America doesn’t really do national treasures. Too disparate and divided, its biggest stars either conquer one sphere by limiting themselves to it [see Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift, LeBron James] or they tackle several, inevitably upsetting as many people as they enjoy in the process [see Logan Paul, Kim Kardashian, Donald Trump].
Still, the country appears united behind an unlikely frontrunner at these Olympics: NBC’s special correspondent Snoop Dogg.
He’s been everywhere at these Games, carrying the torch, swimming with Michael Phelps, staring at the Mona Lisa and standing out as a cheerleader for his country. Molly Solomon, NBC’s executive producer of the Olympics, called him an “ambassador of happiness.” There’s a recognizable purity to the way he consumes the Olympics. “I’m interested in the horses dancing, and I want to give them carrots and apples,” he said before visiting the dressage with Martha Stewart. Je suis Snoop.
Forget Biles and Lyles, the real bucket list star to see in Paris is Tha Doggfather, but where would you find him? Special correspondent is a classic job title fudge for someone with no set responsibilities, and predicting where Snoop will show up next is surprisingly tricky.
Since NBC unfortunately doesn’t provide a daily update on his whereabouts and the #followthedogg hashtag mostly features photos of Snoop in dressage gear rather than real-time GPS updates, the best approach is to narrow down the search area.
Expert analysis incoming: Paris is a big city. The Olympic venues extend beyond its borders, so attempting to spot Snoop requires pragmatism. With that in mind, my day begins on his trail at the Esplanade des Invalides, central and within striking distance of other venues.
Admittedly, this is a long shot, but Snoop has been on the same page with Olympic sports almost as often as he has with British football teams. He’s played to local crowds at various live shows, donning the shirts of Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Brighton, Cardiff, Norwich and QPR. As a polyamorous sports fan, why not spend a morning at the archery range cheering on American Brady Ellison in his quarter-final?
I poke my head in upon arrival at the press center, and while Snoop is a dedicated student of sports, it seems unlikely he’s going to be going over the stats with the average guy. In an attempt to explain my quest, I ask the help desk: “Where did you find Snoop Dogg?” A blank stare.
There are a few “U! S! A!” chants in the stands, but none of them sound like they were produced by Dr. Dre. I don’t think he’s here.
The path runs cold with religious fanatics
Americans aren’t exactly keen on bicycles, preferring to drive their big cars down 18-lane highways. Perhaps while listening to Aerosmith. Yet Chloe Dygert and Kristen Faulkner are competing in the women’s road race, and surely Snoop wants to do his part? The day before, there was much ado among the men about the fact that the spectator areas would fill up by mid-morning, in anticipation of the lunchtime riders.
There’s no better vantage point than the finish line, so I head to the Trocadero where the race will end in a few hours. Along the way, I hear a few American accents, which could be a promising clue. Before I can dig up any national secrets about the whereabouts of their ambassador for happiness, they hand me a pamphlet with good news—the Jesus kind.
Snoop has been a frequent visitor to religion. Raised Baptist, he dabbled in the Nation of Islam before converting to Rastafarianism, but he has since described himself as a born-again Christian. Unfortunately, his fellow countrymen offer no clues to his whereabouts; the only guidance they can offer is spiritual. Their literature reads, “Relationships, parties, sex, and success can never satisfy you,” but they do seem to give Snoop a task. One that isn’t at the finish line of a bike race.
I can say that with certainty, because my only company consists of a security guard, a cameraman and a pigeon drinking from a puddle of water that is later filled up by a group of people.
Most major nations set up a hospitality and schmoozing nerve center for the duration of the Olympics. Team USA is housed in the Palais Brongniart, a large neoclassical building from the Napoleonic era that once housed the Paris Stock Exchange. It is located in the 2nd arrondissement in the middle of the city, surrounded by the closed roads that currently make Paris a nightmare for Joe Le Taxi.
I’m initially denied entry with the kind of blunt rejection you might have encountered at JFK passport control. You don’t just walk into Team USA House. Well, you do once you’ve paid. A day pass here costs €380 and countries are still not required to let the public in, but a few of my most polite emails result in an invitation an hour later.
Inside, you can eat all you want sushi and hoagies, Ralph Lauren lattes, and unlimited Michelob beer. The overall vibe is “the best package money can buy at a Milwaukee Brewers regular-season game.” Is Snoop there? “I haven’t seen him, but it’s a big house,” my guide says.
There’s a display with space for athletes to hang signed padlocks on giant American letters, a tribute to the “love locks” that damaged the structural integrity of the Pont des Arts bridge. I find one with Snoop’s signature. I get closer. Then I get wind of a sighting.
Snoop is said to be at the fence with Lewis Hamilton, which sounds like one of those malicious transfer deadline day rumours about Andres Iniesta being spotted at Keele Services. But there is photographic evidence, so I quickly run to the Grand Palais des Champs-Élysées.
You’ve never seen a pensive French audience as pensive as a French fencing audience. The concentration is so extreme that I can’t bring myself to ask about the location of my target. A scan of the stands turns up no one matching Snoop’s description, and there are conflicting reports from the venue managers and volunteers. “He was here, but he’s gone,” “He’s still there,” “If he’s anywhere, he’ll be in the Olympic Family Lounge.”
The laugh I get when I try to get in there threatens to become so mean that I abandon ship.
So four locations, multiple hours and 26,705 steps, but no sightings of the big man. But this was no failure, because the meaning of the Olympics is not in how many times you see a rapper [zero] but the friends you made along the way [also zero]Okay, maybe it was a failure.
But what kind of failure is a Sunday in Paris anyway?
The blessed breeze whistling through the archer’s wind detectors after days of punishing humidity. The guard taking a selfie where the road race will end when he thought no one was looking, the Eiffel Tower in the background. The teenager giving solemn fist bumps to the gendarmes loitering outside Team USA House.
It’s a stunningly beautiful city on its worst days, living its best life for these Games. No wonder Snoop is enjoying himself.
Later at the Stade de France, after the 100m final, Noah Lyles rings the victory bell and the big screen switches to the stands. Snoop dances. Mission accomplished.
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