Last Day in BJ.

Less than 24 hours until I load my oversized suitcase out of Tsinghua University to the Peking Capital Airport.  I've already started packing my belongings into my luggage.  If fits, barely, but the weight limit will certainly be tested.  While it is 3 p.m. in Iowa on Wednesday night, I will be riding in my last cab ride at an early 4 a.m. Thursday morning before the sun even rises.  (I found out first hand in Inner Mongolia the sun rises at 5:50. )  

How am I spending my last day in BJ?  Sitting outside the Dongzhimen subway in a small enclosed "park".  This however is more accurately described as a right angle flower garden blocking off the loud highway traffic. (Recently installed as Beijing's attempt at a "greener" Olympics).   The area has wi-fi.

 I hadn't intentionally transferred twice and sat 15 subway stops to use the internet thirty minutes away from my dorm.  No, I had failed to find the bus station to Fragrant Hills.  A grand and historical hill, the hike to the top accords a skyline of Beijing on a clear day. And today's sky featured a splash of baby blue as a result of last night's thunderstorm.   The bus stops located near Dongzhimen station include schedules to areas away from Haidian Province.  

Rather than lamenting on this rather disappointing conclusion, I decided to enjoy the day like the locals.  I could take my shoes off and fall asleep on the wooden seat, copying the two men sitting a bush away.  It actually looks slightly more comfortable than the cement bed that I slept in the Mongolian yurt.  Instead, I think I will hop on the subway and a pick another stop to explore.  

Zaijian!

Tonight I will be exploring the Wangfujing street snack market once again with a few friends.  After sampling the scorpion and starfish, I could try goat innards.  For the safety of my stomach on the long 17 hour flight to Cedar Rapids, however, I think I'll stick to the fruit on a stick and some already tested street wraps.   

Goodbye Beijing!

Trekking the grassland of Ghengis Khan.

This past weekend I took the long, slow train to Inner Mongolia.  The original plan was somewhat vague.  Including notes of camping in a yurt, the traditional and now extinct mobile homes of the Mongolians.  The only hint of this lifestyle remains as a money maker for grassland tourists.  Riding a horse through the grassland steppes, riding a camel in the Gobi Desert were to be the adventure highlights.  However on the ride to the North, the real challenge came in securing tickets for the weekend getaway.  With loaded packs, I led Nick to the train station the internet search page had guided me.  6:25 the train was scheduled to leave from Beijing North Rail Station.  Staring at the empty tracks from above the Xizhimen subway, the station looked baron.  Despite our lack of Chinese language, we tried our best to communicate to the woman inside the ticket window.  I pointed to the rail number I had written down.  Behind the glass, she shook her head.   I pressed once more.  Perhaps she had shook her head in confusion.  In the magic of travel an English speaker popped behind our shoulders and asked if we needed help.  Did we ever.  This was the beginning sign of our rough adventure.

The tickets to Inner Mongolia couldn't be purchased from the old Beijing North Rail Station, we would have cross town, via the subway to the new gate station serving all of China at Beijing West Station.  Luckily I had written down an alternate route to Hohhot, the capital of Inner Mongolia as a leaping off point, rather than the original plan of Baotou.  

The tickets for the night train living in one hour and a half to Hohhot were all sold out but one soft sleeper.  Of the train classes in Chinese travel, soft sleeper is the grandest of all.  Coming with the mattress that is thicker than the width of two hands.  Since there were two of us, one soft sleeper would not suffice.  The impatient ticketer signed in obvious strain as to force us to make a decision.  Leave the next day (causing us to cut out the camels at the Gobi desert) or don't go at all.  We exchanged our red kuai for two hard sleepers.  The best deal for a 12 1/2 train ride and headed back to Tsinghua for a good night's sleep.    

The next day's train ride, China landscape passed by between reading, snoozing, and window viewing.  Through the daylight sun, I watched the sections of the Great Wall curve by on the tall mountains, an hour out of the buzz of Beijing.  The mountains rounded out and turned to farm land.  Corn formed rows in areas that barely took root and vacant ghost towns stared back as a sign of the useless land.  The most intruging thing was the open doors as circular as the "fake" pearl earrings I had purchased in the market in Beijing weeks ago in the beginning of summer.  But as my round jewels continued to shine with luster, these doors showed their age by the chipping paint and the general lack of movement from within.  As the distance between towns spaced even greater from the viewing of my window, movement could be seen as dots on the fields.  Dockeys or cows pulled carts, followed by farmers watching over the land.  With each mile I felt I was going further back into town.  Centuries later, the Great Wall still played a devisive role in the land.  

After sunset, we arrived in Hohhot.  The hostel that I had arranged was true to its billings of great hospitality.  Three steps out of the station, Nick and I were greeted by a Mongolian duo waving a sign reading Anna Frisk, Andamen Guesthouse.  They hailed a cab and we rode confidently to the hostel.  The accomadation is located on Yellow Street.  Named after, I can only assume, the characteristic color tinge of the buildings alinging the street, the place chocked full of restaurants, bars, and KTV.  In the city of Hohhot, Nick and I were looking for authentic Mongolian barbeque and at 9 p.m. Yellow Street became Lucky Street.  Mongolians smiled and stared as we walked the street, deciding with zero rationality as to the best bbq in the strip.  Half way down the block, the aroma was enough to make one stop and we sat ourselves down in two empty plastic lawn chairs.  During summer nights, the restaurants overflowed into the blocked off street.  The grill extends to the exterior of the chairs, sending its aroma as a welcome sign to passing onlookers and potential customers.  

Through pointing at the menu (and the food of the next neighbor) we shared more than a dozen skewers of mysterious meat.  It tasted good and we filled our stomachs to the Mongolians delight.    

Watching acrobatics and trying to get beach volleyball tickets.  These have been the events of my past few days.  

The Today Show.

Got free tickets to the Olympic Green half an hour before the Today Show.   While there, I saw Michael Phelps, the U.S. swimming teams (with their medals), the U.S. rowing team (with their medals), and the U.S. fencing team. 

Track and Field.

There are a few sports you imagine when you think Olympics.  Track and field, men's 100 meters is one of them and our boss scored us seats to the hot-ticket event.  

From behind the gated fences of the Bird's Nest, the building is a wonder of architecture.  From inside, it boggles your mind on how the two German masterminds conjured it.  It is a web on inter-tangled lines, mixing purposeful stairs with straight forward design.  On this rare blue skied night, the nest glowed like a diamond in the sea.  

Inside we sat on the second tier, directly under the burning flame of the torch.  It was a good seat and everyone's excitement bubbled over with our exciting opportunity.  However, as I usually find myself doing, I left to test my limits of access.  Diane and I made a silent exit and wandered the venue to find the media entrance.  Wearing our press credentials, although marked with OGN-- Olympic Green North zone (valid only for tennis, archery, and field hockey, we marched by the volunteers checking the credentials.  They only looked at our blue 4, denoting our media position.  We smiled back as we walked down the seats of the press tribune.  We were sitting four rows up from the center of the 100 meter zone.  It was unreal.  I pinched myself to retain my cool.  Diane and I looked at each other in silence, we didn't need to use words to express how excited we were.  We watched the final of the women's heptathlon, the 800 meter run.  The fitness of these Olympians was exhilarating.  Diane and I decided then we would exchange citizenships to any country to have the opportunity to compete in the Olympics.  Although it would have to be an obscure sport, maybe team handball.    

In the last event of the night, and most anticipated, the men's 100 meters final, Diane, Nick (an Iowa volunteer who beat us down there, and I) moved to the front row.  Smashed between Diane and a photographer, I waited and watched through my camera's viewfinder.  In a world record, 9.69 seconds, Bolt blew past.  From the screen overlooking the nest, I watched Bolt celebrate with a fist pump and freestyle dance.  The scoreboard lit up with the words, World Record as the stadium buzzed with astonishment.  Intermixed with media representing every country in the Olympics, it felt even crazier.  I knew then that tomorrow's paper would be leading with details of those 9.69  seconds.  Bolt took off his Olympic symbol, the now legendary gold spikes, and paraded around barefoot with his Jamaican flag.  

We ran up the stairs of the press tribune to join the mass of moving media to the mixed zone.  The snaking white barracade dividing the media from the athletes covered up half the large room.  It was a harsh contrast to the mixed zone of tennis where I am usually the only English speaking press, unless the athlete is Rafa, Federer, or Novak.  Surprisingly, most of the top ten players don't have a media entourage. We paused to gawk.  This is a mixed zone.  It was an uncontrolled frenzy, and the three of us volunteers found ourselves in the mix.  The track athletes waded through, guided by a bocog representative directing them to the media, pausing randomly for journalists to ask a question or two about their performance.  With no rules, only guidelines of actions for behavior, journalists jockeyed for position, leaning over the shoulders of colleagues and sticking an arm out with a tape recorder.  For the highly popular athletes, such as Bolt, and the other Olympic medalists, a recording box was hoisted in the air to broadcast the quotes.  Journalists toppled their bodies on each other's shoulders in an effort to position one self in a tape recording distance.   Standing feet away, staring eyes wide at the excitement, the professionals sensed my displacement, but to busy to care, they didn't vocalize this thought.  A volunteer spotted my large camera, however, and motioned for the three of us.  I showed my credentials, careful to cover the OGN.  I promised that I wasn't taking any pictures, it was a lie only my friends knew.  He let us stay and watched on until we knew our time limit was ticking, then we followed the next mass movement to the press conference.  As background, in the tennis venue, the ONS volunteers can't watch the press conferences.  After I watched Federer, after his first Olympic singles win, we were told by the press managers, it was our last.  But in the speed of track, the volunteers only glanced quickly and nodded to let us pass in.  We moved directly to the back, leaving the open seats to the real professionals.  Sharing the story to a friend and journalist, he told us of our experience, joking, you are true Americans, exploiting your rights to the limits.  

We waited minutes before the medalists of the 100 walked in.  Within that time, Phil Hersh, a journalist from the Chicago Tribune, waltzed in with a new trademark of bright neon socks and a fanny pack hanging from his waist.  In the crowd of journalists, the man looked eccentric. To be frank, journalists aren't a well dressed group, unless you're in broadcasting that is.  For most if you have showered more than twice in the hectic days of the Olympics, you haven't been working hard.  

Months before in an Iowa classroom, I had been sitting, drenched from an undying torrent of pretornado-rain, listening to the ramble of this man.  Phil Hersh granted Iowa a visit as key note speaker for the Fourth Estate banquet, and Judy reserved him for the Olympic Ambassadors for a discussion of all things Olympic.  After covering 16 Olympics, he had more than our two hour time limit of stories to share.  

Back to the press conference, Bolt took the center of attention, as expected.  He seemed at ease, as the journalists played a game to get the opportunity to ask a question.  The best question of the conference was this:

 "We want to know what it's like.  Walk us through a day in the life of a World Record breaking Olympian.  What is it like?"  

Bolt: "I woke up at 11:30.  Ate some nuggets.  Watched some t.v.  Took a nap.  Ate some more nuggets.  Came to the track and ran."  

Hmmm...Bolt, the name face of McDonald's (an Olympic sponsor in the Village) They just got a great promotion.  Nuggets, the food of Olympic champions!  

  

The End.

It's the 18th.  That means Olympic tennis is over.  The seven days of crazy ball smacking frenzy is over.  It was sad walking out the gate knowing we wouldn't be back.  It certainly has been one of the best summers of my life.  More transformative than I predicted (or transformative in ways I didn't foresee).  In the mysterious ways that living abroad can foster a greater independence, more confidence, and a closer inspection of oneself, these things have happened.  I have built contacts and glimpsed the lifestyle I want to live.  More than before, I realize I want to pursue photography.  (Although I realize I have much progress to make before others can take me seriously).  I want my job to take me places internationally.  After speaking to journalists and talking to athletes about their worldly adventures, it only makes me want it more.  So this one time in Sydney.....

Highlights from the past few days.  

Yesterday:  I covered my last assignment the two sisters from Ukraine playing doubles against the Chinese duo for the bronze medal.  My hope was for Ukraines since I was appointmented to interview the two of them.  Their early mistakes, however, ended their Olympic hopes. With tears welling their eyes, they quickly walked past me without a word.  I was the only English speaking media waiting in the mixed zone for them and from their violence I knew not to even finish my sentence of asking for an interview.   We learned a basic journalism rule, be prepared to sit and sit...and then get nothing.  

The rest of the evening I spent at Center Court watching the end of the women's singles final (Safina v. Dementieva) and the men's singles final (Rafael v. Gonzalez).  It was surreal to be sitting in the finals high above for the Olympic medal finals.  Dementieva won in the three close sets, but Rafa shut out Gonzalez quickly by winning three straight sets.  The Olympic medal ceremony continued shortly after.  The volunteers quickly rolled out the red carpet for the athlete stars.  The Russians swept the women's singles.  In women's doubles, the Williams sisters took the top spot.  It gave me the chills watching the American flag being pumped up the flag pole and listening to the national anthem.  The Williams sisters squeezed each other's hands, it was a great moment.  Before exiting, each of the pairs walked around the circumference of the court, wrapped in their respective flags, roses in hand, Olympic medals dangling from their necks.  The crowd clapped and the speakers played the quirky, but much loved song, Beijing, Beijing, Wo ai Beijing (I love Beijing).  In the Olympic spirit, I found myself singing in tune, along with surrounding journalists.  Inside, I was laughing.   

Minutes later, Rafa, Gonzalez, and Novak strode out to step on the Olympic medal platform. Rafa raised one arm to appease the crowd, as a shy smile he couldn't stop spread across his face.  The large Espana crowd was jumping up and down.  I felt myself smiling as I watched the fanfare.  In the final shot, Rafa bit his gold medal for the pen of photographers.  Seats above, I tried my best to capture it with my Nikon.  

As the athletes left for the last time on the Olympic Tennis Green, I ran down the press tribune stairs to see the men in the mixed zone.  I missed Rafa and Gonzalez was M.I.A., but Novak was only a few feet away.  I did an excited job to catch up.  Before security took over, I patted Novak's Serbian sweatsuit, and told him good job.  A minute later, I was scolded for my unprofessionalism.  I didn't really care though, it was well worth it.  

Next, two other co-volunteers and I took to center court.  We stood on the Olympic platform, sat in the official's chair, and I hopped down into the photo moat.  As we were leaving, a media clump surrounding Gonzalez blocked our exit.  I was standing an arm's length away from the silver medalist.  

We left, grabbed our stuff from the ONS office, leaving for the last time.  Our other co-volunteers that watched the final match from the t.v. there, told us they said hi to Venus as she walked in to ask for a Florida pin from our sweet supervisor Sandy.   It was a good day for everyone.  

Tennis Day Three.

Board assignments: 

Anna--winner of Janko Tipsarevic (SRB) v. Oliver Rochus (BEL)

Slated for the second match of the day on court 8, my day started out by watching Serena Williams on court one.  I moved quickly to court two to catch the end of the Bryan brothers doubles match.  Bahamans didn't an answer to their quick, slam game.  My match came after another canteen meal, eating the usual bland flour roll, mystery meat with large bones, vegetable goop, one banana, and a crispy chocolate wafer.  

Geared with a my tape recorder, pen and notebook. I headed over to court 8, prepared for what had become the usual quick murdering of tennis in two straight sets.  I forgot water, something I dearly regretted later when the match was going into its second hour, and it looked from the competitors' aggressive play, that the match would be going into a third set.  After the first set went into tie break, I could smell myself as I profusely dripped with sweat.  The spirited Belgian crowd didn't seem to mind, as they chanted, "Olie, Olie"  between points, but if they had noticed my scent, I wouldn't have known.  I was surrounded in a language emersion where I didn't understand a lick of what was being said, except for their universal shouting, "Belgium, Belgium."  The opposing Serbian crowd sat across the court, a little meeker, but still showing a country pride with a waving Serbian flag.   

The play on the court continued, unmarked by anything unusual, until Tipsarevic lost his early lead of 2-0 in a close contested game.  Rochus kept his serve and took the momentum to break Tipsarevic in the next game.  After this, the Serbian lost his mental edge.  The cheering Belgian crowd felt the heat of this as Tipsarevic stopped mid-pre-serve bounce and glared at the Belgian fans surrounding me.  From my perspective it sounded like this ";alksjdffj;a, chips!"  I don't understand Serbian and from the sounding confusion of the Belgians, they didn't either.    The word, chips, however, did ring with clarification.  The girls next to me, in their hunger, had been wrestling with the sack to get it open.  So Tipsarevic was blaming his two current losses on chips.  The tennis official tried to keep a calm composure on the court by announcing twice that the crowd must keep quiet in respect to the players.  Tipsarevic kept glaring.  I made a note on the notebook, under the game's score, "chips."  At the moment, I wished for Tipasrevic to regain the lead.  I wanted to ask him his waning concentration and his frustration about the chips.  

The question was never asked, in the disappointing finish.  Tipsarevic lost the tie break and retired early in the second set from a sprained ankle.  The Belgian crowed cried, in a flase apologetic tone, "Merci, Merci."  Interviewing Rochus, he gleamed with sweat and excitement.  Rushed by fans asking for autographs and pictures, I stopped Rochus for a few questions.   I leaned over the railing, putting my notebook and the attached microphone as close as comfortable to record his words.  Graciously, he answered.  He was a proud winner.  Although, he told me that he didn't like to win like this, but said honestly, it's tennis, and this is how we play.  The truth of life.    

In between morning and evening shifts, my morning colleagues and I walked over to archery and field hockey.  We didn't need tickets because our credentials  cover the Olympic Green.  Archery was dotted with Korean fans and the atmosphere seemed party like.  In a match in tennis, play doesn't go without the announcer reminding the crowed to remain silent.  Only the ooohhhs and ahhhs are allowed without criticism.  It is a closely monitored rule.  Need I say, chips.  

The Olympic length of archery is an absurd distance from bow to target.  In the gray sky, I lose sight of the arrow, until I see it's slight, and dare I say, beautiful arc near the red circle.  In junior high, at a family camp in Okoboji, I slung the bow and arrow once.  The naturalness that the Olympians exhibit is fooling.  My draw resulted in an arrow stabbing the green grass.  It was short of the target by a few feet.  

Field hockey carried a roaring crowd as well.  Not surprising for the packed crowd because the hosting country, China, was on the field.  The play was lively, but my friend Nick grumbled that hockey should only be played on ice.  We left soon, the volunteers (or minions as they are sometimes referred to) standing watch didn't want our presence as they kept telling us to back away from the fence.  

In the evening session, my match hopping including the court one match of Novak Djokovic.  He looked good, and from my utube watching, he clarified why he is a good sport with a humor.  Although he didn't entertain us with his Maria Sharapova and Rafael Nadal impressions.  Maybe after he wins the tournament, as seeded No. 3 player, he is a favorite.  

Nadal finished the night up in center court, playing against Nicole's favorite, my least liked, punk Australian Lleyton Hewitt.  I sat above the press tribunes, observing my fifth match of the day.  In the second set, Nadal looked good, but perhaps, tired.  But that was the last I saw of it after a red shirted official told us initially we could stay, but then switched attitudes without warning as she charged up the stairs to tell us we had to leave immediately.  Asking us to cross tennis courtesy, which suggests you should only leave after odd games or between sets.  We tried to explain this offense, but in miscommunication she took our seated butts as signs of resistance.  She called our supervisor and one game later, the game before we could officially leave without making a scene.  Elena stormed up the stairs to yell at us.  Embarrassing herself more than us, she said in her rage, she could send us back to Iowa and take away our credentials.  The red shirted, press manager, nodded annoyingly in agreement.  Not giving us the chance to explain, we bowed our heads in our exit.  Once in the office we grabbed our bags and left immediately.  The next day, Elena apologized multiple times.  The side effects of working in an international office, miscommunication happens often.  

Hungry from lack of a dinner, the ice cream I had at field hockey didn't satisfy my grumbling stomach.  We left for Houhai, after a stress relieving run.  Once some of the tourists filtered out, Olympians done with competition and spectators getting ready for the night rushed in.  A conversation sparked with a Midwesterner hailing from Wisconsin.  The Scottish friend informed us that he was a Sydney Olympics silver medalist in rowing.  After I told him I did novice at the University of Iowa my freshmen year, he divulged he was the men's novice coach at Wisconsin.  Even more so, he knew Iowa's varsity coach, Mandy.  His novice coach when he was a freshmen at Wisconsin.   I never thought I would be having this conversation in Beijing.  Conversation continued with Olympic swimmers from Algeria, judo players from Iran, spectators from Australia, Poland, Spain, France, and other corners of the world.