He walks around the narrow streets of Sauze d’Oulx, never saying a word, never quite knowing where he’s going, never giving me even the slightest glance. But I will not forget him, not today, or tomorrow, or when I return home Monday.
He is the three-legged dog who goes nowhere in a hurry.
He is not a purebred. He’s a mutt, a mixture of a million breeds. He is small, with fall colors and slightly shaggy fur. His face is small and sad and makes me wonder if depression set in long ago. And he never stops walking with that distinctive hop, not even for an instant, at least whenever I see him.
His right front leg is missing. Since he doesn’t give interviews, I’m left to imagine what happened. Was he born this way? Was the leg the victim of an oncoming car, given the narrow width of the streets? Or did he rub a German shepherd the wrong way?
Finally: Is he a stray or does someone own him?
He doesn’t give any clues. He just keeps walking, with a hop every four steps or so, going in circles and squares, never getting to where he wants to go. Maybe he’s not going anywhere.
I seem to be the only one paying him any attention. Most of the people here behave just like the dog and keep walking, minding their own business. So maybe I should do the same. I go to a local grocery store to buy toothpaste and a pack of gum and a carton of this red orange juice that I’ve become addicted to in Italy, but have never seen in the States.
As I turn the corner, there he is again, on the move. He is the perfect example of the Olympic spirit, never allowing a simple obstacle to prevent him from winning the race, his race.
It would happen eventually. It does every Olympics. The days and weeks go by smoothly, everything’s fine, and suddenly, here comes the bus ride from hell, right on cue.
Let us first flash back to four years ago, in Salt Lake City. The airport is only about 15 minutes from town, making Salt Lake one of the best travel commutes in the country, and it’s really just a straight shot into downtown. At every Olympics, the local organizers use roughly 100 buses to transport fans and athletes and the media from one venue to another, and even from the airport. So in Salt Lake City, I land and board my bus.
One problem: The driver is from Wyoming and this is his first time in Salt Lake City.
"They told me to take a right," he said, as he pulled from the airport.
He’s actually studying directions when IT’S A STRAIGHT SHOT INTO TOWN.
It’s not uncommon for Olympic organizers to hire drivers from all over the country, drivers who sometimes don’t have the first clue about the city they’ll be working in four three weeks. This can make for some frustrating moments.
Like the other day. When a snowstorm hit the mountains, I sensed trouble and caught the first bus to Turin. Smart move, right? At least I thought so. I happened to be the only passenger, just me and a driver, neither of us knowing the other’s language too well. But, no problem. It’s a straight shot into Turin, and once there, just a few turns to the Lingotto media complex.
About 45 minutes into the trip, I notice that we’re still on the highway. I say to the driver: "Lingotto? Torino?"
He says something in Italian that I don’t understand, but his expression says "no problem."
About 20 minutes later, we’re still on the highway. And now he’s pulling into a gas station to ask for directions. This can’t be happening.
About 20 minutes after that, we’re still on the highway.
A trip that was supposed to take an hour is now approaching two hours, and after some difficulty, I finally make out the driver’s confession: He never took this route before. His usual route is through the mountains, never to the city. He was an emergency replacement because of the snow.
He says: "I’m sorry" in English.
Actually, I’m sorry.
We finally arrive in Turin, though nowhere near the Lingotto, and I ask the driver to stop. I flag down someone on the sidewalk and ask them to tell the driver how to get to Lingotto. She does. She says it’s a few turns away.
Ten minutes later, we’re still turning. That’s when I do what I should’ve done a long time ago. I ask him to let me out, and when the door opens, I scream:
I didn't want to laugh. I tried. Really hard. But I couldn't contain unleashing at least a few soft chuckles.
Not so much at her losing the gold in women's snowboard cross, because if I had that kind of lead in any Olympic event, I'd ham it up, too. Plus, I enjoy the Olympics too much to really get into bashing its athletes.
But seeing Switzerland's Tanja Frieden throw her hands in the air and wave them like she just doesn't care with her friends and teammates as Jacobellis stood like a statue three feet away was just too humorous a moment to let slide by.
The sad part is that Jacobellis will be remembered as the one who lost the gold medal rather than the woman who won a silver.
She's her inspiration, her role model, her soft shoulder in sad moments, her dry hanky in happy moments.
Basically, Sarah Hughes is Emily's sister.
And sisters are always there for each other.
It's not usually this smooth with other kid combinations. For example, brother and brother have this understanding: The oldest will pick on the youngest, starting at birth. The poor little guy will get his ear flicked, or experience the annoyance of a well-applied noogie, or always feel pressure to catch his big brother's baseball throw, which always comes too hard.
Brother and sister? They sometimes can be as compatible as dog and cat. They share a strong desire to dominate the bathroom in the morning, use the telephone during the day and own the remote control at night. Fights are common, referees are required.
But sister and sister? That is true and everlasting bliss.
That's what Sarah and Emily have, a bond strengthened by gender, by a remarkable facial resemblence, by closeness in age, by a love of shopping and manicures. And of course, by figure skating. That last part has allowed Sarah and Emily to share the unique status of being Olympians. It doesn't get any better than the older sister winning the gold medal in Salt Lake City, and four years later, the younger sister using that as motivation to reach Turin.
After another exhausting day supplying Olympic coverage to you, the reader, the bus heading to my 1/2-star hotel room went slowly though a downtown intersection. Looking out, I saw it was blocked by people, lots of "beautiful people," milling outside of a building wearing their Dolce and Armani and Prada.
Well, this looked like big news brewing, and in my duty to supply Olympic coverage to you, the reader, I asked the driver to stop and hopped off.
It was a party. A big, VIP, star-studded, Budweiser-sponsored party. I had to get in. I had to supply more coverage to you, the reader.
Using a little Yankee ingenuity and some fast New York talking, I made my way through the doors, where inside, there were more beautiful people. I was tired and my knee was still hurting, but as I milled (very slowly) past the runway models and pumping music and the free food and drinks, I felt an obligation to supply coverage to you, the reader.
So I stayed for four hours.
Folks from all over the world were there, talking, drinking and shaking tail. Beyond the massive main area was a smaller, more private section, where once again I discovered that a little New York talking can go a long ways. Now inside the V-VIP area, four bikini-wearing models were dipping their toes into a portable hot-tub. Suddenly, my knee wasn't hurting so much anymore.
On the other end of the room was none other than Barbara Bush. Not the Barbara Bush who made insensitive remarks about the victims of Katrina; the much younger one. The grand-daughter, who was holding court with a few people, some of whom I suspect were armed and looked very Secret Service-y.
Suddenly, an announcement was made: Grandmaster Flash was in the he-house!
Yes, the Maestro of the turntable, the master of the mix, was onstage, spinning some classic old school along with some P. Diddy and 50 Cent. The Winter Olympics suddenly never sounded better. He yelled: "Put your hand in the air and wave it like you just don't care," and I was just happy he didn't ask us to use our knees.
Once the house was completely rocked, the Grandmaster left and so did I. Exhausted, for sure. Dazed, a little. Sleepy, definitely.
They've put us up in a brand new high rise that'll be used as a dorm for the Politechnico, the local university, after the Games. Based on the claustophobic size of the rooms, they'd be better used as a dorm for preschoolers.
But preschoolers don't have a bottle of wine awaiting them in their room.
That's what happened the other day. I turned the key and sitting on the desk, compliments of the house, was a dark bottle. The label read: "Tenimenti La Villa" and "Fonana Fredda, Vendemmia 1999."
If anyone speaks Italian, let me know if this wine expensive or about as cheap as a can of Bud.
The gift was appreciated, but not necessary. I'm the only person I know who has never had a glass of wine or can of beer. Tasted them both in high school, almost vomited, never tried them again.
I won't discuss anything else that I've tried.
There are no bathtubs in the rooms, only showers, and like most European hotels, there's a bidet. Fifteen years ago, I didn't even know what that was. I saw this strange "toilet" in someone's house and wondered where the seat was, and why it squirted water. I didn't take a drink, however. I wasn't that stupid. I figured it was a "female thing" and moved on.
Also, the face towels in Europe are the size of hand towels in the U.S. You can imagine how much strength it takes to ring one of those out after a shower. My wrists are still hurting.
The transportation system is still not working too well. The bus from the main press center in Torino to the mens downhill event in Sestriere Borgata broke down and we had to wait for a new bus to come and get us from Torino this morning.
The knee is a trooper. The knee is toughing it out. Who knew a knee had guts?
The same knee that buckled from the carelessness of a stupid skier has forgiven me for this mistake, and is carrying me through the Olympics. Even better, the knee refused to betray me two days before the Opening Ceremony when, purely by chance, I was able to hold the torch.
Here's the deal. Me and Paul Bereswill, Newsday's trusty photographer -- who shows
The knee is a trooper. The knee is toughing it out. Who knew a knee had guts?
The same knee that buckled from the carelessness of a stupid skier has forgiven me for this mistake, and is carrying me through the Olympics. Even better, the knee refused to betray me two days before the Opening Ceremony when, purely by chance, I was able to hold the torch.
Here's the deal. Me and Paul Bereswill, Newsday's trusty photographer who shows incredible stamina for someone who underwent serious surgery not long ago, took a stroll to see the good side of Turin. To my surprise, this took almost an entire morning. We began by peeking at a photocopy of the Shroud, the sheet of linen that supposedly was used to cover Christ after his death. The real Shroud won't be on view for the public until 2025. The copy was surreal, though, and gave you chills.
Next we walked through the Palazzo Madama and down Via Po toward the Piazza Vittorio Veneto and the River Po, a very charming section of downtown that was filled with life. Then, acting on a tip he received from a fellow photographer, Bereswill led us to a small cafe that served the best hot chocolate that I ever tasted. I might need to cancel that planned trip to Hershey, Pa., when I return next month.
Of course, by this time, we were lost, but not too worried about it. A few left turns took us through an outdoor market, where nobody spoke English. Bereswill wanted to buy two oranges from one particular stand. When the lady began stuffing a dozen oranges into a shopping bag, Bereswill stopped her and held up two fingers. She said something in Italian -- I'm quite sure she was cursing -- and dumped the oranges back into the bin.
Finally, we were approached by another photographer, who said the torch run was coming our way, and should arrive in 30 minutes. We weren't in any hurry, and Bereswill needed to capture footage of Turin, so this worked out better than we imagined. I told the knee to calm down, and after 15 minutes, the word was out, and the street was filled with spectators.
Someone named Gianni Riatti, a local newspaper reporter of all people, was scheduled to get the torch relay. While he waited for the torch to arrive, he gave a quick interview to CNN International, then I tapped him on the shoulder.
"Can we get your picture holding your unlit torch?"
He nodded and turned to the photographers. It was my time to seize the moment. As he held his torch high, I grabbed the handle, turned to Bereswill and as usual, our photographer was right on the shutter.
Riatti wasn't too amused. He gently pushed my hand away and walked toward the street, accepted the torch relay when it came 20 seconds later, and off he went.
The First Family of Figure Skaters will twirl on with 17-year-old Emily ready to follow in the very large and virtually impossible skates of big sis Sarah, the reigning gold medal winner. This may not beat the inspirational tale of Kwan trying to win the only event that has escaped her. But the improbable tale of the wholesome Hughes family producing an Olympian for the second straight time will supply enough drama for TV to turn it into a reality show, a G-rated skating answer to the Osbournes.
What the country will discover is that, while she’s every bit as likeable and normal and bright as her sister, Emily isn’t ready yet to float home the way Sarah did from the 2002 Games. Most likely, this will serve as a prep course for the future, which Emily could use should she extend the family tradition beyond high school graduation and into the 2010 Games. But remember, this is figure skating, where strange stuff happens. Like this.
"Everything’s just happening so quickly,” Hughes said yesterday. “The competition is more than a week away so I do have some time. I wasn’t really thinking about the Olympics, I’m ready to compete.”
Compete, yes. Medal, probably not. But that’s really beside the point. The latest Hughes skater is still developing, still trying to land the most difficult jumps, still trying to find a winning routine and reach her peak performance, and the Olympics can only help her get there eventually.
So how do you like the Olympics, Mr. and Mrs. America?
You scrimped four years to pay for this trip. You never once ate out. You didn’t attend a single movie. You kept your 12-year-old car.
“We have no cable TV,’’ Jackie Eschenlohr said.
“Our son doesn’t know Disney characters, because we don’t have a video or DVD player,’’ said her husband, Greg Lemon.
All that sacrifice only earned this Denver couple the right to sit at in the e men’s downhill ski course and loudly ask the question Americans were asking across the Games all Sunday:
“What in the heck happened?” Lemon asked.
Call it Red, White and Blue Sunday in a way no one expected.
Red, as in speed-skater Apolo Ohno’s embarrassment at slipping, not making the finals and finishing third in the (italic)consolation(end italic) heat of the 1,500-meter event which made him golden four years ago in Salt Lake City.
White, as in get the Wite-Out for figure skater Michelle Kwan, who erased herself from the Games due to injury after being awarded a spot despite an injury a few weeks ago.
Blue for the emotions of the men’s ski team that flopped in its Super Bowl event.
“Look who won the downhill _ France, Austria and Switzerland,’’ Lemon said up in the bleachers. “After all that talk from Bode Miller about how great we were going to do, we stunk.”
Well, you know what they say at the Winter Games. Some days you get the mountain. And some days the mountain makes frost-bite look appealing.
“At least it’s a beautiful day,’’ Eschenlohr said.
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