Pins (saltpeter)

The cruise ship is a great place to meet fellow Murkans! A lot of family members of Olympians are staying here, so at meals (we are fed on the cruise-ship mentality that all foodstuffs must be converted to human flesh before the end, even though we are stationary) we get to hobnob with people who know people who are sometimes someone. Tres fancy, non? Last night we met the entire family of one of the USA women's hockey team players. They were very nice and now Mary stalks them constantly. We also met some families of Canadian players and I managed to remain civil most of the time, although it took all my diplomatic self-control not to start a small international incident.

What inspired me to write this post about the Amerkans on the boat (a post about other humans at the Olympics to come when I can better wield picture devices) was my most recent interaction with a woman named Gloria. Mary and I settled down for our nightly food pump (in civilized cultures known as a "buffet") at a table next to a fellow flag-donning woman. At some point she leaned over and asked us where we are from in the US, and we entered into a peasant tet-a-tet. It turns out she is the head doctor for Team USA. As in, all of them. She makes sure when they crash and burn, they don't die. At least that is what I imagine. She was staying in the Olympic village but visiting family who were on the boat. What really dazzled me was when she started chatting in basic Russian! She had studied it for the past year-ish on her own in preparation for the games. A fellow linguistic-masachist! She was self-taught but spoke very well (I can imagine the head doctor would be pretty sharp, upon further analysis) for the handful of phrases she learned. She showed me pictures from the opening ceremony--she walked--and we both chortled at the silly outfits.

In exchange for a lovely conversation in Russian and English, she gifted me (common theme? Methinks da) with an Olympic pin! Thus we get to the crux and title of this piece. Pins are a big thing for collecting and trading among Olympic Games. Someone explained protocols and social graces surrounding the auspicious event of pin trading, but I tuned out because who cares about pins? No one...until they get their first one. To join the cool kids, I bought a pin at the US house in the Olympic park. The fever came over me and I started glaring at people who eyed my sparse lanyard with hungry eyes. Gloria (doctor from before. Pay attention, dear readers!) had now added a precious piece of Olympic swag to my collection. Will upload picture in near future. Seems to be a common occurrence, so shortening it to WUPINF.

The one where I get a hat, or "Nationalism"

Some day I will be caught up on days. Today is not that day. Tomorrow does not look promising either.

Day 2 brought a number of strange occurrences, as most days in Russia do. It marked our first day in the Olympic park, rather than up in the mountain cluster. We marched through the gates with bushy tails and starry eyes. And then we saw the hike laid before us and quickly replaced our enthusiasm hats for more somber ones. The first thing that strikes you about the park is how both massive and empty it is. Not of people, there were a lot of humans that obstructed my path, but rather of points of interest. There are a few kiosks for food or provided by sponsors but they are few and far between. It was approximately a 7 minute walk to the first point of interest: the megafon building. If you recall back to your childhood (if you are an awesome 90s child) there was a toy that had pins in it that you could use to make a mold of your hand/face. Or if you are very unlucky in life, your hand-face. The megafon building does the same thing, but on the side of a wall and it uses a computer. It is awesome and terrifying and changes faces every minute or so. One minute, blank wall. Next minute, a 50-foot Uncle Vanya face is leering at you from above. Next minute, babushka is glaring at you and judging your life's accomplishments.

The next thing one might notice is the terrifying ghost park. I assume the Olympic park was supposed to have an amusement park and they built about 7 or so roller coasters. The plan must have fallen through, but the abandoned coasters still lurk in the background. It is difficult not to imagine a lonely soul riding the rides at 3am, sad but trapped in an infernal circus-hell. Or mayhaps that is just me. 

There are other things in the park but none that need mentioning now. It is mostly an empty giant concrete plateau. The torch is nice, but there's only so much one can do with a stick and a flame.

Our event that night was the women's hockey prelims: Russia vs Germany. This was my first hockey game and it was pretty brilliant. I had no horse in the race, but for self-preservation I cheered for the Russians. Germany was also comparatively not very good, so it was easy to join the raucous crowd. It was at the game that I realized my lingering penchant for nationalism. It is not surprising that a host country game would be filled with fans and cheers for Ro-ssi-ya, but the electricity that filled the room was overwhelming. I would not consider Russia a very divided country, but to see every person in one place come together and pool all of their energy for a common cause made me smile (it was probably disguised under a perfunctory smirk). Even at luge, when the Russian flew down the slopes the cheers and joy were contagious. Later in cross-country skiing, a Russian skier broke a ski in the semi finals. He was at least two minutes behind everyone else in the sprint and had to hobble through the snow on one free foot to finish the race. When he came up the hill we all shouted encouragement; he was no longer a contender but we wanted to help him complete his goal. When he slid down to the final length towards the finish, the outdoor stadium exploded into cheers, applause, and camaraderie. He put up his arms and applauded us in thanks for our support. Flags waved for the fallen soldier, the friend, and the countryman. I might've cried, if my stone cold heart and tear ducts had any muscle memory. But that was day 4. Luckily that's as exciting as day 4 gets and that paragraph saved me a blog entry. Eggcellent.

The other fascinating part about hockey was the cheerleaders. "There are hockey cheerleaders? That's news to me!" you all cry with confusion (but not fear). There shouldn't be cheerleaders at a hockey match, but that did not stop them. They stood in the aisles of the spectators and waggled their bodies arrhythmically at certain intervals, interchanging looks of boredom, arousal, and confusion. It was tres entertaining, and very odd.

Russia won a comfortable 4-1, and after that we wandered out to the park to waste time until dinner was ready. Whilst wandering by the torch, a girl approached and asked us if we spoke English. Expecting to find a fellow traveler in need, I exclaimed of course! She then proceeded to ask me general interview questions about Sochi, the Olympics, and my opinion of it all. It turns out she is a film student in Moscow and was shooting a documentary about Sochi 2014. I agreed to be part of her film and then spent approximately 2 hours in a hodge-podge of Russian and English (mostly Russian) talking about Russians, Americans, the Olympics, and boys. After getting over the general glow of dreams as a future film star, i became more wary. It was bizarre and eventually very mentally taxing. I'm also almost positive she was not filming 80%of it, as few phone's memory lasts that long. She stayed in line with us while we waited to get into the official Olympic store so we could purchase our required swag, and went in with us. We kept chatting throughout and when I found a hat I was going to get (the cheapest thing with Olympic Rings on it I could find), she demanded to buy it for me as a present. At this point my narrative can go two ways.

Situation 1: After much protest I let her buy me the hat and I was moved by the generosity of a stranger. While we had been getting to know each other for the past few hours and had lovely conversation, we were still functionally unknown to one another. The kindness of a person to exchange good conversation with a gift was both moving and a little awkward, but she restored a small bit of my faith in humanity. We exchanged contact info, parted ways, both with a song in our hearts and a new friend in our pocket.

Situation 2: After much protest I let her buy me the hat (that happens either way. it was a nice hat!) However, I started analyzing her motives more carefully. Why buy a gift for a stranger? Did she feel guilty about something that I was not aware of? What is this movie really about? I doubted in the end that she was filming any of this. I started to regret telling her about my time at the embassy and wanting to become a diplomat to better humankind and fuel my own nationalistic tendencies and blahblahblah. I regretted being such an open book when asked about more personal questions. My suspicions rose and while I gave her my correct contact info, I second-guessed if that was the right move during the 20 billion hour walk home.

I have not decided which one I want to go with yet. I first started at 1, wavered to 2 as my natural skepticism set in, and now guiltily vacillate not knowing whether to be cynical or gullible. Akh well, at least I have a hat!

But onto more savory matters. My signature is next to Putin's! When I get better able to upload photos...I will, but for now you must take my word for it. Big VP went into the Russian fan house and signed his name on a wall. So I snuck in and while no one was looking, signed my own. Buddy cops! We are practically brothers now, barring gender and shared genetic material. But basically the same idea. I ended my day watching Vlad's evil-genius smile on the tv as he congratulated the team figure skaters. Because that's totally an event that should exist. Nawt. 

An addendum: journalistic integrity

I must apologize, dear readers, of which there are probably 3. My favorite part about blogging, besides exercising my snark muscles, is turning into a mini-journalist. In my previous post, I fell into the easy trap of complaining about the Olympics, like many other real journalists. I forgot my roots of enjoying the seemingly bizarre, strange, and generally wonderful randomness of Russian life. Alas, fair readers, I have succumbed to the stereotype of my people--the Spoiled American.

So let us try this again. Sochi 2014 is not so bad, but it is full of classic Russian oddities. Toilets are normal (boohoo the septic systems can't handle toilet paper, big dealio) and are actually wonderfully clean. People who cannot help are at least nice (still useless dunderheads, but they are harmless in their sweet ignorance) and the police are still terrifying and grumpy. English translations are hilarious--at the dock there is a sign warning us not to throw our "darbate" overboard. The Russian clearly says garbage, and I can justify the "g" to "d" mishap, but the "t" is an unsolved mystery. Pictures to come later. Security is at a ridiculously granular level (3 checkpoints and 2 X-ray machines/metal detectors to get from the street into my room, which has nothing to do with the Olympic Games) but it comforts me that I will probably survive this trip shrapnel-free. We befriended a lovely Indian-American woman who has shown us that racial profiling is alive and well still (surprise surprise). No not all places outside the Olympic park accept credit cards and we can live with that (if I have to hear "We'll they do in America" one more time, I may kick a small child if the child deserves it. And for all of the bezdomashniye sobaki (stray-dogs...this lack of a Russian keyboard is murder) scandals, there are still hoards cruising the street for a snack of your leg. Respect the wise creatures and ye shall not perish today.

That being said, yes Russian governing bodies are generally corrupt and not free. The infrastructure at the venues leaves much to be desired and the half-finished look is unsettling at best. But it is not the horror tale these sensationalists are spinning. Russia, with all of its European and modern pretenses, is its own entity. Its own beast. It does not have all of the things your are comfortable with and used to. It pretends to be Western and then turns you upside down on your head when you least expect it. That is what makes it dangerous. That is what makes it frightening. That is what makes it glorious. 

May the odds be ever in your favor...

Sochi Hunger Olympic Games

I suppose I should use hash tags and be live tweeting all of this to add to the wave of 'Sochiproblems' but alas, my rejection of such new social conventions runs deep. Or I don't have reliable Internet; the former sounds better. Oooo look, fancy punctuation! I should also preface this brilliant observation piece by mentioning I am writing this on my iPad, which I am only slightly competent using.

This marks my 3rd trip to Russia, and it has consisted of one Situatsiya after another. Your plane is delayed and you may miss your connection: figure it out. You need to get a taxi from the airport to your hotel but they charge Americans 3x more: don't give in to the robber-barons and make sure your mother can keep her mouth shut. You are lost: get directions to the train station. Russians are lost: give them wrong directions to the train station. You are at a restaurant: order for your highly demanding mother. A stranger wants to use you in their documentary about sochi: get them to buy you a hat in exchange. Except for the last, it's as if my language training was preparing me for this moment. Oh wait....very clever! 

And now a brief summary of day 1 in ye olde Rasha (Sochi-style)!

Saturday consisted almost solely of wandering around the Olympic village trying to not get shot by the po-po for accidentally trespassing. For all the thousands of volunteers that are here, only a handful speak English (not as much an issue), and even fewer know where to go (very much an issue). I like to save the phrase "useless dunderheads" for special occasions and I think the Olympic volunteers deserve such high praise. They directed us in approximately 3 incorrect ways -- a feat in directional inaccuracy-- and we walked for 2 hours trying to get to the Olympic park. We are staying on a cruise ship that is docked directly behind the Olympic village. Try as I might, I have yet to see a naked Olympian. But today is only day 3. There is still time. Geographically, it is perhaps a 20 minute walk from the Olympic park, but thanks to nutso security and even nutso-er design, we are 30 minutes from the train station that we then must take to the entrance. The entire journey door-to-door is approximately 10 billion hours. After finally stumbling into a train, we started our hour-long train journey up to the mountains for our first fascinating event--luge. 

Sochi's rather silly slogan  is fairly accurate: it was a frigid 16c at the coast (ergo hot), but once we got up to the mountains it was a cozy 6 (perhaps cool). Then the sun went down, my feet got wet, and I melted into a cold whiny baby. But that is for later. The only categorically false part of the slogan is "Yours". If by "yours" 
they mean "for you, you prepubescent volunteers that swarm the park like angry little termites" then the slogan is spot on. If they mean the Olympics are for the general peon populace, then no. Prices are astronomical (a malady I attribute to the Olympics in general, not Sochi) and there are useless bundles of flesh everywhere. Blah blah blah general complaints. I had low expectations coming in, knowing about Russian infrastructure and the general malaises of Sochi 2014 so far. And I have been more or less satisfied with my expectations. Nothing more, nothing less.

But back to the mountains. The mountain cluster is up in Krasnaya Polyana which is actually quite lovely. You can see snow (woohoo!) and it is built like a quaint ski town. We took a gondola up to the Sanki sliding center to spectate luge. Because our tickets are practically steerage for standing for 2.5 hours watching people zip by, we spent most of our time in a small tent with the other poor people waiting for our cold-induced doom. The sun had set and temperatures were dropping. Our standing section was, kindly enough, the only part of the entire stadium that had snow, so as 6:30 rolled around, we took our stoic places on our mountain of wet snow and soggy cold mud-ground. Mary and I lasted for a total of 40% of the event before starting the trudge back. The Americans did generally poorly, and 
there's only so much interest I can take in the 2 second flight of a man on a small sled before icicles start forming on my toenails. It was also runs 1 and 2 of a 4-run event, so no one would win a medal that night. We started our 2 hour  journey of 
bus-train-footshuffle back to our ship where dinner was just starting to be served at 10:30. The Portuguese (the owners of our cruise liner)  know how to do meal times right. We then snuggled into our cabin to watch the interesting events (read "anything with ice skates") on tv like the rest of the sane and intelligent world.