Experience means endings

Be sure and act smug. Hold your hand steady, let your gaze slack a bit, but not too much; they will take advantage of your naivety. Feign boredom, it helps if you sigh from time to time and chatter among your American friends. Be careful that you’re not rude; despite how they act, they will all know English. Rotate the pins on your displayed hand. Be sure to play up their value, they are ones you want to trade, the others pinned to a hat on your lap will be more desirable. Use these to get pins from past Olympics, or those from the media. People will crowd around you, only a few will have pins. Some may expect you to give yours away; they’ll wait for you to notice them. Don’t. Only respond to them if they have a pin you are willing to give anything for, but never let them know that. Others will point and smile toothlessly, ask them to trade. They will shake their hand in rejection, egg them on; show them the 2008 Mizzou pin. Don’t let their eyes stray, you have hundreds of these pins and this cute old Chinese man has nothing of significant interest in his fanny pack. Point out the 2008, he will like the number eight. Tell him it’s a lucky pin, accept any pin he offers, it’s probably his only one; don’t take buttons, they’re worthless. Tell them “xiexie,” he will walk away smiling, examining the pin from another world you have just bestowed upon him. Now, resume your smug look, it worked before.

Pin trading is as important to the Olympics as politics. The atmosphere is mostly jovial. The Chinese are arrogant when it comes to bargaining and I’m Jewish, we might as well be cousins in that regard. I rarely had to pelt out a punch over a pin, but I did tell a few insulting lurkers to “go away.” It wasn’t necessarily over the traditions of swapping, more on cultural variations of rudeness. In one instance a woman looked mockingly at our Mizzou pins as my comrade attempted to swap her. “This is not a real pin. It has nothing to do with China. It is not a pretty pin.” My annoyance over China’s vanity had already reached a critical point. I broke many of my own rules, looking away from my pins (they really will get stolen if you don’t watch them), managing my burning voice as best I could; I said, “The Olympics is about all countries, not just China.” She was taken aback by my abrasiveness. She responded merely by backtracking her comment and I turned back to my pins. I wasn’t sorry for it. Most of my opinions have, and will continue to be, kept absent from this blog. I felt justified, my reasons for why I broke cultural rules and boundaries were evident to me and to those around me, who have been here for some time. Ask me about it on Sept. 18th.

The Closing Ceremonies were that same night and after we wrapped up our last official pin trading session, four other delinquents and me gallivanted around on the Olympic Green semi-illegally. We had a couple of hours until show time, so our adventures and hunger brought us to Mickey D’s. Chinese lines are a great way to break social boundaries and bring you to question what you’re touching and what is touching you. But Chinese food lines are a fabulous place to make friends—or enemies. On this particular night I aimed to keep the woman behind me from using my back as a ramp in which to launch herself at the counter, while I attempted to lure the perverted gaze of the Chinese man to my right elsewhere. The frightened bewilderment of the man to my left distracted me from my line’s work. He shook his head at the chaos and I smiled at him. We chatted for a bit, he was an older man who was born in Spain and slightly upset by the U.S.A’s win over Espania in basketball earlier that day. But he had a ticket to the ceremonies and glowed with excitement. Despite the lack of personal space and unnecessary jostling, he truly seemed to enjoy every aspect of the Chinese culture. I got my food and with it a ticket out of the jumble, I bid him good luck and walked on. As the five of us sat at a table for two, we teetered our dinners on the table’s edge and laughed at how comfortable we had become with these situations. I looked up to see the monster crowd throwing up my new friend now jovially carrying his food. Beside us were two open seats and he and his partner joined us. The seven of us joked mostly about our run-ins with Chinese food. Their experience with the mysterious Chinese cuisine was eons better than ours, which always causes me to raise an eyebrow in confusion (but I suppose they never had to eat the free “food” at an Olympic venue). Nevertheless, we left the two to finish their fries and continued on our way to see how close we could get to the ceremonies.





It turns out tickets are necessary if you came to see the show, that is; we had no interest in viewing the ceremony inside the Bird’s Nest. The jangling bells, matching stretch suits and excited looks of the performers as they waved at us on their way inside was a far better view. Our interest waned, however, as all the excitement did compact itself into the Bird’s Nest. That is until we received a call from one of our little cohorts. She had ventured off in search of a bathroom and found herself barricaded watching athletes gaily parade into the stadium. Would we like to come? “Seriously?” was my only response. We coursed through the stragglers pacing themselves up to the stadium, which was patiently waiting for it’s last night in the spotlight. We found our little friend chatting up the guard (who was not supposed to be talking, by the way). We had front, um, barricade seats to greet the athletes. Chinese culture is relatively quiet, so let’s just say that our excitement screamed “American,” but it was worth it to see it bleed into the athletes. They were genuinely happy to see us wave at them by name. They threw pins and gifts into the crowd, and we watched each country as they made their way onto the world stage. I looked for Viktor Ruben, the Archery Gold medalist and my crush, but he wasn’t there.

I’m genuinely not sure if it is a surprise to know that the biggest, most exciting part of the Olympics, for me at least, is not the athletes. I rarely go to movies because of who is starring in them; I go for the high of being lost in something imaginary and surreal. The Olympics, to me, were like a movie; each player delicately placed and engineered to depict a persona or portray a feeling. Knowing about the Olympics, watching the games became a common thread for everybody in the city. It was the one thing we knew about each other and the one thing we could share. Like an omniscient narrator, all the readers knew what everybody was thinking, but the ending was still a surprise.
That night, after the ceremony had started and everybody was inside we walked back to the other side of the stadium. We settled on a rock just behind the Olympic flame. I kept my eyes above the stadium, watching the flame dance and swell with the performance. Every minute that ticked by the flame became more passionate. It grew, knowing it was soon to be over, and I became anxious. I wanted to record it, to watch it disappear. The five of us began to ignore the big screen cluing us in on the inside events. Nothing else seemed as important as the burning flame. We knew the end was getting closer, as the flame hedged further up in the sky, as it grew more passionate, as if fighting the end as much as we wanted to too. The five of us edged closer to the stadium, now barefoot from horsing around only moments before. We grew more silent. With the extinguished flame came a bigger finality to one adventure. For the others it meant an end to their time in China, to the trip of a lifetime that turned so unexpectedly taxing. For me, it was more than the end of this journey—I’m still here, you see—perhaps it’s childish and maybe even dramatic, but with the end of the Olympics came a signed journalism degree. The end of college, for me, the start of life and adulthood, I merely wanted to stay inside the movie, lost in the rare surreality of life.

Love to you all!

~Molly

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

Experience means rain and summer camp

I think it’s safe to say that first impressions have expired. We have been in Beijing a month now and for better or worse we have decided what it will always be for us— if I truly believed that this blog would have started out “I’m home.”— It’s very difficult to like Beijing. The noxious smells and white sky make most days gloomy. The other night I dreamt about bright blue sky, before thunder and reality awoke me. We had felt the tension of rain for weeks, seen the sky wrought with pollution and felt the sticky air offer the moisture that the environment was craving. I’ve always loved rain; the soft methodic thump can ease any tension and make sleep unavoidable. At home rain seems more innocent, not always necessary but still welcome. For Beijing its innocence is forgone by urgency. It’s not just that you can feel the pollution piling on your skin and clinging to your lungs, it’s that you can see the tops of buildings slowly blend in with the murky sky that was meant to be tinted blue.

Maybe I’m just making small talk with the weather, but my days now are rarely spruced with historical artifacts and funky foods. I have traded that all in for the glisten and glory of Olympic Archery. Happily donning our delectable uniforms four of us have swayed rhythmically on the bus that leads us to work every day. I often feel like a kid at summer camp, and maybe that’s exactly where I am. Nonetheless, I’m gaining impressionable knowledge about archery and showing off my journalism skills as well. It turns out I have them, who knew? While we have grown accustomed to the feel of being inside a venue, awe can still strike. Thoughts of the competition summon up fear and nerves and a slight respect for world’s ability to overcome what it can to compete.

I felt a little twinge of excitement and a connection yesterday as we watched the Men’s team practice, and today when we interviewed Jenny Nichols, the #1 female archer in the U.S. and #8 in the world. (In the archery world, that would be considered name-dropping, forgive me). Although we have been lumped with scores of Americans for weeks, seeing the athletes was relieving, a promise that home is still there and that we really get to share in an experience few others can counter.

I’m limited in what I’m allowed to write and to be honest a little tired. Sorry for the laxed blogging, I will try and keep up with myself. I do want to add, for those of you who may care, that I will give my regards to Lebron James when I move over to Basketball on the 16th! ;-) Take care all,

~Molly

Experience is humbling

While you can’t escape the political carnage that seems to be the side effect of every Olympics, swallowed in the masses of the country there is a hint of camaraderie and love of sport. Tibet, North Korea and Taiwan might be swear words around here but for so many it truly is about China’s spotlight year.

“I give a shit about these Olympics,” a young Chinese man told three of us as we sailed along on line five to the pearl market. “I’m going to put my ticket in picture and show my kids kids.” He wasn’t old, but he looked it. His father stood beside him and grinned at our American enthusiasm for the Beijing games. The two had spent three days and three nights sleeping on newspaper outside of the Bird’s nest to get tickets for the 100m swim. I think I would look old too. Their shirts offered proof of their ambitions; the white had browned to match the earth they had slept on but neither quit smiling. We stood and let them take our seats, “That is why you have the spirit for the Olympics,” the young man said. Despite enduring China’s heat and smog on beds of old newspaper the pair weren’t tired. They came from a different province and wanted to see Beijing museums, but they had been here before. The older man was a general in the army and that was enough to keep them off of newspapers while scrounging for Asian games tickets a few years ago. This time however, “the Olympics are fair. So we must sleep outside.”

The food sucks and I miss home every day, but the excitement is genuine and infectious. Our mere presence as Westerners incites conversations about the Olympics and elicits a glow around citizens who may have felt slightly neglected by their Western neighbors. There’s still a lot more to do, however, before the city is prepared for additional visitors. Beijing is already bulging at the sides with its current population, and I see my well-thought-out travel routines halting like the traffic once the games begin.

On another note, I had my first and so far last day of training on Tuesday. Although it was relatively uneventful, I experienced something most people never will. I got to stand on the turf for Field Hockey and sit in a vacant, echoing Archery stadium. They’re always different than you imagine. But none of us has ever experienced an Olympics without the aid of a glass screen and a cable box. It’s something that’s bigger than any one country; it’s as big as this world. It’s humbling (and corny) to know that soon the world will come to Beijing, and for two weeks seven continents will be smaller in something that is bigger than we can imagine.


Now, as promised, here are a couple of pictures of my uniform to tickle your fancy and brighten your day! Have a good laugh at my expense, I had one already.