly parked, right in front of the Ibis Montmartre. Leaving his wife, kids, and manager in the minibus, I urged Muhammad to follow me.
The hotel staff watched us pass, mouths agape.
Following my instincts, I quickly located the restrooms at the back of the lobby. Muhammad trailed behind me until we reached our destination.
We each took an urinal and shared, with great relief, the divine release of our bladders.
With impeccable hygiene, Muhammad and I took our time washing our hands before leaving the Ibis Montmartre restrooms.
There, waiting for us, pretending not to be waiting, was a group of hotel staff, gathered to verify that this wasn’t a lookalike, an illusion, or a prank by the receptionists.
Muhammad Ali, accompanied by some guy (me), walked out of the Ibis Montmartre restrooms, crossed the lobby, and got into a minibus that vanished into Paris traffic.
A Signed Destiny
As we arrived at Place de la Concorde, I took a chance and told him that we had already been this close to each other once before, just a meter apart.
He looked at me, surprised.
I told him it was in Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur, in 1975, when he fought Joe Bugner.
"Oh yeah, Joe Bugner. Good fight," he said.
And then, I pulled out the photo.
"It's me," he said.
"Yeah, it’s you, and I took that picture. Destiny is strange, isn’t it?"
Right there, at Place de la Concorde, Muhammad Ali signed the back of my photo:
"For Jean-Jacques, from Muhammad Ali."
I cherish that photo like a treasure.
And where does Yannick Noah fit into all this?
I’m getting to that. I had to explain all this so the next part would make sense, so the power of destiny would be clear.
As we drove up the Champs-Élysées, Muhammad said he was thirsty.
Well, when the greatest boxer of all time says he’s thirsty, you don’t keep him waiting.
I suggested we stop near the Lido, the biggest cabaret in Paris, and grab a drink at the café next door.
"OK?"
"OK."
At that time, you could still park in the middle of the Champs-Élysées, where taxis stopped.
Just as I parked near the Lido, a big white Mercedes pulled up in front of me.
At the exact same moment that we stepped out of the minibus, a man stepped out of the Mercedes.
It was Yannick Noah!
Incredible coincidence! I call out to him. "Yannick! Come over, I’d like to introduce you to Muhammad Ali."
He looks at me, surprised, but with the weary expression of someone who’s been approached too many times. He must be thinking, "Who is this guy now?" Then Muhammad Ali steps up beside me. Yannick recognizes him, stunned, incredulous.
"Muhammad, I’d like to introduce you to the best French tennis player."
They look at each other.
"Hey, I’ve seen you on TV," says Muhammad Ali.
Funny comment, I think to myself. Well, of course, he recognized him!
They shake hands and exchange a few pleasantries. I invite Yannick Noah to join us for a drink. Unfortunately, he declines, saying he has "things to do."
Too bad. And just like that, we part ways in the middle of the Champs-Élysées.
With Muhammad, his wife, children, and manager, we enter a nearby café and find a table in the back. Perrier and fruit juices. The stunned waiter serves us quickly. We stay only a few minutes, but already, a crowd is forming outside. Curious onlookers, unable to believe the rumors spreading like wildfire, approach to see if it’s true, Muhammad Ali is in the café.
We quickly return to the minibus before the gathering becomes too overwhelming.
Time flies, and after nearly two hours of sightseeing, it’s time to return to the Hilton Orly.
Next to me in the minibus, Muhammad seems happy and relaxed. Clearly, he enjoyed the tour.
Back at the Hilton Orly, we part ways, shaking hands. We’ve become friends (after all, we did share a restroom!). "I enjoyed it very much," he tells me. And we say, "See you someday."
Time passes.
Until a summer evening in 1996. I’m watching the opening ceremony of the Atlanta Olympic Games on television.
It’s on Canal+ TV, and I remember the commentators, though I can’t recall if it was Charles Biétry, Thierry Gilardi, or someone else. There were also renowned sports analysts: Thierry Rey, the Olympic judo champion, Richard Dacoury, the basketball player, and… Yannick Noah.
The commentators promise a surprise. And indeed, who appears as the final torchbearer? Muhammad Ali.
Slow, moving, even more affected by his illness than when I had seen him in 1984, he climbs the steps and lights the Olympic cauldron.
In front of my TV, I’m thrilled to see my friend Muhammad again and deeply touched by this well-deserved honor.
The commentators are ecstatic, asking the analysts to share their impressions. Each, in turn, says how moving and symbolic it is that he was chosen as the final torch bearer, a fitting tribute to his immense career.
Then it’s Yannick Noah’s turn. Sitting on the edge of my seat, I expect him to say that, by chance one day, some guy introduced him to Muhammad Ali on the Champs-Élysées.
And what does Yannick Noah say?
He says it’s beautiful and moving for this great champion, blah, blah, blah… and… and… nothing.
I can’t believe my ears, my eyes. Disappointed.
Did Yannick forget? Or did he choose not to mention it?
The timeless fate of the third dimension had once again recreated our triangle:
Me in front of my TV, Yannick on TV, and Muhammad Ali in front of the camera.
Why?
When will the next sign of destiny appear?
Muhammad Ali had an exceptional destiny.
Yannick Noah has an exceptional destiny.
And me?
samedi 15 février 2025
mardi 7 juin 2016
Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me: Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me
Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me: Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me: Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me Or ... when I introduced Muhammad Ali to Yannick Noah Or ... the crossroads of ...
Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me
Muhammad Ali, Yannick Noah and me
Or ... when I introduced Muhammad Ali to Yannick Noah
Or ... the crossroads of destiny
Here is a story that I have told only a few people but, over time, given the reputation of the two main protagonists, I decided to share it with the world, send it on the web through my first blog, as one throws a bottle into the sea, before I die, before one of the other two protagonists die, just to see if it will make ripples in the water.
The facts took place in 1975, 1983 and 1996. We are in 2010 (when I wrote this, but now we are in June 2016).
Let's start with 1983, the year Yannick Noah won Rolland Garros tennis open. I remember how I trembled in front of my TV set whenever Yannick rode to the net with his chip. I was praying that the ball would remain within the limits of the course and I prayed that Matts Wilander would not hit the ball back into the course to score the point.
We held our breath until the last point and then, he won the match. It was wonderful !
I remember he jumped into the arms of his father who had just climb down the stands of the stadium. It was wonderful !
A memory as imperishable as when France won the (soccer) Football World Cup in 1998.
In 1983, I had just created my small business. After two trips round the world backpacking between 1975 and 1981 full of many adventures, I returned to Paris. Having largely improved my English during my travels and even learned Spanish and Brazilian in South America (and even Italian in Guadeloupe, which I can explain on another blog, why not?), I naturally found employment of multilingual guide in Paris Visions.
I worked as a night guide doing night guided tours of Paris ending with a show at the Lido, Moulin Rouge, Bateaux Mouches, etc.
Tourists often told me that they had problems to reach the departure spot of the bus set “rue de Rivoli”. Either they had struggled to find a taxi, the drivers were not friendly, or they had been ripped off. Or they got lost on foot or using the subway, or even they had been attacked and robbed by a band of gypsies. Or rather the Roms, because at that time they were already circulating in tourist areas, in bunches of 5 or 6 kids, with 1 or 2 older one, often teenage girls, and targeting such and such tourists pretending to be begging while the rest of the gang robbed them of everything that was within reach.
So even when the tours were ending between 2 and 3 am, we night guides were supposed to bring the customers back to their hotels or near with the double decker bus. There were many hotels in small streets where the bus could not access, or close to the periphery of Paris or in the suburbs. As we could not go everywhere, we had to let some tourists somewhere in the streets of the Parisian night, often anxious and even fearful. Because of this, I offered a few times, for the great satisfaction of some, to accompany them to their hotel with my own car at the end of the tour against 50 francs to pay my service and improve my ordinary.
So much so that I quickly decided to take a bank loan to buy a second hand Volkswagen combi-van 9 seats. The idea was to bring not only 2 or 3 people in my two-door Nissan Cherry, but up to 8 people.
Better yet, I decided that if I could bring the tourists back to their hotel at the end of the tours, I could also go and pick them up. Even better, if I was a tourist guide with the Paris Vision bus, I could also do it with my own minibus.
Thus I created in 1983 the concept of semi-private tour which did not exist yet in Paris. Between the limo up to 4000 francs for half a day and the double decker bus of 80 seats starting the tours from rue de Rivoli, there was the minibus alternative with departure and return to the hotel door. So I created my first little pamphlet entitled "Paris Tourism" offering excursions such as the Paris city tour, Versailles, Loire castles, etc. and the Paris by night tours in my minibus. It only remained to convince the concierges of Paris hotels (with motivating commissions) who were used to book limousines or sell tickets for Paris Vision or Cityrama, to call me instead.
Well, believe it or not, the first year was not easy but I managed to retain some hotels that had seen coming back very satisfied customers (the following years, my company has grown a lot. I called it Excursions Parisiennes and it could also be the subject of another blog).
What about Muhammad Ali in all that ?
I’m getting there, but I had to explain this to make more understandable the spatio-temporal context of the story.
For me, it was all brand new to work steady and "for myself". I still had the mind of the traveler who does some work some short period of time and then leaves again to travel with the money he earned. Psychologically, you just don’t get out like that of a rhythm of 6 years of globe-trotting around the world, including a hundred countries crossed.
Can you imagine that when I returned from my first round the world tour in 1977, my eyes, my heart and my head were so full of memories, that I needed to write it in a book that I titled "Life Lesson ". The book remained in a drawer for 15 years.
And then one day in London by pure chance, I met a publisher willing to publish my book. Can you imagine that just when it was supposed to go out in bookstores, and other distribution vectors, according to the words of the editor, while I was going through a rather dark period of my life, including financially, can you imagine that the editor went bankrupt and gave me royally 4, yes I do mean "four" copies of my book. They are in a drawer, no, somewhere in a box. How should I translate this in language of destiny?
Anyway, I had decided to stop running my tours at the end of the tourist season, that is to say towards the end of October, and to go and see my old friend Carole Cardinal in Canada and spend the winter there with the good money, well earned, that summer with my minibus and ready to start the excursions again in the spring 1984.
I had my ticket for Canada in the pocket when the phone rang!
- Hello? I said.
- Hello, this is the concierge at the Hilton Orly hotel, I have a client for you.
- Sorry, but I warned you well in advance that I would close now the business for the winter. I’ll do the excursions again next spring.
- Yes, but this is special, I really need you to come and take care of that client.
- Sorry but tomorrow, I fly to Canada, I cannot.
- I’m asking you as a favor because this is someone special.
- Special ? Who is it ?
- He's a known person who stays in Paris a short time and who wishes to remain incognito.
Of course the concierge of the Hilton had aroused my curiosity and I replied that if he wanted me to come, he should first tell me who it was.
- This is Muhammad Ali.
- Muhammad Ali, I repeated. Obviously, it is special. And what does he want to do ?
- He just wants to take a tour of Paris for about two hours.
- Well, okay, two hours, two hundred dollars, right?
Silence.
- He agrees.
- Well, I'm coming.
It turns out that fate had me already cross paths with Muhammad Ali, somehow. In June 1975, I was globe-trotting in Malaya in Kuala Lumpur, and I knew that a world heavyweight championship between the British Joe Bugner and Muhammad Ali would take place at the stadium of the city.
I had gone there to the stadium hoping perhaps to see the living legend "for real", even remotely. I had seen his limousine arrive at the stadium and I was already very happy to have a glimpse at him coming out of the car. I took a picture of that.
The crowd piled in the vicinity of the stadium entrances were excited. The ticket prices were too expensive for the local population and even more for me who only had a few dollars in his pocket.
And then, suddenly, the stadium gates were opened!
The crowd stampede at the stadium that I discovered almost empty. So that's why they finally opened the doors. For such an event, how the fight could have been held in a cathedral silence and before so few spectators ? Ticket sales had been a flop probably and they opened the doors to put at least some atmosphere.
The crowd scattered in the stands but remained after all a little unsure and away from the ring, seeming not quite believing yet in this amazing opportunity.
I, armed with my old summer camp Kodak Instamatic, I approached closer to the ring. I saw the fight alongside the rich, men with huge rings and hat women. I could not believe my eyes.
Joe Bugner did not resist long to Muhammad Ali who won easily.
When, winner, Muhammad Ali went back on the path of the locker room, I crept up as close as could have touched him. Still armed with my Kodak Instamatic, victory! I took a close-up photo of the legend.
I even took a close-up photo of the loser, Joe Bugner.
As much as this story, that day has stuck in my memory.
It was June 30, 1975, the day of my birthday! I was 20 years old.
I even celebrated it with a chicken leg that I bought on the street at one of these peddlers. How delicious it had been this chicken leg. Indeed, for weeks before, broke, I fed myself with bananas because bananas hardly cost anything.
So, before jumping into my minivan, I jumped into my closet to find in an album the close-up photo I had taken in Kuala Lumpur.
- Hello, I greeted the concierge at the Hilton Orly.
- Ah, there you are, I call his bedroom. They are five because there are also his children, his wife and his manager.
A few minutes later, I see appear the legend. I recognize him.
But he is ... what is it ? He has put on weight, he walks a bit like an old man, slowly.
The concierge introduce myself. We shake hands. We walk up to my van and I opened the side door.
No, Muhammad wants to ride on the front seat beside me. With pleasure.
The manager, his wife and children in the back seats, we take off.
But, what’s wrong with him ? Something is wrong. A pathology. I wonder if it’s because of all the blows he took in his life that made him "crippled".
Not knowing his disease, and never having been in the presence of a person with Parkinson's disease, I didn’t know at the time that it came to this.
However, on the way we talk and I quickly realize that I even if he speaks slowly, he has all his head.
Place de la Bastille, the Marais, Place des Vosges .. and I told him about his legendary battles including against George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire and against Joe Frazier in Manila. He makes me a facial expression that says a lot about the harshness of the fights with this last one. I also told him about all the money he must have earned. There he said he gained much, much money... but now he doesn’t have much more left. Too many people around me to pay, he said: coaches, sparring partners, manager and a bunch of parasites of all kinds.
Going down the Sacré Coeur, he suddenly said, "I wana pee”, in a way that I understood it was urgent. I had to think quickly. You do not make a legend wait, but still I can not have Muhammad Ali piss in the street between two cars. I manage to park the minivan, badly, in front of the Ibis Montmartre hotel. Leaving his wife, children and manager in the minibus, I urge Muhammad to follow me. The front desk people look at us speechless. Following my intuition, I quickly locate the toilet down the hall. Muhammad on my heels following me to the place as desired urgently. We take each a urinal and share together with sighs of relief a divine drain of our bladders.
With an impeccable hygiene Muhammad and I take the time to wash our hands before leaving the restroom of the Ibis Montmartre hotel. There, waiting for us, but pretending not waiting for us, some of the staff gathered to verify that it was neither a double or a vision, nor a hoax from the receptionists.
Muhammad Ali accompanied by a guy came out of the toilets at the Ibis Montmartre hotel, crossed the hall, before disappearing into a minivan that vanished into the Parisian traffic.
Arriving Place de la Concorde, I let myself go and told him that one day in the past we have been like this, as close as today, less than a meter away. He looked at me, surprised. I told him that it was in Malaysia in Kuala Lumpur in 1975 when he fought against Joe Bugner.
- Oh yeah Joe Bugner. Good fight, he said.
And here I show him the photo. “It's me”, he said!
- Yeah, it's you, and it was me who took the picture. Destiny is weird, isn’t it?
Thus, Concorde Square, Muhammad Ali dedicated on the back of my picture : "for Jean-Jacques, November 17, 1983, Muhammad Ali."
I can say that I cherish this picture as a treasure.
And where does Yannick Noah fit in ?
I’m getting there. It was necessary for me to explain this so that we understand what is to follow and the force of destiny.
We begin to drive up the Champs Elysees as he says “I’m thirsty”. Well, we do not expect the greatest boxer of all time remaining thirsty. I suggested we stop in front of the Lido, the biggest cabaret in Paris, and have a drink at the cafe next door. OK ? OK.
At that time it was still possible to park in the middle of the Champs-Elysees, where taxis could park. I park up at the Lido’s level when at the same time a big white Mercedes parks just in front of me. We get out of the minibus and at the same time who is getting out of that white Mercedes ? Yannick Noah !
Amazing coincidence, I call : “Yannick ! Come, I'd like to introduce you to Muhammad Ali.”
He looks at me surprised but with the jaded eyes of people over-used. This guy is another pain in the ass, he must think. Muhammad Ali then arrives at my side, he acknowledges, taken aback, incredulous.
- Muhammad, I'd like you to meet the best French tennis player. They look at each other.
- Hey, I've seen you on TV, said Muhammad Ali.
Funny remark, I thought. Still I’m glad he recognized him.
They greet, exchange banalities. I propose Yannick Noah to join us for a drink. Unfortunately, he says he cannot because he has "to do."
Well, too bad. And just like that we “good bye” each other and separate in the middle of the Champs Elysees.
With Muhammad, wife, children and manager we enter a nearby cafe and find a table in the back of the room. Perrier water and fruit juices. Served quickly by the waiter in amazement, we only stayed a few minutes. Already the crowd is growing and incredulous onlookers approach to ensure that the rumor is already spreading like wildfire is real, Muhammad Ali is in the café.
We quickly went back to the minibus before the troop of followers became too swollen.
Time passes and that's already nearly two hours that we are touring. We must return to the Hilton Orly.
Beside me in the minibus, Muhammad seems happy and relaxed. He obviously enjoyed the ride.
Hilton Orly, we separate, we shake hands, we became best friends (hey yes man, we went to pee together !). “I enjoyed it very much”, he confirms. And we tell each other “see you one of these days”…
And time passes.
Until a summer day in 1996 when, in front of my TV, I was watching the opening ceremony of the Atlanta Olympics.
I was on Canal + channel and I remember that there was there top commentators (I don’t remember if it was Charles Bietry or Thierry Gilardi or both or another one), and known sports consultants. There was Thierry Rey the judo Olympic champion, Richard Dacoury basketball player and ... Yannick Noah.
Commentators are promising us a surprise and indeed, who do we see appear as last torchbearer of the Olympic torch ? Muhammad Ali.
Slow moving, even more affected by the disease than when I had seen him in November 1983, he climbed the steps and set fire to the cauldron Olympic.
In front of my TV, I'm really happy to see my friend Muhammad again and I am very touched by the honor done to him, deserved.
Commentators rave and ask in turn to the consultants to deliver their impressions. And all to say how it was moving and symbolic to have chosen him as last torchbearer of the Olympic flame to crown his great career etc., etc.
When comes the turn of Yannick Noah, before my TV, I'm on the edge of my seat, and I expect him to say that one day by chance, a guy introduced him to Muhammad Ali on the Champs Elysees.
And what did Yannick Noah say ?
He said it was beautiful and moving to honor this great champion, blah, blah, blah ... and ... and ... nothing else.
In front of my TV, I could not believe my ears, my eyes. Disappointed.
Did Yannick forget or did he not want to tell ?
The timeless fate of the third dimension had again recreated the triangle;
Me before my TV, Yannick inside the TV, Muhammad in front of the camera.
Why ?
When is the next sign of destiny ?
Muhammad Ali has had an exceptional destiny.
Yannick Noah has an exceptional destiny.
And me ?
We held our breath until the last point and then, he won the match. It was wonderful !
I remember he jumped into the arms of his father who had just climb down the stands of the stadium. It was wonderful !
A memory as imperishable as when France won the (soccer) Football World Cup in 1998.
In 1983, I had just created my small business. After two trips round the world backpacking between 1975 and 1981 full of many adventures, I returned to Paris. Having largely improved my English during my travels and even learned Spanish and Brazilian in South America (and even Italian in Guadeloupe, which I can explain on another blog, why not?), I naturally found employment of multilingual guide in Paris Visions.
I worked as a night guide doing night guided tours of Paris ending with a show at the Lido, Moulin Rouge, Bateaux Mouches, etc.
Tourists often told me that they had problems to reach the departure spot of the bus set “rue de Rivoli”. Either they had struggled to find a taxi, the drivers were not friendly, or they had been ripped off. Or they got lost on foot or using the subway, or even they had been attacked and robbed by a band of gypsies. Or rather the Roms, because at that time they were already circulating in tourist areas, in bunches of 5 or 6 kids, with 1 or 2 older one, often teenage girls, and targeting such and such tourists pretending to be begging while the rest of the gang robbed them of everything that was within reach.
So even when the tours were ending between 2 and 3 am, we night guides were supposed to bring the customers back to their hotels or near with the double decker bus. There were many hotels in small streets where the bus could not access, or close to the periphery of Paris or in the suburbs. As we could not go everywhere, we had to let some tourists somewhere in the streets of the Parisian night, often anxious and even fearful. Because of this, I offered a few times, for the great satisfaction of some, to accompany them to their hotel with my own car at the end of the tour against 50 francs to pay my service and improve my ordinary.
So much so that I quickly decided to take a bank loan to buy a second hand Volkswagen combi-van 9 seats. The idea was to bring not only 2 or 3 people in my two-door Nissan Cherry, but up to 8 people.
Better yet, I decided that if I could bring the tourists back to their hotel at the end of the tours, I could also go and pick them up. Even better, if I was a tourist guide with the Paris Vision bus, I could also do it with my own minibus.
Thus I created in 1983 the concept of semi-private tour which did not exist yet in Paris. Between the limo up to 4000 francs for half a day and the double decker bus of 80 seats starting the tours from rue de Rivoli, there was the minibus alternative with departure and return to the hotel door. So I created my first little pamphlet entitled "Paris Tourism" offering excursions such as the Paris city tour, Versailles, Loire castles, etc. and the Paris by night tours in my minibus. It only remained to convince the concierges of Paris hotels (with motivating commissions) who were used to book limousines or sell tickets for Paris Vision or Cityrama, to call me instead.
Well, believe it or not, the first year was not easy but I managed to retain some hotels that had seen coming back very satisfied customers (the following years, my company has grown a lot. I called it Excursions Parisiennes and it could also be the subject of another blog).
What about Muhammad Ali in all that ?
I’m getting there, but I had to explain this to make more understandable the spatio-temporal context of the story.
For me, it was all brand new to work steady and "for myself". I still had the mind of the traveler who does some work some short period of time and then leaves again to travel with the money he earned. Psychologically, you just don’t get out like that of a rhythm of 6 years of globe-trotting around the world, including a hundred countries crossed.
Can you imagine that when I returned from my first round the world tour in 1977, my eyes, my heart and my head were so full of memories, that I needed to write it in a book that I titled "Life Lesson ". The book remained in a drawer for 15 years.
And then one day in London by pure chance, I met a publisher willing to publish my book. Can you imagine that just when it was supposed to go out in bookstores, and other distribution vectors, according to the words of the editor, while I was going through a rather dark period of my life, including financially, can you imagine that the editor went bankrupt and gave me royally 4, yes I do mean "four" copies of my book. They are in a drawer, no, somewhere in a box. How should I translate this in language of destiny?
Anyway, I had decided to stop running my tours at the end of the tourist season, that is to say towards the end of October, and to go and see my old friend Carole Cardinal in Canada and spend the winter there with the good money, well earned, that summer with my minibus and ready to start the excursions again in the spring 1984.
I had my ticket for Canada in the pocket when the phone rang!
- Hello? I said.
- Hello, this is the concierge at the Hilton Orly hotel, I have a client for you.
- Sorry, but I warned you well in advance that I would close now the business for the winter. I’ll do the excursions again next spring.
- Yes, but this is special, I really need you to come and take care of that client.
- Sorry but tomorrow, I fly to Canada, I cannot.
- I’m asking you as a favor because this is someone special.
- Special ? Who is it ?
- He's a known person who stays in Paris a short time and who wishes to remain incognito.
Of course the concierge of the Hilton had aroused my curiosity and I replied that if he wanted me to come, he should first tell me who it was.
- This is Muhammad Ali.
- Muhammad Ali, I repeated. Obviously, it is special. And what does he want to do ?
- He just wants to take a tour of Paris for about two hours.
- Well, okay, two hours, two hundred dollars, right?
Silence.
- He agrees.
- Well, I'm coming.
It turns out that fate had me already cross paths with Muhammad Ali, somehow. In June 1975, I was globe-trotting in Malaya in Kuala Lumpur, and I knew that a world heavyweight championship between the British Joe Bugner and Muhammad Ali would take place at the stadium of the city.
I had gone there to the stadium hoping perhaps to see the living legend "for real", even remotely. I had seen his limousine arrive at the stadium and I was already very happy to have a glimpse at him coming out of the car. I took a picture of that.
The crowd piled in the vicinity of the stadium entrances were excited. The ticket prices were too expensive for the local population and even more for me who only had a few dollars in his pocket.
And then, suddenly, the stadium gates were opened!
The crowd stampede at the stadium that I discovered almost empty. So that's why they finally opened the doors. For such an event, how the fight could have been held in a cathedral silence and before so few spectators ? Ticket sales had been a flop probably and they opened the doors to put at least some atmosphere.
The crowd scattered in the stands but remained after all a little unsure and away from the ring, seeming not quite believing yet in this amazing opportunity.
I, armed with my old summer camp Kodak Instamatic, I approached closer to the ring. I saw the fight alongside the rich, men with huge rings and hat women. I could not believe my eyes.
Joe Bugner did not resist long to Muhammad Ali who won easily.
When, winner, Muhammad Ali went back on the path of the locker room, I crept up as close as could have touched him. Still armed with my Kodak Instamatic, victory! I took a close-up photo of the legend.
I even took a close-up photo of the loser, Joe Bugner.
As much as this story, that day has stuck in my memory.
It was June 30, 1975, the day of my birthday! I was 20 years old.
I even celebrated it with a chicken leg that I bought on the street at one of these peddlers. How delicious it had been this chicken leg. Indeed, for weeks before, broke, I fed myself with bananas because bananas hardly cost anything.
So, before jumping into my minivan, I jumped into my closet to find in an album the close-up photo I had taken in Kuala Lumpur.
- Hello, I greeted the concierge at the Hilton Orly.
- Ah, there you are, I call his bedroom. They are five because there are also his children, his wife and his manager.
A few minutes later, I see appear the legend. I recognize him.
But he is ... what is it ? He has put on weight, he walks a bit like an old man, slowly.
The concierge introduce myself. We shake hands. We walk up to my van and I opened the side door.
No, Muhammad wants to ride on the front seat beside me. With pleasure.
The manager, his wife and children in the back seats, we take off.
But, what’s wrong with him ? Something is wrong. A pathology. I wonder if it’s because of all the blows he took in his life that made him "crippled".
Not knowing his disease, and never having been in the presence of a person with Parkinson's disease, I didn’t know at the time that it came to this.
However, on the way we talk and I quickly realize that I even if he speaks slowly, he has all his head.
Place de la Bastille, the Marais, Place des Vosges .. and I told him about his legendary battles including against George Foreman in Kinshasa, Zaire and against Joe Frazier in Manila. He makes me a facial expression that says a lot about the harshness of the fights with this last one. I also told him about all the money he must have earned. There he said he gained much, much money... but now he doesn’t have much more left. Too many people around me to pay, he said: coaches, sparring partners, manager and a bunch of parasites of all kinds.
Going down the Sacré Coeur, he suddenly said, "I wana pee”, in a way that I understood it was urgent. I had to think quickly. You do not make a legend wait, but still I can not have Muhammad Ali piss in the street between two cars. I manage to park the minivan, badly, in front of the Ibis Montmartre hotel. Leaving his wife, children and manager in the minibus, I urge Muhammad to follow me. The front desk people look at us speechless. Following my intuition, I quickly locate the toilet down the hall. Muhammad on my heels following me to the place as desired urgently. We take each a urinal and share together with sighs of relief a divine drain of our bladders.
With an impeccable hygiene Muhammad and I take the time to wash our hands before leaving the restroom of the Ibis Montmartre hotel. There, waiting for us, but pretending not waiting for us, some of the staff gathered to verify that it was neither a double or a vision, nor a hoax from the receptionists.
Muhammad Ali accompanied by a guy came out of the toilets at the Ibis Montmartre hotel, crossed the hall, before disappearing into a minivan that vanished into the Parisian traffic.
Arriving Place de la Concorde, I let myself go and told him that one day in the past we have been like this, as close as today, less than a meter away. He looked at me, surprised. I told him that it was in Malaysia in Kuala Lumpur in 1975 when he fought against Joe Bugner.
- Oh yeah Joe Bugner. Good fight, he said.
And here I show him the photo. “It's me”, he said!
- Yeah, it's you, and it was me who took the picture. Destiny is weird, isn’t it?
Thus, Concorde Square, Muhammad Ali dedicated on the back of my picture : "for Jean-Jacques, November 17, 1983, Muhammad Ali."
I can say that I cherish this picture as a treasure.
And where does Yannick Noah fit in ?
I’m getting there. It was necessary for me to explain this so that we understand what is to follow and the force of destiny.
We begin to drive up the Champs Elysees as he says “I’m thirsty”. Well, we do not expect the greatest boxer of all time remaining thirsty. I suggested we stop in front of the Lido, the biggest cabaret in Paris, and have a drink at the cafe next door. OK ? OK.
At that time it was still possible to park in the middle of the Champs-Elysees, where taxis could park. I park up at the Lido’s level when at the same time a big white Mercedes parks just in front of me. We get out of the minibus and at the same time who is getting out of that white Mercedes ? Yannick Noah !
Amazing coincidence, I call : “Yannick ! Come, I'd like to introduce you to Muhammad Ali.”
He looks at me surprised but with the jaded eyes of people over-used. This guy is another pain in the ass, he must think. Muhammad Ali then arrives at my side, he acknowledges, taken aback, incredulous.
- Muhammad, I'd like you to meet the best French tennis player. They look at each other.
- Hey, I've seen you on TV, said Muhammad Ali.
Funny remark, I thought. Still I’m glad he recognized him.
They greet, exchange banalities. I propose Yannick Noah to join us for a drink. Unfortunately, he says he cannot because he has "to do."
Well, too bad. And just like that we “good bye” each other and separate in the middle of the Champs Elysees.
With Muhammad, wife, children and manager we enter a nearby cafe and find a table in the back of the room. Perrier water and fruit juices. Served quickly by the waiter in amazement, we only stayed a few minutes. Already the crowd is growing and incredulous onlookers approach to ensure that the rumor is already spreading like wildfire is real, Muhammad Ali is in the café.
We quickly went back to the minibus before the troop of followers became too swollen.
Time passes and that's already nearly two hours that we are touring. We must return to the Hilton Orly.
Beside me in the minibus, Muhammad seems happy and relaxed. He obviously enjoyed the ride.
Hilton Orly, we separate, we shake hands, we became best friends (hey yes man, we went to pee together !). “I enjoyed it very much”, he confirms. And we tell each other “see you one of these days”…
And time passes.
Until a summer day in 1996 when, in front of my TV, I was watching the opening ceremony of the Atlanta Olympics.
I was on Canal + channel and I remember that there was there top commentators (I don’t remember if it was Charles Bietry or Thierry Gilardi or both or another one), and known sports consultants. There was Thierry Rey the judo Olympic champion, Richard Dacoury basketball player and ... Yannick Noah.
Commentators are promising us a surprise and indeed, who do we see appear as last torchbearer of the Olympic torch ? Muhammad Ali.
Slow moving, even more affected by the disease than when I had seen him in November 1983, he climbed the steps and set fire to the cauldron Olympic.
In front of my TV, I'm really happy to see my friend Muhammad again and I am very touched by the honor done to him, deserved.
Commentators rave and ask in turn to the consultants to deliver their impressions. And all to say how it was moving and symbolic to have chosen him as last torchbearer of the Olympic flame to crown his great career etc., etc.
When comes the turn of Yannick Noah, before my TV, I'm on the edge of my seat, and I expect him to say that one day by chance, a guy introduced him to Muhammad Ali on the Champs Elysees.
And what did Yannick Noah say ?
He said it was beautiful and moving to honor this great champion, blah, blah, blah ... and ... and ... nothing else.
In front of my TV, I could not believe my ears, my eyes. Disappointed.
Did Yannick forget or did he not want to tell ?
The timeless fate of the third dimension had again recreated the triangle;
Me before my TV, Yannick inside the TV, Muhammad in front of the camera.
Why ?
When is the next sign of destiny ?
Muhammad Ali has had an exceptional destiny.
Yannick Noah has an exceptional destiny.
And me ?
Jean-Jacques Sevestre
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