Olympic Sports

Live and Learn — Part I

Right across from our bus stop is a place with a sign in the window that says:

English Buffet Breakfast
10 Euros
To 7:30

I know Italians have different hours than Americans, but closing a breakfast buffet at 7:30? That seemed strange. I was curious — and hungry for something other than croissants and doughnuts - so I stopped by the buffet about 8 this morning.

It was open. In fact, it opened at 7:30.

I had the place practically to myself, and enjoyed the sliced ham, salami, cheese, hardboiled eggs, muffins, and fruit.

And to top it off, they only charged me 8 Euros.

Snow?
Neve?
Nieve?
Neige?
Schnee?
Sneeuw?

Last week everyone at the Olympics was asking for snow.

Somebody was listening.

Wham! The mountains were slammed with a massive snowdump over the weekend. I’m no meteorologist, but I’d guess there was at least a foot of fresh powder.

Last week the Alps were brown. Now they're a gorgeous, glistening white.

The snow slowed everyone down for a while Sunday evening, but the roads were clear Monday morning. Clever folks, these Cesana Torineseans. They don’t just use plows to clear the snow. They use big ”˜ol honking snow tractors. I think I saw a VW bug buried by one.

Last week I spoke with American ski racer Julia Mancuso, who told me that she travels around the European World Cup ski circuit in a rented RV driven by her sister, April.

I sure wish we could borrow Mancuso’s RV. We’re never sure whether our bus drivers will get us to where we want to go.

The bus drivers here are hit-or-miss. Some are friendly and outgoing. Others are surly and unpleasant. Some are diligent. Others skip bus stops. Some go out of their way to help us. Others prefer to sleep in their buses while we’re waiting out in the cold.

Thankfully, though, all the drivers seem to be safe and conservative behind the wheel.

There were two lines headed toward the metal detectors at the entrance to the Sestriere Borgata skiing venue Saturday - one for journalists and one for athletes. The crack security staff noticed that the journalist line was backing up, while the athletes’ line was empty. So they motioned several of us scribes over to the athletes' entrance.

Sure enough, I set off the metal detector with my boots — it happens every time. I prepared to be searched and wanded, but the security guard took one look at me and waved me through.

He must have thought I was Bode Miller.

It was an easy mistake to make. After all, I’ve won just as many Olympic medals here as Bode has — zero.

The snowfall was so heavy in Sestriere Saturday morning that officials had to postpone the men’s Super G race. That gave me time to grab a bite to eat at the press center.
Standing in line I glanced at the press credential of the man standing behind me.
Hey, I recognize that last name. It was Peter Hougesen Nielsen, a Dane working for a TV station in Arhus.
We chatted a little bit about our common heritage. Four of my great-grandparents came to America from Denmark between 1903 and 1910. He noted that Nielsen is a very common name in Denmark. Indeed - I think there were 10 pages of Nielsens in the Copenhagen phone book when I visited in 2003.

The bus to Sestriere this morning took about an hour. Then why does it feel like it took me 20 years to get here?

I’ve wanted to come to Sestriere ever since I saw Bob Beattie feature the resort on ”˜Subaru Ski World’. Does anybody else remember that show on ESPN? Beattie, a former U.S. ski team coach, would travel to ski resorts around the world and tell American audiences how much fun he was having.

What a gig. What a place.

Sestriere was exactly how I pictured it. Condos, ski shops, restaurants and bars surrounded the base of the snow-packed mountain. Olympic flags and decorations were everywhere. But not every ski run was reserved for the Olympians. As the bus headed up toward the press entrance for the Super G race, I noticed a gaggle of kids wearing the bright red jackets of the Sestriere Sci Team (yes, that’s how they spell it), preparing to go the lifts.

Against my better judgment, I turned on the TV set in our room again Thursday night.

This time I vowed to stay away from the Italian Liberace.

Instead I got Johnny Weir.

I've never understood the flamboyant nature of figure skating, but I was curious to see who would win the medals. So I gritted my teeth and tuned in for the final six skaters.

I didn’t find out who won until Friday morning.

Italian sports TV must be graphic phobic because they never put the final results on the screen.

I figured that Yevgeny Plushenko must have won, because they showed him receiving congratulations from his handlers. Those guys were a better show than the skaters. On Plushenko’s right was an exuberant, frizzy-haired dude wearing a “Russia”? sweater who looked like a cross between Rasputin and Richard Simmons. On his left was a stern-looking, older man in a formal suit, seemingly straight out of Cold War CCCP Casting Central.

Something besides snow washed over Cesana Torinese Thursday.

Thursday morning I saw love blooming. Thursday evening I saw a fight looming.

Fortunately the fight wasn’t between the two lovebirds I saw kissing Thursday morning at a café.

Unfortunately the two protagonists Thursday evening could be heard yelling before I even arrived at my bus stop.

The two vociferous Italians were standing outside a shuttle bus. One, a short, gray-haired, probably in his mid-50s, appeared to be the shuttle driver. To make his point — whatever it was - he thrust his chin up into the face of a taller, equally belligerent man who was about 40.

You never know what you might see when you’re window-shopping in Cesana Torinese. This morning as I ambled by a café, I glanced in and saw a young Italian man and woman kissing. And kissing. And kissing. And kissing.

The couple was leaning against the open door of the café’s bathroom. They were hidden from the customers —but in full view for the voyeurs passing by on the street.

This was no polite hello kiss between friends. No, no - these two had something else on their mind.

And I don’t think it was the freshly falling snow.

Eventually I drew myself away and walked down to the end of the block. But my curiosity got the best of me. So I high-tailed it back to the café.

On the way back from the women’s downhill Wednesday, I checked out the local library — or biblioteca.

I asked the librarian if I could access the Internet there. He asked me if I spoke Francais.

This wasn’t getting off to a good start.

I pointed to my laptop, hoping to use the wireless connection. Ah! Yes! He smiled and handed me a CD with some new software to install.

Ah! No! When you’re 4,700 miles away from home, and your livelihood depends on a functioning laptop, installing new software is like skiing the downhill course without a helmet.

I looked around and saw six desktop computers along a wall. Could I access the Internet with those?