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.