Too Close for Comfort?
Too Close for Comfort?
Too Close for Comfort?
August 10, 2008
Warning: This is a completely self-indulgent post. I still hope you enjoy.
The bus lurched forward, reflexively I reached out my arm, swooping around a fellow passenger who otherwise would have barrelled into fellow passengers. Most likely before coming to rest on the soaking floor.
After six days of sweltering, humid but rain free weather, the heavens had finally opened. A clash of the titans, thunder and lightning competing for supremacy in the sky as hot rain fell as a consequence. Far from refreshing, I was soaked within seconds.
I stood in place, wiping my glasses every five seconds - my mind wandered to windscreen wipers for glasses for some reason - I thought back to seeing that on ‘The Benny Hill Show’ in the 70’s...I snapped back, hoping no one had noticed I was gone. When the pneumatic doors hissed open, I was reminded that orderly queueing is a strictly British thing (yeah, right!), the throng descended on the door, every semblance of decorum evaporated as people pushed and shoved their way through the front door. Journalists used their elbows, photographers used whatever was to hand, tripods, even their telephoto lenses to create space.
By the time I boarded it was standing room only. I hovered between an intruding wheel arch and a baggage rack, I thought it might afford me a little more space. I was wrong.
Instead, even as the 8:20 bus sat, already ten minutes late, more and more people were being encouraged to board. With a warm smile and a friendly wave the bus driver crammed us in like sardines. It’s amazing how many countries you can identify when they have to wear it pinned on their chest: Two Germans eating some sort of carrot salad, a Mongolian and two Chinese journo’s talking more loudly than if they were in a bar, a Spanish photographer cramming slices of cheese into his mouth like his last meal, and a French reporter, lucky enough to have the last seat, stoically reading “Le Monde” while an American leaned over his shoulder, looking slightly perturbed every time the Frenchman turned a page, seemingly always a little too quickly.
I turned my head, by now the only part of me I could move without endangering my fellow passengers. I scanned the crowd, seemingly all 200 plus Olympic languages being spoken at once - and not one pretty fa-…
The bus lurched forward, my right arm shot to the ceiling to brace me, someone stepped on my foot, and from the corner of my eye I saw in slow motion a man, now beside me as the standing passengers surged backwards, stumble...he started to fall...my left arm shot out and encircled his waist and I held him fast as two passengers fell and several others ricocheted off each other.
Finally, the bus, now 20 minutes late, started to move, still rocking from side to side, I wondered if he was doing it on purpose.
Only after the bus travelled a few metres did I even look over to the man next to me, I suddenly felt more than a little self-conscious that I was still holding him, I started to look apologetic, his face was close, he just smiled. “Tall.” I thought...then I started to sweat and slowly tried to pull my arm away, so he might not notice it still there, he braced, trapping my arm between his chest and his own arm pinned to his side by the throng.
I looked down and started to sweat. My first thought? I wished I’d gone to the gym today,.. this week… recently….
For a moment, the worlds voices were silenced and there was me and him and “My Joy.”
In that moment, 40 minutes passed and the rain poured.
The bus pitched again, he leaned, I smiled, but then it came to a stop, we had arrived and the flood gates once again opened and the human sea surged again, with both the front and rear doors opened, the current pulled us apart. I looked down to grab my bag before I was half pushed, half dragged out of the bus. I turned my head but he was swallowed in the crowd, the track changed on my iPod as it must have done, unnoticed, numerous times on the journey - the Carpenters, “Rainy days and Mondays” began to play.
That was more like reality, I smiled to myself ruefully. I snapped out of my self-induced hypnosis. The fragrant Mongolian man who had used me as a deck chair for the 40 minute trip finally stood up on his own two legs and released me with not-so-much as a ‘thank you.’
“You’re welcome” I said out loud, but he was gone, running through the rain to the shelter of the stadium entrance.
The press pack sprinted, as much as middle aged sports journalists can towards the arena. I walked to the stadium, as I was already soaked to the skin. I stood under cover of the stadium entrance and gave one last look around before heading towards the security check point - as if my day dream might come real - then I shook my head to clear it...USA v.’s China men on the BBC, far more practical and important than fantasy - get focussed!
I turned and presented my accreditation before passing through the doors and heading to my commentary position. I scrolled through my iPod: “Newbie...Chrisette Michele...My Joy…” one more time; it’s good to dream.
On none related more serious fronts, some people have mentioned that they are interested in hearing more on China and the human rights issues in more detail. There is an Amnesty International China site at www.amnesty.org.uk/china and on that site there is a debate section where people from all points of view can learn about and discuss the major issues.
Thanks for indulging me today with this post, just to clarify, everything from catching the random ‘falling-bloke’ to the smelly Mongolian was in my head - but it was a damn fine way to pass the time on an awful journey. The USA men’s team is such a huge ticket for Chinese fans as well as the media, that I am going to arrive six hours ahead of time in future!
In a way, it is counterintuitive to imagine the US team with all it’s glitz and western trappings to be a big ticket, but the Chinese fans hang on their every movement. I have said it before I think the impact that athletes could have in terms of diplomacy and mending world relationships could be huge - if they cared to flex that particular muscle.
I did an interview with a Dutch newspaper earlier in the day and in the midst of talking to the reporter she asked me why I felt it was so important for athletes to be role models, indeed why it should be the responsibility of these “Dieux de Stade” - Gods of the Stadium to do these great deeds? Why should they have to do anything but play?
My response even surprised me a bit! But I like it:
“...Can you really be a God if you don’t perform miracles?” I don’t spend much time thinking about God, so I am not sure I want this to become a deep theological discussion but I am damn sure that those people we idolise on Earth should perform a great humanitarian deed at least once during their reign.
Dream team, Olympians, international superstars of all colours and nations: Darfur, racism, HIV/AIDS, Chinese human rights, poverty, illiteracy, homophobia, the list goes on and on... Empathise. Pick one. Pick another. Read up. Make a difference.
You want your congregation? You want your adulation? I want my miracle.