Forums
New posts
Search forums
What's new
New posts
New media
New media comments
Latest activity
Classifieds
Media
New media
New comments
Search media
Log in
Register
What's New?
Search
Search
Search titles only
By:
New posts
Search forums
Menu
Log in
Register
Navigation
Install the app
Install
More Options
Advertise with us
Contact Us
Close Menu
JavaScript is disabled. For a better experience, please enable JavaScript in your browser before proceeding.
You are using an out of date browser. It may not display this or other websites correctly.
You should upgrade or use an
alternative browser
.
Forums
The Water Cooler
General Discussion
Olympics
Search titles only
By:
Reply to Thread
This site may earn a commission from merchant affiliate links, including eBay, Amazon, and others.
Message
<blockquote data-quote="Lone Wolf &#039;49" data-source="post: 1859299" data-attributes="member: 3016"><p>Monday, July 23 </p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>(Please excuse the typos. Will hurry. There’s much Olympics to explore.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Morning commute: Top level of media shuttle. Surprisingly light traffic. This may be like the Los Angeles Olympics, where the anticipated gridlock didn’t happen because many locals left town, and others worked from home. We’ll see. Love the daily view of the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. I could stand here and absorb the scene until football season starts.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The shuttle goes past row houses with satellite dishes that looked like Bing Crosby ears</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Forgot to mention announcement at the Tube station Saturday: “A backpack has been left at the bottom of the escalator. Please claim it, or we will shut down the station.” (paraphrase)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Immediately, a woman got on the nearby phone and said, “that’s my backpack! I’m pregnant and my father was carrying the bag for me and left it there accidentally.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Many bikers on streets this morning. Bradley Wiggins is a national hero-much debate about whether his feat is greatest in British sports history. The Telegraph had a great photo of him riding in the Champs with his son on a look-alike bike.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Breakfast: pork-and-beans, bacon, link sausage, scrambled eggs, toast, cheese, mixed fruit, yogurt, orange juice.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The St. Pancras train station is lovely. It was constructed in 1886, for crying out loud! Then it was damaged during the Blitz. The attached hotel looks like something out of a storybook. I could people-watch there for a year. There are shops and food and benches for sleeping. The connection to the Piccadilly line is a fair walk from the Javelin train, but who’s counting steps. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Isn’t Piccadilly a beautiful word? It calls Brahms to mind. Pancras, not so much. It sounds like a condition.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Person du jour: Flo, about 30, a performer in the opening ceremonies who was strolling through Olympic Park before tonight’s rehearsal of the big show. (The final dress rehearsal will be Wednesday. LOCOG volunteers and performers’ families are allowed to attend the rehearsals, but are sworn to secrecy about the content.) </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Flo told me she participated in a half-dozen auditions. What were the primary criteria? She laughed and said, “being lithe and beautiful and very British, I suppose.” She batted 1.000.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Today’s confirmation that George Bernard Shaw was right when he wrote that we and the British are “two peoples separated by a common language.” I asked about a truck on the highway. The young man didn’t know what I was talking about. Here it’s a lorry.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>LOCOG provides each reporter with press kit that is basically a nice backpack with really helpful information and shaving cream inside. (Don’t ask me why it includes shaving cream. Women get a different bag; it also includes shaving cream.) Inside is a transportation guide and a big book that shows the games venues. You get the backpack at the media help desk. All signs here are in French and English. “Press Kit’ in French is “Kit Presse.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lunch: Apple and four cookies.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The country is bananas over Bradley Wiggins. Question in the Locog news conference, not in a negative way at all: “My Saturday was quite fouled up in delivering my children to practice because of the hordes of cyclists, most of them middle age. How do we ensure the legacy of these Olympics?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Weather: Goodness gracious, today was the perfect spring day-again. It turned into the perfect spring evening.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Nicki Hancock will arrive Thursday. She’s in charge of a continuing-education seminar at the Olathe schools this week. It’s a shame she couldn’t have traveled with me.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A photographer was upset with me because she doesn’t qualify for opening ceremonies tickets. Sigh. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Many more journalist-friends arrived today. Most of them were groggy from jet lag. The Penn State news was heavily discussed. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dinner: Four raviolii. (raviolus? Raviolorum?) Well, four ravioli deals. And half a hefty Italian beer whose name I’ve forgotten.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A train problem led to Olympic adventure tonight. </p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dinner with Leslie, Luann and John from USA Gymnastics at Italian place in Westfield Mall. Central Line train was stopped inside Stratford station, and full of sweaty, grumpy-looking people. Nobody knew how long it would be stopped, so I went to Plan B and walked back through the mall a fun half-mile to the Javelin line. Met the USA men’s gymnastics coaches on the platform. Their team is mostly a university of Oklahoma bunch, as all Sooners know by now. Enjoyed visiting with head coach Mark Williams, who lives near Goldsby.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Oh, boy; got delightfully lost while walking through the beautiful evening back to the Montague. Two Bobbies came to the rescue and said to turn left at the fire station ahead. (They were Bobbies two-by-two, but weren’t on bicycles.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After walking a few blocks, I decided a fire station in this neighbourhood was as likely as a giraffe in the orchestra. But, sure enough, I came to the lovely L.L.C. Brigade Station 1902 (dang, even the fire stations are beautiful here) and, after looking both ways six times, crossed the busy street.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On the corner stood a tired woman who asked me for directions to the King’s Crossing Station. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m from Oklahoma&#8230;..” I said. (I switch hit.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, bad news for me,” she said, interrupting and nearly crying. </p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“&#8230;.but I happen to know. Turn right and walk about five blocks.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She nearly cried again. ‘Thank you so much. It’s my lucky day!” She extended her hand and said her name was Jennie. (I asked her to spell it.) She was pulling a large black rollerboard (triple redundancy). </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Would you like to have a coffee?” she asked. Jennie may have been distinguished once. But it was a while ago. She was tiny and her foggy glasses came to points. Her hair, maybe formerly red, wiggled in the wind. I wiggled nervously and looked at my watch. </p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, but it’s past my bed time.” It was 9:30, so I was being honest.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jennie grabbed my hand. Her 60-ish fingers were cold. (Well, she didn’t have 60 fingers; they looked about 60 years old. Oh, this makes me think of Inigo Montoya seeking the six-fingered man. Anyway, back to the story.)</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Won’t you please have a coffee with me?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“It’s really past my bed time. I’m sorry. Are you all right, Jennie?” I suddenly wished those chaplains were here. Or sort of maybe wished the Bobbies were her. But not quite.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“I know Oklahoma, and we could talk with a coffee,” she said, almost pleading, then she adjusted her glasses and kinda sang. “Oooooooo-klahoma.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was the first time I’d heard anyone sing my favorite song in at least seven hours.</p><p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“That’s nice, thank you very much. But I’m pretty sleepy. Good luck, Jennie. The station is just ahead a few blocks. You can’t miss it.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>I walked on toward Russell Square. Jennie, with a Brit’s confidence, had to look only one way and dragged her rollerboard across the street into the uncertain night. Then I ran into Jere and Karen from the New York Times, who had left the media shuttle and were seeking an Italian Restaurant. Then a party was happening under the wonderful sycamore trees on the grass at Russell Square, and I walked past and eavesdropped, but nobody asked me to join.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Then at the Montague, I had nice red vino with Los Angeles Times pals John and Bill and met another Bill rom their staff while they dined at the hotel’s beautiful garden terrace. It was 11 p.m. I hoped Jennie found the station and someone to listen. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>What a privilege to be here! Every day is an adventure. Inspire a generation. And mind the gap.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Lone Wolf '49, post: 1859299, member: 3016"] Monday, July 23 (Please excuse the typos. Will hurry. There’s much Olympics to explore.) Morning commute: Top level of media shuttle. Surprisingly light traffic. This may be like the Los Angeles Olympics, where the anticipated gridlock didn’t happen because many locals left town, and others worked from home. We’ll see. Love the daily view of the Tower of London and Tower Bridge. I could stand here and absorb the scene until football season starts. The shuttle goes past row houses with satellite dishes that looked like Bing Crosby ears Forgot to mention announcement at the Tube station Saturday: “A backpack has been left at the bottom of the escalator. Please claim it, or we will shut down the station.” (paraphrase) Immediately, a woman got on the nearby phone and said, “that’s my backpack! I’m pregnant and my father was carrying the bag for me and left it there accidentally.” Many bikers on streets this morning. Bradley Wiggins is a national hero-much debate about whether his feat is greatest in British sports history. The Telegraph had a great photo of him riding in the Champs with his son on a look-alike bike. Breakfast: pork-and-beans, bacon, link sausage, scrambled eggs, toast, cheese, mixed fruit, yogurt, orange juice. The St. Pancras train station is lovely. It was constructed in 1886, for crying out loud! Then it was damaged during the Blitz. The attached hotel looks like something out of a storybook. I could people-watch there for a year. There are shops and food and benches for sleeping. The connection to the Piccadilly line is a fair walk from the Javelin train, but who’s counting steps. Isn’t Piccadilly a beautiful word? It calls Brahms to mind. Pancras, not so much. It sounds like a condition. Person du jour: Flo, about 30, a performer in the opening ceremonies who was strolling through Olympic Park before tonight’s rehearsal of the big show. (The final dress rehearsal will be Wednesday. LOCOG volunteers and performers’ families are allowed to attend the rehearsals, but are sworn to secrecy about the content.) Flo told me she participated in a half-dozen auditions. What were the primary criteria? She laughed and said, “being lithe and beautiful and very British, I suppose.” She batted 1.000. Today’s confirmation that George Bernard Shaw was right when he wrote that we and the British are “two peoples separated by a common language.” I asked about a truck on the highway. The young man didn’t know what I was talking about. Here it’s a lorry. LOCOG provides each reporter with press kit that is basically a nice backpack with really helpful information and shaving cream inside. (Don’t ask me why it includes shaving cream. Women get a different bag; it also includes shaving cream.) Inside is a transportation guide and a big book that shows the games venues. You get the backpack at the media help desk. All signs here are in French and English. “Press Kit’ in French is “Kit Presse.” Lunch: Apple and four cookies. The country is bananas over Bradley Wiggins. Question in the Locog news conference, not in a negative way at all: “My Saturday was quite fouled up in delivering my children to practice because of the hordes of cyclists, most of them middle age. How do we ensure the legacy of these Olympics?” Weather: Goodness gracious, today was the perfect spring day-again. It turned into the perfect spring evening. Nicki Hancock will arrive Thursday. She’s in charge of a continuing-education seminar at the Olathe schools this week. It’s a shame she couldn’t have traveled with me. A photographer was upset with me because she doesn’t qualify for opening ceremonies tickets. Sigh. Many more journalist-friends arrived today. Most of them were groggy from jet lag. The Penn State news was heavily discussed. Dinner: Four raviolii. (raviolus? Raviolorum?) Well, four ravioli deals. And half a hefty Italian beer whose name I’ve forgotten. A train problem led to Olympic adventure tonight. Dinner with Leslie, Luann and John from USA Gymnastics at Italian place in Westfield Mall. Central Line train was stopped inside Stratford station, and full of sweaty, grumpy-looking people. Nobody knew how long it would be stopped, so I went to Plan B and walked back through the mall a fun half-mile to the Javelin line. Met the USA men’s gymnastics coaches on the platform. Their team is mostly a university of Oklahoma bunch, as all Sooners know by now. Enjoyed visiting with head coach Mark Williams, who lives near Goldsby. Oh, boy; got delightfully lost while walking through the beautiful evening back to the Montague. Two Bobbies came to the rescue and said to turn left at the fire station ahead. (They were Bobbies two-by-two, but weren’t on bicycles.) After walking a few blocks, I decided a fire station in this neighbourhood was as likely as a giraffe in the orchestra. But, sure enough, I came to the lovely L.L.C. Brigade Station 1902 (dang, even the fire stations are beautiful here) and, after looking both ways six times, crossed the busy street. On the corner stood a tired woman who asked me for directions to the King’s Crossing Station. “I’m from Oklahoma…..” I said. (I switch hit.) “Oh, bad news for me,” she said, interrupting and nearly crying. “….but I happen to know. Turn right and walk about five blocks.” She nearly cried again. ‘Thank you so much. It’s my lucky day!” She extended her hand and said her name was Jennie. (I asked her to spell it.) She was pulling a large black rollerboard (triple redundancy). “Would you like to have a coffee?” she asked. Jennie may have been distinguished once. But it was a while ago. She was tiny and her foggy glasses came to points. Her hair, maybe formerly red, wiggled in the wind. I wiggled nervously and looked at my watch. “I’m sorry, but it’s past my bed time.” It was 9:30, so I was being honest. Jennie grabbed my hand. Her 60-ish fingers were cold. (Well, she didn’t have 60 fingers; they looked about 60 years old. Oh, this makes me think of Inigo Montoya seeking the six-fingered man. Anyway, back to the story.) “Won’t you please have a coffee with me?” “It’s really past my bed time. I’m sorry. Are you all right, Jennie?” I suddenly wished those chaplains were here. Or sort of maybe wished the Bobbies were her. But not quite. “I know Oklahoma, and we could talk with a coffee,” she said, almost pleading, then she adjusted her glasses and kinda sang. “Oooooooo-klahoma.” It was the first time I’d heard anyone sing my favorite song in at least seven hours. “That’s nice, thank you very much. But I’m pretty sleepy. Good luck, Jennie. The station is just ahead a few blocks. You can’t miss it.” I walked on toward Russell Square. Jennie, with a Brit’s confidence, had to look only one way and dragged her rollerboard across the street into the uncertain night. Then I ran into Jere and Karen from the New York Times, who had left the media shuttle and were seeking an Italian Restaurant. Then a party was happening under the wonderful sycamore trees on the grass at Russell Square, and I walked past and eavesdropped, but nobody asked me to join. Then at the Montague, I had nice red vino with Los Angeles Times pals John and Bill and met another Bill rom their staff while they dined at the hotel’s beautiful garden terrace. It was 11 p.m. I hoped Jennie found the station and someone to listen. What a privilege to be here! Every day is an adventure. Inspire a generation. And mind the gap. [/QUOTE]
Insert Quotes…
Verification
Post Reply
Forums
The Water Cooler
General Discussion
Olympics
Search titles only
By:
Top
Bottom