Considering that most of the journalists who covered this French Open write to mass audiences for a living, it was strange that writing something for the handful of others who remained should feel so invigorating. The open bar upstairs certainly helped, as did the intensifying wafts of paint fumes, but there was also a thrill in creating something at once so temporary and so permanent. (Everyone who had filed an article during the tournament had done so wirelessly, tracelessly.)

As we sportswriters travel the tour, we pack up and move on, never really making a visible mark, or doing anything to make our various offices home. Suddenly, our thoughts and memories took tactile form, as big or small as we wanted, all around the sterile corridors we had paced for the last 15 days and many more days in the years before. It wasn’t until it was teeming with stories — as any creative venue should, really — that the media center seemed complete.

The place was a mess, and it had never looked better. In just a few days, it will all probably be gone — but at least we had it for a night.