Other People's Facebooks.

It's 5AM, and I can't sleep in a hotel room that normally costs WHAT?-hundred dollars, which now costs what?-and-a-half because of the Olympics. So, I go on to Facebook, and some friend of a friend is complaining about the Olympics.

I understand the sentiment. A lot of that money is getting thrown around that could be spent on better things - or, if you like to play the "my taxpayer dollars" game, spent on nothing at all. There are going to be a lot of corporations trying to squeeze Vancouver and its visitors for every dime they can get. There's going to be a lot of stress on the city's basic public services. And it's going to be inescapable.

That's how I felt a month ago. But, like I said in my last post, I think I understand the Olympics a little better now. And like Conan O'Brien said, if you put aside your cynicism and work towards something, you can make something amazing happen. And that's certainly what Vancouver did, while I was content to sit back and tell them it wasn't worth the effort. So I wrote a little essay for my friend (and her friends), and if you don't mind, I'd like to keep it here for posterity's sake.

"I've heard the symphonic sound checks, where tympani and taiko drums echo through the valley, sounding almost like an avalanche detonation, except that their boom rings with joy as well as duty.

I've heard the voices, a chorus of international tongues, astounded by the beauty of Canada, and still amazed at the fact that they're actually here. Vancouver's been a fictional, if not mythical, place for many of them, and just by being here, their dreams are already starting to come true.

I've heard the laughter that sprang forth when the torch came through the streets. Not because there was anything humorous, but because there simply wasn't time to find the words. Next to tears, laughter is the purest expression of emotion. And if tears could sing, I would have heard them, too.

I've heard the trees, the thickened hush as you walk amongst them - they embrace you and protect you, and you can tell they'll do the same for any creature beneath their boughs. In the quiet woods around Whistler, even amidst a party that will capture the entire world's attention, you can still lose yourself in the serenity of nature. That's a lesson that's going to surprise a great many people who come here just for the crowds and spectacles.

Yes, I'm looking forward to these Olympics."

Now, all we need is a chant more clever than "Go Canada Go", and I'll be set.

Next time, I'll wear boots.

In Medicine Hat, I'm not used to being in a crowd of thousands, so I felt a little out of place in Whistler tonight, waiting for the Olympic torch to arrive. Then again, Whistler wasn't really used to these crowds, either - the Olympic carnival appeared overnight from behind tents and construction barriers, and more than once I saw a veteran skier stop and puzzle over an alley he knew, which had somehow disappeared.

The concert was going full strength, but I slipped out of the throng and walked out along the perimeter of the Village. Even on the outskirts, you could tell something big was happening, as lights flooded the side of the mountain where a torchbearer was scheduled to ski right into the village. But off in the other direction, a different light caught my eye. Police lights, moving slowly, winding through the venerable pines. At once, I realised that this might be my chance for a better view, and I circled around to the other end of the park. What I arrived upon was a beautiful sight - the staging ground for the torchbearers, all of them shaking with excitement, glowing with pride as they posed for picture after picture, be it with their oldest childhood friends, or a flock of children that ran in from off the sidewalk. A few minutes after, the children were hurried aside, and off in the distance, behind a large procession, a flame appeared. Brighter than I expected, I felt myself warming up just looking at it.

Beaming like a searchlight, the one bearer handed it off to the other, and I couldn't do anything but smile stupidly as I watched him run off along his path. A moment later, it occurred to me that he wasn't really running that quickly. In fact, I'd probably be able to catch up with him. I didn't think much more after that point - I was off and tearing down the street, cheering all the way. The torch was passed off two more times, at which point the procession turned right into Whistler village. The police car escort had disappeared, replaced by a crowd of people. But everyone understood what had to happen - the torchbearer was on a mission, and no one wanted to stand in the way. The crowd parted before the light like a dim shadow, letting the torchbearer run. And like a shadow, the crowd filled in behind him, wanting to look just a little longer at this powerful symbol.

By this point, I was getting into my rhythm. When I could, I ran right alongside the torch, a pace behind to let the cameras have their picture. When the crowd pushed in, I leapt to higher ground, circling along the higher walkways, where kitchen staff were pouring out of restaurants to see the torch as it passed. Then, I'd fall back into position along the straightaway. I almost lost the torch as it crossed a narrow and congested footbridge, when it seemed that the only way around was to go under the bridge, through the uncontrolled intersection, and around an entire hotel. But, I figured I've run longer distances for worse reasons. With only a single honk (which may have even been a honk of support, really), I got through, and rejoined the party.

In this manner, I followed the torch all the way outside the village again, and out onto the base of the mountain, where they passed the torch to a pack of snowmobilers. While they started up the engines, and made sure everyone was clear, I got my breath. I'd follow further behind for a bit, just to see them off, until I hit the security line. After a few hundred metres, I realised there was no security line, because no one was worried about anyone running up a ski hill in dress shoes. I was sinking in to my knees in the heavy powderbase, and just about to wave the snowmobile goodbye, when I realised that they weren't going much further - just up to that one ledge, where the skier was waiting. And so, I dug in and kept running.

I was quite a distance away from the torch at this point, but the skier was taking his time for the cameras in receiving the torch, as well he should - the thousands of people I'd mentioned earlier were all below, cheering him on as the spotlights and cameras followed his every move. I made it to the top of the hill just in time to see him on his trip down, joining the exuberant crowd below, and pass the torch to the next generation - Trevor Allison, a local high school student attempting to represent Canada in the London 2012 Summer Games. The cauldron was lit, the crowd rejoiced, and the flame would rest for a few hours before continuing on to Vancouver in the morning. All that was left for me to do was to slide down the ski hill in my shoes, and sneak into the ski lodge through the service entrance. Inside, the patrons were singing "O Canada" as best they could after a long afternoon of drinking. On the television, two hockey players were tearing at each other's jerseys, their gloves on the ice. I slipped out through the main entrance, and rejoined the vast crowd which I'd escaped at the beginning of the evening, and made my way back to the hotel.

The games haven't even begun yet, but I suspect I've already experienced my defining Olympic moment on that ski hill. There I was, running. I was away from the cameras and the crowds that didn't know I was there. I couldn't see the goal, nor did I even know if there was one. I had no proper equipment, or even training... but I ran. I ran because I didn't want everyone else to have all the fun. I ran because I didn't want to be beaten by an obstacle I knew I could overcome. I ran because that was its own reward, and its own celebration.

I ran, because I could. A simple motivation, but it's one that kept us all running for thousands of years already.

Now let the games begin.

An avalanche of popular support.

I did eventually arrive in Whistler, though. It wasn't quite what I expected. Driving down the highway, the intersections themselves are almost completely devoid of features. All you can see are trees, and a sign telling which part of Whistler lies beyond the grove. It's like driving through an apartment hallway, trying to find the door that leads to a gas station, rather than the door that leads to a restaurant. But, after a little bit of trial and error, I eventually found a cheap hotel. And when I found out that the cheapest hotel in Whistler was $199 a night in the off-season... well, that's where my other opinions on Whistler started to solidify.

Whistler is not a town, nor is it a village. It is a "Resort Municipality." What does that mean? It means that when a collection of ski chalets gets too big, they're obligated to set up a few schools for the employee's children. And then after that, a few people might want to build their houses there, but if they don't look like miniature chalets unto themselves, it's not going to happen. The residential areas of Whistler are street after street of beautiful homes with wooden balconies and trim and support beams. As the son of a woodworker, it's how all houses are supposed to look, and if there were fewer than 3,000 of them, I would have been tempted to admire each one individually. But en masse, it becomes a bit wearying. (And besides, it gets hard to navigate those residential areas, seeing as how Whistlerians seem to own approx. 5.7 vehicles per driveway.)

By this point, when I found "Whistler Village", I was already a bit cynical of the whole place. Sure enough, the Village (the collection of shops and hotels near the ski lifts) was like the West Edmonton Mall crossed with a spruce tree. Souvenirs and baubles, sweets and boutiques, all designed to look like the Wildcat Café back in Yellowknife, but with a few extra million dollars. And once again, it was pervasive.

But - and I stress this - that doesn't mean it wasn't pretty. And as I wandered through their "reading garden", winding along a pavestone path while breathing in that B.C. forest air, I realised that this Village, and the whole resort municipality, was like a palace court.

A palace court has multiple purposes:

-It impresses the visitors, and shows off the strengths of the country.
-It's where the monarch's decrees are sorted out to reach his people.
-It's where the people assemble to reach the monarch.
-It's where the servants live.

A palace court's architecture is designed to reflect the will of the king and/or queen. It's designed to convey the message that their will shapes the land, theirs is the face that speaks for the land, and the destiny chosen for them is the one chosen for the land, as well.

Now, with all due respect to Queen Elizabeth II, I'm also a fan of democracy, so these ideas seem kind of stifling and elitist to me. Much like Whistler itself. But then, I realised who the King of this Palace really is:



The mountain itself.

And you know, just like that, Whistler became a pretty awesome place. I can't wait to go back!