Olympic Hopeful

The other night I attended a little get-together at the Niels Bohr Dark Cosmology Center--known professionally and affectionately as simply "Dark." (I have no credentials for this, or even the remotest idea of what people do in "Dark," but somehow I manage to talk my way into these things.)

Anyway, at Dark I pretty much held my own with science people in serious conversations such as this:

Me: "So, do you know if there'll be any Danish coverage for the Olympics?"

Science Person: "Who cares? It's just the Winter Olympics."

Me: "But the Winter Olympics are awesome!"

Science Person: "No one watches the Winter Olympics."

Me (disliking Science Person, who eats pistachios and refuses to look at me): "Where are you from?"

Science Person: "Athens." (And then, as if I clearly wouldn't know) "Greece."

Me: "Oh, ha ha. I didn't realize I was speaking with an Olympic expert."

Athenian Science Person: *much self-satisfied pistachio eating*

So the rumor is confirmed. I have it from a Doctor (probably) of Science Stuff. And not just normal Science Stuff, but Space Science Stuff. The Winter Olympics is dead. And anyone who's anyone from a hot climate knows it. Except for me.

I freaking love the Winter Olympics. And, I don't care what people know, science or otherwise: I love it way more than the Summer Olympics. You know why? Because I've never done any of it.

Oh, you can swim? Awesome, great. You can ride a bike? Me too! You can run, fling a rock across a field? I've been doing that since I was three.

Eh, fine: I'm not an athlete. I'm not even athletic. And I am profoundly in awe of anyone who is, regardless of the season. When I run, I do it because I must. In tennis shoes. While someone chases me. But I don't ever, ever do it on a sheet of ice with razor blades attached to my feet.

I have a reverence for snow that can only be defined as childlike. A frozen puddle, icicles off the roof--these things send me to near giddiness. When I watch the Winter Olympics, I reflect not only on the dedication of the athletes, but also on the sheer joy they must have known once, when they first fit their feet into skates, into skis, and glided across and over winter's quiet places. It's a glimpse of snowmen through the trees, of frozen crystals on the window pane.

Maybe this is the fantasy of a someone who grew up with hot sandy beaches at her door step, the romance of a girl who imagined moguls instead of waves. But I have always loved the smell of ice over salt. For it, I would have suffered scarves and snowsuits gladly.

In a few weeks, I will be in Norway. On skis and hopefully on my feet in a little village called Lillehammer. If that name sounds familiar to you, it should. I can't tell you how stoked I am to learn on slopes first known by some of the world's greatest athletes--for the awe and the joy of it--as the Olympics.

And I'm pretty sure I'm going to break something. This is about as cool as it gets.


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