You meet people from all over the place at the Olympics and have all kinds of conversations, which sometimes have a way of careening in new and interesting directions.
You meet people from all over the place at the Olympics and have all kinds of conversations, which sometimes have a way of careening in new and interesting directions. Like Thursday, for example, on the chairlift ride down from the ladies super-combined event. My chair-mate was a security guard.
We got to talking about our Olympic accommodations. I told her about living in a tiny room with three other sportswriters, sleeping in a single bed built for an eight-year-old and wearing earplugs, just in case. I told her it wasn't so bad. The only snorer in the room sounds more like a snuffling baby cow, than a buzz-saw, and the bathroom rotation, given our varied wake-up times, was running smoothly. (Knock wood). We were a big happy ink-stained family, I said.
Then she told me she lived in a bunk bed...in a shipping container...in a complex of shipping containers, with about 500 residents in all. She said the shipping container wasn't so bad, and that her three roommates were basically strangers. The food, though, was a bit of a problem. "It's not good," she said.
After saying goodbye I caught a bus. Mike, the bus driver and I, we got to talking. He loves his Olympic gig -- "better money than I was making in Ottawa" -- he says. Mike was staying in Squamish in a ship, instead of a shipping container. The ship's name was the Mona Lisa. Mike said the rooms were not a masterpiece, but that the "food was really good."