TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/021792/0217991.000

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                                                                                1992 WINTER OPLYMPICS, Page 76

At the Starting Gate


The sparkling Savoie Games begin with Gallic assurance and zest.
But alpine gridlock may be a main event

By PICO IYER/BRIDES-LES-BAINS


    The toddler in leopard-skin coat and hat stirred in his
stroller. The Puerto Rican team hurriedly consulted as to how
to wear their capes. A huge circle -- the whole town, it seemed
-- formed in the street to greet the Olympic flame. And then
planes colored the sky, bells tolled through a dream of a blue
afternoon, the sun set behind the mountains amid a spangle of
fireworks, and the opening ceremonies of the 16th Olympic Winter
Games were officially under way.

    As the athletes began parading past, chaperoned by rhyming
verse in English and French, the rah-rah doggerel gave the
presentation promenade something of the air of a Miss Universe
contest (finding rhymes for "Latvia" and "Cypriot" must surely
qualify as an Olympic-style suicide mission). During the ensuing
pageantry, classical romanticism was offset with futuristic
whimsy. The air of playful modernity, dreamed up by Philippe
Decoufle, a 30-year-old high school dropout who talks of getting
ideas while asleep, conjured up a Mademoiselle France who was
fresh, lighthearted and a little bit spacy.

    Yet among the pleasures of the day, the greatest perhaps
were the unchoreographed wonders: the members of the Unified
Team, from the famously ununified former Soviet Union, marching
under the five-ring Olympic banner; the groups of athletes
gleefully waving under the unfamiliar flags of Croatia,
Lithuania and Latvia; the lonely skier from Senegal; and the
ski-capped twosome from Bermuda, shuffling behind a man in
blazer and (c-c-c-could it be?) eponymous shorts. Three days
earlier, the show's dancers and clowns had been kids in duffel
coats and anoraks, many of them threatening to strike on the
grounds that their beds were too small, their salaries too
measly and their rooms 90 minutes from the site. The site itself
had been a mess of young workers brushing away puddles with
brooms, like nothing so much as curling apprentices. Now,
however, in the magic of the moment, all had been turned to
gold.

    Such lofty ruminations were a long way from the thoughts
of the typical visitor as he swung around his 14th switchback
in 10 minutes, in a bus that labored painfully up the mountain
curves like a slaloming snail, its driver consulting a map as he
lurched along on the two-hour trip from Albertville to such
distant sites as Courchevel and Val d'Isere. Any time not spent
in a bus in the days before the Games seemed to be spent in a
line for a bus. And on the epic rides along treacherous, icy
roads, the passenger could be forgiven for thinking himself a
born luger and wondering which new Olympic events he could
enter: free-style cursing, perhaps, or uphill climbing, or
cheap skating (since a pair of tacos at the top of the mountains
would set him back $16). When striking taxi drivers blocked the
area's only highway for 10 hours one day, visitors had even more
time to ponder the fact that a bob-sled here could travel 40
times faster than a bus.

    Nonetheless, the mood in the Savoie was generally reserved
and pragmatic. After the synchronized smiling and security
scowls of Seoul at the last Olympic stop, there was an air last
week of quiet confidence, of mountain self-containment. The
absence of a center of action -- Albertville, nominal host of
the Games, is a Bovaryville with a population smaller than that
of Rockefeller Center in New York City -- tended to diffuse the
sense of panic and excitement, as did the cold reality of 10
sites scattered across 620 sq. mi. of mountainside. These
genuinely did seem the small-town Games, the Games of one-lane
roads and gyms turned into press centers. True, the main street
of Albertville had become a huge window display for such arcana
as smiling M&M's on skis, a version of the Olympic mascot,
Magique, made entirely of chocolates and other gadgets
Olympiques. Billboards around town featured uplifting quotations
from Andre Gide and Catullus, while discos offered such unlikely
come-ons as "La Nuit du Single People." But for the most part,
the Savoyards seemed unaffected by the world's sudden
attentions, and by the nomadic pin traders spreading their wares
along the street.

    For the Olympic organizers, watching the preparations with
breath held in apprehension, this was the calm before the
blizzard. There were a few contretemps: some Russians complained
about the lack of fax machines in the Olympic Village, and the
official Chinese news agency announced that the accommodations
here set new Olympic records for discomfort. The International
Olympic Committee provoked mumbles with its sudden threat to
introduce blood testing, which it just as quickly dropped. Even
official brochures treated the athletes like errant children:
"Moving from one Village to another is of course possible -- if
not recommended -- provided official permission is granted."

    In Brides-les-Bains (pop. 650), normally a thermal spa for
obesity treatment, the Olympic Village was tucked into an
authentic Alpine village, with one whole side of the main street
fenced off -- even the town hall was behind bars -- so that it
felt as if the hamlet itself were under house arrest.
Ear-flapped gendarmerie stood in front of the cage, and one
French woman biathlete complained that "you can't even take a
tea bag in without being checked." But the competitors could at
least enjoy a taste of the high life: they dined every night
under crystal chandeliers in a beautifully restored resort
hotel, with a fully functioning casino next door and Poltergeist
III screened on their behalf. Others, around the mountains, were
put up in Club Meds.

    The media, outnumbering the athletes by only 7 to 2, were
quite rightly a little lower down. The press settled in the
sulfurous industrial area of La Lechere (now a center for
phlebology), and the TV crews a little higher up, in the
picturesque village of Moutiers. Highest of all were the I.O.C.
officers, delivering their pronouncements from the mountaintop
and sheltered in the mink-coat, neon-snazzy resort of
Courchevel, the St.-Tropez of snowfall.

    Anyone who doubted that the Olympics represents a
gathering of nations need only have listened to Leo Latino
serenading diners in the Coyote Cafe Tex-Mex restaurant, or have
seen the Abu Dhabi princes enjoying the attentions of a
Brazilian waitress down the street, while Biancas and Andys
swapped kisses in the Dakota Rock Bar. "The T-bone steak is with
French fries and Mexican beans?" demanded a Nordic athlete of
an Elvis-impersonating Frenchman, while the American at the next
table, a drug tester, remarked wryly, "Yes, Ben Johnson really
put doping on the map."

    The real, unofficial master of ceremonies of the Games
would naturally be the weather. One balmy day of 55 degreesF
warmth gave way to huge chunks of snow, falling relentlessly for
almost 24 hours and leaving a foot of the white stuff on Val
d'Isere. The next day, however, dawned guiltless again. The
Chinese delegation drank champagne and sang such favorites as
Salute the World to ring in the Year of the Monkey. Visitors
looked forward to hearing Beethoven's Ode to Joy, which would
accompany every Unified Team gold. And the World Sugar Research
Conference was taking place in the same mountains -- a
non-Olympic event, to be sure, but one that captured perfectly
the meaning of the Games: research and hard work in the service
of sweetness.