Pull up a chair and let me tell you how much I love the Olympics.
I love the competition, I love the international intrigue, I love the stories. I actually like the way they’ve evolved, with multimillionaire professionals in everything from basketball to cross-country skiing (if you’ve ever been to Norway, you’d know) competing one day and guys next door who train when they get a chance (hello, curling) competing the next.
For a writer, covering the Olympics is radically different than covering events in the States. You ride buses with people from all over the world. And then you enter what they call a press “tribune,” (no, not a press box) to discover that some of them think they are unofficial coaches. The phrase “no cheering in the press box” has no meaning to many of our international journalistic cohorts. And wait till the press conferences. Some of them should be governed by the Marquess of Queensberry rules.
It is enlightening to be exposed to the different this and the different that you encounter on a daily basis. At least, it was that way for me during my 11 Olympics. I always found the experiences to be educational.
When you’re there, and you’re caught up with the daily buzz, it is exhilarating. Assuming your toilet flushes or your shower works, at least occasionally. But I must confess I have no horror stories to share with regard to my lodging over the years. Maybe I just lucked out.
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