In the Bubble

Bobbing in the Black Sea out my window this morning at the Georgian/Russian border is a Russian Navy warship. It’s just offshore from the tethered Spy-Cam blimp which monitors the highway. All seems serene but I guess these guys are taking no chances. Yesterday a couple of small gunboats just offshore were kicking up foam like a pair of pleasure craft in the Mediterranean.

In our bubble of Olympic World, it’s official for me . . . easiest Games ever. The Ring of Steel has its advantages. You may have noticed that the written press crybabies have stopped complaining. The negativity has dissipated. That’s because everyone has realized that the Russians have their shit together.

 

I do miss the excitement and bustle of Vancouver with its sushi bars, Chinese restaurants, sports bars and streets full of merrymakers. Or London where I could grab a burger and a Pint at a Pub on the way back from the gymnastics venue. I miss exotic Beijing with endless places of mystery to visit. I miss the Ramblas of Barcelona, the sights and sounds of Sydney, the majesty of Athens and the hometown feel of Salt Lake City. I do not miss the worst host city of all . . . Atlanta . . . the most disorganized place to ever stage the Games. When I think back to the chaos of those Games I am embarrassed for America.

Around here, everything seems easy . . . even relaxed once you get through Security. The checkpoints are now efficient and the searches are thorough but not uncomfortable (err, body odor aside). Transportation is a breeze, the venues and compounds are in harmony, the food is good and my daily walks to the venue have been refreshing.

Today at breakfast Uncle Big Al was recalling the quaint old days of the Lake Placid Olympics in 1980. The Winter Olympics hadn't become the worldwide juggernaut it is today. There was no internet. Information sources were severely limited. He had to be satisfied with a day old New York Times and the local Lake Placid newspaper. TV was limited to two local stations from Plattsburgh, NY and Burlington, VT. ABC aired 53 hours of coverage. Total. They paid a $15 million rights fee.

NBC will offer more than 1500 hours of coverage . . . no typo . . . after paying a $775 million rights fee. 

The Sochi Winter Olympics would have been incomprehensible if you time traveled from 1980.

The information age and its co-conspirator "Branding" have revolutionized the Games. These days image building is everything. Every moment is scrutinized by the army of world journalists, social media and TV.

No one knew this better than the ChiCommies. Beijing was a revelation. They were selling their country to a suspicious world. It was China's Coming Out Party after nearly 60 years of xenophobia.

They made one mistake. They tried to censor the internet. Some google searches would automatically turn up a “page not found.” If you searched for “Falun Gong” a Chinese anti-government group, the beach ball on my Mac would spin forever and then I’d have to reconnect to the WiFi. Many websites were completely blocked. Even our internal NBC network was under scrutiny. They tried to force the world to love them.

At least here in The Bubble, Russia seems pretty open. It's almost "Like us, accept us or 'Screw You'!"

Just outside the Bubble in the Sochi suburb of Khosta there is a “designated” protest site. It is not the easiest place to find. Not exactly hidden, but not exactly front row center. Reporters do check in over there regularly. So far they have written that the area is swarming with children in strollers, stray dogs and old men talking on park benches.

In fairness to Russian protestors, the government does require 10-days advance notice for a rally. If you want to carry a picket sign you have to apply 3 days in advance. All that bureaucracy so you can stand in an obscure park and hope the world media has nothing to do. 

There have been two takers according to local reports. One picketer was supporting Putin and another guy was complaining about pensions for people born during WWII.

We have been conditioned to believe that opposition to the government here in Russia is completely stifled. But the country does have a great tradition of protest with many heroic people being imprisoned and killed.

Whenever the system tried to crush dissent, brave Russians stood up for what they believed. After all, it was the Russian people who threw the Commies out in 1991. The Russian people brought about the October revolution of 1917 when they ended 600 years of Tsarist rule.

At the risk of being too esoteric, let me digress to the Decembrists who revolted in 1825. Although they were defeated, they did bring about social change in the Tsarist days. Decembrist leaders were truly sent to Siberia to work in the salt mines. For hundreds of years dissenters were sent away to the wilderness. The Gulag is a Russian institution.

About 35 years later the Decembrists were considered "rehabilitated." They were given amnesty by Tsar Alexander II who fashioned himself a “liberal.”

Putin sees himself as a liberal too. And in the Russian tradition he pardoned modern Russia’s most famous protestors just before the Olympics. Two women were jailed, one of whom, incredibly enough in this day and age, was actually sent to Siberia. In the West they were characterized as a Punk Band but they are more theatrical than musical. The western press made them heroes.

Almost two years ago today, “Pussy Riot” took the pulpit at the Cathedral of Christ the Savior in Moscow wearing ski masks and multi-colored costumes. Alluding to Putin pissing on himself and shouting dirty epithets, they chanted their “Punk Prayer.” The Orthodox Church freaked out. The Russian public was outraged.

I’m all for free speech but do you want this kind of crap in your synagogue or church? They performed in many different places before but this time they went too far for the Russian public as well as for the Government. Siberia seems a bit harsh but  . . . .

Four women chanted. The two most outspoken went to jail. Putin was funny about it. During the trial he said they shouldn't go to jail. But he conveniently passed the hot potato to their criminal court system. Putin's hands were clean. Hmmm, he could have pardoned them the day after they were sentenced . . .

More irony and complexity here. The Commies destroyed that Cathedral in the 1930’s (Remember Karl Marx: “Religion is the Opiate of the People”). The Church was able to slowly rebuild the church after the collapse of the USSR. The parishoners just wanted a place to pray in peace. 

When she was pardoned, the most famous member of Pussy Riot, Nadezhda Tolokonnikova wanted to serve the remaining three months on her sentence. She said the pardon was all a ploy to make Putin look good before the Olympics. Last week they appeared on the Colbert Report in New York. Colbert made them rockstars.

Ah, Russia.

Ah, America.

We interrupt this history lesson and return to our regularly scheduled program . . .

So I can’t figure out if the Russians are trying to cater to a hoped for influx of westerners or they just want to be like us.

Maybe they have already become us, embracing our sports culture yet making it their own. At the hockey games I feel like I’m in some kind of surreal parallel universe. When the organ starts pounding out the chords to what I have always chanted as “Go, Kings, Go,” the crowd is chanting “Russ-see-ya, Russ-see-ya.”

While they do pump out much of the same popular sports music during play stoppages, it’s more civilized here. Unlike what the idiots at Staples Center pump out, the volume is loud but bearable.

They have Russkie “fan” cam during TV commercial breaks and even put a heart mask on the big screen urging couples to kiss for the camera. Because it’s the Olympics we are spared the insipid commercial advertising that pollutes an NHL game.

What’s odd is the lack of traditional concession stands in the hockey arenas. There are a few tiny stands selling white bread sandwiches, Coke and water. If you are thirsty or hungry and you are looking for a snack it's best to use the giant vending machines. They serve everything from hot mystery meat sandwiches to ice cream bars. Cash ? Rubles only . . . and, of course, Visa cards.

You'd think you'd need to be pretty drunk to wear that Schloog hat but the crowd is sober. He's drinking a Coke.

There's beer for sale. Non-alcoholic beer. No alcohol is served anywhere.

Forget about sneaking in your flask of vodka. Unlike the silly metal detectors we have at US arenas, this is serious business. Here every fan is subject to the same screening you get at an airport. At least you can leave your shoes on. My little tin of Altoids required two guys to approve it.

Every spectator has a credential (and a ticket) which must be worn around the neck. You must scan in and out of the arena. The credential has an embedded microchip which flashes your name and your picture to security at the entrance to the arena.

Russians love hot dogs. There are none for sale at Olympic Park. Russians love fried food. Nothing fried allowed in Olympic Park. Russians love to smoke. Smoking is banned. Pizza is OK.

Saturday in the 'Hood

It’s too hot to write outside on my balcony's plastic table. I’ve retreated into my air conditioned room. I've been here more than two weeks and as I came back inside I had to navigate around piles of dirty laundry and empty water bottles. There are stacks of old show formats and paperwork everywhere. It was time to clean up this place . . . a virtual reset as we head down the home stretch to the Closing Ceremony.

There's no figure skating today!

After a brief tidy-up session and some breakfast I decided to power walk on the promenade. Within minutes I was shvitzing like I'd been in a sauna. Obviously I was not dressed appropriately with a long sleeve tee shirt.

I ran into Jenna Bush (The ex-prez’s daughter) before I started. She knew what to wear out there . . . a tank top! She packed it to wear in the gym and never dreamed she would need it outside.

A few years back she showed me “secret” pictures on her phone swearing me to silence. Her dad had become an oil painter, and like most of us fledgling painters, didn't want the world to see what we do until we are ready to share.

I did get to see his first few efforts. A few months later the press found out. Political writers became art critics but George was non-plussed. He is possessed by painting these days. His latest project is a series of paintings of world leaders.

I had not consumed any alcohol in 11 days. . . . until last night. After the worst men’s skating competition I have witnessed in my 30+ years of covering the sport, I abandoned my temporary teetotaling ways. The bad influence, oddly enough, was my new health coach Scott Hamilton.

“After THAT competition . . . we need a beer,” he instructed.

Scott has consumed 2 glasses of beer in the past two years. It was a rough night. We belted down two giant Baltikas. We lamented that the Men's competition had set the sport back to the lowest level ever. No one wanted to win. Scott was disgusted.

With five more days of skating ahead, I decided this morning that I wanted to be prepared if the bar was closed when we returned late from the compound. So I set off into our little neighborhood in search of a small bottle of vodka.

During the week the streets are quiet. But this morning the neighborhood was alive.

About 100 yards down the street I met Lyudmilla at the local “Produkti” story. In Russia there’s no such thing as “Ivan’s Market,” "Olga's Hair Salon" or “Seabreeze Convenience store.”

As a throwback to the USSR days, stores still have generic names. Food stores are simply “Produkti” which is an idiom for Groceries. Strictly translated it means, “Products.” Down the street is a store selling “Goods,” another says “Produce,” or “Beauty Salon” or simply, “Hardware.” In the old days Coca Cola would have been banned (Brezhnev loved Pepsi).

Larissa at the "Vegetables" store told me that every store on the block got a fancy new sign for the Olympics. Although, it's generic, the vegetable store has an interesting logo inside the  "O" letters. They better hope no one in Cupertino is reading this blog.

We have no “liquor” store in our ‘hood.

Lyudmilla’s “Produkti” store is like a deli. But, alas, no vodka. And no refrigeration either.

Not sure how long these fish have been living in the glass case.

Another 100 yards away at another “Produkti” store I met Irina. Eureka! There were 50 kinds of vodka. She picked one and said in English “This best, you will like.”

I'll test it out tomorrow night after the Short Dance event. I always need a few shots after a night of Ice Dancing.


Lots of people are wondering about the beaches here. Sadly they lack sand. But the fishing is good. This man was catching some fish which bore a striking resemblance to the guys inside the glass case at Lyudmilla's place.

Before the Olympic construction began, this was just a small town 20 miles from Sochi. It was way out in the country. Lots of funky houses with do-it-yourself remodeling and communal vegetable gardens.

Now it borders the biggest single project Russia has ever undertaken. It is surrounded by upscale condos and the giant Radisson Beach Resort is at the end of what was a small country lane 5 years ago.





But it still feels rural. Like Saturdays everywhere there's lots of moms, dads and kids out shopping. Tatina and Marina had persuaded their dad to buy them some sweets. He had a shopping list but doted on them.

Inside the store everybody knew each other. The Russian they spoke wasn't the rough language I had been experiencing of late. The Russian words sounded sweet like a lovely opera.

Out on the promenade the families enjoyed the glorious day. Granika brought her doll to the beach and came ready to cheer for the home team in today's hockey showdown with the USA.

Now let's jump ahead.

It's currently 10:30 at night here in Sochi and my ears are literally still ringing from the US-Russia hockey game. It was one of the greatest games I've ever seen. The crowd was 90 percent Russian yet we felt free to scream like banshees for the USA. The deafening roar of "Russ-See-Ya, RUSS-SEE-YA, RUSS-SEE-YA" was scary in its intensity. The final shoot-out was pure magic. It was everything I love about sports . . .

Our little pockets of American fans were going nuts but we were a mere drop in the bucket of the deafening silence which surrounded us whenever our boys scored.

When it was over and the USA triumphed, the crowd left as if they were leaving a funeral. It was only a first round game. Both teams will contend for the medals. But for Russia it was a night of mourning. The build-up for this game was insane. This was the toughest Olympic ticket to get for the average Russian fan. Our Russian translators said the prices for a ticket were astronomical.

A final thought for the night about the immense changes in our world. When I grew up, at the end of every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur service, there was always a prayer for Soviet Jewry. They were oppressed and were objects of intense discrimination. And they weren’t allowed to leave the USSR.  When the Commie superstate collapsed in 1991 we still looked at this place with a jaundiced eye. We prayed hard for those Jews.

Even today, my current High Holiday Mahzor still has the prayer in it. Despite the fact that the systematic killing of Jews (Pogroms) stopped after the October 1917 Commie revolution, Russia was never a really good place for Jews.

Has it changed? I can’t say for sure.

I know it’s merely anecdotal evidence, but a pop-up advert on a Russkie search engine caught my eye today. We’re on a Russian ISP used by Russian people.

Пляжи Израиля

www.goisrael.ru

Собираетесь в отпуск? Огромные скидки на отдых в Тель-Авиве!

It says "Beaches in Israel . .  Going on Vacation? . . Huge discounts on accommodations in Tel Aviv."

In a strange way, maybe those prayers worked.

Hava Nagila

The little blimp outside my balcony floats lazily in the breeze looking like it could be advertising a used car sale in El Segundo. Upon further review I can see a camera mount dangling below the white balloon. It’s a real Spy Cam which must be monitoring the border with the Republic of Georgia (Abkhazia). Stalin was born over yonder but these days the Russians don't trust a lot Georgian exports (Wine and Champagne excepted). 

The little blimp is the first line of defense in the Ring of Steel. So far so good, in the security department for these Games. We’ve reached the halfway point and all seems calm.

My cathartic moments continue. I took a detour on my way to skating yesterday and, yet again, ended up in the NeverNeverLand of my past. Uncle Big Al, like he has for more than 50 years, made a Big Brother demand.

“Hey clown, meet me in the lobby at 4:00. We’re going to the hockey game. Don’t make up some doody about another worthless meeting. You’ll have plenty of time before skating starts. Be there!”

The hockey fixation began when we were kids. Both of our birthdays fell during the NHL season. I have sweet memories of those days with our dad. Dinner at Toots Shor’s followed by the Rangers at the Garden. We didn't care much about birthday cake. We wanted Andy Bathgate, Lou Fontinato, Dean Prentice and Gump Worsley. Sometimes we would get lucky and see the evil Bruins or the exotic Montreal Canadiens come in. After the game we would be thrilled when fights broke out in the stands. It was good consolation if our beloved Rangers lost.

As we know, Uncle Big Al’s voice is etched in Olympic Hockey History. His words are iconic. But last night we were just a couple of bums watching USA vs Slovakia.

We sat there together as we have sat at countless Rangers, LA Blades and LA Kings games. In the old days he would always buy the official program and a pencil. He doesn’t want to watch a game “un-armed.” Nothing had changed. Last night he had printed out his own rosters with all the salient information.

If you told us when were just two kids from Brooklyn that someday we would be sitting in Russia watching a hockey game hearing Hava Nagila on the organ surrounded by thousands of clapping Russians you would have been declared insane.

So there we were, in one of life's sublime moments. Just my brother and I and a lifetime of memories. We were just watching a hockey game. Just two bums from Brooklyn still acting like a couple of rascals in our old age.

So what if it was a crappy game.

Later that night I lost a 1000 ruble bet to Sam Flood, the Producer of Uncle Big Al’s show. With my Russian cultural and historical background I should have known better. Too often I follow my heart and not my head. And if you’ve followed this Blog I might have taken a cue from my own words . . . Things here are NEVER as they appear.

As much as I’m a dreamer, Sam is pragmatic. The bet was simple . . . . Would Evgeny Plushenko of Russia skate in the Men’s competition. At age 31, after multiple knee and back surgeries, the greatest Russian single skater in history had already helped his team win the Skating Team Gold Medal. He was now poised to skate in Men’s singles in front of an adoring Russian crowd. As we headed toward his warm-up and Plushenko was in costume, I was confident that I had vanquished nasty Sam and won the money for the Dreamer Team. For more than 20 years Sam and I have had a playful competition over which force was more powerful, head or heart.

I sent him a text asking that he give the 1000 Rubles to Uncle Big Al tonight.

Not 10 seconds later my heart sank. Uh, oh! Our ace backstage cameraman Mike Brown brought the sad pictures into the truck. Plushenko’s coach Alexei Mishin had motioned Mike to come over. With his finger he outlined the newest scar on Plushenko’s spine and gave a Russkie shrug.

Sam had conceded at this point but I had to confess in the next text to Sam . . . It ain’t over until the music starts.

I’m always excited when our NBC cameramen get the amazing shots that the rest of the world will never see. But as Brownie, WooMan, Gary Damaro and Mr Andy continued to chronicle this piece of Russian theater backstage. I knew I had lost.

Plushenko took the ice in warm-up, attempted a Triple Axel and then grimaced in pain. It then played out like it was scripted. Plushenko conferred with Coach Mishin and then, when he was announced, skated over to the referee and withdrew.

Earlier in the week I told his agent Ari Zacharian and Coach Mishin that NBC would make Plushenko a real hero on TV. I’ve known these characters for a long time and they know I’ve always given the Russians a fair shake. In Vancouver we had made Plushenko a villain, but a lovable villain. Ari loved that. But this time America would truly understand him.

About an hour after Plushenko pulled out, the text to the WooMan came in from Agent Zacharian.

“I hope the pictures were good for you.”

Has the Potemkin effect come to Skating too????

(See my Blog post “A Bag of Flaxseed.”)

As a follow-up to earlier escapades, a few people have wondered what it was like to have the fish eat my skin at the Sochi Spa. Access Hollywood producer Steve Harding sent me the definitive picture this afternoon.

Judge for yourself.