Opening Ceremonies (Almost)
I love the Olympics, but my favorite will probably always be the 2001 games when the winter Olympics came to Salt Lake City. I got to see the opening ceremonies sort of, and they were fantastic. I wasn’t living in Salt Lake at the time, but my family and many friends were, and I heard some interesting stories, but only after I’d heard about the construction. To hear them tell it, literally every street in the city was torn up. Whenever I talked to anybody, no matter who I spoke to, I had to first listen to a lengthy tirade about all the construction. But once, after the pre-requisite construction ravings, my sister told me she had a spare ticket to the dress rehearsal for the opening ceremony if I could get there the next day. WOW! I dropped everything and dashed out the door. When I called my husband to tell him I’d made it ok, I also told him about the construction first, it was impossible not to.
On that night, the temperature was 25 degrees and falling. But nobody seemed to care. I’ve never been in such a happy group. I think everyone felt exactly the same way that I did, that this was a once in a lifetime experience, and there was no way we weren’t going to enjoy it. Besides, frostbite surely wasn’t that big of a deal, right?
Even parking felt like going to Disneyland because just like Disney, I had to park miles away and take a special shuttle to the stadium. But I didn’t care. Like Disneyland I was excited for what was ahead. Everyone around me seemed to sparkle (partly with excitement, and partly because they were covered with ice crystals). Finally at the stadium we were herded into long lines and a voice, that I swear was borrowed from Disneyland boomed, “WELCOME! WELCOME TO OLYMPIC STADIUM!” Then Rosie O’Donnell welcomed us too. She wasn’t really there of course; this was the dress rehearsal.
Once the program began, we quickly found out that when they said dress rehearsal, they weren’t kidding. Absolutely everything was rehearsed—the President, who wasn’t there, other dignitaries who weren’t there, and even us, the audience, even though we wouldn’t be there either. Tomorrow, the real audience would find kits under their seats. We didn’t, but several times during the evening, we pretended to get them out to wave a flashlight or play the flute or hold cards the right way forward. All of us were caught up in the magic and I don’t think the real audience could possibly have been more enthusiastic.
And then the fun really began. The show was amazing, but my favorite parts were the “torch updates.” The program would stop and the jumbotron would say, “Olympic Torch Update.” The announcer would proclaim that the torch was at some random spot (the real route was kept secret until the actual night) and then, there on the screen would appear, not an Olympic hero, but a well-fed businessman jogging along holding a tiny flag, which he would pass with a theatrical flourish to the next businessman. Obviously, they were having the time of their lives. We all cheered and waved happily at the screen.
Then we watched the parade of nations. Or rather, the parade of flags, because naturally, the athletes weren’t there. I confess that in Olympics past, this was the part where I was likely to get up and fix a snack, but this was much more inspiring than watching the parade on TV. Firstly, I was riveted because I was trying hard to distract myself from how cold I was, and secondly because it seemed that every nation, no matter how obscure, had fans supporting them.
“All Right Latvia!!!” Shouted the lady behind me. “YEA!!! WHOOOO!!!”
“Why are you cheering for Latvia? Her husband asked.
“Because they need someone,” she replied.
Apparently, everyone within earshot was thinking the same thing that I was, namely, heck, why not?
“Yea Latvia!!” we all cheered together. Somewhere else, another group was cheering for Lichtenstein.
At one point in the show a huge kite shaped like a bison comes out onto the ice. I was waiting for this. My sister was a volunteer for this part, and she had told me that during one rehearsal it was so windy that the bison’s head blew off and rolled across the great plains. Much as I would have liked to have seen a giant bison head stampeding through the carefully choreographed pioneers, I was glad it didn’t. I’m proud of my hometown and wanted to show it off to the world. All went very well. The Olympic flag was raised, and a pretend athlete mimicked lighting the torch. The choir (not the real one) sang, and we all shook with excitement and severe chills.
The show was over. I made my way very, very slowly to the bottom of the stadium, hiked the mile or so to my shuttle to stand shaking with chattering teeth in a very long line. But it was all good. These strangers were my friends. Whoever or whatever these people were, we had something in common. We were all crazy enough to sit in one cramped spot for more than five hours in freezing weather. We had all seen something that touched us. We all huddled together much more closely than we otherwise would for warmth and talked easily. Most of the conversation centered on the fact that we were colder than we had ever been before in our entire lives. It might have been nice to establish something more important, but when you come to think of it, what is more important? We were human, we were freezing, we were together, and we were happy. We understood one another perfectly.
On that night, the temperature was 25 degrees and falling. But nobody seemed to care. I’ve never been in such a happy group. I think everyone felt exactly the same way that I did, that this was a once in a lifetime experience, and there was no way we weren’t going to enjoy it. Besides, frostbite surely wasn’t that big of a deal, right?
Even parking felt like going to Disneyland because just like Disney, I had to park miles away and take a special shuttle to the stadium. But I didn’t care. Like Disneyland I was excited for what was ahead. Everyone around me seemed to sparkle (partly with excitement, and partly because they were covered with ice crystals). Finally at the stadium we were herded into long lines and a voice, that I swear was borrowed from Disneyland boomed, “WELCOME! WELCOME TO OLYMPIC STADIUM!” Then Rosie O’Donnell welcomed us too. She wasn’t really there of course; this was the dress rehearsal.
Once the program began, we quickly found out that when they said dress rehearsal, they weren’t kidding. Absolutely everything was rehearsed—the President, who wasn’t there, other dignitaries who weren’t there, and even us, the audience, even though we wouldn’t be there either. Tomorrow, the real audience would find kits under their seats. We didn’t, but several times during the evening, we pretended to get them out to wave a flashlight or play the flute or hold cards the right way forward. All of us were caught up in the magic and I don’t think the real audience could possibly have been more enthusiastic.
And then the fun really began. The show was amazing, but my favorite parts were the “torch updates.” The program would stop and the jumbotron would say, “Olympic Torch Update.” The announcer would proclaim that the torch was at some random spot (the real route was kept secret until the actual night) and then, there on the screen would appear, not an Olympic hero, but a well-fed businessman jogging along holding a tiny flag, which he would pass with a theatrical flourish to the next businessman. Obviously, they were having the time of their lives. We all cheered and waved happily at the screen.
Then we watched the parade of nations. Or rather, the parade of flags, because naturally, the athletes weren’t there. I confess that in Olympics past, this was the part where I was likely to get up and fix a snack, but this was much more inspiring than watching the parade on TV. Firstly, I was riveted because I was trying hard to distract myself from how cold I was, and secondly because it seemed that every nation, no matter how obscure, had fans supporting them.
“All Right Latvia!!!” Shouted the lady behind me. “YEA!!! WHOOOO!!!”
“Why are you cheering for Latvia? Her husband asked.
“Because they need someone,” she replied.
Apparently, everyone within earshot was thinking the same thing that I was, namely, heck, why not?
“Yea Latvia!!” we all cheered together. Somewhere else, another group was cheering for Lichtenstein.
At one point in the show a huge kite shaped like a bison comes out onto the ice. I was waiting for this. My sister was a volunteer for this part, and she had told me that during one rehearsal it was so windy that the bison’s head blew off and rolled across the great plains. Much as I would have liked to have seen a giant bison head stampeding through the carefully choreographed pioneers, I was glad it didn’t. I’m proud of my hometown and wanted to show it off to the world. All went very well. The Olympic flag was raised, and a pretend athlete mimicked lighting the torch. The choir (not the real one) sang, and we all shook with excitement and severe chills.
The show was over. I made my way very, very slowly to the bottom of the stadium, hiked the mile or so to my shuttle to stand shaking with chattering teeth in a very long line. But it was all good. These strangers were my friends. Whoever or whatever these people were, we had something in common. We were all crazy enough to sit in one cramped spot for more than five hours in freezing weather. We had all seen something that touched us. We all huddled together much more closely than we otherwise would for warmth and talked easily. Most of the conversation centered on the fact that we were colder than we had ever been before in our entire lives. It might have been nice to establish something more important, but when you come to think of it, what is more important? We were human, we were freezing, we were together, and we were happy. We understood one another perfectly.