Torino II

If this was going to work, then a lot of things were going to have to go very, very right. I had planned out the journey like this, starting at the crack of dawn: 6:30 - 7:46 was the bus to Florence, 7:50 - 1:00 was the train to Torino, 1:10 - 2:00 was the train to Oulx, 2:14 - 2:55 was the bus to Sestriere Colle, the sight of the Men's Downhill, which starts at 3:00.

Needless to say, it was all a dozing-off-but-waking-up-when-the-neck-hurts blur. I had to wear my long underwear and polarfleece underthepants (not confused with underpants, which were also being utilized) due to no time for changing. So it was all pretty toasty, pretty bulky, pretty far, and pretty amazing that it all worked out. This was a sign, seeing as how many planned things worked against us last time.

In that 14 minute pause in the expansive Oulx parking lot on the side of the lonely freeway leading to France, I was able to find a British scalper to give me the 40 euro ticket for 50. Not bad.



Aah, the event. Rowdy Italians were everywhere, painted sheets with "Forza Rocco" (tha's basically "Go Rocco!" but translates directly into "Strength Rocco") or whoever their main man was, though I would learn that they were all secretly longing for USA's Bode Miller. The granstands were huge, and the standing area up and to the side was packed down and slippery from all the spectators.



From where I stood up next to the finish line, it was very difficult to figure out what the heck was going on. The french and english and italian voices (that's right, three different men all trying to talk at the same time) on the loudspeaker were cancelled out by their own echo before reaching our precarious perch on the hillside, and the video screens were only visible to the massive grandstands as well. All we knew for sure was that when someone fell, it was a dissapointment. And that we were directly oppoiste the crane camera, which means if you paused your live IV after a racer crossed the finish line, you might've seen me.

Then there was a sort of halftime. Not because racers stopped coming down the hill, but because everyone just sort of walked down the hill and into the food and lounging area. The men left on the hill were bad racers, I guess, because nobody paid them any attention. Down in the fun area, the infamous Torino Cheerleaders danced around, pepole bought hot dogs and traded pins, and these things showed up:




Are they yaks? Are they yetis? They are crazy. They scream. They bite your hat and try to run away. I can't even do them justice. Their "handler" is the fellow dressed in what looks like their hair, and he spoke a language that doesn't exist while trying to corral them and give them drinks of water. I have video, and that's the only way you're going to get the full effect. In the background there, in the upper-right corner, you can see where the spectator section is.

Around the hill a little ways was a stage, and on this stage you could hear two of the most glorious words in the Italian-accented English language being shouted: "Snow Party." The party was goverened by your standard International Snow Party Federation rules: songs like "Space Jam," and Tom Jones' "Sex Bomb" were the staples, Australians were expected to climb the stage's scaffolding, the mascots were to show up and try in vain to perform the "YMCA" around their giant heads, a congaline was downright required, and the MCs were to shout out different country names and hope that the representing dancers in the crowd of ski coats and cowbells would "holla back." The did, the Americans being the second noisiest behind the home team. I can't even begin to describe the fun we had.

Snow. Party.

After the party was over, we all climbed up into our seats to watch the big boys do what they do.

I got my old spot back thanks to an Italian man who let me squeeze in next to him. What would follow was easily enshrined in the top-5 highlight pantheon. I talk with him for awhile, your standard Italian class textbook dialogues about nationality, school, etc. I understand him a lot better than I can speak back, but we're pretty clear with eachother when the conversation moves beyond the basics. During the break in the conversation, the man starts to talk with the Carabinieri standing between us and the skiiers. I had never seen a police officer outfitted for the slopes before. The man started to brag to the officer about his new friend. "He's American" he said in Italian. The sunglassed and helmeted police officer replied with a smile "Does the Amercian know that when a Carabinieri asks him to give his hat to me, he must do it?" The hat in question is my Root's toque with "USA" on the front and sides, with the flag on the back (I had been approached down and around the yaks and snow party many times about trading my hat . . . USA stuff is appparently pretty cool). I've understood everything they've said, and I reply with a smile through mime and pointing and rough vocab that we could trade: my hat for his police helmet. He laughs, and replies with words I really don't know, but the handcuffing motion with his hands is very clear. "If you are seen in the helmet, the others will arrest you." "That's too bad" I reply.

On an Italian adrenaline rush, I turn to the guy standind downhill to my right, who looks the same age as myself. "Come stai?" I ask. He looks worried, shakes his head, and replies with an accent in English "I'm sorry." "You don't speak Italian?" I ask. "French and English" he says with a smile. Turns out he came over the mountainous French-Italian border for the day to see this, about the same distance from Seattle to Vancouver. We talk about the racers, who the French favorite is, their team's luck in the Downhill winner, and how everyone misses Bode Miller. "With him, it was always a show" he says. "You just don't get that with other racers."

From there, the Italian man gets involved in the conversation, and I become the translator between them as they talk trash about the racers. Some of the more famous words in each language are known, and I don't need to translate (nor should I repeat). It was all good-natured, and the Carabinieri was getting a kick out of it.

Sadly, the Italian man left with his son before it was all over. The Frenchman and I kept our cowbells ringing until the Austrians had swept and he departed with my email address. I invited him to come visit in four years, when the show w0uld be in my backyard.

Me and the Frenchman. I still need to email him this picture.

The Austian sweep. That's not the same officer, but see the helmet in the foregroud?

As I left the race site (nobody but me, the Austrian fans and the Swiss stuck around for the whole thing), fireworks shot off from the hill just outside of the spectator area. The snow was faintly lit by the race course lights, but would light up with each blast. The hillside on the other side of the entrance is littered with condos and hotels, and it too would glow pink and green and yellow and blue with each firework before fading back into the pale light from the course.

What would follow would indeed be a long night. I walked up and down the steep hills of Sestiere Colle, coming across the Austrian headquarters where a party was raging and the words "Gold! Silver! Bronze!" were lit up on the side of the building, but looking for a place to sleep. I found one vacancy: 200 euro for the night. I boarded the bus to Oulx and then the train to Torino, the good ol' two hour mountain journey through villages and wilderness.

The search for a room in the city was in vain. I was either laughed at straight-up or answered with "Yes. Oh, wait, tonight? Ha! No." So the waiting room at the train station would be the only option. However, before I would give in, I was going to participate in "the Olypmic Night" - a program the city set up for the Saturday nights of the Opening and Closing weekends in which various museums and bars would stay open unti 3 in the morning or until dawn.

This was the only time I will ever be in the Tornio modern art museum until 3 in the morning. It was surreal but very very enjoyable. There was more than just modern art: old sepia photogrpahs of Italian explorers in the Alps, some really impressive 18th century landscapes, art dedicated to the metropolis (including a German black-and-white marathon of a film about the daily routine of Berlin that was way ahead of its time), and a wing with everyday objects of all sizes laying all over the floor, each painted half green and half pink. I suppose that's what modern art is.

In the interest of time, here is the rest of the weekend in photographic form. Know that the sleep at the train station was with many many other people, all over the floors and chairs, always with polizia watching over us. This is how I slept for two nights. Sunday was the Egyptian museum and scalping a ticket for the closing ceremonies - which were quite a show. I sat next to two flight attendents from Portland. Monday was a walk around the city before setting off for Siena.

The Egyptian Museum.

The Olympic Flag and some Italian soldiers for the National Anthem.

My view of the athletes.

The logo for the 2010 Olympic Winter Games. Canada was there in full force, including Vancouver's wheelchair-bound mayor, chiefs from local tribes, and Avril Lavigne. She's in this picture if you look closely.

Ooooh. Aaah.

While my bad seat could not see most of the video screens, I got a great view of the fireworks . . . beind me.

Vancouverites! They love Seattle!

The party's over.

Monday's hike up to a hill across the Po River. This is how I looked for most of the weekend.

Hey birds.

No way! Is that . . . is that KING 5's Alan Schauffler?!

The top three things about returning back to Siena were 1) a shower 2) a bed 3) finally changing my pants.

Sono solo

I'm going to have to sign off for a bit . . . until Tuesday, that is.

Keep your eyes on Men's Slalom on Saturday and the Closing Ceremonies on Sunday.

Oh, and keep your eyes out for a hotel room and tickets to these events. I could really use some. I mean, I have the train tickets and I'm going, but, you know. Thanks.

Thursday Friday

You know, the word "Torino" sounds a lot like "retorno." Those words translate into the English words "Turin" and "return," which also rhyme . . .

Today was the final written exam for Italian class, and tomorrow is the oral portion. A couple of us tried to count to 10 in Spanish last night and most certainly were not able to.

Also in the news today was some sort of carnival (perhaps Carnivale?) in which it was like Halloween in the cobbled streets of Siena. I saw pleanty of ballroom dresses, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (only Leonardo, who is the only namesake of the shelled heroes not to have original work on display somewhere in Siena), a Batman and some puppies. The older kids took to spraying eachother with silly string and shaving cream all over the Piazza del Campo, which takes me back to my days in the dorms.

I really do have some cool stuff to write about. Stick around.

Oh, and postcards are going out soon. Last call for addresses and requests.

Citius, Altius, Fortius . . . Veritas?

There was a little incident involving Apollo Anton Ohno that NBC wouldn't touch. And I wish they would.

As you all sadly know, Ohno fell in the semifinal of the men's 1500m, and did not race in the final. What you don't know is that he was involved in a final, specifically Final B. This was the race for all the guys that finished 4-5-6 in the semis, and was held just in case a bunch of guys in the real final were disqualified and they needed someone (the Final B winner) to give the bronze to. It has happened before, just not at the Olympics.

So the racers come out, warm up a little - but there are only five of them. They line up in a corner and skate to the starting line as their name is called. The first guy glides up waving to spattered applause, but the crowd's mind is somewhere else. As is Ohno. He's nowhere to be seen.

As the second skater is announced, a swarm of cameras shuffles out of the locker room tunnel with an Apollo nucleus. He nudges past all of them when they finally reach the rink and tries to go through the gate. But the message from the Tornio man is simple: the gate will remain closed until the end of the race.

Ohno puts his hands on the thick padded wall and jumps up on his belly to slide over. Three Torino men are right there, and they proceed to grab his legs and skates and pull him back. The third skater is announced. By this time the Americans can see what's happening, and from the opposite side of the stadium, it looks like he can't make it over, that he just can't get up. But we can see him being grabbed and pulled as he digs one elbow in and points vigorously at the starting line as he looks back. They are still tearing him off the padding as the crowd begins to get upset.

He finally gives in. It's just like when he races and the Koreans gang up on him. This time, off the ice, it was too much. The fourth skater is announced. He sulks past the three mighty Italians and begins the long walk towards the judge, which will take longer than he has.

But then - OHNO he didn't! Apollo takes two steps before leaping and sliding over the wall in one quick movement, just out of sight and grip of his oppressors. He lands on the ice and spins in a wide circle with his toes pointed out, taking a deep breath.


(those three in the jackets on the right - they're the ones)

He hurries to the starting line just as his name is called, from the opposite direction of the sixth skater, the Italian, standing off in the corner with his hands on his hips. It is announced that skater 254 (yeah, that's Apollo) will be charged one false start for delaying the start of the race. This means if he false starts "again" he will be disqualified.

He ends up spending most of the race in last place, hardly trying, before mildly making a move into 3rd. Hoorah. His Korean rivals in Final A finish gold-silver about 20 minutes later.

So yes, I took Apollo's side on this one, because he's the athlete I really came to see. It's possible he's incredibly stuck-up and conceited, and that the Italian men were simply asking for a moment's wait. Evidence for this theory comes from the minutes following Ohno's loss in the semis when somebody threw the helmet out on the ice. I couldn't catch a number, but it certainly may have been his. Of course, NBC didn't tell you that one either.


(whodunnit?)

Don't give up on speed skating just yet. Ohno and company did win bronze in the men's relay. We saw some women's heats including their relay, and it was quite amazing to watch. They were like a flock of birds. Only this flock has four of them racing and every once in a while they shove their bird teammates.


(majestic, fast, poetic, etc.)

The crowd was a hoot, too. The Italians joined their cheer with a Korean drum for a while. I told some Canadians we'd see them in Vancouver. I shook an old Korean man's hand after all was said and done. Their a hoot in the stands but cheaters on the ice (remember 2002?)


(spot the drum!)

Oh, and the bathroom was the most international I'd ever been in. Some poor woman got lost, and was told in every language imaginable where to go (no pictures of that).

More stories will come.

XX Olympic Winter Games

There is much to be said, and I have hardly the strength to do it. I apologize if this one isn't as funny and if it leans heavily on pictures.

It's been terribly busy around here with a massive mid-term in Art History, preparation for the Italian final (the only class that ends after just two months) and, of course, the sweet life. Right now on Eurosport, I'm watching an orange Dutch bobsleigh under fat, thick flakes as the announcers say British things like "scintillating" and "billowing sails," and I can't help but think of the realization I had last Thursday:

I have to go back.

I may have hardly slept during the entire trip, I may have needed to spend a sick day after coming back, I may have bought-out the entire Olympic Superstore and been teased and tisked for doing so, but I can't deny the urge.

I have to go back for more.

Team Gold (check back on the post called "Teamwork") consisted of myself, Dawn and Liz. Yes, this is me and two girls. Be quiet. This was about the Games.

Some time ago, we managed to find a hotel that was run by a hostel for a price that was steep but expected. The weekend was to be packed with events, and we decided to pick up some tickets as we went . . . with the exception of the marquee event, the 1500m final in Men's Short Track that would probably be Apollo Anton Ohno's first gold. We ordered those well in advance.

Our train left Siena at 11:00 am on Friday. En route, we went along the coast near Genoa through tunnels in the cliffs on the shore. It would be pitch black outside the window, followed by a blinding light off the brilliant blue ocean, and then back into dark rocks.

We pulled into Torino's Porta Lingotto Station in full view of the very large Lingotto Oval - the venue for the long-distance speed skating - all dressed up in Olympic regalia. The only presence of the Games elsewhere in Italy had been on Coke bottles. This was great.

A TV in the bar at the Train Station showed a man in spandex striking a fiery anvil with a prop hammer. The Opening Ceremonies had started.

We set off on foot in the direction of what appeared to be bus routes. I made sure that our path to the stadium (perhaps we'd see the torch?) ran past the athletes' village: a giant housing complex that was temporarily deserted but well-guarded and spotted with flags of the residents.


(More Eastern Europeans than you'll see during the entire Summer Games)

The city was a ghost town with nary a bus or taxi to be seen. Things became clear when we finally reached the one-block police perimeter set up around the Stadium. Anyone out and about that night was inside that mass of spotlights, blue flashes and thundering bass. They were the most expensive tickets you could get.


(That house is a-rockin.)

We ended up hunting down a taxi and rolling in to our hotel in time to watch the lighting of the torch. Had we stayed within a block like I'd wanted, we would've felt the heat from the ring of fire they set off.

The 30-minute walk to the Medals Plaza the next morning. was an amazing glimpse of the city. Mountains in the horizon is something I'm used to and have missed for these 45 days. It all had a very slight French feel, as well as 90% covered sidewalks (if you're watching on TV, you'll see a bunch of colorful arches in the decoration banners at venues . . . these are distinctly Torino) and more spectacular statued plazas than you could curl a stone at.


(An instant favorite, pointing us towards the medals plaza.)

I would go back even without the Olympics. In fact, I am. And I'm taking you with me. There's the National Cinema Museum (it's inside the Mole Antonella - the steepled dome visible on the skyline and in postcards), the National Automobile Museum, parks and sports fields, and, of course, mountains, Gandalf, mountains. Oh, and the Shroud of Turin, upon which the body of Jesus was buried. True.

The walk to the Medals Plaza was the prime shopping street - like woah - including one of the three Olympic Stores that had a half-hour wait just to get in. For all you soccer fans, I also went by a very large, very refined Juventis team store, where the boys in black and white were on large posters doing model poses.


(The street also had cool orange spike displays, each spike labeled with an event name)

The medal ceremonies take place in a HUGE plaza that is built around a castle (as opposed to some wimpy garden or fountain) and now includes dense crowds of tourists who just want a peek inside. Tickets to the ceremonies can't be purchased, but they're free. Figure that one out and let me know.


(The old and the new)


(They blared national anthems all day, and corresponding visitors would flock to them)

The hunt for tickets took us to the Sponsor Village, host to giant buildings for Coca-Cola, Eurosport, and the infamous Atrium - Torino 2006's greenhouse for spectators. It's a hot little glass dome structure that housed GE's executive lounge high above the huddled masses yearning to GET TICKETS.


(At least somebody's happy)

It was a deli-style process of pulling a number and waiting for it to be called. We had 45, and the sign said 26. Not bad until we discovered that we held 45 D and the sign was for 26 B. It would be three hours before we had the chance to purchase the only tickets left: Women's Hockey, USA vs. Switzerland. No men's luge (because the time had passed), no men's downhill, no ski jumping. During that waiting time I shot some photos for Dad, drank some hot chocolate (as rich but not as good as the one in Paris), and got stickered by a man on rollerskates on behalf of Samsung.


(The ice skating ring around the statue that resembled a trout farm when open and crowded)

On the bus to hockey, I met a star. The aunt of forward Katie King (#20) and other parents were sporting their journeyman's jackets with the embroidered names of the Olympics they saw their girls at on the back. This would be Katie's last Olympics, and we were instructed to cheer her on specifically.

The Torino Espozisioni (look for it on TV!) was a slew of Americans. Practically everyone in the building spoke English, save the Swiss team and the Italian ushers. In fact, by complete random chance, in the huge foyer before the game, I met my roommate Aaron's prom date. Here in Torino. Complete chance. Bellingham is everywhere. We had matching cowbells.


SURPRISE, AARON!

The U.S. ended up killing the Swiss 6-0, even scoring with two players in the penalty box. Equally as entertaining was the pack of cheerleaders that came out in the aisles wearing colors guaranteed not to be biased: orange, white, gold, and iridescent. So was the first Olympic event I had ever attended.


(Them's tough girls)

After celebrating with a shopping spree at the Olympic Superstore and enjoying a Kebab at 1:00 am on the strangely packed promenade, we continued the long walk home. Then, there was a vision. Of home. And of the future. It came to me in the form of a log cabin and a giant maple leaf between old Italian grey stone. At first, it seemed to strange to be true, a sort of Olympic mirage. I was in Whistler when they learned they would host in 2010 . . . maybe there was someting in the kebab? I walked up to the Native-American inspired door and peered around it. Inside there was a mask, a fireplace, photographs of bears and pine trees and orca whales. This was Vancouver's preview, as paid for by British Columbia. For 20 minutes, in the cold of Italy and breathing on the window, I was home. I could taste the syrup.


(Pretty cool, eh?)


(Count on it!)

Tickets or not, we were going to the mountains. There were a train and a bus away, approximately 2 hours in transit through cool tiny towns and villages (I have pictures) and past a mountain that has a French peak (explained by the Italian behind us as the "largest border fortification in the world"). The mountain village would be amazing for a ski trip, and had it not been for speed skating I would've found a pair of boots and skis and been lost forever.


(The skiers and such live up here in the mountains where they belong)


(Notice the crowd and read on)

The busses were a messy and violent affair. As you may have read in the post about the soccer game, the Italians do not know how to wait in line or what a line is. Hence a crowd of 400 people up in Sestriere Colle trying to get on a 45-person bus. My scarf was ripped off and almost lost forever. But I was the alpha male of our now expanded group of Sienens, and it was my duty to push the Italian men back. I'm tough.

We almost missed speed skating. The bus and train back from the Alps was excruciating, and I did not have my confirmation number (it was in my checked bag at the train station) and we were forced to scalp tickets for 30 each. Thus, in total, we had each paid 100 and ended up in the cheapest seats.


(The Palavela on the outside. I wrote an English paper on it equating it to an "exciting melon.")


(The Palavela interior, just like you see during figure skating.)

At least there was still Apollo Anton Ohno, right? The finest athlete we were sending to the games, the one who takes on the nation of South Korea and wins. He held his own in the first heats, and was in a solid second with two laps to go when I took this picture.



Notice anything wrong? I sure did. I looked up after it was on my screen to see him falling out of the race, so far as to wind up in 4th. Just my rotten luck to get this as the most memorable shot. He wouldn't make the finals. Not exactly . . .

There are so many untold stories and photographs, I could talk for ages. But you don't know any better, and you'll have to leave them to your imagination for now. For example, Team Gold had a fourth member from Oklahoma from Hockey to the mountains, but for all we know she's somewhere in Oulx. Are you curious about a Dutch squad of coaches? I have a story on that one. Plus, there is a whole lot that went down with Apollo behind the scenes that NBC, the US Olympic Committee, and your mother don't want you to know about. But we saw it all and we have pictures. I'll show them soon. But really I will.

I have to go back.

I never saw the torch for myself.

Check-In

I apologize, but I have homework to do here. As well as fun to have. As well as sleep to get, as the trip home from Torino was the reddest of eyes.

You'll hear about Venice, Assisi and Torino very soon.

Monday Mourning Quarterback

I've been this sad, and I've been this tired, but I've never dealt with a combination of the two.



Super Bowl XL aired at 12:30 am here, and was not finished until 4:30 am. We did not see the commercials, and the announcers were dubbed in Italian. The Aussie Pub was crowded, the television was tiny, but the fans were there as best they could be.

I was proud of the Oregonians and Californians and Massachusettians that not only filled the place, but put up with the high-fives and swear words at that horrid hour of the night. We nestled in a makeshift hawk nest in the back on both sides of the miniature wall. We took copies of the Seattle Times, Seattle P-I, King County Journal, USA Today from the Monday after the NFC championship that my family sent me and cut them up and taped them to the walls. It was the best we could do. Of the crowd, there were about six or seven of us that felt the full effect, including Taylor, Katie, and Tim (fingers pictured below).



At 2 o'clock, the bar was legally closed. The curtains were drawn and we were not allowed to raise our voices above a hush for the entire second half so that we would not wake the apartments above us who would call the police and raise all sorts of trouble. I didn't truly know anyone with me (not like the people I usually watch the game with) and I couldn't fully trust them despite the sharpied "12" on their hand or the makeshift Seahawk apparel. This, combined with the insomnia, made the entire experience seem false; I'm still waiting for the game to be played.

The game I saw was a bit of a nightmare. Shaun Alexander was nameless. Jerramy Stevens was dropping passes. Penalties were flying every time there was hope. You knew you weren't watching a comeback, but rather another dramatic twist in the Steeler's victory story. This was exactly what the Super Bowl would've been like if the 2003 or 2004 Seahawks had somehow made it, only we would've expected it of them. These were the 'Hawks we'd thought we'd never remember.

Now comes the conspiracy theory. The holding penalites on special teams were a pain and maybe legit, but the pass interference call on Darrell Jackson's touchdown was extremely questionable and the Rothelsburger helmet touchdown was like a bad joke (this already happened to the Hawks in a playoff game against the Jets when Vinny Testeverde's helmet crossed the goal line and the refs saw it as the ball, thus prompting the NFL to begin using video replay the next season). They were terrible calls that changed the game. It was like having east-coast bias there on the field, the only place where the game can be the game and the Seahawks could finally silence the critics. You could see the atrocity when the refs got greedy and tried to rule Matt Hasselbeck's drop at the end of the run a fumble. There was no logical explanation, and the play was reversed after wasted time. They just lost their heads.

It was all too much for the Seahawks. There was too much time to break the momentum and the Steelers were just good enough. It was Seattle against the world and it was just too much.

Let's see the October - January Seahawks again. In the meantime, I've been trying my best to console the other Seattlites. When you love one of our teams, you promise you'll get hurt. It comes with the territory. And while they cried and kicked the ancient walls of Siena last night, I continue to walk slowly with my chin on my chest today, and probably tomorrow.

Bittersweet Symphony.

Ho Mangato Gelato

The Paris post is finally finished! I've also gone back and talked back at a few of your posts. I simply like the last word.

Since our return from Venice, it's been getting balmy in Siena. The weather heated up to the May in Seattle equivalent today, and the sunset over Tuscany (and over St. Catherine's from our perspective) was reportedly incredible. I was making an omelette before Hurricane Californiagirls wrecked our kitchen for the 14th consecutive night, so I missed it.

The weather was so warm, in fact, that laying out on the sienna (the color) expanse of the Piazza del Campo - moving only to avoid the swaing shadow of the tower - with a strawberry gelato was not unreasonable. In fact it was quite common. This being a week and a half before the start of the Winter Olympics.

The Venice journey is the next post up.