Front Porch: The Winter Games bring international joy and politics

The Winter Olympics – my favorite sporting event(s) of all, any where on the planet, ever – begin this week, taking place in and around Cortina-Milan, Italy.

I cannot get enough of curling, ski jumping, speed skating and all the rest of it. I’m aware that it’s supposed to be all about sport and not at all about politics, but, alas, in the world of today, that’s not true. And, frankly, it never was.

It’s just more apparent these days.

I had the wonderful opportunity when I was still a bride to attend the 1968 Winter Olympics, held in Grenoble, France, where the athletes from Communist bloc nations were escorted by minders wherever they went.

In January of that year, just before the games began, the USS Pueblo, an American naval intelligence vessel, was captured by North Korea. It and its crew were being held hostage when the Games began the following month. While the athletes were exchanging the small lapel pins from their countries, a sign of fun and friendship, some Americans (sardonic, as Americans can often be) asked their counterpart athletes from North Korea if they’d swap some pins for the Pueblo.

It was said that the men in shiny shoes were not amused. (Note: The Pueblo crew was eventually repatriated, but the ship remains today a museum in Pyongyang.)

So, politics always abide.

Still, the athletes come together every four years, along with citizens from around the world, to show and cheer for their best, and, along the way, share quite a bit of camaraderie. I have my own story from back then of how, even though the Vietnam War was blazing and the Tet Offensive (a major escalation of that war) had just begun – people can get along quite nicely, even when their nations don’t.

It feels timely to share that little story now, when a breath of happiness might be welcome. And, frankly, I have mentioned it once before, a few years back, so I hope no one minds a golden oldie.

You’d have to be an Olympics buff or an old person like me to have memories from those days, but that was the Olympics at which America’s figure skater Peggy Fleming won the gold medal. Some American athletes whose names might be remembered are Alpine skiers Billy Kidd, Jimmmy Heuga, Spider Sabich and Suzy Chaffee (who went on to do lip balm commercials, making her known for a time as Suzy Chapstick).

It was still some six years or so before brothers Phil and Steve Mahre, the famous skiers from Yakima, would begin making their mark on the Alpine World Cup circuit, eventually winning medals at the 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo.

However, the big international star in 1968 was French skier Jean-Claude Killy, who would win three gold medals in Grenoble (and also a World Cup title that year). Everyone was watching him to see if the hometown boy would prevail at the Olympics in his home country. And he did.

One more note about him. In a documentary in 1972, Elvis Presley declared that Jean-Claude was his favorite skier.

My own little story took place on a small side street in Grenoble, outside of an electronics store. The store was closed, but the owner had left a television on in the front window, with the sound up, so passersby could get a glimpse of the Olympics coverage while they were out and about.

At that time, Killy had secured two of his medals. He was contesting that day for the third medal. It was foggy on the mountain, and not all the gates or even the skiers could be seen clearly on TV.

Standing outside the store was a French woman who was cheering and laughing and doing a little shuffle dance. It may be unkind to mention, but she was perhaps not entirely sober. My husband and I joined her to watch the competition on the small black-and-white TV (all TVs were smallish in those days).

I still remembered enough of my high school French that I could converse with her, primitively, so we were a merry little group.

Soon others joined us, people from a number of nations, and what broke out was a language round-robin of sorts. She spoke in French, I repeated her words (to the best of my ability) in English, those who understood English (of whom there were quite a few, who may have understood French as well) translated for their companions into their own languages, sometimes going back to the previous speaker for clarification.

I don’t recall how many languages I heard from the increasingly growing group, but I do know that some were Eastern European, as we all tried to absorb the significance of the occasion and share in the infectious joy of the French woman.

At that moment, we were all French and were all rooting for Jean-Claude. And when he completed his run, which turned out to be the fastest of the day, securing him his third gold medal, we erupted in unabashed laughter and tears and dancing with strangers.

Despite everything else happening in the world, we agreed with our impromptu host that Jean-Claude Killy should be named king of France and that France ruled the world, at least for that day.

And finally, Bruce and I were in the arena later when the hero of France was awarded his third gold. I have never heard louder shouting and cheering in my life. I say this, having been through hurricanes in Florida and Seahawks games in Seattle. The bleachers were shaking from the foot stomping and jumping, and my ears were filled with languages I did not speak but clearly understood in the moment.

If international joy had a sound track, that was surely it.

Voices correspondent Stefanie Pettit can be reached by email at upwindsailor@comcast.net