In the lap of the Gods
Returning to Ireland in the 80’s from prosperous London was a shock to the system. One left behind the easy assurance of Kingston for the rather pinched streets of Dublin and at first could not quite source one’s sense of dislocation. A chance visit to an affluent suburb provided the clue. Here, one saw Greek Yogurt, (a Kingston staple at the time)and pots of sun-dried tomatoes on supermarket shelves, delicacies absent from the more financially challenged area in which I had taken up residence. More than that, impressive well manicured buildings diffidently but unmistakeably proclaimed the importance of the affairs been dealt within their walls; whereas dilapidation suggested that little of significance was going on in the rest of pre-Celtic tiger Dublin. The women and men exiting these self-confident structures had about them a suavity in keeping with their surroundings and they picked up Mediterranean dairy products from laden shelves, as if to the manner born. In my area of Dublin, non branded staples from more northern climes were the norm. I adapted in time, and as the transformation of Ireland gathered pace, revisiting “negative equity” London gave one a sense of deja vous all over again.
There was no Greek yogurt on sale on the Olympic Green last week, but the sense of privileged assurance of this suave enclave was reminiscent of 80’s Ballsbridge. The buildings are impressive, but, more than that, the attention to detail is more reminiscent of Japan then China. Even the design and cleanliness of the pavements is of a different order from the norm in this ancient capital. The toilets, always a source of concern, would have caused no anxiety for even the most fastidious of visitors. I would swear that, even though the smog fears have proven groundless, the open spaces were being gently scented from hidden nozzles. The notices in Chinese, English AND French added a certain je ne sais quoi to the place and made it feel as if the glass ceiling to international sophistication has well and truly been breeched.
The denizens of the Green seemed at home in this affluent world. I am not sure what the Chinese equivalent of a sun dried tomato is but they behaved as if they both knew and were on regular shopping terms with what ever it might be. Some were able, by their blue tee shirts, to flaunt their Olympian credentials. These volunteers are everywhere. Universally helpful and competent in at least one foreign language, they are an excellent advertisement for their country. They exude earnest willingness to help and have about them a diffident self-confidence with no displays of the self importance that often comes with a badge or a whistle. I was delighted to hear that the priest-volunteers who serve in the Olympic Religious Centre are making an equally positive impression and fluency in English is being matched by the depth of their preaching. Even the mere mortals who possessed tickets to this Green sanctum seem to belong to another world. The heat makes designer chic irrelevant, but beside my Chinese fellow spectators I felt positively out of place in my thrown together ensemble. Their accents are from across the country, but they act with the easy assurance of people who are chez nous in this setting.
It would be easy to be cynical about this isolated bubble of international standard modernity in contemporary China. However, the Gods who gave Greek Yogurt to all of Dublin by the end of the last century may well choose to extend the self-assurance of the Olympic Green to the whole country by the end of this one. Vive l’avenir.
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