World Cup From the stadium to the bar stool, watch for our ongoing reports T A B L E_T A L K Summer's here! If you're heading south of the border, stop by the Mexico thread for tips and advice in Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Mondo Weirdo A different kind of resort in Sri Lanka A reader discovers that an off-the-beaten-track resort offers a little less than it promises (06/17/98) Spiritual discomfort By Anne Cushman A yoga student discovers a real sadhu -- and spends the night in his cave in northern India (06/16/98) Adventures of my youth By Louise Rafkin Can midlife travelers recapture the carefree wanderings of old? (06/15/98) Suddenly last summer By Hal LaCroix Babes, buzzwords and biz-bonding at the Nantucket Film Fest (06/12/98) Letter from Jakarta: After the sky falls By Jeff Pulice When expats flee, foreign guys become very attractive -- and other bits of wisdom (06/11/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives		The Cup runneth over WORLD CUP SCENES: SCOTTISH FANS BARE MORE THAN THEIR SOULS, FRENCH FANS GET RACIST AND BLASÉ PARISIANS CARRY ON AS EVER. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Spanish fans cheer their team before the start of the Spain vs. Nigeria match at the Beaujoire Stadium in Nantes, France, Saturday BY ETHAN ZINDLER | PARIS, June 10: As I write these words, a billion people -- almost one-sixth of the world's population -- are getting ready to watch Brazil take on Scotland in the opening game of the World Cup. Five thousand of them are right here, gathered outside L'Hotel de Ville in the heart of Paris to witness the event on a giant Jumbotron television constructed for the unlucky many who could not get tickets to the match. The weather is sunny, but ominous storm clouds occasionally roll by. On this hallowed ground, where the blood of French men and women flowed during 18th century revolutionary purges, rowdy Scottish soccer fans are staging a massive outdoor party. It is a sea of blue and white. Here and there some Brazilian yellow can be seen. A group of 10 fans has just arrived and laid out an enormous Scottish flag for use as a picnic blanket. On the cross where the flag's white lines intersect, they plunk down four cases of Foster's Lager "oil cans" (the 20-ounce monsters). It's a picnic of sorts, but there's only one thing on the menu: beer. Everywhere are overweight, red-faced men in kilts, many with their faces painted blue and white. One volunteers to demonstrate to a Brazilian television crew just how little Scots wear under those wool coverings. As he bends over, the cameraman comes in for what must be a frightening close-up of a bare male ass. One can only wonder what the folks back home in Rio are thinking. Another kilted fan scales one of the bronzed green statues that line L'Hotel. Straddling its shoulders, he grasps a beer with one hand and waves a large Scottish flag with the other. From 15 feet above the square he yells, "Fuck England!" The masses below cheer their support. He spies five French gendarmes approaching and lets out an equally hearty "Vive la France!" to laughs and cheers. The World Cup is here and the mood is nothing short of ecstatic. It's loud. It's raucous. It's almost out of control. But it's also a hell of a lot of fun. And the game hasn't even started. Into the second half, the Scottish team appears to be holding its own against a far superior Brazilian side. Storm clouds are gathering over Paris and the putrid smell of beer dried into cement is growing stronger by the minute. Suddenly, the chants and songs cease as all eyes focus on the screen in a moment of wonder. There is Brazilian striker Ronaldo, 20 feet tall on the Jumbotron, the ball at his feet, smoothly dancing his way around one, then two, then three, then four Scottish defenders in a super slo-mo replay. Scotland's big sweeper Colin Hendry (whose long blond locks make him look like he should have been an extra in "Braveheart") has been spun around so many times that he looks like a dog trying to catch his own tail. He's running with his back to Ronaldo, looking over his shoulder, trying to figure out which way to turn. Ronaldo makes it look so easy. As he coolly dodges and weaves past the opposition, he appears remarkably confident and composed. The clip seems to last 10 minutes and leaves even the Scots speechless, if only for a moment. A few minutes later, the Scottish team is cursed with a bit of terrible luck. After a Brazilian shot on goal, the ball bounces mistakenly off defender Jimmy Floyd's shoulder toward his own net. Hendry desperately tries to stop it from rolling in, but he can't get there in time. Cries of despair rise into the storm-laden Paris air. Some fans curse; others weep. Scotland's moment in the sun has passed. They are now down, 2-1. Satisfied simply to hold their lead, the Brazilians play keep-away and let the clock run out. When the final whistle blows, the kilted crowd around me is disappointed but also proud. "We gave 'em a good run for their money!" one of the Foster's group proclaims. As if on cue, the sky lets loose with a tremendous downpour, and any further festivities are washed out. Hundreds of us swoop into the nearest Metro stop. The first game of France '98 is history. N E X T+P A G E | World Cup fever, Paris-style AP PHOTO/LYNNE SLADKY