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!