"Mick" and "Oh"

The Irish love to talk. Telling stories is even more fun. When I first met Lance O’Toole, he said, “I’m glad to have a “Mick” on my side, even if you’re not a Marine!” The “Mc” on the front of my last name and “O” on his immediately told us we were countrymen of some sort from the Ould Sod. Mick, from Mc, has become a slang term for Irish(sometimes derogatory, if you’re English) and O-anything is a dead giveaway. Everyone in this amazing country has roots somewhere in the world but some of us feel the ties more than others. The two of us never stopped talking from the day we met.

Lance and I were learning to be field artillery officers together in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. We were far away from families, in our 20’s and newly married. He had already done his “Boot Camp” and I had done my “Basic”. We reported for duty on July 4. Jane and I had changed our wedding date to June 29 after my orders came and we had five days to drive from DC to Ft. Sill. Lance had come in on 4th too and we met at PT (physical training in military speak) the next morning.

We always argued about how “Irish” each of us were and I have to say that his red hair gave him a distinct advantage. The stories we told each other about our families and childhoods filled the long hot days of summer that were full of classroom work in sweltering Quonset huts, days and nights on the firing range with the 105mm and 155mm howitzers being used in Vietnam and endless forays into the countryside to practice being forward observers who direct the artillery fire onto the enemy targets. “FO” was the pre-determined job for most 2nd Lieutenants so, believe me, we paid very close attention to those drills.

Lance always wanted to be a Marine. Some fall into it but he had thought about it a lot and as soon as he could enlist, he did. Becoming an officer was a very proud moment for Lance and we talked about what it meant and would mean to our lives. My dad, who spent his life in the military, couldn’t be there when I was commissioned but, years later, he told me how much my being an officer during Vietnam had meant to him and that filled a void in me that to this day is very satisfying.

It wouldn’t be the last time but I was the odd duck in my gunnery school class. Because of the war, the Department of Defense was running all the services with ground troops through the same schools. As luck would have it, I was in a class of Marines with only two other Army officers so we were constantly being verbally abused. My ace in the hole was Lance P. O’Toole. He called me “Mick” and I called him “O” and we stood back to back when we were in the field ready to take on anything they could throw at us. It was good-natured but you know as well as I do that boys will be boys.

Our orders came in late September. As I opened the envelope, I remember that for the first time since we’d been in Oklahoma we had opened the windows of our apartment to let in some “cool” night air and I could feel it. I had been levied overseas but was being temporarily held back to be a gunnery instructor at the school. The next day I learned that all the Marines were headed for Vietnam.

Lance and I spent those last few days before they left talking about plans for the future. What were we going to do when we were discharged? What kind of jobs would we be looking for or even be qualified for? Where would we call home? That summer on the plains of Oklahoma was our first step out into the light of our own lives. Like our troops today, we were doing what our country asked us to do. In spite of what your mind tells you, your heart says being a patriot is the right thing.

The day Lance left, I helped him pack the car because he had stored some of his gear at our place overnight. “Good luck, Oh, it’s been great getting to know you” I said. “Mick, I’ll see you on the other side.”

Two months later, I had just been assigned to the Agent Orange project and was stationed at Edgewood Arsenal outside of Baltimore. Another Marine from our class called to say that Lance had been killed in a firefight less than a month after arriving in country. He wasn’t the first friend I had lost to that war, nor would he be the last, but we were Irish and we’d made a connection that was hundreds of years in the making. In the boxes that we shipped cross country from Ft. Sill was something that Lance had left behind. It’s a simple Army-issue green canvas camp stool. I still use it today to sit on while I shine my shoes. Stamped on the leg in true Marine style, it reads “Lance P. O’Toole”.

Each Memorial Day, I pull out that stool and the picture of Lance and me that Jane took on the day of our graduation from gunnery school. My memories of him and that summer in Oklahoma paint a brilliant picture of life, of freedom, of ancestry, of country. To me, wars are much less about ideology, nationalism, religion or politics than they are about the people who fight them. I long for a time when we can find peace in this world…when the “Oh’s” and “Mick’s” don’t have to be “good soldiers”. That time can’t come too soon. I miss you, Lance. I’ll see you on the other side.

It's just a play...

The annual ArtsFund luncheon in Seattle is one of those “can’t miss” affairs. Every corner of our art world is represented. Most organizations and major underwriters have their own tables. Over a 1000 supporters of the arts are in the house. It’s an arts “love in”.

This year, I was honored to sit with my friends from the Seattle Symphony as their world renowned Music Director Gerard Schwarz was presented the lifetime achievement award. It was particularly moving to have his son Julian perform a very engaging Handel piece on the cello with violinist Elisa Barston. For sure, it moved Gerry.

Being at the luncheon prompted me to reflect on how the arts have affected my life. My interests have always been wide ranging. I had a fourth grade teacher who loved the Renaissance and took every opportunity to tell us that pursuing all of your interests was very important to experiencing a full life. It did not take me long to immerse myself in music, art, performing, science, sports, astronomy, world culture and language, which made my parents scratch their heads. Why in the world was I taking an interest in all these subjects? A short attention span? I hope not. There was just so much out there to learn and more importantly experience.

As I sat listening to Handel’s Passacaglia, I was reminded of an incident in high school that was a tipping point for me. As my teen years progressed, I developed more than a passing interest in writing, music and language. But before I knew it, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat consumed me and sports became my life. After all, you didn’t get a cool sweater and jacket with letters, bars and pins all over them from the Spanish club, or the Glee club or for writing for the school newspaper. It seemed as though sports were everything. Then along came the class play. That sounded like fun. “The Diary of Anne Frank” gave this young Richie Cunningham (“Happy Days”) a chance to recite a lot of Hebrew and make some pretty heady decisions as Anne’s father.

The play occurred during basketball season and that year I was in Indiana where, as I’ve said before, basketball is next to Godliness…as long as God makes the ball go through the hoop for you. I was always a team player in sports. I never gave the coaches a hard time. But then a note was handed to me in class that said the coach wanted to see me BEFORE practice. Not a good sign, I thought.

When I reported to his office, the coach barely looked up. After making me sweat for a couple of minutes, he said, “I understand you want to be in this play.” “Yes, I do. It’s just a play and I thought it might be fun.” Then the lecture started. This wasn’t supposed to be fun. This was about discipline and learning to respect others. You can’t play a sport and then “waste” your time “goofing around” in this “silly play”.

Wow! I was floored. Why was this so bad? I don’t think I had ever felt the need to stand up for myself so strongly. And why I did then, I’ll never know. But the words came out of my mouth without hesitation. “How am I doing on the court, Coach? If I’m doing ok and I don’t miss practice and I keep up my grades then how can you tell me that I can’t be in the play and still play basketball?” Silence. “Are you going to cut me from the team half way through the season if I want to be in the play?” More silence. Then,“Well…your grades are good. Mind you, if you miss five minutes of practice for this play, you’re done.” “I won’t, Coach.” I’m sure I was shaking. I know I thought my head was going to blow up. I turned slowly and walked out.

Times were pretty medieval then. Thank goodness the renaissance mentality has crept back into our lives. But never another word was said about the encounter. Oh, I thought the coach worked me harder than everyone else after that, but, if he did, I probably needed it. We had a great basketball season and the play was fantastic! My Hebrew wasn’t bad, either.

Turns out, it was not “just a play”. It was a little piece of freedom that my fourth grade teacher gave me. Finding those things in life that excite and stimulate you is an adventure that everyone should experience. That’s what I think the arts are about. They are very personal. They exercise our minds. They fill in the blanks in our lives. They make us complete.

That’s what keeps me coming back to the ArtsFund Luncheon. It’s about being with people who have found the value and the emotions in art. We can’t all be artists but we can enrich our lives by being around them, by thinking about them, marveling in them and, perhaps, even participating. What would our lives be without the arts? Pretty dull and grey, I think.

As I listened to the moving Handel piece, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and tears filled my eyes. Whether it’s the beauty of a new ballet, the excitement of a Broadway musical, a dramatic new play on stage, an astonishing display of glass art or even hearing Kurt Cobain scream at you from the wall of the Art Museum, your life has more meaning from these encounters. I love the arts…and the Seahawks too!

Butler takes us back to better times

No one will deny that the Butler Bulldogs could have won the National Championship in college basketball, just as Duke did. It was a fair match every step of the way. Gordon Hayward’s 4-second jump shot and 1-second half-court heave were the only difference between victory and defeat. The Bulldogs made a magnificent run for the title. We love to root for David over Goliath. We seem to always like the little guy…and the team from Indy was something to admire all season long.

Butler University’s story has given new life to one of the greatest legends in sports history. The small town Milan Indians (pictured above) defeated the far-superior Muncie Central Bearcats for the Indiana State High School Championship in a game that even my grandmother could describe in minute detail. The victory was the inspiration for the award-winning movie “Hoosiers” and, although the back story of the principal characters was fictional, the final game was played out with pain-staking accuracy in the film.

I’ve got Hoosier blood in me. Both my parents were born and raised in Indiana. While I was growing up and moving from base to base every year with my military father, my summers were spent on the family farm in Indiana and whenever the chores were done, I was shooting hoops…or fishing.

My uncle was a high school basketball coach, which if you’re successful, gets you any other job you want in Indiana. He coached in the same state tournament that Milan won and, although I didn’t know the significance then, he took me to that final game as a grade schooler.

Butler Fieldhouse was mecca for high school basketball in those days. And it made the same impression on me as it did on the players in the movie “Hoosiers”. It was HUGE and the packed crowd was almost scary. High School players looked like giants to me then and the Muncie team dwarfed the Milan crew. Bobby Plump was the star that day and he’s one of those people who can never get past that one big moment in their lives. Like Bobby, nothing else that Jim Whittaker has done in his lifetime will ever make him more than the first American to climb Mt. Everest. When I met Bobby Plump at a family wedding a few years ago, he held court all day long talking about THE game. It’s been 50 years!!

But I digress…Milan’s coach was from Butler and had only been coaching for two years. He was 26-years-old. That was old to me then, but now, I realize that he was just a kid himself. He found a way to control the game and keep the bigger, more physical Bearcats from running and shooting. It’s called “the stall”…just hold on to the ball, don’t take a shot until you absolutely have to or want to, then get it back as quickly as you can and keep stalling. With a minute to go in the game, the score was tied 30-30. Bobby Plump held the ball for the last four minutes without ever making a pass. Remember, the rules were different in those days. There was no shot clock and Milan made it to the finals in a single-elimination tournament with every high school in the state participating…there were over 750 of them.

With 18-seconds left, Bobby dribbled to the right side of the key and shot a jump shot that touched nothing but the net. 32-30 Milan wins! I remember being engulfed by fans streaming onto the floor to celebrate. I kept my eye on my uncle who went straight over to congratulate the Milan coach. As the story goes, when the team drove back home to southeastern Indiana, over 40,000 people lined the road to greet them. All the players from the team went to college because of that game and Bobby Plump played for Butler and in a professional league before becoming a life insurance salesman in Milan where he is today.

Thirty years later, the whole state of Indiana rallied around the making of the movie “Hoosiers”. My uncle was asked to be the basketball consultant for the film and he even got a cameo as one of the opposing coaches. In the Director’s Commentary on the 10th anniversary edition of the DVD, Uncle Tom gets some real props from the filmmakers.

In Texas, it’s football. In Indiana, it’s basketball and always will be. Many of the game’s greatest players have learned the fundamentals there. I know I did during my two tours in and out of the state while I was in high school…we moved twice and I went to three different high schools during my four years. But I learned that basketball was king and playing the game made you proud…and got you a free haircut on Saturday, after a win.

The Butler University team will be an inspiration to an untold number of youngsters who are growing up in school now and joining in athletics. Basketball teaches a lot about skills, conditioning and teamwork. You gain respect for others while playing the game and you learn a lot about yourself and what motivates you. Last night’s championship game will be remembered as one of the greatest college basketball games ever played. And the most beautiful thing is…nobody lost.

April 5...the day after

Haze is never far away in Washington, DC. It happens in both the weather and the government. Big fluctuations in temperature, especially in the spring time, bring that murky air down over the city like a blanket.

The weather was hazy at 3pm on Friday, April 5, 1968 as I was driving back into the city from NIH (DC-acronym-speak for the National Institutes of Health) in Bethesda, Maryland. My meetings there were mercifully over early so that I had time to get to my office on Capitol Hill, close up and be there to pick-up my fiancé Jane when she arrived at National Airport (now Reagan) on spring break.

We were all shocked the night before with the news of Martin Luther King’s assassination in Memphis. The world-changing series of events from 1968 that began with the Vietnam War’s Tet Offensive in January was continuing. Just 5 days before on March 31,President Johnson had announced that he would not seek reelection when he said, “There is division in the American house now. There is a divisiveness among us all tonight.” Civil Rights and the Vietnam War were putting unbelievable pressure on our democracy and everyone could feel it.

I was driving my parent's new Camaro convertible and listening to dialogues about the assassination on public radio when I noticed lots of kids on the street. School had just let out and it was the start of spring vacation so I really wasn’t paying much attention to the groups on the sidewalks. Then two young kids both picked up huge pieces of cement from a street repair project and hurled them through a business window. I knew something serious was going on and it would be best to move on quickly. I obeyed the traffic light and stopped a block or so down the street before I realized how vulnerable I was. A pack of kids came running at the car. I saw the brick coming at the windshield and just hoped it didn’t completely shatter. The safety glass worked and just as the angry gang reached the car, I sped off leaving them in my exhaust.

Working my way to the Hill, I saw pockets of unrest but I kept moving. Then, as I turned east on Florida Avenue towards the Capitol, I could see plumes of black smoke billowing up from Hecht & Company (DC’s Nordstrom) and several other tall buildings. The streets were beginning to be closed off. No cell phones, remember. I wanted to stop at a pay phone to call my office and my parents but I didn’t want to chance getting out of the car.

It took more than an hour but I reached the Rayburn Office Building and found my colleagues gathered in an office listening and watching the news. How could this be happening in America? In our nation’s Capitol, for that matter! In true government fashion, all the workers in the District were told to go home at the same time. Normally, work schedules were “time-released” beginning at about 2pm to prevent congestion. Everyone was now on the road at once and nothing could move an inch.

When officials realized what they had done, all the bridges out of town were closed and a curfew was imposed on the city. Geez, this sounded like Moscow, not Washington. I reached my father at the Pentagon and he told me he had been able to send a car to the airport to pick-up Jane and take her home. He suggested I stay put. Being a military man, he was already knee-deep in the operation in the District.

I went to a friend’s apartment nearby the office and we sat on his balcony feeling somewhat frightened and helplessly watching the city burn. The curfew was dropped at about 11pm and I got out of the city by midnight. Our suburban Virginia home felt really good that night. But it was another one of those life-changing days that occurred so frequently in 1968 and made me look on our government and our country in a very different way.

Several days later, I ventured into the city with Jane for a respite and a look at the spring flowers and cherry blossoms. I took a photo that shows Jane and flowers but in the background is a truck full of armed troops that was an ever-present sign of what martial law really feels like.

Martin Luther King Jr’s tragic death made our country take an even closer look at what we were doing to each other and at the perilous path we were headed down. I never miss a Martin Luther King Day celebration. His words, deeds and life had a profound effect on the person I have become. President Johnson went on in his March 31 speech to say, ”I cannot disregard the peril to the American people and the hope and prospect of peace for all people.” None of us can and may we never come that close to the edge of uncertainty again.

Vancouver Round Three...the Games...Viva Vancouver!

The Beijing Olympics are a very hard act to follow. Over $44 billion still buys a lot these days. Both Vancouver and London said there is no way to compete directly with Beijing, so they have to be different. London still has some time to work on it but, for Vancouver, the test is over. With the closing ceremonies being history, what I started to say was that now Vancouver can get back to normal…but I can’t really say that because Vancouver never stopped being normal…and that’s a beautiful thing. The hospitality was always the same. The shopkeepers and restaurateurs never stopped being gracious. The volunteers may not be wearing their blue jackets but there are still locals on the streets who are anxious to tell you about their wonderful city...and there is still a "Tim Horton's" on every corner.

The 2010 Olympic Winter Games were a breath of fresh air…cold, crisp Canadian air from the north country. Having the good fortune to spend some time on the inside of the Games, I can tell you that the organizers and volunteers never wavered from their mission of being great hosts to the world. You were comfortable everywhere you went…except perhaps in the 4-block-long line to try to buy a pair of red mittens at the Olympic Superstore…no one could have anticipated that colossal demand.

As the Games came to a close, the athletes became more visible. One of the problems at the outset was that the athletes at Whistler Mountain were reluctant to make the two-hour drive to Vancouver for the social gatherings because they didn’t want to make the long trip back late at night before competing the next day. During the run to the last weekend though, they were everywhere…and so were their fans.

Coming out of a downtown hotel, the sidewalk was clogged and the four lanes of traffic were stopped until Shaun White could break loose from the crowd and literally run down the street full throttle with that big white toothy grin on his face and the mob following behind him. I spoke with athletes from Russia, the UK, Germany, the US and Chile. Their stories of making friendships and receiving the royal treatment from the locals were heartwarming. One German athlete told me his parent’s best friends were from a chance meeting at the Los Angeles Olympics and now he was rooming with a son from the union of those best friends. It is a small world indeed!

The patch of rough road that the Games went through in the opening days might have thrown another city into a tailspin. A tragic death in practice, venue problems, ticket difficulties and limited access to the Olympic Cauldron and Flame could not make the Vancouver organizers take the focus off their job. Even NBC-TV took a big hit by delaying the daily broadcast on the west coast. My friend Ann Curry invited me to spend the day on the set at Grouse Mountain in a huge, blinding snow storm and that didn’t even dampen anyone’s spirits. In my discussions with members of the committee, the biggest difficulty was walking the fine line between the world politics of the IOC (the International Olympic Committee) and simply doing the right thing. Performing on the world stage in front of tens of millions of patriotic fans is a very heady place to be.

I’ve read a fair amount of press that says these Games were TOO CANADIAN. Sorry, I don’t buy that. Why do the Games go out for bid? It’s to allow special places in our world the opportunity to show their face to the world. And when the natives embrace that cause by wearing their colors and their flags and their red mittens (one Canadian woman told me her mittens were the best Christmas present she has every received), why shouldn’t they be proud of their country. That makes me feel better about where I live too.

One of the insiders I talked to was a key player in organizing the volunteer effort for the Games. They received 78,000 applications for 25,000 positions. For 10 months, she was one of a group who interviewed every applicant for 20 minutes. As a volunteer, you had to commit to 13 one-day shifts, no exceptions. In that 10 month period, she only turned away 2 people who she thought would not represent Vancouver and Canada in the best possible way. “I couldn’t be more proud of all those who were chosen to represent our city. It was truly inspiring,” she said to me.

And then there was the US vs. Canada hockey game. Wow. It was spectacular even if you are not a hockey fan. There could not have been a more fitting close to these Games than for us all to be focused on that contest. Both sides played their hearts out. As I said to someone at the end of the Academy Awards, Hurt Locker was like the Canadians in the Olympic Hockey Championship. The odds were stacked against it but it still won Best Picture in the face of the most successful film in movie history. It was just so right. I have not talked to an American who hasn’t said, “I’m all for Team USA but the Canadians deserved to win that hockey game.”

Global politics be damned! Aren’t the Olympics supposed to bring us together in the spirit of healthy competition? The Vancouver Winter Games did just that, for me…and the City of Vancouver did it their way, without changing much at all. In the middle of a long, miserable world recession that has us all hanging our heads low, these Games gave us a chance to look up and see the sunshine…and it felt very, very good. Viva Vancouver!!

Vancouver Round Two...the Athletes

The Vancouver Winter Games are for the athletes. The organizers considered the safety, the comfort and the health of the athletes before anything else and the gesture did not go unnoticed. On my last trip up to the Games, I focused on the athletes and the teams. It’s interesting to see how young people deal with the social pressures that the Games put them under and the competitive pressures that come from their sports.

The Winter Games are half the size of the Summer Games in terms of participating athletes. Beijing had over 10,000 and now Vancouver has over 5,000. Most of that difference comes from the number of medal events which is just about double in the Summer. The Winter Games are normally held in small mountain towns right next to the ski lifts that the athletes take to their courses. Vancouver is an exception. It is the largest city to host the Winter Games and it is actually two major venues with the ski mountain, Whistler, being about 70 miles and a two-hour drive north of Vancouver.

One of the things I’m often asked to do is to keep people “on message”. Meaning that there are certain elements of any program that most effectively frame the purpose and mission… making it easy for the players to articulate that message becomes the challenge. I came together with a number of the young men and women who were competing in the Games to find their comfort zone when talking about these Olympics.

Shannon Bahrke (BAR-kee) and her brother Scott, both skiers, were an easy test. If I had more hair, I think I would try the shade of pink that Shannon uses. It gives you a positive little electric shock and makes you smile when you see it. Shannon won the bronze medal in the freestyle mogul competition and if you want to take a lesson in being an Olympic Champion, talk to Shannon. First of all, she’s gracious…no attitude. What was it like for her to win the Bronze? “Winning the Bronze medal here was just as exciting as winning the Silver in Salt Lake 8 years ago. The Olympics is a combination of the competition, the location, the fans and the energy generated by the athletes around you from all over the world. Some people want to brand this event as business. For me, it’s fun!” That’s being “on message”.

Shannon’s brother, Scott, is an aerialist on the national team and didn’t know he was going to compete in Vancouver until two days before the Games Opening Ceremonies. His teammate and close friend Dylan Ferguson was not be able make the Games because of complications from an appendectomy. Scott was the picture of confidence and grace. “I’m really disappointed for Dylan. He worked very hard to make the team. But now I have to focus on the competition and do my best performance for Team USA and the Games.” That’s a 24-year-old who is thinking about what he’s saying before he says it.

My time with Shannon and Scotty was extended when the tram got stuck by a computer glitch coming down from the top of Grouse Mountain. What impressed me most was that the two did not stand around by themselves but circulated around the coach engaging people and taking photos with Shannon’s Bronze Medal. These are often hard lessons to learn but sometimes you just have it.

Gold-Medal-winning snowboarder Shaun White, the Carrot Top look-alike, has the system down cold. He’s got the right mix of bravado, composure and light-heartedness. He’s a rock star with a healthy lifestyle. He embodies the youth of today in the best possible way. His hero is his older brother and he’s very courteous to his fans. In my brief encounter with him, he focused directly on our conversation. No gazing around the room for someone more important to talk to. These Games attract people with heart and that’s refreshing in sport today.

I walked around the Athlete’s Village, which will be a downtown condominium community after the Games, and was introduced to a number of athletes. The US men’s and women’s hockey team members clearly took the “I” out of team. They were all talking about each other and not themselves. Hard to do sometimes. I even ran into Bodie Miller, former bad boy skier, who said, “The Olympics has taught me a lot about myself. Whether anyone believes it or not, I think I’m a better person because of the Games. I made mistakes before but now I don’t want to and I’m trying harder.” That’s good enough for me.

The Georgian Team was another objective of mine. The death of their teammate Nodar Kumaritashvili was a tragedy, especially on Opening Day of the Games. There was not an athlete that I spoke to who did not say Nodar’s accident has haunted them throughout the Games. I did find two members of the team who spoke some English. They told me that it was not necessary to place blame but to revere their friend who lost his life to sport. That’s an amazing perspective. This was a sad, sad legacy for these Games.

It is quite clear to me that the Vancouver Games are all about the athletes. It is so refreshing to be among the young competitors who are not faced with making decisions about hay bales and bus schedules. They are not thinking about how much it will cost to open this venue or that. They don’t even have to sell tickets and worry about the loss of millions of dollars as an investment for a city’s future. These talented young people, in the prime of their lives, are concerned about their turn to compete. They are thinking about their teammates and the life-long memories they will savor from these 17 days. Money and fame can come later if that is their ultimate objective. Right now it’s all about the years they’ve trained and the part of their lives they have sacrificed to be in the ultimate world competition. Today, it’s about the athletes. Isn’t life grand!

Vancouver Round One

The Games are on and there’s one week down. What a rollercoaster ride it has been so far. No doubt you have read about all the controversy and celebration. The US is leading the medal count right now and there have been some surprises. But my ruminations in this post are more about the visitor experience that is not in the news. The rest you can get on NBC (although it’s broadcast 3 hours late on the west coast) or CBCTV if you live in Canada or elsewhere around the world.

The first obstacle of attending the 2010 Olympic Games is that you have to get to Canada. Crossing the border at the “Peace Arch” or the “Truck Crossing” is your first decision. The lighted “Crossing Update” sign read “5 minutes” at either point. We locals like to think the “Truck Crossing” is our little secret but in reality I’m sure it’s used as much as the “Peace Arch” is.

I decided to chance the “Peace Arch” and as I approached there was absolutely no traffic. This was mid-morning and I have never seen it so devoid of cars. As I came over the hill, I saw 12 brand spanking new crossing booths, all open, all manned and not a single car but mine to be seen. It was so easy it made me uncomfortable. I felt like I was cheating…but so be it.

The drive into downtown Vancouver, about 30 miles, was equally pleasant. I even took my favorite route, Cambie Street, and hardly missed a light. This was all really surprising. Vancouver is the largest city to ever host a Winter Olympic Games and, at the very least, you would think that traffic would be a problem.

When I arrived in town, I quickly parked in a covered lot near False Bay for $12 a day. Then, after a great lunch of cooked-to-order chowder and fried oysters at Rodney’s Oyster House, my favorite hole-in-the-wall, I began to explore.

The new subway system had just opened and I had to give it a try. Easy access. Two routes, not too confusing. It takes you within a five minute walk of any downtown neighborhood or the waterfront for $2.50 and the ticket is good for 90 minutes. Truth be told, there are signs that say you must have a ticket and may be asked to show it but no one ever did.

The powder blue jackets of the Games volunteers stood out everywhere. There are reportedly more than 25,000 and I had trouble stumping them with questions about the activities and directions in the downtown corridor. And they were eager to help.

The Olympic Flame and Cauldron was my first real objective. It had only been burning for a couple of days since The Great One touched the flaming torch to it. When I reached the waterfront and asked which way, the hand pointed down the street and the young volunteer said, “You’ll see the crowd!” And what a crowd it was. Probably 500 people were jammed up against a 10-foot-high, chain-link fence about 30 yards from the Flame. It looked like the Berlin Wall. People were climbing the fence and building human pyramids to get a better look or to take pictures. The rest kept maneuvering forward until they could stick their cameras through the links to get an unobstructed photo. The plaza around the Flame was beautiful, with the water and the mountains behind North Vancouver, but only a handful of VIP’s were walking around it. This was the first critical point of connection with the public and it was a huge mess.

Then I decided to try the Official Olympic Merchandise Shop. To get there, I had to go down Robson Street, a major retail thoroughfare. It is blocked off to cars for the Games and the crowds full of Canada-capped, red-jacketed, Maple-Leaf-mufflered revelers were stifling. But everyone seemed to be happy and having a good time.

The shop is located in a large section of the main floor of the Hudson’s Bay Company. The checkout line was more than 6 blocks long and they were letting new shoppers through a stancioned- entrance ONE AT A TIME. It’s good to be popular but not that popular. I asked some visitors on the street (mostly Canadians from other provinces) where they bought their souvenirs and they directed me to the nearby Sears store that has a good selection of Official Merchandise and no lines whatsoever. The hooded sweatshirts are still $80 though.

The International Media Centre was my ultimate goal to meet with the VANOC (Vancouver Organizing Committee) folks I would be working with during the Games. It’s in a perfect spot near the Pan Pacific Hotel on the waterfront and a stone’s throw from the chain-linked cauldron. The offices are small but comfortable and there are battalions of paid and volunteer workers whose job it is to make these Games comfortable, entertaining and successful for the athletes, the spectators, visitors and dignitaries alike.

The Games were never out of sight. Every restaurant, bar and retail shop had big screen TVs with CBC's live coverage from Whistler and Vancouver/Richmond in full view. Even several high-rise buildings had jumbotron sized screens mounted on the exterior walls for street viewing. The city is immersed in the Winter Olympics.

Strategy is my game and I’m there to help communicate and promote in the most effective ways possible. VANOC and the sponsor group are my clients. They are already facing many unanticipated problems but I’ll talk about that in my next post.

Hoteliers and restaurateurs who I spoke with had seen great opening weekend business but by early this week traffic was dropping off quickly. Hotel rooms were readily available at significantly reduced rates and there were no long waits at most restaurants. Tickets to the competitions were being sold on the street for a fraction of face value. Ticket scalping is legal in Canada and the VANOC officials say they simply don’t have time to discourage it. Almost any venue imaginable was available for $50 or less per ticket.

For me, this first trip was to get the lay of the land. From the Opening Ceremonies to Canada’s first Gold Medal on Canadian soil, the host city was gracious, attentive and welcoming in every way. They were dealing with their problems head-on and the objective was always what was best for the athletes and the visitors.

When I drove back to Seattle and came to the Peace Arch crossing, the sign still read “5 Minutes”. The difference was that the US-maintained side of the crossing was unfinished. Construction equipment and piles of dirt and debris were scattered everywhere. It was like a slalom course to reach the crossing booth but there was one open with no wait. “What did you do while you were in Canada?” the guard asked. “Saw a lot of Canadians,” I said. He laughed and waved me on.