August 28, 2006 - Notes about the World Championships
I think the world championships are a loosely disguised excuse for athletes to come together and trade gear in a giant chaotic mass. There seems to be no formal protocol for this exchange. People just gesture, flash their items, point at things, and strip (if necessary).
Jesse and I wondered into the frey not quite sure what to do, but were quickly educated as a French rower approached me, pointed at the uni I was holding, and offered the pants he was wearing. I accepted the trade, he emptied his pockets, removed the pants, and so began my trading experience. That the items being swapped still smell of their owners’ sweat is part of the pride, I think. In any case, I’m washing everything I got before I wear it and I hope those who received my gifts do the same.
I’ve learned that British TV is incredible. At any given point during the day or night, one can find cricket, soccer, and an episode of The Simpson’s airing. Forget about finding real news if there is any sort of sport scandal going on. Right now I can’t tell you anything of world politics or business, but I could hold a fairly lengthy conversation about the Pakistani ball tampering allegations that were made in a recent cricket match. Apparently cricket is not something to be taken lightly and, like Americans, Brits have interestingly ordered their national priorities.
Even at the world championships, the porto-o-johns are one of the most popular destinations for rowers and they degenerate markedly throughout the regatta. I guess no matter where you come from or what you eat, nerves affect us all the same.
I am small. At 6’2”, I rarely feel short in the “real world.” Around rowers, though, I’m minuscule. Probably every male heavyweight was taller than me by at least two inches and most every female at least equaled my height. I won’t even talk about erg scores lest I embarrass myself more.
As I learned in Australia, steak and hamburgers in other countries are nothing like what American’s expect. I don’t like lamb and I don’t even know what a gammon is, so I’m anxious to step off the plane at home and grab some real, USDA choice red meat.
Finally, toilets flush on the opposite side (a fun tactile discovery) and one should never ask for a "napkin" at a restaurant.
Jesse and I wondered into the frey not quite sure what to do, but were quickly educated as a French rower approached me, pointed at the uni I was holding, and offered the pants he was wearing. I accepted the trade, he emptied his pockets, removed the pants, and so began my trading experience. That the items being swapped still smell of their owners’ sweat is part of the pride, I think. In any case, I’m washing everything I got before I wear it and I hope those who received my gifts do the same.
I’ve learned that British TV is incredible. At any given point during the day or night, one can find cricket, soccer, and an episode of The Simpson’s airing. Forget about finding real news if there is any sort of sport scandal going on. Right now I can’t tell you anything of world politics or business, but I could hold a fairly lengthy conversation about the Pakistani ball tampering allegations that were made in a recent cricket match. Apparently cricket is not something to be taken lightly and, like Americans, Brits have interestingly ordered their national priorities.
Even at the world championships, the porto-o-johns are one of the most popular destinations for rowers and they degenerate markedly throughout the regatta. I guess no matter where you come from or what you eat, nerves affect us all the same.
I am small. At 6’2”, I rarely feel short in the “real world.” Around rowers, though, I’m minuscule. Probably every male heavyweight was taller than me by at least two inches and most every female at least equaled my height. I won’t even talk about erg scores lest I embarrass myself more.
As I learned in Australia, steak and hamburgers in other countries are nothing like what American’s expect. I don’t like lamb and I don’t even know what a gammon is, so I’m anxious to step off the plane at home and grab some real, USDA choice red meat.
Finally, toilets flush on the opposite side (a fun tactile discovery) and one should never ask for a "napkin" at a restaurant.
posted by Jamie at 12:25 PM
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