A Little Bit of Sochi in the Cupboard

The Sochi Olympics are coming to a close. In my estimation, these two weeks have seemed to be more about criticism, complaint and ego than competitive spirit, prowess and camaraderie. And it's a little hard to want to watch primetime coverage when the results have been plastered across the Internet all day. Hopefully, the intended spirit of the Olympic Games is alive and flourishing somewhere. We have enjoyed catching parts of some of the competitions - holding our breath at the ski jumpers and snowboarders, gasping at falling figure skaters and cheering on the US hockey team in that eight-round shootout.

We were in Russia in 2013. We have traveled to the host countries of the Winter Olympics prior to the last two games - we were in Vancouver/Whistler before the 2010 games. It's unlikely that we'll be in South Korea before the 2018 games, but you never know. We didn't anticipate being in Russia last year, either.

When we travel, we try to pick up a Christmas ornament as a souvenir, and sometimes we'll pick up a mug to add to our burgeoning collection in the cupboard. In Vancouver and Russia, we thought it would be fun to bring home a bit of an Olympic connection and picked up mugs with the Olympic insignia.

In Vancouver, we purchased our mug and went on our way without incident. In Russia, not so much. We went to the Olympic store in GUM, an upscale shopping mall in Moscow's Red Square, where there was an entire store filled with Sochi apparel and tchotchkes ... and mugs. Brian picked out a mug, counted out the appropriate payment of rubles (which we had finally obtained after several futile ATM attempts) and we started to leave the store.

Then the store alarm sounded.

There was a security guard in a sleek, dark suit posted at the door, and he immediately started repeating "cheque" in heavily accented English. We looked quizzically at him and each other, and then it dawned on me that he wanted to see the receipt. So Brian checked his pants pockets, shirt pockets and coat pockets. Nothing. I don't remember where he found the receipt but then the security guard wanted to see the bag. So Brian showed him the bag with the mug in it. The guard kept insisting on "bag, bag" and then made a lifting motion. Ah. He wants to check your backpack, I translated as we continued to cross the language divide. Once we had proven that we hadn't squirreled away any key chains or stuffed animals, the guard smiled and wished us well. "I hope all goes well with you," he said. Not exactly what you would expect at the end of a security encounter.

Security had a prevalent but generally discreet presence. We entered our Moscow hotel through a metal detector and there were armed guards in suits in the hotel. We saw surprisingly little security in the airport, a far cry from 25 years ago when I remember armed soldiers patrolling the airport. The security presence in 2013 certainly wasn't as intimidating as the soldiers who boarded our overnight train in 1989 asking to see our passports.

Every time I've pulled down the Sochi mug to use during the Olympics, I've thought of this story and smiled. This little mug has the biggest backstory of any of its comrades in the cupboard.