In search of Snoop Dogg — a quest across Paris to find the Olympics’ most unlikely figurehead

America does not really do national treasures. Too disparate and too divided, its biggest stars either conquer one sphere by staying confined to it [see Tom Cruise, Taylor Swift, LeBron James] or they tackle several, inevitably upsetting as many people as they delight in the process [see Logan Paul, Kim Kardashian, Donald Trump].

Yet the country seems united behind an unlikely figurehead at this Olympics: NBC’s special correspondent Snoop Dogg.

He has been everywhere at these Games, carrying the torch, swimming with Michael Phelps, staring down the Mona Lisa and excelling as a cheerleader for his country. Molly Solomon, NBC’s executive producer of the Olympics called him an “ambassador of happiness”. There is a relatable purity to the way he is consuming the Olympics. “I’m interested in the horses that dance and I want to give them some carrots and apples,” he said before visiting the dressage with Martha Stewart. Je suis Snoop.

Forget about Biles and Lyles, the real bucket list star to see in Paris is Tha Doggfather, but where could he be found? Special correspondent is a classic job title fudge for someone with no fixed responsibilities and predicting where Snoop will show up next is surprisingly tricky.

With NBC unhelpfully failing to provide a daily schedule of his whereabouts and the hashtag #followthedogg mainly containing pictures of Snoop in dressage garms rather than real-time GPS updates, the best approach is to narrow down the search area.

Expert analysis incoming: Paris is a large city. The Olympic venues extend beyond its limits so an attempt to catch sight of Snoop requires pragmatism. With that in mind my day on his trail begins at the Esplanade des Invalides, central and within striking distance of other venues.

Admittedly this is a gamble, but Snoop puts it about with Olympic sport nearly as much as he does with British football teams. At various live appearances he has played to local crowds by wearing the shirts of Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool, Brighton, Cardiff, Norwich and QPR. As a polyamorous sport lover, why not a morning at the archery cheering on American Brady Ellison in his quarter-final?

I poke my head into the press centre on arrival and though Snoop is a committed student of sport it seems doubtful he is poring over the stats in here with the rank and file. Attempting to explain my quest I ask the helpdesk “où se trouve Snoop Dogg?” Blank looks.

Out in the stands there are a few “U! S! A!” chants but none of them sound like they are produced by Dr Dre. I don’t think he’s here.

Trail runs cold with religious zealots

Americans are not famously hot on cycling, preferring instead to drive their large cars down 18-lane freeways. Possibly while listening to Aerosmith. Nevertheless Chloe Dygert and Kristen Faulkner are taking part in the women’s road race and surely Snoop will want to throw his weight behind them? There was much buzz for the men the previous day about spectator spots filling up by mid-morning, in anticipation of riders passing by at lunchtime.

There can be no better vantage point than the finish line so I head to the Trocadero where the race will conclude in several hours. En route I hear some American accents which could be a promising lead. Before I can extract national secrets about the whereabouts of their happiness ambassador they hand me a leaflet which contains good news – the Jesus sort.

Snoop has dotted around the religions. Raised Baptist, he dabbled with the Nation of Islam before converting to Rastafarianism, but has since described himself as a born-again Christian. Unfortunately his compatriots offer no clues about his whereabouts, the only guidance they can provide is spiritual. Their literature reads “Relationships, parties, sex and success can never satisfy you,” but they seem to do a job for Snoop. Who is not at the cycling finish line.

I can say that with certainty because my only company is a security guard, a camera operative and a pigeon drinking from a puddle which some crowds will occupy later.

Most major nations set up a hospitality and schmoozing nerve centre for the duration of the Olympics. Team USA’s is at Palais Brongniart, a grand neoclassical building from Napoleonic times once home to the Paris stock exchange. It is in the 2nd arrondissement in the middle of the city, surrounded by the closed roads currently making Paris a nightmare for Joe Le Taxi.

I am denied entry initially with the sort of curt dismissiveness you may have encountered at JFK passport control. One does not simply walk into Team USA House. Well you do if you’ve paid. A day pass here costs €380 and countries are still under no obligation to let the public in, but some of my politest emailing results in an invite an hour later.

Inside it is all you can eat sushi and hoagies, Ralph Lauren-branded lattes and unlimited Michelob lager. The overall vibe is ‘best package money can buy at a Milwaukee Brewers regular season game’. Is Snoop here? “I’ve not seen him with my own eyes but it’s a big house,” says my tour guide.

There is a display with space for athletes to hang autographed padlocks on giant USA letters, a tribute to the ‘love locks’ which damaged the structural integrity of the Pont des Arts bridge. I find one with Snoop’s autograph. Getting closer. Then I get wind of a sighting.

Snoop is allegedly at the fencing 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 hot foot it to the Grand Palais des Champs-Élysées.

You have never seen a pensive French crowd as pensive as a French fencing crowd. The concentration levels are so extreme I cannot bear to make enquiries about the location of my target. A scan of the stands fails to find anyone 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 here,” “If he’s anywhere he’ll be in the Olympic family lounge.”

The laugh I receive when attempting to blag my way in there threatens to turn nasty so I abandon ship.

So four venues, several hours and 26,705 steps but no sighting of the great man. But this was no failure, because the meaning of the Olympics is not in how many times you spot a rapper [zero] but the friends you made along the way [also zero]. Okay, perhaps it was a failure.

But what kind of failure is a Sunday spent in Paris, really?

The blessed breeze whistling through the archer’s wind detectors after days of punishing humidity. The security guard taking a selfie where the road race will finish when he thought no one was watching, Eiffel Tower looming in the background. The teenager giving solemn fist bumps to the gendarmes loitering outside Team USA House.

It is a peerlessly beautiful city on its worst days and living its best life for these Games. No wonder Snoop is enjoying himself.

Later in the Stade de France, after the 100m final Noah Lyles bangs the victory bell and the big screen cuts to the stand. Snoop is dancing. Mission accomplished.

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