No, I don't speak English

Carol, BJ and I got into Paris a day before the team so that we could meet the players and other staff upon arrival the following morning. That meant meeting in the lobby at 7:00 a.m. to head to the terminal for the first arrivals Friday morning. But it also meant that we would be able to spend a few hours in the afternoon walking around Paris, looking for the storybook character Madeline and her friends.

We stayed at the airport hotel, which is a block from the train station. Carol and I had both been to Paris before, but BJ had not, so we purchased our train tickets and headed into town. It was about a 20-minute ride that put us right at the Notre Dame. First things first, a meal was in order. After sandwiches and coffees that added up to over $50, we felt a little more refreshed. We also realized that Paris was expensive. Nevertheless, the café was situated on the corner by the Notre Dame so we took our lives in our own hands and crossed the street to the entrance of the cathedral.

No sooner had we started walking across the plaza when we were approached by a teenaged girl asking if we spoke English. Don't remember who said yes (not me, I'm the insensitive type and ignored her), but then we found out that all she wanted was money. Something about Bosnia, etc. Turns out that was to be the theme of the day, "do you speak English?" was asked whenever we were nearby any type of monument or artifact. It got old. "NEIN!" I barked once.

Okay, so the Notre Dame is very lovely. But it's way too commercial in a sense. They ask for money for just about everything. Entrance is free, but every chapel has some sort of sign asking for Euros. It's supposed to be a house of worship, but people were gawking, talking, being loud and taking flash photography. That never would have happened at St. Peter's Cathedral in Vatican City. Trust me, I've been scolded there by a young altar boy, who then led me to the back of the cathedral to Michalangelo's La Pieta where he motioned for me to kneel, pray and think about what I'd done. But I digress. That's another story.

We left and wound our way up the Seine, past the Louvre, to the Arc de Triomphe and finally to the Eiffel Tower. Along the way, walking down the Champs Elysees, we were approached by a girl who asked us if we spoke English (go figure). This girl was Asian, which differentiated her from the other girls. But not by much. There was still some sort of scam going on. She wanted us to go into the Louis Vittan store and buy her a purse ... something about them only selling her one and she wanted he other color also, but they wouldn't ... whatever. I finally told her that the store was in the opposite direction (two blocks down) and that we were late for something (with my voice definitely giving the message to shut up, we're not falling for this scam). By the time I had finished talking there were two or three other people around us and it seemed as if they were going to try and pickpocket us or something like that. Dude! We just want to see the city!

We finally continued to the Arc, all the while I'm looking at the cobblestones of the Champs Eleysees and marveling at how guys with skinny tires can actually RACE on the street! And the final day of the 2005 Tour de France was in the pouring rain, no less!

After having a look around (we didn't go up, but we did go through the tunnel and popped up under the Arc), it was time for the Eiffel Tower. Maybe it's age, maybe it's over-thinking things, but I think I've developed a very small fear of heights. I did not like the top. Not at all. So we headed back down. Partially on the stairs, which was cool ... but never ending. After a stop for a pastry and coffee (when in Paris afterall), we found the train station, hopped aboard and snoozed practically all the way back to the airport.

I got one more day in Paris since our coach was delayed a day and I had to stay behind to meet her on Saturday. However, I didn't venture downtown. Maybe I should have taken advantage, but after a 6:00 a.m. wake up, followed by several hours running around the airport meeting players and staff (by the way, Taj was right, "Charles de Galle is SO ghetto."), I returned to the hotel for a nap and then worked the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.

After meeting Anne, who looked ghostly ashen at baggage claim, we found our driver and headed north and into history.

But more on that later.

Game On!

Game on!
Vienna - Sopron - Vienna
After my little 36-hour layover in Colorado Springs, I found myself in Vienna. I'm not sure if I had jet lag or I was just tired, but instead of working out or doing work I decided to check out the back of my eyelids. Four hours later I awoke feeling a little better. Carol, Ellis and I ventured across the street to the airport and hopped on a train bound for Vienna. Ellis has never even been to Europe before and Carol spend a semester abroad in Vienna so she gave the quickie walking tour (I've been there several times, but it's always a good place to visit) and I was freezing and hungry. All I wanted, all I had dreamt about for the past week in fact, was Nurenburger bratwurst, kartoffelsalat and a large German beer. While that dream was not to be realized, we did eat underground in a nice little bomb shelter-turned beer hall. Good times.

The team arrived the following day and we were off to Sopron, Hungary (pronounced SHOW-prawn). After a couple of days of practice we took the entire team, minus one person with a sore back, across the border to Vienna. It was snowing so the walking tour was out of the question, but we did drive around the city and saw most of the sights from the comfort of the tour bus. We had to hit a Viennese café and then ended up back in the bomb shelter for dinner before returning to Sopron.

I'm not sure if it was the same night or the next night, but Carol and I walked to a pub a block from our hotel. There were two four-tops, numerous two-tops and the bar, which had a restaurant on the other side. I mention the tables because Carol and I took one of the four-tops, the other one was in use already, and settled in with a large Soproni beer. Enter four Hungarian men. They look around and can't find a place to sit so we give up our seat and take a two-top. Throughout the course of the evening whenever people left the restaurant, walked through the bar on the way outside, they'd stop to talk to one of these four men. The same one. Shake hands, jovial chatter, kiss kiss on the cheeks, the whole nine yards.

So as we're leaving we stop by the table to look for Carol's diamond on the floor (it fell out of her ring and I noticed it while we were there) and we start chatting with "The Mayor," as we've dubbed the guy, and his friends. Turns out they don't speak much English, but we get by with German and this is what we know:

• They're all friends from waaaaay back
• One guy lives in Budapest, but his wife (who's back at the house in bed) lives in Sopron and he comes home on the weekends (obviously to see his friends and not her)
• Another guy has been married four times and will never marry again (but wouldn't mind a girlfriend)
• The Mayor is actually a photographer for the local paper.
• Carol's diamond was never found :-(

Here are a few more musings on life on that trip ... people I travel with (team members, etc.) when walking around Vienna had this to say about shops like Swatch (Swiss) and The Body Shop (English), "hey! This is like being in America! They have all these American stores!"

Three of us went out the final night and hung out with the management of the Sopron team. The picture of all of us in the English pub is what you see above.

And so it goes.

FYI

Just to let you know ... I really do like to tour and see new things. The issue with this trip is that I have yet to make it to a town that I haven't been to before. Of course the exception to that is Sopron, but that's five square blocks and doesn't really count.

If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Poland

I am reminded at times like these of an old movie of a similar title. At any rate, we're now in Poland on the Baltic coast, in the tri-city metropolitan area (and I use that term loosely) of Gdynia, Gdansk and Sopot. For you history buffs, this is the land of Lech Walesa the Polish labor leader who started his play at the shipyards about a mile or so up the coast from where we're staying. There's a large granite memorial on the pier commemorating his labor movement (I surveyed it last time I was here). The Gdansk airport is now officially the Lech Walesa International Airport. My room couldn't get any smaller. Well, I suppose it could. I HAVE had one room smaller than this, but it was in a tiny hotel in Tokyo. I haven't been in many hotel rooms smaller than my kitchen, but this definitely would fit into that space. Put it this way, I could sit on my toilet and work on my computer that's sitting on the table that serves as a desk. I could also work on the computer from my bed. It's that small.

As mentioned, we're staying near the coast, about eight blocks from the Baltic Sea to be exact. After lunch and a quick post-lunch nap I ventured out for a 45-minute run along the beach. There were people strolling everywhere, older women in fur coats and hats, older men in their wool coats and hats, young teenagers in love making out on a park bench (no wool or fur, purely synthetic), families kicking a soccer ball around, much of what you'd expect to find in the summertime along a beach. Only these people had many more layers on. I've run along beaches all over the world, from Florida to California, Australia, Portugal, Spain, all around the Med Sea area, Greece ... you get the point.

Until today I have NEVER run on a snowy beach. It truly was an exhilarating experience. The cold wind was blowing in from the north and every now and again the packed snow gave way to frozen sand. There were a few spots where I could run for awhile right down by the waves lapping at the beach. It became a source of amusement for me to move at just the right moment so as not to get my shoes wet because, as you can only imagine, it's pretty freezing in these parts at this time of the year. Normally in the summertime I take my shoes off at the end of a run along the beach and wade in the water. It's usually a refreshing feeling.

Not so much this time.

I thought about Ernest Shackleton and his experiences in the waters near the South Pole. No matter how miserable it would have been to get my feet wet, which would no doubt have resulted in something close to frost bite at these temperatures, unlike Shackleton I would have still had the luxury of a hot shower and warm, dry clothes awaiting me at the end of the run.

Life is truly good.

Do Not Leave Your Bags Unattended At Any Time

Sounds like sage advice, especially when you're traveling internationally and your bags are marked "USA" everywhere.

It would seem, however, that the crack security staff we have here with the team doesn't seem to think it's a problem to simply walk away from a cart full of large USA bags. I believe there were five in all. I was still out at the bus helping to unload and organize things, sending people in with bags and full carTs of bags, things like that.

So I'm walking inside with our doc when I spy, in the corner right inside the doorway, the abovementioned cart. Needless to say I was a little miffed at that. I mean, come on! Who in their right mind leaves a pile of bags unattended at a busy airport in this day and time?

Why, it would have to be our security force of course. Unfreakinbelievable. When I asked him about it I got some lame excuse about how the wheel was not working. Hello! Don't you think someone in our party would be walking through the door shortly and would be able to fetch a new cart? Can't you deal with a broken wheel!?!? Irritating. (Sidebar: I pushed the cart to where it needed to go, despite the phantom bad wheel.)

My Gold Medal Day in Torino

Final Days
So I'm a little delayed (as usual) in updating this blog. Sometimes I'm just having too much fun living life!

Passion Lived There
In the mountains that is. You couldn't really tell that there were Olympic Games taking place in the city until you approached the venue. About two blocks from each venue signage started to spring up like springtime daffodils. Spurts of color among the dreary grey of the city. That's about I have to say about that for now. It was strange, walking around this city during an Olympic Games I could easily go 10-20 blocks without seeing a person or a sign pertaining to the Games.

THE GOLD MEDAL DAY ....Final Thursday of the Games (Feb. 23, 2006)
Okay, so each Games produces one day where everything comes together. Whether it's getting tickets you never thought you'd see or making your way through the Mag & Bag without incident or simply having fun with friends, there's always that one day. That one glorious day when you face not a hitch or a problem or even a slight blip of a trip-up. My Gold Medal Day in Torino was February 23, 2006.

Choco Tour / Gold Medal Day
Before I give you links to the day, I must tell you how I came to find out about the Choco Tour. I was taking a break on Wednesday evening, fought my way through the smoking hall and found myself ordering a slice of pizza (who would have thunk!?), when I turned and saw two newly-made friends standing in the pizza place eating a slice of their own. Being the shy, silent type, I went over and joined invited myself into their conversation.

The duo were talking about this fantasy I had only before dreamed about ... a Choco Pass for a Choco Tour. Wow. My eyes bugged so far open that I think the guys were worried my eyes would pop out and go bouncing down the hall of the MPC. But no, I just stood there stunned at the idea that you could pay 10 Euro for this booklet containing chocolate coupons and a map of the city. The map has points on it that coincide with the various confectionaries around town. All you have to do is follow the map, walk into a store, hand them a coupon and say, "choco pass?" in an unassuming tone and THEY GIVE YOU CHOCOLATE!!!

Mind you, this is no ordinary chocolate. The chocolate you receive from these gods of cacao is orgasmic. It's like nothing that's ever passed through your lips, melted on your tongue and slid down your throat. Wow. I've had some good chocolate in my day, but the different choices we were given that day makes a Milka bar taste like dried up 10-year-old Easter candy. Yes, it's that good. Ginger, marshmellow, pepper, milk, dark, almonds, hazelnut, cinnamon ... you name it, they have it.

But I digress. The two asked if I wanted to join them (as if they could stop me), and so I did. Because I don't make a living doing this like they do, I'll let Joe & Vahe explain the pleasures of the now world famous Choco Tour. They were going with another guy from the USOC office and I asked if Charlie could come along as well. So with that, the five of us set off Thursday morning on an adventure of a lifetime!

Joe's take on the day // Vahe's Choco Pass postcard


Holland House / Gold Medal Night
After finishing up whatever work we had that day (and following our chocolate-induced comas), Charlie and I decided we were going to go to the Holland House. Actually, it was our mission for the past few days but by the time we were able to make it out of the MPC it would have been too late. We were told to get there before 8:00 as it gets really busy after that. Anyhoo, we finally had a chance to break free from the shackles of the MPC. We took Laura from figure skating along with us.

There were three reasons we wanted to go to the Holland House. First and foremost, there was this hat that I HAD to have. It was the Dutch ski hat - white with an orange band around the bottom of it, a small orange tulip on it, the Netherlands Olympic Team patch and, of course, the requisite Asics logo large as life on one side. Secondly, rumor had it that they served hamburgers. I know, I know. Hamburgers!? In Italy? Am I nuts? Yes, apparently I am. And so is Charlie. And Laura. But when you've been living on nothing but pizza, pasta, wine and coffee for the better part of two and a half weeks, a hamburger seems like a really good plan. The final reason for wanting to go to Holland House was the simple fact that we heard it was a great time, a giant party if you will. Complete opposite of the USA House in fact.

So we hop on the No. 1 bus right outside of the MPC and take it to the stop where we think we're supposed to get off. A bunch of Orange People were getting off at that stop so we figured we were heading in the right direction.

"Is this where we get off," inquired Charlie.
"Looks like it," I replied.
"Do you know where it is," asked Laura.
"Not exactly, but I figure we can follow the Orange People," said I.

So we disembark and begin to follow the Orange Horde when a very fine looking guy asks us if we're TRYING to get into the Holland House. We were puzzled by the way he said it, but he explained that it was not easy for non-nationals to get into the place. Soon we found out why.

It seems there is an entrance for non-Orangers and another one for natives. The Dutch line was non-existent. However, the non-nationals line featured a huge horde of people, easily hundreds, trying to make their way in. Waiting is more like it. Only a wee trickle of people were granted entrance every five minutes or so.

This fine looking guy, wearing a yellow Right to Play jacket introduced himself as Yeeeeeeeeeeee S-----------------f. Or at least that's what we heard. We asked him again, but it still came out the same. Turns out this guy competed in both the Summer (track cycling) and Winter (speed skating of course) Olympics, is an athlete rep on the board of his National Olympic Committee (or equivalent thereof) and works for Right to Play. Charlie told him that it was us who gave them the Joey Cheek audio when he announced he was giving his Operation Gold money ($25,000) to Right to Play. So Mr. S----------------f tells us that Joey, along with Johan Olav Koss of course, will be there the next night to be recognized by the Dutch for his efforts with Right to Play. I pack away that tidbit of info ... it might come in handy the following night (note: HEAVY FORESHADOWING).

Yeeeeeeeeeeee whisked us in without a hitch. Hooray for Orange!!!!

We walk into this humongous tent that has an ice rink in the center, the hot dog / hamburger stand on one side, a Dutch buffet on the other, at the far end of the rink is an elevated platform with a restaurant on top and beyond that is a rather large dance floor and then a massive stage. They also had a VIP tent off to one side ... more on that later.

There was also a skate rental place (rental is not the right word ... the skates were free) with hockey skates. Orange hockey skates. Not just the uppers / shoes were orange, but the blades also were orange. I can't stress enough how much the Netherlanders love their orange.

We decided upon the Dutch buffet instead of the burger. Good choice. Then we sat down at a big round table with an older couple wearing hats filled with Olympic pins and also covered with patches. Guess what color the hats were? Hey! You're picking up on a theme. This couple, as it turns out, has gone to every Winter Olympics for the past 45 years. I asked if they also attended the Summer Games and I got a very strange look to go with the response, "there is no skating in the summer."

‘Nuff said!

The store was sold out of nearly everything but bottle openers, men's deodorant (in orange packaging of course) and a few fleece jackets. I was bummed. No hats. But wait! There's a guy in the corner with a hat on! I ask him about it and he asked if I wanted to trade. I had been wearing the WADA faux-fur hat, creating a big buzz everywhere I went of course, for the past three days. The Games were coming to a close. I made a judgement call and agreed to the swap.

All-in-all it was a very good Gold Medal Day.

I returned to Holland House on Friday night and found out what Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee's name really was. Wanna know? You might have to check back in a couple of days (if the next blog isn't up by the time you read this one that is). I promise it's another classic story.

peace out