Scott, Sadie, Coco and I went to Vancouver yesterday. We immersed ourselves in the sea of red and white that had taken over Robson Street, and walked down to the waterfront to see the cauldron. But other than that, we didn't do anything too "Olympic" like see an event or win a gold medal. HOWEVER, one of us proved to have more star power than the rest. Our skinny, white, terrified little whippet was an apparent celebrity. Dozens of people asked to take photos with her and, trembling, she submitted to the puparazzi. Coco, country mutt though she is, found herself smack in the middle of an international metropolis, bewildered amongst tens of thousands of people. Poor sweet skinny thing.
Pretty soon, Vancouver will feel pretty lonely. The closing ceremony is winding down on TV as I write this (how many more performances can there BE???). I like how they poked fun at the cauldron malfunction of the opening ceremony, afterall, we Canadians don't mind laughing at ourselves now and again. But I wasn't much for Catherine O'Hara's speech. Weird? Or weird? Kind of mean? And how great were the Sochi performances? Moonlit water as a backdrop for an ice rink? Damn.
I may have been skeptical about these games in the beginning. But now, upon their conclusion, what I will remember about them is that the world really did descend on Vancouver for 17 days, in a way that was peaceful, unifying and cheerfully chaotic. It's true, Canadian pride has never been greater, so let's hope this land of loonies, twoonies, and puck-slappers can keep it up. A little enthusiasm, eh!