Experience means taking everything in

I love it when life imitates art. This week my life has read very much like “Where the Wild Things are.” A tantalizing kid’s book about a boy who is transported to an island inhabited by giant, hairy, kind monsters. If I remember right, the boy on the island was pleased to monkey around with his vertically blessed buddies; however, he never had to interview them!

Perhaps my life-long dislike for basketball is really some Freudian suppression of a desire for height. Every day this week I have traipsed out to a basketball venue only to have sweat drip on me from the towering people above. My voice reaches each player (yes, the women too) like a child-like gust of air and I often have to ask him or her to speak down to me instead of speaking up. I spoke with Marc Gasol of Spain the other day, a former NBA player and current giant. When I first saw him I was deeply distracted by his shaggy hair and beard, they only enhanced his likeness to a giant tree. He was sitting on the court being stretched by his trainer as some of his teammates exchanged remarks in Spanish and others continued their winding-down practice with a few nonchalant baskets.

As I stood waiting for interviews, I was either percieved as a water girl, doping police or a blue-eyed Chinese volunteer (yes, it has happened), rarely am I seen as a journalist, and that is another tale of frustration. Anyway, seeing as he was busy for the moment I turned my attention to his teammate Jose Calderon (a current NBA player, I’m told). “Jose” I whispered behind his head as he laced his large shoes. He looked up as if water had dripped from somewhere not as if I had just delicately whispered his name. I walked around so that he could see me. His head was even with mine as he sat and I stood. But he was quite accommodating and spoke with me, although a little more diplomatically than I would have liked, I still got my quotes. My time on the island of giants wasn’t over just yet, I quickly went back to Marc, waiting as Spanish journalists interviewed him and frustrated me. His seven-foot tall self stood two feet taller me and I had to instruct him to look down when I called his name.

In all my basketball glory, I have to admit that I miss archery. I miss its simplicity and passion. I had formed a bond with a lot of the athletes and they began to recognize me. Including Gold medalist, Viktor Ruban. No, I was not working the night he won. I had worked an earlier shift, but found out later that my lovely blue-eyed Ukrainian had beat out the Koreans. I was ecstatic. I interviewed Ruban the first day of competition with an incompetent translator. Despite the fact that his (probably) enthralling words were misconstrued, I knew he was being frank and probably weaving some marvelous quote for me to submit. Sadly, things were lost in translation that day, but I interviewed him several times afterward. He was always the only Ukrainian willing to speak, and the only archer whose eyes sparkled when he smiled. In case you haven’t noticed, I developed a small crush on Viktor Ruban and he quickly became my favorite male archer (although I did like Brady Ellison from the U.S., I interviewed him as well, but his eyes didn’t sparkle).

So things at the Olympics are going well still. I feel the energy slowly winding down with the week. As athletes and students prepare to go home to the respective countries, I will wait with China for a little longer. Most of my group will leave next week, and return to the mundane streets of Columbia. Perhaps meal time will be a little more boring when you’re not tasked with guessing what you’re eating, and maybe some of us will miss that. For now though I’m happy to relax in China and allow the slow panic of job searching to remain at bay for another month.

I was talking to my parents on Skype this morning. Which reminds to digress for a just a minute, Skype is a lovely little invention and if anyone is terribly missing my face ;-) then let me know and we can chat for a bit through this fabulously free gadget. Anywho, so I was talking to my parents relaying something that happened to my roommate and me a while ago. They suggested I regale y’all with it too, so cue the flashback music:

It was one of our first weeks here back when mealtime resembled packs of hunters and gatherers scavenging for food. On one of our many food-investigating trips, Laura and I stumbled on a campus canteen that we had been to on our very first night in China. Problem 1: the entire menu was in Chinese. Problem 2: we don’t speak Chinese. Problem 3: unlike on the first night, we didn’t have any Chinese helpers to order for us. Okay, Laura expresses to me that she would like Kung Pao Chicken. Unfortunately, while I understand English moderately well, I don’t make Kung Pao Chicken and thus can’t help her or myself. Having already gotten lost going to Tian’anmen with our poor pronunciation saying “kung pao chicken” yielded mixed looks of frustration, amusement and apathy.

“I got this,” my creative roommate says, then proceeds to fold her hands under her arms and flap her elbows. “Cluck, Cluck, chicken,” she says looking hopeful at the now shared looks of amusement from the staff. No sign of understanding though. Okay. Laura ups her performance and bobs her head along with flapping “Cluck, chicken? NO?” My speech has been impaired by laughter, and when I’m finally able to wrench my eyes back open and blink through the tears, she is gallivanting down the aisles of tables looking for somebody who is eating Kung Pao Chicken. “You!” I hear her yell, “I got this, Molly, I got it,” she mutters more to herself than to me. My face now resembles the Chinese look of amusement and confusion as Laura steals a menu from the counter. “What are you eating,” I hear her enunciate from 20 feet away, the man points to the menu, and Laura's smile returns. “Xiexie, xiexie,” she says before skipping back to the counter. “I want this” she announces pointing to where the gentleman had pointed a second ago. “Oh Kung Pao Chicken,” the cashier says as if it was the easiest order she had ever received before she proceeds to put in the order.

Finally, I wanted to add a brief report about my visit to the Bird’s Nest last week. Being on the Olympic green is like being in the World’s embassy. It’s neutral and there are no country real lines. Yes, people show their support and love for Russia, Australia, Ukraine, China, Uzbekistan, Tinidad and Tobego, on and on, but as you walk down the lighted sidewalk and gaze at the uniquely beautiful architecture, you see people flashing their country flags and shouting innocent “hellos” or “nihos” to everyone. Languages dissolve with the fading sun, and attentions turn to the sporting event. The only rules you need to understand about track is to run, you don’t really need to know any language to understand that. I saw Usain Bolt break the world record. I celebrated with the entire stadium as he energetically dashed around to Bob Marley’s tunes wordlessly bouncing along with him. We didn’t care that he wasn’t from the U.S., he did something amazing, and we were amazed!

P.S. I'm sorry the photos don't really match the text, but I had so many to share! Enjoy!

Experience means comfort

UPDATE!:

Courtesy of BOCOG, we have scored tickets to a track and field event on Saturday. Please revel at my photos! :-) I get to go to the Bird's Nest! YIPPEE!




I have been in China a long time. I’m starting to feel as if I have lived my whole life here. Not because I fit in particularly well, it’s more because forced comfort has a way of becoming real. Maybe life should really only be measured in months not years and decades. I hardly feel the same now as I did before and for that my life is now changed. The luxuries of a common language and heritage seem to be from a different life now. Walking across stage at graduation, seeing Dave in concert and sitting at a bar in Chicago have all faded as part of a mirage of somebody else’s life.

Despite the still unfamiliar food and undesirable smell, I have grown comfortable here. Enough so that my mind no longer wanders as much to the people at home watching the games so much as it does to those participating in them. In many ways going home seems like an end to everything, and that is more than scary. At least here, in my unknown and unpredictable environment, I have a purpose. I’m “Molly, Olympic flash-quote reporter,” and my skills are needed, even wanted. It’s ironic that I have a more solidified identity in China than I do back home, and that makes comfort for the time easier.

The Olympics began and the world spilled over into Beijing. The influx of Westerners has downgraded us from mini-celebrities to… commodities. Our private viewing of Beijing has ended as the world’s flags flank all sides of the streets and experience what we have known for months. When we see a fellow foreigner stalking his map, circling a street like a vulture, it’s as if we are sharing a private joke with ourselves; I feel as if I can relate more to the Chinese than the Westerners at times, and it was my alone time with them that allows such a response.

Of course, the Chinese and the Americans are not alike. We all know that. At times I feel as if we are timid animals, slowly observing each other, curious enough to stare, but never to interact. Like children parallel playing, we know we are alike in some ways, but much too different in others to ever forge true friendship. At work we segregate ourselves. It’s not out of malice or disgust, but more out of general boundaries. We are the children in a china (excuse the pun) shop, told to look but not touch. We are forever observing and absorbing but rarely interacting. It’s just how it is.

I’m sorry that my only report in days is a vague, dramatic description of my mental stability. I have spent the last four days in the clutch of Archery, and have three to go. It has become oddly therapeutic, and for once I feel like I’m (sometimes) doing it right. My round, freckled face has become familiar to many of the Archers and most of the time they are happy to oblige my pestering request for answers. I have seen several cry and other’s redden at the loss of medals. I participated in a medal press conference and chilled when the athletes held up their Gold, Silver and Bronze medals merely feet away.

I’m all too happy to be here, all too happy to see athletes and know that they are real people. To see them cry, laugh, breathe and ache as we do. And even when I’m running to them with my ONS bib and fanny pack draped across my back, praying that I catch their last sentence, facial expression, or best of all, their attention, I don’t envy them. I was more excited when a reporter from BBC tapped my colleague and me on the shoulder after we had secured an interview with Alison Williamson, a Bronze medalist in 2004, to secure a simultaneous interview. I was even more excited when the reporter’s questions turned up little from the athlete, and I pulled her aside for a second interview and better quotes. And my heart fluttered once again when my blatant stubbornness and attitude was the only reason I, and about 20 other reporters, received comments from a well-known archer (it’s a good story ask me about when I come home). For me this is stardom. While I miss the calm days when it was just the Chinese and us, I enjoy the atmosphere of the Olympics and the camaraderie that truly seems to infiltrate cultural barriers.

Experience sometimes means a "brief"

Extra! Extra!

Yes, I know better than to begin anything with a cliche, however, in the spirit of limited creativity and time I will make an exception. The thrilling sport of Archery begins today and my cohorts and I have mixed zone passes (I will explain later) to the Games! While y'all are all nestled warmly in your beds, I will be in the media war zone of the much anticipated sport of Archery.

Ok, so only Robin Hood is flipping news channels cursing at the lack of broadcast.

This entry is meant to be quick, so here we go; I'm certain that my curious little readers want to know how the Opening Ceremonies went and if I got my nosy journalism-self inside any of the action....

No, long long story, but it turns out that I can literally get closer to the Pentagon than the Bird's Nest and in fact had trouble getting close to the Subway. So, in all my Olympic journalism glory, turns out I'm not so cool after all. Hmmm...oh well. I get to interview athletes today!

UPDATE!

Here are some videos of my roommate's and my attempts to get to the Opening Ceremonies on 08/08/08 and some scenes from the insanity of it!







Enjoy your sleep, watch those archery results.

~Molly

Experience means being mum

The sweltering temperatures and excited streets tell me that it must already be August and time for the Olympics. Along with everything, I have assumed the ability to disappear and I blame August for that. I have replaced my frequent trips to blog with bus rides and a cow-like six flags uniform, which would turn Angelina Jolie frumpy and designates me as a stupid English speaker who gives away her time and skills for free.

Hopefully people don’t get too used to that, because when I finally reach the U.S. again I intend on spending buckets of money on food. Edible food. I might miss the eloquent green glow that Beijing rice and mystery meat so uniquely evoke upon me, but I would intensely love some of my mom’s cooking right about now. Hell I wouldn’t mind some of my sister’s cooking!

My regimented meal of crackers, bread and peanut butter has gone relatively unchanged (except for last week when I slipped and bought corn bread. No, no, think literally), but just about everything else in my leisurely tourist lifestyle has gone awry in exchange for Olympic zoo-ery.

Unfortunately, I have exchanged my nonchalant comments and writings for “mum” and I am limited in both time and what I’m actually allowed to say. Censorship is a dirty word, but NBC owns the Olympics and Al Gore owns the Internet, so I best keep my mouth, or fingers, quiet on many fronts.

What can I tell you? Hmm…well I have met athletes. I have met very cute athletes. I have met very ugly athletes. I have interviewed several athletes. Let’s be honest though, how many of you have your quiver full of arrows and bucket hats in anticipation for archery? That’s what I thought. So you’re probably not concerned with whom I have spoken, and maybe not anticipating their quotes as much as my own. Well bottom line, I have talked to some people, I have watched some people, I have eaten a lot of….rice. I have yet to be arrested, and that suits me just fine! Ask me when I’m once again cradled in the arms of the first amendment about my multitude of experiences that would have rendered that previous statement false, but please not now.

Perhaps it is by some off chance that I matter among the millions of volunteers and workers it takes to nurture the Olympics, but it is more likely just my mad English skills and beating heart that have lead to a transfer to basketball after my love affair with archery. But, remember the yin and yang? Light and dark? Good and bad? Good: I’m covering basketball with a very high possibility of meeting Kobe Bryant and Lebrone James. Bad: I’m only covering the practices. Now I know, I’m a 5’ tall Jewish white girl, why would I want to talk to basketball players, and how are they even going to see me? It is quite simple, the snickers and passive approvals of my archery assignment will soon be replaced with cries of jealousy. Kobe and Lebron are tall, but I’m loud and this white girl can jump.

My diploma is in the mail and barring any dogs or strong gusts of wind, should be designating me as another scumbag journalist in the coming weeks. However despite all of this, I must continue to appease professors and write papers. So I’m off to whip together another masterpiece of the written word, or at least string some coherent sentences together. In the meantime, guys, please don’t be worried if my presence on here wanes even more. With my speech barred and my schedule jammed there is little to say and little time to do it. Know that I haven’t forgotten y’all. Much love.

~Molly