BEIJING: Strategy is daring and suffocating, and that’s the point.
According to Chinese officials, the creation of a giant bubble was their best (and perhaps only) hope for safely holding the Olympic Games and maintaining a “zero Covid” policy, a priority for the government and a source of national pride.
The game organizers said they had run more than 500,000 tests since Jan. 23, revealing at least 232 cases of the virus, most of them by the time people arrived at Beijing Capital International Airport. Officials said 11 people were taken to hospital.
It’s a 48-hour journey in an Olympic balloon that began with the arrival of Air France Flight 128 from Paris on Monday.
Monday, 07:06
Even before the sunlight soaks up the airport, one glance out the window of the Boeing 777 to notice the “closed loop”: the asphalt workers lining up the Games flights upon arrival in Beijing are dressed in protective gear, the clear white is scarier than theirs. illuminated orange batons.
More people in aprons and gloves stand in the jet path. Then more, in the cavernous, empty hall, closed to all but those connected with the Games. Even more in the small bays are waiting, armed with nose and throat swabs to check on thousands of people who have tested negative and mostly vaccinated just before their flight.
After revealing some twists in the nostril and some swirls in the throat, copious gag, the officer has examples of what was one of China’s last and best chances to contain the virus.
10:34
The bus driver sits behind a plastic barrier, allowing him and his passengers to communicate with gestures and shrugs.
A worker presumably sprays disinfectant on the bus as it leaves the airport for a hotel with guards checking a gate that opens to allow only bubble-approved vehicles through the airport.
An assistant manager gives me the key to my room where I will stay until my airport test result is ready. But I can order room service while waiting.
The doorbell rings. When I reach the door, the delivery man is barely visible in the hallway, neatly packaged food left on a table that reads “Contactless Handover Desk.”
At 1:14 p.m. a woman calls and the test result is negative. I can leave my room. Beijing is open, or as clear as this trip is.
2:19pm
The redesigned city bus races in Beijing. Each block shows how the coincidence that often comes during travel and reporting will be stunted.
Outside the venues, “Closed Loop Area” signs remind a Chinese public that their view of the Olympics will be from fleeting glances past fences and guards. “Please Do Not Cross The Line.”
Restaurants beyond the balloon are of course prohibited for the Games participants. But the state machine and the Olympics created a city of its own. At more than 400,000 square feet, the “Main Media Center” can feel like a crossover between Epcot and Willy Wonka’s factory, where robots and computers clean floors, measure temperatures and scan information at checkpoints.
I’ve heard of a robot that will nag anyone who isn’t properly masked, and I see machines making meatballs, fried rice, and broccoli. Plates sometimes descend from the ceiling with shimmering bowls of hot food. (The meatballs and broccoli were excellent; the rice was a little dry.)
Outside after dusk, the 846-foot Olympic Tower shimmers with red and blue lights as the music pulsates just ahead of Lunar New Year. The plazas closest to it, though, are largely empty.
Tuesday, 14:49
Apparently, I passed the Covid test I took at the hotel on Monday evening, which is part of the daily ritual of watching these Games. I think I’ll breathe easier later on, once the threat of infection from travel to Asia has subsided.
In practice, I watch American hockey players and their coaches cruise on the ice. Appearing in their Third Game, Kendall Coyne Schofield shines brightly as she poses for a photo in the opposing circle. Even in this desolate world there is still the joy of sports, there is still pride that these are the Olympic Games.
16:23
Just before American star forward Hilary Knight planned to chat with reporters, my phone vibrated.
“One person confirmed positive on flight AF128 sitting in SEAT 53A,” the formulated email announces.
I flew on seat 54A and am now classified as close contact.
I left the interview room hastily, with a touch, but mostly I was unsure of every nuance of the protocols and was afraid of unintentionally causing more trouble. Between emails and calls, I debate with The New York Times’ Olympic logistics genius Terri Ann Glynn, 13 hours behind Beijing, about whether we should go home and text my wife. I decided to let him sleep.
I’m getting a private car for the media center; The Olympic bus system is not an option for close contacts.
I remember enough of the rules to know that the days ahead depend on whether I’m “critical” for the Games. I was surprised to learn that I was, and so the rules are essentially: For seven days, medical staff will visit my hotel room twice a day for testing. I have to eat alone and stay away from buses.
But I can still turn off Games – if I stay negative.
20:57
This time, when the doorbell rings, the visitor does not run away. Instead, two officers in blue protective gear wait to begin the enhanced test. I think I hear chuckles as I bend down for the man to clear my throat. Maybe I’ll get used to it; I’m barely vomiting.
Around 10:15 pm, a photographer sends a group message, “Ambulance outside the hotel again,” for someone possibly needing Covid-19 treatment elsewhere. I’m wondering if my result is back.
not him. But a test team will revisit my room in less than 12 hours.
Wednesday, 05:53
I have no symptoms. Yet I am awake because of jet lag and am paranoid about becoming a case and being thrown into an isolation facility. I eat a piece of chocolate to see if I still have a sense of taste. I do, so I recalculate potential incubation periods.
However, this is only a very valuable exercise. There is nothing that can stop the infection inside the balloon. I turn my attention to writing about sports.
After all, the Games are still going on, as China promised.