Well, it’s been a sports filled couple of weeks, and my love for London keeps growing as it hosts some of the world’s greatest athletic events, including Wimbledon and the Tour de France.

Two Thursdays ago I ended up popping over to the All England Tennis Club after work. We only had to queue for an hour for ₤12 ground tickets (and I got a pretty sweet “I’ve Queued at Wimbledon 2007” Q-shaped sticker, well, six to be precise) before passing through airport level security (the lady to my left had to trash a pointy hair clip). Unfortunately, most of the top seeds had demolished their opponents that afternoon, so we settled for a random gentlemen’s doubles match. In between sets we enjoyed some delightful strawberries and cream (note that the cream is not as solid as I had expected) and soaked up the atmosphere on the hill outside Court 1, furnished with a big screen TV broadcasting the major matches. We then headed back to the doubles, and what a match it was. Suffice it to say, French and Brazilian tempers flared (result of a certain shoulder “bump” incident), the Mexican wave oscillated around the stands (still not certain why the Brits add the adjective), and play stretched into the twilight hours in a tight five-setter that lasted longer than any other matches of the day (have I mentioned that the sun sets at 10:30 p.m. here?).

Saturday saw the other side of the sun, as one of my bestest friends from home, who is studying in Spain for the summer, came for a visit. We explored the city in the morning (questing fruitlessly for Tesco muffins), planning on settling down for le Tour de Londres, the prologue of le Tour de France, an hour or two before the 3:00 p.m. race start. Much to our chagrin, the spectators were already thronging along the course by 10:30 a.m., so we quickly found a fence side spot three-quarters of the way down, alternately napping and reading with our backs to the course, which some later arriving cycling enthusiasts apparently found highly despicable. After the longest parade of my life (seriously, the French know how to do floats), the riders surveyed the route on a couple practice rounds before the real deal started. It took them less than ten minutes to cover about five miles, but with a one minute staggered start for each rider and 189 riders, well, you do the math. We also were unsuccessful in procuring the inflatable pink T-Mobile shirts (sorry daddies, no souvenirs), but we did manage to snap a number of pictures. (Warning: This album will probably only be remotely interesting to the most avid cyclists. I apologize for the poor photographic skills.)

Emmeaux et Kristeaux à le Tour de France. (Pardon my French.) Sadly, -eaux does not rhyme with “moo,” as we had believed for so many years, but rather it rhymes with “mow.”