GLASGOW — My wife, Claire, and I planned a trip to the Winter Olympics with our three boys (John - 7, Matthew -4, and Ben -4). We said goodbye to little sister, Natalie, who wasn’t in the picture when the planning begun. What started out as a “Hey wouldn’t it be cool...” conversation with my sister and her husband has culminated in our two families setting out on and sharing a once in a lifetime experience.

Getting there is half the fun

When Claire and I began to put our plan into motion we hoped our boys would not only witness a world class sporting event but also expose their young and impressionable minds to different cultures and experiences that would create positive life lessons. The Olympics seemed to be an ideal field trip for teaching them about the merits of hard work, determination, and teamwork on one hand and the need to respect and embrace people from all different cultures regardless of their language, color, or dress, on the other hand.

 We decided to travel to Vancouver via Seattle after getting a dose of the “Olympic premium.” The prices on airline tickets and rental cars were extremely high directly into Vancouver. Plus, Seattle seemed like a neat place and the Pacific Northwest looks beautiful in pictures. So at the juncture of adventure and economics, loaded with a backpack, a purse, four carry-on bags, three boys and a mix of excitement and “what are we doing?” we boarded the plane in Nashville bound for Seattle.

 We arrived in Seattle late and it was raining. It always rains in Seattle. A very nice cab driver pointed out the headquarters of Starbucks as we made our way through the city to our hotel. Upon checking in, the man mentioned about the room keys doubling as an elevator key. A little odd, I thought, but he clarified that the homeless tend to wander in and seek refuge in the hotel. That was the first of three homeless references in our 11-hour stay in Seattle and I didn’t pay much attention to the first. We got the boys settled in as we watched the long jump event on TV and Claire and I calculated that in a less than 8 hours we would be on a train bound for Vancouver.

 We got moving before the boys — Claire to get things in motion as she always does and I wanted to get to the train station to print off our tickets. As I asked the man at the front desk for directions I noticed that the fruit they had out the night before was not there. I asked about them and as he stepped back into the office door he said they have to hide them or the homeless will eat them. Second reference. I got my apple and walked outside and realized it’s really dark at 6 a.m. in Seattle. I wasn’t 15 steps outside the door when I got asked for a cigarette. I politely and firmly declined and picked up my pace. I was starting to think, “this may not be a good idea.” The train station was only seven blocks but it quickly seemed like a much longer trip. I passed several people sleeping in doorways and under the overpass but was able to get to and fro without incident.

 As we were waiting for the shuttle, I carefully opened the dialog with the boys about homeless people. John was more capable of understanding than the others and I wanted to be sure not to scare him. So we talked about making good choices in life and working hard in school so you can have the opportunity to get a good job. And we talked about how fortunate we were to have a warm home and to be able to eat when we are hungry and to have a family that loves you.

 As our brief stint in Seattle was wrapping up, we found ourselves in the Amtrak station awaiting the “All Aboard” call for the train. We didn’t get that but we did get the “Line up at Gate No. 2 for Vancouver” call. Much less romantic but nonetheless efficient.

We discussed with the boys the security guards and the dogs they had. We lined up where we were supposed to and took our turn showing our passports and boarding passes. We got to the doorway where the dogs gave us the once over sniff. I had Matthew going for a bit because I told him they were smelling for suitcases with socks in it and I hoped he didn’t have any socks because they don’t let socks into Canada. “But Dad...” and then he quickly realized it’s not about socks, but by then the dog already sniffed his bag and hands and we were looking for train No. 5.     

 We boarded the train and began this unbelievably beautiful trip. Breakfast was from the dining car and we spread out the choices on our table. Out one side of the train you would have thought you were on a cruise ship looking over Puget Sound and on the other was exactly what I thought the Pacific Northwest would be and more: Luscious evergreen forest, quaint fishing villages, timber operations, and lots of saturated farm fields.

We spent more time playing Uno and telling the boys to quiet down than we would care but it was really a neat ride. Although it would have been more enjoyable had it been only two hours instead of four.

There was a family next to us and after one game of Uno the older boy, Adam, 8, announced to us that he knew how to play Uno. So we dealt Adam in and slowly over the last couple of hours got acquainted with his family. His Mom was from Slovakia, an eastern European country that was part of the old Soviet Bloc, and his Dad was from Canada. Very nice people and they even shared with us a candy that they had brought along. They were in the states visiting and lived about four hours from Vancouver by car. We asked about the town the lived in and what they liked to do. The boys had no trouble breezing through whatever cultural differences existed and soon after the Uno games got old they were busy playing catch in their seats and spilling into the isle, much to the chagrin of both of their parents and the other passengers.

 We slowly pulled into Vancouver, which is a sprawling city nestled between snow capped mountains and the Strait of Georgia that ultimately leads to the Pacific Ocean. Crossing a bridge, I saw a sea otter slip under the water. A little more than 24 hours from leaving Nashville we arrive at the host city for the Olympic Games.

I ask Ben what his favorite part of the trip was. The dining cart he says. All the wonders of the Pacific Northwest couldn’t trump the cool factor of being able to eat on a train. A once in a lifetime experience.

At the Olympics

We shared a two bedroom, one office townhouse in the suburb of Surrey. My sister’s husband has a distant relative who lived there and they were wanting to get out of the city for a week and gladly accepted our week’s rent and left town. There were 10 of us, six kids and four adults. It was tight, but other than sleeping, we didn’t spend much time there as we were on the go to pack in as much as we could. The washer and dryer, kitchen and use of the one mini-van helped ease whatever discomfort the tight space created. Vancouver has an excellent mass transit system, something I think many of our cities would benefit from, and the local station was a 10 minute van ride. From there it was a 45 minute train ride through the various suburbs of this huge sprawling city. And at every turn in Vancouver there were multiple recycling containers. A very green city for sure.

 The kids loved the train, although the novelty began to wear thin over the week. I began immediately noticing on our many trips in and out of the city its incredible diversity. There’s a huge Asian presence as well as Native American. Throw in all the European crazies who came in for the games and you had an incredible melting pot. Very impressive and we were glad to have the kids exposed to so many different cultures in that tiny microcosm called mass transit.

 We also had plenty of experience with the politeness of Canadians. I think with the natural positive Olympic spirit in the mix they were almost nice to a fault. The organizers of the games recruited an army of volunteers who we called “Blue Coats” for obvious reasons. They were usually in groups of two or three and assigned to every street corner, train station and all around the venues. They were there to assist in whatever you needed. The very nice “Blue Coats” usual first response was “That’s a good question,” and then they would proceed to give us multiple answers to whatever our question at the moment was. Not what we wanted with six kids in tow in a major metro city with thousands of people cheerfully moving about. “We’re Americans — correct and quick information is what we want and we’d prefer not to actually stop while we are walking by asking.”  That is what we wanted to say but they were just so darn nice you just stood there and listened to three of them debate about the best way to get to the stadium or where the best place was for a family to eat until some other poor sap came up and asked something else and you’d slip away. We eventually stopped talking to the Blue Coats.

 Oh, and there’s no jay walking in Canada. I was reprimanded by a security woman, nicely of course, for cutting a cross walk a little too soon. It wasn’t even jay walking: just trimming the corner by a bit (maybe a chunk). This was down by the torch where most of the streets were closed to traffic and you had thousands of people from all over celebrating their teams victory that day. But in true Canadian fashion, you abide by the rules.

 On my way to pick up tickets one day I went by a long line of people. I was running behind because the blue coats gave me a rather non-specific answer to my seemingly simple question of, “Where do I pick up tickets.” So I was hoofing it fast because I was trying to pick up my tickets and see if they had an extra for the hockey game so Claire could go. Then, I saw the line. A long line and I thought this must be it. It curved down the sidewalk and around the corner. I asked the young ladies at the back of the line if this was where you pick up tickets. They said they didn’t know. My next logical question was “what is the line for?” They said they didn’t know. As I was trying to process why they would be standing in such a long line for which they didn’t even know the purpose, the guy in front of them said “my wife went up to see what it is.” I wondered to myself, “so you are all standing here in a line but have no idea what the line is for?”

“You betcha, eh.” Darn blue coats.    

 Later that evening we walked into a restaurant in the middle of downtown to get something to eat and let the kids rest a bit. This was one of five places the blue coats told us to go. That was of course after a lengthy debate between the three blue coats.

Everything was packed. We walked into an Italian restaurant that was pretty busy. We jokingly told the hostess party of 10 and she graciously put us down. We patiently waited and started thinking about other options.

Within a few minutes three people who were sitting at a larger table offered us theirs and squeezed in with some other tables and new-found friends. We enjoyed a nice meal and got to watch the first Gold medal won by a Canadian on Canadian soil. Never before in the times when Canada hosted the games did they bring home a gold.

The place went nuts when Alexandre Bilodeau won the gold medal; watching the TV images of him hugging his brother who has cerebral palsy, hearing the cheers of his festive country men and women beaming with pride surrounding us and looking out the open doors and windows to the streets of Vancouver and seeing the multitude of flags waving the Maple Leaf was incredible.

That’s why we went to the Olympics. To experience it first hand and see and hear and feel what you don’t get on the couch. In that place, on that night, with our family circled around a table, was what it was all about.

 Many years from now my guess is we won’t remember the cramped taxi rides or the hustling through airports or the cramped sleeping arrangements.

Instead, we’ll remember the beauty of the Pacific Northwest, the time spent with family in such an incredible atmosphere known only to the Olympics and the exposure to different cultures to uncontaminated minds.

Those are our Olympic moments.