Real Rio: D'Amato's Olympic travelogue
Journal Sentinel sports columnist Gary D'Amato, covering his 10th Olympics, provides glimpses of Rio inside and outside the competitive arenas at the 2016 Summer Games.
WHAT A DAY, AND NIGHT, IN RIO
(Aug. 20) What a crazy, fun, frustrating, memorable day I’ve had in Rio.
Five years ago, I interviewed Gwen Jorgensen for the first time at the Starbucks (now Collectivo) near McKinley Park in Milwaukee. She was establishing herself as an elite triathlete but had not yet finished on the podium of a World Triathlon Series race. In 2012, she competed in the London Olympics but a flat tire dropped her into 38th place, and she answered my questions in the mixed zone afterward while wiping away tears.
On Saturday, I saw her cry tears of joy when she won Olympic gold on a sun-splashed day on famed Copacabana Beach. I’m fortunate to have seen some very cool things at the Olympics over the years, and this ranked near the top.
After writing and filing my story, I packed up my laptop and left Fort Copacabana with three other reporters. We walked several blocks to the media bus stop and waited. And waited. And waited.
After 45 minutes or so, it became obvious that the buses had stopped running. Maybe it had something to do with Brazil and Germany playing in the gold medal men’s soccer game. While we were standing there, the people in the buildings around us started screaming and all the cars on the street blasted their horns, creating an amazing din.
Brazil had just scored to go up, 1-0.
We decided to hail a cab. The cabbie didn’t speak English but nodded when we said, “Olympic Park.” Traffic was light because most cariocas were at home, watching the game. But our cabbie couldn’t use the dedicated Olympic lanes and then we got stuck behind an accident. Nearly two hours had passed since we’d left Fort Copacabana.
We got close to the Olympic Park – maybe within a mile or so – but the cabbie could get us no closer because the streets were blocked. He was determined, though, and stopped three or four times to ask policemen for directions. At one point he talked his way past gated security.
He got us within a block of the Olympic Park before he had to stop, and he smiled broadly when I slapped him on the back. The fare was a bit less than 90 real, or roughly $30 U.S. We tipped him 25 real and he was stunned, as if he’d never seen a tip that big.
I walked the final 20 minutes to the Main Press Center, rode the escalator up to the workroom and arrived just in time to see the place explode. Brazil had just beaten Germany in a penalty shootout and the volunteers were going crazy.
What a day. What a night.
MY OLYMPIC PET PEEVES
(Aug. 19) Here are a few of my Olympic pet peeves:
The media buses going back and forth between the Main Press Center and the outlying venues and media villages are always crowded. There are two seats on each side of the aisle, maybe 25 or 30 aisles on each bus. Invariably, a couple guys will put their laptop bags or backpacks on one seat and sit in the other – even when people have to stand and the trip takes 45 minutes. Last night, I offered my seat to two women, both of whom politely declined but (I think) appreciated the offer. Meanwhile, the guy in the aisle across from me took up two seats and was pecking on his phone, oblivious to those standing next to him. To quote James Coburn in Payback: “Man, that’s just rude.”
Another media bus pet peeve: People rushing and crowding to the front of the bus to get off instead of letting people sitting in the rows in front of them go first. As if saving three seconds is going to make a bit of difference. This is part of the I’m-more-important-than-you syndrome that seems to afflict so many these days.
Finding a quiet place to work in the far-off corner of a venue press center, only to have two or three people sit down next to me and carry on a loud conversation (never in English, of course). A couple times, I have had to ask people to move. Hey, I have a hard enough time thinking under optimal conditions.
GRAFFITI AS ART
(Aug. 16) I have found Rio de Janeiro to be a beautiful city, flanked on one side by mountains sometimes shrouded in fog and on the other by spectacular beaches.
One thing you can’t help but notice, however, is the graffiti. It’s everywhere – on walls, fences, houses, businesses, freeway overpasses. In the favelas, the Brazilian ghettoes, graffiti is on nearly every building.
I’ve talked to several volunteers who live in Rio about the graffiti. In the favelas, they say, it’s mostly gang symbols and tags. But much of it in areas of the city frequented by tourists is creative, colorful and eye-catching art.
One volunteer explained that some of the graffiti is the work of well-known Brazilian street artists such as Toz, Kobra and identical twin brothers Ottavio and Gustavo Pandolfo, better known as Os Gemeos (Portuguese for “the twins”).
One thing’s for sure: the graffiti certainly adds some flavor to the long bus rides between Olympic venues.
HOME AWAY FROM HOME
(Aug. 15) Yes, I really am staying at the place in the photograph. Yes, there is a pool. Three of them, as a matter of fact, though I haven’t so much as dipped a toe.
I know, it looks like a posh resort. Trust me, looks are deceiving.
I am staying at the Barra Media Village 1, about a 30-minute bus ride from the Main Press Center, which is the transportation hub for the Olympics. The Barra Village is a group of high-rises that were completed just before we arrived.
The village is gated and there are guards at the entrance. The first few days they checked my credential pretty closely, but I’ve noticed lately they barely look at me when I walk in.
I’m sharing what could charitably be called a two-bedroom apartment with a reporter from Germany named Frank. We have seen each other in passing twice in 12 days and said “Hello,” and that’s about it.
The Barra Village is not the Four Seasons, but my sparsely furnished room has what I need – a shower with hot water, a toilet that flushes, a television and twin beds.
The complex also has a workout room, a laundry room, a store that sells necessities and is open 24 hours and a restaurant/bar. And those swimming pools.
I’ve had only one issue with my room. About the fifth or sixth night, my head hit the pillow and then my body hit the floor. The bed’s thin plywood slats all broke at once and I went crashing to the ground. My solution was simply to move to the other twin bed, which has held up so far.
Note to self: Lose some weight.
A GAME OF MUSICAL CHAIRS
(Aug. 9) Buying spectator tickets for Olympic basketball games at the Carioca Arena gets you in the door. After that, apparently, you’re on your own.
On Monday night, I sat in one of the rows reserved for the media, about 20 rows up from courtside, to cover Team USA’s victory over Venezuela and witnessed some of the craziest things.
There was no rhyme or reason to the spectator seating. People sat wherever they wanted to sit, whether or not they had tickets for those particular seats.
Several times, late-arriving fans found people in their seats. One of two things happened: the offending parties got up and moved somewhere else, or they stayed put. In the latter case I thought I would see fists fly, but the people who held the actual tickets to those seats simply shrugged and sat somewhere else.
On and on this went throughout the entire game. People got up to go to the restroom or buy concessions, returned to find their seats had been taken and solved the problem by simply sitting in other vacated seats.
It was like watching a game of musical chairs.
Was anybody in the seats they were supposed to be in? Who knew?
Certainly not the ushers, who were either invisible or useless.
Part of the problem is that there is no legroom at Carioca Arena – and, I mean, not a half-inch – between your knees and the seat backs in front of you. It seems the arena was designed for kindergartners. So if your seat is in the middle of a row, it’s impossible to get to it without literally climbing over people.
The odd thing is that hardly anyone seemed to mind the chaos.
If they did this in New York or Chicago, people would get hurt.
GOOD EATING IN BRAZIL
(Aug. 6) I am not one to try food when I don't know what I'm eating, but I've got to say I have fallen in love with the food in Brazil. I had Brazilian braised beef last night and it was to die for. Today, I tried an empanada, a pastry stuffed with meat, and it was delicious. In the Main Press Center, we have a "kilo" -- a buffet-style cafeteria -- that serves all kinds of local cuisine. Even the Brazilians' take on pizza is good. I'm starting to feel like a carioca (a native of Rio).
OAK CREEK IN THE HOUSE
(Aug. 6) Standing in line at the Main Press Center, waiting for the bus to Deodoro Stadium for women's rugby. I strike up a conversation with Gabriel, the guy standing next to me, who is from Slovakia. He asks where I'm from and I tell him Milwaukee and get ready to explain that it's close to Chicago. He says, "Milwaukee! I lived there for a year, in 2005!" I ask him where in Milwaukee he lived and he says, "Oak Creek." What are the odds that I meet a guy from Slovakia in Rio who lived less than 5 miles from me? Got to be a billion to one. He sees "Journal Sentinel" on my credential and says, "Big paper. In Slovakia we have papers, but they are small." Then he holds his fingers three inches apart and says, "Sunday paper." Ah, the good old days. Gabriel tells me he lived with his grandparents and studied English at MATC. He asks if Milwaukee has changed and I tell him about the Bucks' new arena. I ask him what else he remembers about his stay and he says, "Green Bay Packers. Everybody wears green and yellow."
TICKET MADNESS
(Aug. 5) An Olympic official just stood up in the middle of the Main Press Center and announced, "I have the last tickets for opening ceremony." He was waving a fistful of the prized tickets, maybe 20 in all. People quickly gathered around him and he started handing them out in an orderly manner, but when it became apparent there were only a few tickets left chaos broke out and dozens of hands started clutching at them, and him. It devolved quickly into an ugly mob scene. One ticket was torn in half by two people fighting over it. Serves them right. A man and a woman grabbed the last ticket – each had half of it and they were arguing about who should get it. "I was here first," the man snarled and aggressively pulled it out of her grasp. She held up her hands in astonishment. The whole scene reminded me that we have a long way to go as human beings.