We're Not In Kansas Anymore

Despite how comfortable I feel here, I am regularly reminded that this is not like home. Here are just a few unrelated odds and ends that illustrate how charming, odd, and/or frustrating that life can be here for the foreigner.

My building in the Media Village has a laundry room in the basement. There are about a dozen machines each of which can both wash AND dry your clothes. They are front loaders, and all you do is put the clothes in, turn some knobs and push some buttons, then walk away.

When you come back in a few hours, your clothes are clean, and dry, AND are folded neatly and stacked in a basket on top of the machine. Huh? How does that work? Well, the room is staffed by several local volunteers who show you how to use the equipment, and who will, if you are not there when your laundry is finished, empty the machine and fold your laundry so that the machine can be used by somebody else.

Earlier this week, I actually WAS there when my laundry finished, and I walked over with my bag to collect it. Imagine my surprise when a team of FOUR volunteers took my bag from me and proceded to fold my socks, underwear, shorts, and shirts and place them in my bag for me, while I stood and stared helplessly nearby.

In the lobby of my building, there is always a team of 3 or 4 concierge-type volunteers, who greet you, open the door for you, and offer you an umbrella if it is raining. I feel sorry for them, trying to learn English, with me coming in and saying "Goodnight" at 4pm, and then leaving at 11:15pm saying "Good Morning".

Outside the NBC bathrooms (which are cleaner than some restaurants I've seen) there are a series of 12 folding chairs which are filled with local volunteers, who seem to go in and clean the bathrooms after each use (and there are only 4 stalls in the men's bathroom).

Speaking of the bathroom, I am continually frustrated by the toilet paper which is some kind of industrial strength paper that will easily tear anywhere except the perforated strip (typically it tears vertically into long thin strips).

Outside the IBC, there is a Transportation Mall, which is a giant parking lot where all the shuttle buses gather. There are 56 different shuttles organized in 8 columns of 7 bays. Naturally, the shuttle to the Media Village (where the majority of people working in the IBC live), is practically the farthest from the IBC.

Most of the buses are on a 15, 20, 30, or 60 minute schedule, all of which are evenly divided into an hour, and the buses always leave exactly on time, so if you are trying to catch a bus at the top of the hour, you will find that nearly all 56 buses try to leave the parking lot at the same time. (Geez, do you think they could stagger the times so that they left at 1:00, 1:05, 1:10, etc.).

Each Olympic shuttle bus has both a driver and a host or hostess who makes sure you are on the right bus, and that you don't forget anything when you leave.

All the volunteers have been extremely accomodating, eager to please, friendly and polite, although sometimes I think they view us with as much amusement as we view them.

I was going to say that the Chinese are extremely efficient, but effiency implies a minimum of effort for maximum output, and that certainly doesn't apply. There doesn't appear to be a problem that they can't throw more people at.

And lastly, while taking a shuttle bus home one day, we were passed on the highway by a long flatbed truck piled 6 feet high with dead sheep. There was a collective groan from everybody on board, and then someone said "I think I'll have salad tonight". Yup.