Ok, children, so what have we learned?
As an FSO, you should always be ready. That means you don't pre-buy tickets to the weekend Spandau Ballet concert, you don't send all of your suits to the dry cleaners at the same time, and you don't try to go a couple of extra days with big Jestoni Alarcon hair by putting off a haircut 'til the weekend.
'Cause you never know when you'll be asked to go to an Olympics.
Make no mistake, I've always wanted to be in an Olympic city. It's just that the games were awarded seven years ago, and "08-08-08" announcements have been scattered all over the world for years now, so you would think I'd somehow know if I'd be going to Beijing earlier than, say, the day before the opening.
Nope. Not on your fried rice.
There I am, lying in my bed, 11pm of the 7th, watching "Attack of the Show", candy-wrappers on the floor, when I receive a text message telling me I may be a last-minute replacement to the Philippine delegation heading to China. At first I thought it was a joke. I mean, I know I've gotten good at Wii boxing, but Olympic good?
"You'll be assisting the delegation as support staff", the subsequent confirmation message said.
Yeah, but I'll be Olympic-level support staff!
And as they say, if you can't be an athlete, be an athletic supporter.
Games on.
I only arrived in Beijing at the last minute, so I wasn't accredited -- much less given tickets -- to any event or activity (oh, who am I kidding? I'm so low-level I could've arrived here as early as ancient Greece and still not be let in to anything). I just basked in the glory of the opening ceremonies from (as the night wore on) the hotel lobby, the hotel lounge, the Phildel secretariat, and my bed (Olympic fever! Catch it!)
There's an Olympics here somewhere, I just know it.
Ah, here we go, something Olymp-y. A luncheon was held in our hotel to honor the Philippine athletes (that's our long jumper on the left), with a huge message board placed right outside the hall. Most messages were variations of the "Go" theme, from peppy encouragements ("Go Pinoys! Go for Gold!"), to the somewhat cynical ("Go for the P15 million!"), to the well-intentioned-but-ironically-inappropriate ("Go Break Your Legs Team Philippines!")
Right outside our hotel was the Worker's Stadium, home of the boxing matches. This was the closest I got to an Olympic event. So near yet so far. There must be something else I could do to make me really feel like I'm at an Olympiad...
...Ah, yes, Olympic shopping. I would have medalled, but I got deductions from my final score for not pointing my toes while ordering the five-piece stuffed mascot keychains.
Want to see all the national uniforms and country colors, but can't get into the Olympic village? Just head on down to Silk Street or Ya Show, where even the world's biggest and greatest athletes bow to the might of the haggling salesladies!
Someday, I'll tell my grandkids I once was able to see Beijing . . . through a car window.
The Chinese food (or, as they call it here, "food" [c'mon, you knew that was coming]) was superb wherever we went. Particularly memorable were this restaurant (top) famous for its Peking Duck (or, as they call it here, "Beijing") and our hotel's own novelty restaurant (bottom) which featured four actual floating boats and all-you-can-motion-sickness.
South Cathedral. I found this very interesting: the place was packed and full of families for a Saturday mass; in contrast, the Sunday services in Sanremo were not even half-filled and I was by far the youngest one in the place. South Cathedral also had some of the cheeriest, most upbeat church singing I've ever heard. People were bouncing, swaying and clapping during the "Our Father". 
Finally, right before flying back home, we catch the Dream Team vs. Yao Ming basketball game on the airport lounge TV. If you're thinking, "Big deal! I could do that in my house too!", then you obviously don't recognize the figure in the right foreground who was providing the game commentary for the entire room. . .
. . .That's right! Man-ny! Man-ny! Wala kang katulad!
get to gorge on reception hors d'oeuvres afterwards." Well, no one told me: a) we'd be rehearsing during a typhoon; b) the flagpoles were at the edge of a ten-foot drop; and c) once self-doubt creeps in that you might drop someone else's national flag on wet, muddy grass - and maybe cause an international incident - you get a severe case of el nervous stomach . In the end, we were able to get through without incident, but I was so tense throughout the event those hors d'oeuvres still went through my digestive system under the principle of "non-interference", if you know what I mean.
