Pardon my French

On my flight back home, I reflect on the tournament in Karlsruhe which just ended.

No prize, a couple of rating points which cowardly deserted, a grey hair I had discovered on a glorious morning. If only it was the first one! Some extra blisters from the miles I walked while having the time of my life playing chess and… well, nothing else, except maybe eating – when not playing for 5 hours in the morning round and, at times, sleeping- when not playing for 10 hours a day; What else was there? Some photos which make my unequalled beauty no justice, some games which mostly aligned with the general trend… To summarize it in one word- shit. Pardon my French, but why not call things exactly what they are?

Afterall, there is a special kind of beauty in the ugly. I seem to recall some Charles Baudelaire writing emphasizing this idea. I assume he must have come to this conclusion somewhere in his thirties. I have only joined this club recently and have already started to appreciate the enchantment of those moments when shit hits the fan, but you still feel fabulous. If you don’t understand how come, you’re either too young to know- but don’t worry- the fan is patiently waiting for you, or too old and no longer need to apologize for any French knowledge.

Let me explain you this concept. You wake up at 7am in the morning, try to understand why the need to function at this hour, remember there’s a chess game in 2 hours and with great enthusiasm you get out of the bed. While walking to the bathroom you feel some back pain from all those hours spent sitting at the board- at least one only needs the brain to function properly for playing chess… While brushing your teeth, you try to remember whom you’re playing and what you’ve prepared. The great effort involved makes you realize there’s an imminent threat of a headache approaching so you abandon the dangerous endeavour.

You put on some clothes and go to breakfast. While in the elevator, you see yourself in the mirror and realize you forgot there was one in the bathroom too. Consequently, looking like shit comes as a mild surprise. No problem- thirties have their perks too- by now you’ve learned about the inner world and inner beauty, and you know- the appeal of those things one can’t see. So, you confidently walk to the coffee machine. Two espressos later, you’re reminded that caffeine on empty stomach is something you should have learned to avoid by now. But you’re still not used to avoiding all the twenties mistakes. Walking to the playing hall you feel your toes hurting from the beautiful 3 kg boots you’ve chosen to take with you as the only pair of shoes. Shit. All these sacrifices and for what? Even the 50 years old elevator mirror can’t be convinced. I remind myself of the inner beauty and sing “These boots are made for walking…”. There must be a concept of inner comfort too.

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You arrive at the playing hall 5 minutes late, make your way through the thousands of people and sit at the board. Move 3 of your opponent comes as a surprise you’re grateful for. Preparation headaches successfully avoided. Four moves later you realize you’re playing a line you wrote a course about but have successfully avoided making the move you extensively analysed. Merde! You sacrifice a pawn to stir things up and as compensation get an endgame with a bad knight vs a good bishop. Suffering like a dog is something you’re quite experienced at so you finally save a draw vs the 200 points lower rated opponent. At least there’s still time for lunch- a whole hour before the next game!

Salad for lunch is something you have made acquaintance with in your newly joined 30s club too. You eat one leaf after another, there’s neither any particular taste to it, nor any satisfaction. No need for it anyway- as you’ve understood by now, there are plenty of other things to enjoy in life.

 

Reykjavik Open 2024 - Round 8 | Flickr

Back to the playing hall you find a maximum 10 yo looking kid sitting across the board. Shit.

Luckily, the 30s club is a place where experience is at its home. You have had your share of games you lost against children, and you make sure not to enrich it. For a change, there’s no need for using any French knowledge.

The afternoon is early, and you contemplate the possibility of going for a walk. “No. No. No.” Toes, back, stomach- all in agreement. You go back to your room, lie in the bed and appreciate the moment.

That’s how a regular day at Grenke looked like. Judging by the amount of “French” I used, one might think I’m not so thrilled about the overall experience. But, let me finish with a quote from Baudelaire: “What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for one second, the infinity of delight?”