A Swedish journalist and I caught a ride the other day with an older Italian gentleman. The Swede asked if the driver spoke English. He said no. The driver asked the Swede if he spoke Italian. He said very little. Then they figured out they both spoke French and spent the rest of the trip chattering away. I sat in the backseat feeling like an incredible dope. I was the 16th Street Middle School Spanish student of the year in Mr. Miller's class in 7th grade but, somehow, I don't think they would have been impressed.
Today, in the media restaurant, one of the dishes was called "chicken young rooster," a grayish looking baked bird. Let me tell you, even the Colonel would send it back. The food here is kind of redundant; didn't Marco Polo bring back Chinese food, for goodness' sakes? After a couple of weeks of this, the sportswriters started stumbling into each other fantasising what they want to eat when they get home. Steak. Omelettes. Popcorn. In a mean-spirited move, I walked up to another writer and said "Why didn't you tell me there was a Fleming's steak house in Turin?" I thought he was going to drool on my shoes.