It is well known that people get used to everything, but sometimes it takes a little longer. For example, when he has to immerse himself in the absurd world of President Xi Jinping’s pandemic games in China for 14 days. Impressions of the SZ reporters that they will most likely never collect anywhere else.
Pandas in the mail
For the first few days, about 20 people lined up in front of the souvenir shop on the first floor of the Beijing Games Media Center. Bing Dwen Dwen was sold out. A few days later there were around 50 people waiting. Bing Dwen Dwen was still sold out. In the second week, the line stretched once through the giant hall from morning until late at night, more than 100 meters long. Some had brought stools to bridge the hours. Bing Dwen Dwen was still not on the shelves, but by now it was clear that it wasn’t about the plush mascot with the big panda eyes. Customers, when their turn finally came, bought whatever was available: gloves, bags, keyrings, pins, backpacks, even earthenware teapots if the game emblem was on them. Then they took their heavy bags and lined up at the next long line: the post office opposite.
To cuddle, but always sold out: Bing Dwen Dwen, the wide-eyed panda, one of the two mascots of the games. The medal winners were lucky, they were each presented with one of the cute stuffed animals, practically wrapped in plastic, which gives them the taikonaut look. Prize question: What was the name of the other mascot of these games?
(Photo: Richard Heathcote/Getty Images)
In the entire Olympic enclave, which has been cordoned off over a large area, there is only one post office, said a Chinese journalist who wanted to post two large packages. Just as there was just this one Olympic souvenir shop for the tens of thousands of people who worked in the bubble during the Games: television technicians, reporters, bus drivers, cooks, and hundreds of volunteers. Most, the Chinese journalist said, wanted to send souvenirs and small gifts home while the games were still going on. She pointed to meter-high stacks of folding boxes that had just been delivered. Her own packages were addressed to the family in Shanghai. Why didn’t she just take them on the train after the closing ceremony? She smiled. We’re still staying. Three weeks, she said: quarantine.
mortar in the throat
People get used to everything, even faster when they have to. There was the morning routine at the Corona games: getting up, throat swab, breakfast. You could always go on like this: get up, swab your throat, have breakfast. Although, the skills of the chopsticks plug and twister were decisive for the mind. There were different facets: There were the palate caressers, who dabbed so timidly that one would have liked to have thoroughly reworked it oneself, so that the result was not ambiguous due to too little material. And then there were those who must have worked as a mortar stirrer in a previous life, which can also be lived out surprisingly well between suppositories and almonds.
Chopsticks yes, food no: The daily corona test was part of the morning routine.
(Photo: Jae C Hong/AP)
Lasting memories belong to those who experienced something similar in their noses, for example shortly before take-off: There you were, having survived the persistent boring of your trunk, then a few words from the woman hiding in the protective suit. And you asked the question you feared the answer to the most: the other nostril too? A nod on one side, a curse on the other, then laughter from both. A final round with the swab, the tears run down. But: There’s a happy wave to say goodbye.
Uplifting nighttime reading
Olympia or party congress, it doesn’t matter what is read from the party on the table: here is a selection of press products in the media center at the National People’s Congress 2018, with President Xi Jinping in the center as always.
(Photo: Andy Wong/AP)
There isn’t much time for reading when sleds are still tobogganing through ice channels late in the evening or figure skaters are doing pirouettes. Nevertheless, a book table was set up in the farthest corner of the press center. Four years ago at the Winter Games in Pyeongchang, the organizers even set up a library with Korean poetry and novels translated into many languages of the world. On the table in Beijing: an account of trade along the Silk Road. Next to it, heaps of writings in German: “Development of the Chinese Communist Party”; “Excerpts from the report at the XIX Party Congress”; “The Chinese Communist Party and the Great Resurgence of the Chinese Nation in 100 Keywords”.
Since, according to Article 50 of the Olympic Charter, political propaganda is not permitted at the Games, it must have been a contribution to the Cultural Olympiad.
Frosty breath
Cold? Spiky! Norwegian biathlete Sturla Holm Laegreid after the 15km mass start race.
(Photo: Roman Vondrous/CTK Photo/imago)
The love of sport was put to the test at these games, including among the athletes themselves. Outdoor sports are all well and good, but with temperatures in the double digits below zero, even the most ardent passion gets chills. It was particularly painful for biathlete Rene Zahnka from Estonia in the pursuit at minus 14 degrees: Arriving at the shooting range, he could no longer look through his rifle’s diopter and had to do something. Zahnka took the dirt for snow, he blew – and caught his lower lip, it was actually frozen solid. Instead of snow, ice stuck to the rifle, which the 27-year-old finally scraped away with the tip of his stick. His lip was bleeding, but with three penalties in 20 shots he was still one of the best in the field, at least on the shooting range. He only had to take it easy when eating afterwards, preferring to avoid mustard, wrote the 68th overall on Instagram: “It burns like hell.” At least a little bit of warmth.
themed gastronomy
Artificial nutrition: A robot prepares a burger in the dining room of the press center in Beijing.
(Photo: Jaroslav Novak/dpa)
After two weeks in Zhangjiakou, I felt like a village kid. The big wide world was in Beijing: There was a huge press center there, the colleagues said, a “dining hall” with a number of stations to enjoy culinary delights. The “Dining Hall” in Zhangjiakou was: the place where you pour yourself a cup of noodles. That too was spectacular: you had just crumbled a few crumbs out of a bag, poured them on and let them swell – suddenly whole zucchini slices and the most beautiful kernels of corn jumped out at you. Well, there was a lot more than that, including a restaurant where you decided what you got by going through the right door: the pizza menu was handed to you when you marched in from the front, you were allowed to go from the back to the buffet, but we still sat together. The food was more than edible, but weren’t robots serving the dishes in this Beijing?
The finished dish floats from the ceiling as if by magic.
(Photo: Jae C. Hong/dpa)
So then, on the last day in the big city, I ordered food from the electric waiter. Enthusiasm as the plate hovers down from the ceiling towards the table. Like a village kid. Those who have seen very little for long enough take as many experiences with them as they can.