I’d complain, but I’m feeling way too good right now. Michael, one of the 231 massage therapists on hand at the Games, did a really nice job on my back.
And my shoulders, arms and hands. There are two free chair-massage stations here–we’re in the Salt Palace, former home of the Utah Jazz–and demand is high. “We can’t keep up,” says Debby, a Winter Sports Massage Team leader. Apparently, journalists have a problem with what massage experts call “that turtle thing.” (Read: bad posture.) While waiting for my 10-minute turtlewaxing, Yvonne, from Toledo, tells me that massage therapy can reduce recovery time from injury by 50 percent, but she’s not sure what was wrong with that McDonald’s supervisor who’d already been by twice.
Perhaps he was nonplussed by the salonistas at NU Skin, the MMC’s personal-care center. Its literature advises that, “You do the hard work, we help you look good doing it.” That is, if you can wait two days, and how long can you really wait to have an $8 “specialized facial spa experience,” especially when it includes a lathering in Epoch Desert Breeze Aftershave?
The MMC, it’s fair to say, seems like the realization of someone’s Xanax-inspired fantasy: everything’s gonna be alright here, kids. Two miles of fencing around the perimeter. Metal detectors. Processionals of military personnel in full camouflage. And there’s someone stationed outside the bathroom at all times. All of this has the effect of being simultaneously comforting and disturbing; do I want to be in a place where using the facilities is a matter of national security?
Most uncomforting may be the fact that all media must wear name tags–OK, they’re laminated and called “accreditation”–that hang waist high. So everyone’s staring at your stomach all day. But the IDs help when you run into newspaper colleagues from college that look vaguely familiar: “Hey, um, uh, Charl-Chris!” “Oh, hey, uh, Bria-Bret!”
I’ve taken less solace, still, in some of the dining options. Ever since I heard that Utah boasts the highest per-capita Jell-O consumption in America, I’d been hoping to drown myself in the stuff. (I’d also like a big handful to heave over our drywall, onto the staffers at Sports Illustrated. One recent afternoon–we’re almost positive–they played Mick Jagger’s new solo album, start to finish, which may be the first time that’s ever happened.) But no such luck. “Not enough room,” says an attendant at the General Store, despite the Palace’s 430,000 square feet of usable floor space. (There is room for a massive collection of $20.95 tarantula paperweights.) None of it is usable for smoking areas, either. The doors leading to a spot marked BARBEQUE/SMOKING AREA, were cordoned off with yellow police tape. “Is that the smoking area?” I asked. “I think it’s supposed to be, yeah,” I’m told. “But I think one lady, she went out that way, but couldn’t get back in.” So much for the Olympics celebrating diversity.
There’s no dearth of phones, here, however. Not including cell phones, there are about 3,500 of them. You hear a million foreign languages–and lots of stuff in English that makes no sense. For example, “Is the trigger set up for the equipment to be deployed?” Actually, on second thought, maybe I should have mentioned that to someone. I overheard it outside NHL Powerplay’s offices, though, so they’re probably talking about a Zamboni. I have absolutely no idea what I heard in the offices of La Gazzetta Dello Sport. Maybe they were talking about how poorly the American media dress, being that the Gazzetteers were in tweed blazers, ascots, shirts and ties. Or maybe they were calling Italy, asking the office to FedEx some corporate Visa cards. Just try to use AmEx here. Or maybe–ah, forget it. I could go on, but my back is killing me.
