| | While the torch was extinguished, The Mag's Anne Marie Cruz fought for air.
High heels saved my life.
Don't ask me why I wore them today. I suppose I was starting to feel the edges of post-Olympic depression, and I wanted to get into a frivolous mode as quickly as possible.
Why they came in handy by the end of the night was hardly frivolous at all.
I couldn't imagine sitting still for another hours-long production (though Sue Hovey tells me the Closing Ceremony was 10 times better than the Opening). Toss in the fact that I hadn't spent enough time with the Sydneysiders downtown, and I was telling myself that wandering around the Opera House while Aussies caroused and fireworks exploded was a damned fine idea.
As I was getting ready to leave, Mike Wise of the New York Times stopped by the Magazine office, Sydney branch, to say hello and ask if I had an extra ticket to the Closing Ceremony.
Nope. I'm braving the "bigger than New Year's Eve" crowds (or whatever the radio man said this morning).
"That should be fun," said Mike.
"Yeah, I just hope I don't get stampeded to death," I joked.
"Oh, you'll be safe," Mike replied. "You're in Australia."
The part of my brain that steadfastly knows I will never, ever, EVER be found in Times Square on December 31 for some reason didn't kick in tonight. Possibly because The Magazine's crack photo team was saving me a seat at Doyle's near the water. I figured if I couldn't stand the crowds, I'd head back inside.
The train from Central Station to St. James was cramped. But it was no worse than my commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan back in the States (sigh). The crowd of twenty-somethings was pretty well on their way, having been drinking since lunchtime, and the smell of beer only heightened the expectant atmosphere. I hadn't had a drop, but I felt drunk anyway.
We were held at the station for ten minutes -- traffic on the track -- and when the door finally closed, everyone yelled, "Woo!" as if we were playing a big game of choo-choo. Some guy blew a tuneless trumpet, while his friend led an exuberant "Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!" cheer. Their enthusiasm betrayed the fact that they wouldn't have a good excuse to use it again for a long, long time.
At the St. James stop, a woman with a bullhorn informed us that everything within a 10-block radius was closed. "You can exit the station, but we'll only see you again in a few minutes," she intoned.
Above ground, the gi-normous electronic signs further down McQuarrie Street read "Circular Quay Is Full." Then: "Opera House Is Full." Finally: "Please Go Back." I reached a blockade with yet another sign: "East Circular Quay is closed for public safety." Beyond the barrier were a handful of New South Wales security guards and lots of open space. Prairies' worth. Seemed like a whole lot of hand-wringing to me.
I flashed my credential at the woman guarding the gate. "I've got a table waiting for me at Doyle's. Can you let me through?" She shook her head no, and pointed to a street veering left, away from the barricade. "That's where Doyle's is." I thanked her with relief. I'd have my seat in no time.
The street rested on a steep incline into the quay itself, where the ferries pick up commuters. This was no morning rush hour mob, though. From the top of the hill, I could see a mass of thousands, churning about very slowly. That they were moving at all was encouraging, so I forged ahead.
"Don't go down there," one woman starting uphill warned. She clutched onto her date. "It's a nightmare." Ah, those with delicate sensibilities, I thought to myself, teetering down the hill with the rest of the crowd.
Once I got midway down the hill, I got swept up in an avalanche of bodies pushing toward the cauldron of thousands. Didn't matter whether I wanted to continue downward (I did) -- I was walking by sheer force of other people's wills. It wasn't comfortable, but people were still joking and drinking and shouting.
At the bottom of the hill, there was a clearing of people sitting on the ground. There was nothing to indicate a public safety hazard. Mostly, I was just worried that someone would spew innards on my head.
I joined another amoeba of shovers to get closer to the path along the water -- not that there was anything resembling a path.
Closer to the action, then.
People were everywhere: clambering up the urinal trailers; hanging off the tram bridges; squashing up against everyone on all sides. The trick of navigating through the drunken jam, I thought, was to follow someone with a bottle in-hand, intent on heading in your direction.
The trouble arose when the someone with a bottle in-hand was intent on heading in the opposite direction.
Then, as abruptly as a bridge collapsing, those someones-with-bottles were on all sides, surrounding me and a mother who was desperately grasping at her daughter and son. The kids couldn't have been older than 9 and 7.
Of the four of us, I (by some cosmic joke) was the tallest. Now, I'm not even five feet tall, but with the heels I probably hit close to 5'3". This was not a source of comfort. Not that I really had time to think about it: somehow, we'd become the focal point of everyone's drunken desire to shove everyone else.
The woman's son, not quite four feet tall, was helpless against the tide. His neck was at arm-shoving level, and he was being suffocated. He looked up, his face as flat against the sky as a daisy soaking up sunshine. It was as much out of a dire need for air as out of white-hot panic.
"My son! My son!" his mother shrieked. "For God's sake, please stop! Stop pushing!"
No one listened. The men with the bottles still laughed and pushed and spilled their beer.
The little girl worked her mouth open. She held it slack for a moment, then let out a cry so shrill that it sounded like her tongue was twisting tighter and tighter around her larynx.
It was the most chilling thing I'd ever heard.
It also snapped my attention to the fact that I should be screaming too. Because I was getting just as squashed, and there was just as little hope of escaping myself. But I didn't want to start a panic. I also didn't want to waste my breath -- those three extra inches from the heels were carving out enough air for me to be okay with the current amount of pushing. I also didn't want to think about what would happen to us if the fireworks started and everyone at the top of the hill came pressing forward.
The woman's pleas were picked up by some of the strangers around us. Taller men-types took up the cry: "There are children in this crowd! Please stop pushing!"
Finally, the mother corralled a friend (female, also short) to stand in front of her son, who was on the verge of fainting. The maneuvering was tricky and slow. Then, the two women formed a protective shield around the two kids and barreled ahead, screaming for everyone to move out of the way. They didn't, but miraculously, the women moved them out of the way.
I followed, not knowing if we'd find a way out.
Minutes of waiting and pushing and waiting and hoping passed. I had been separated from the mother and her children -- I pray they got out in time -- and I had no clue where the openings were. All I could think of was my favorite scene in Coma, where Genevieve Bujold pushes all those corpses on top of her assailant.
Then we popped out of the fray, and I felt the wonderful harbor wind brush against my face.
I was getting the hell out of there, and never looking back.
As I headed back to the station (bracing myself for a I-told-you-so from the lady with the bullhorn), I wanted to warn the bright-faced people heading the other way. Especially the families with small children -- children my height, even -- Run the other way. As far as possible. That mirage of party-goers? It's a deathtrap.
But I knew I'd sound like a crazy person, especially since I probably looked like a crazy person - with sparks of panic still shooting from my eyes.
When I got back to Olympic Park, the torch was gone, everything darker because of its absence. But the Closing Ceremony was still in full-force, and Abba's "Dancing Queen" rattled the grounds.
Oooh, festive. I perked up, and started humming the chorus.
What I heard?
You can dance.
You can die.
Having the time of your life.
Yikes. Dancing? Dying?
At least I was wearing the right shoes.
Anne Marie Cruz covers the Olympics for ESPN The Magazine.
To send Anne Marie a question or comment in Sydney, click here.
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