Have Post-It Notes, Will Survive Italy

In some ways, unfortunately, covering the Olympics isn't defined by the competition, the actual sports. In some ways, it's defined by your colleagues. Who you work with, how you work together, whether you support each other or snipe at each other.

So it was quite to my delight, but not at all to my surprise, that when I arrived Thursday in my new dorm room, I was greeted by a yellow Post-it note. And then another. And then well, why, yes, that is another one over there. Nine in all, if you include the two that say Channel 33 is Eurosport.

Some background: I began the Olympics by spending 10 nights in the mountain village of Sestriere, where I stayed in a hotel and covered Alpine skiing. Good fun, great stories, nice town, wonderful experience. The plan, though, was for The Post's Liz Clarke to come out and replace me about midway through; she would take over the Alpine beat and my hotel room, and I would move into Turin, take her dorm room at the Verolengo media village, and cover mostly hockey.

Anyone who knows Liz knows what comes next. Anyone who doesn't simply needs to think of a caricature of the ugliest American sportswriter living abroad -- and then imagine the complete opposite. A better team player than Jenny Potter, Liz provided me, Post-it by Post-it, with a blow-by-blow of how to live in Verolengo.

"Don't miss breakfast," one note declared. "It is good!"

"To raise and lower blinds, find the release lever at the bottom of the cloth strap."

She had purchased a plant, which we are jointly responsible for raising. She had left me, above my new desk at The Post's office in the main media center, a majestic picture of her strikingly handsome dog, Rusty. She advised, by Post-it, that "The balcony is a good refrigerator!" and wished me "good luck not flooding bathroom when you shower."

Back home, they would seem like little things, these Post-its. Not here.

-- Barry Svrluga

A Fine Wine Store Owner

There wasn't much time before the men's Olympic free skate Thursday, so I walked into the wine shop in the center of Turin feeling slightly pressured. Did I want cheap but interesting wine, highly regarded wine, obscure wine, top-of-the-line wine? I hadn't quite sorted it all out, other than I wanted to have a nice haul to take back to the United States, when a nice man, apparently the store owner, approached and, in clear, accented English, asked if he could help.