Just before I left home last week, I was given something important. Realllllly, reallllllly important. My credential for the upcoming Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia, which also serve as my visa to get into the country. Sort of a big deal. I’m trying to think of anything else I’ve been given where it’s been so important that I not lose it for over a month, despite the fact that it’s a sort of flimsy piece of paper. Nothing is coming to mind.
But, oh well, I thought. No problem. I’m responsible!
Then I went to Ruhpolding.
In Ruhpolding, I was given a different credential for the weekend of World Cup racing, as I am at each venue. I am 9ABC, which basically means that as media I can access the media center, start/finish, and a certain area behind the range at a biathlon race. If I had D, I’d be a photographer, and then I’d have more special privileges like getting to nice spots on the course to take excellent photos. Usually, I just go to those spots anyway and hope that nobody notices that I have neither a “PHOTO” bib nor a “TEAM” bib. Usually, nobody cares, but every once in a while a grumpy old German course official yells at me.
The credential is also important because it lets me into the venue without having a ticket.
I went about my work the first day, reporting on the men’s relay, and then caught a ride to town with the U.S. wax techs and went for a jog with my friend Susan, who was racing, and then we had dinner together with the team and chatted in her room afterwards. She gave me a ride back to the Pichlers’ house, where I was staying, in the wax techs’ van. Bye Susan! Good luck tomorrow!
I woke up and went for a run the next morning, then started to get ready to go up to the venue for another day of reporting. I unpacked my backpack and repacked it with better clothes (the first day, my luggage still hadn’t arrived, so I didn’t have many choices). One last thing… where was my credential?
Hmm. I tore apart my little room, which is Pam’s office but she kindly put a mattress on the floor for me. I asked her and Walter if they had seen it. They were split: Pam swore I was wearing it when I came home the night before, Walter swore I wasn’t. Personally, I remembered carrying it in my hand as I left the U.S. team’s hotel and went to the van. I assumed I had left it in the van, but the wax techs had gone up to the venue long ago so I wouldn’t be able to get it until I got there. That was a problem, since I couldn’t get in without it, and how else would I get to the wax cabin to ask them about it?
Head hung low in shame, I walked down to the accreditation office, which is also where I would catch a shuttle up to the venue. I walked in and stood in front of the same woman who had given me the credential in the first place.
“This is very embarrassing, but, I think I lost my credential,” I stuttered. “Is there any way I can get a temporary one? I think I know where it is.”
“Are you Chelsea?” she asked.
Yes. Yup. That’s me.
From her desk she picked up two credentials, each with my face on them. One had clearly seen some water seep underneath its plastic lamination, because the text was turning all green and my face was sort of rainbow-colored. The other was brand new and shiny.
“Wow! Where did they find it?” I asked, wondering if the wax techs had for some reason dropped it off for me.
“In the stadium,” she said with a glare. “In a snowbank.”
She was clearly being reproachful that I didn’t value this credential, wantonly dropping it into the snow without a care in the world.
Me? I was confused. I’m still certain I had it at the hotel, so how the heck did it end up back in the stadium in the snow? When? Who?
All of this doesn’t bode well for my Sochi credential. Please, little piece of paper, stay in my notebook.
It’s funny though – besides just this credential mess, I’ve been really out of it this season when it comes to professionalism and organization. I should be a pro by now. My first World Championships was in 2011; I’ve been to two more, plus a handful of World Cup competitions, since then. I know my way around, particularly in Ruhpolding, which is the first venue I’ve visited more than once. I know where to get a shuttle and when I need to hitchhike; I’ve calculated the shortest way to run between different parts of the course; I’ve calibrated how long it takes for the winners to get to the press conference, so that I can squeeze in an extra interview in between. I can produce a story, with its feature photo, in less than an hour. I’m sort of a machine.
In Hochfilzen, though, I forgot everything: my computer charger, the cable to download photos from my camera, my headphones so I could listen to interviews on my voice recorder without pissing people off. All of it was in my hotel room. That day, I had to run, in my Sorel boots, the several kilometers to my hotel room and back, through a snowstorm, to fetch them.
And now this. Losing my credential. What, am I rookie? No way!
It’s troubling, to say the least. The next gig I have coming up on the reporting front is the Olympics, and let’s just hope I don’t make too many sloppy mistakes there. If I do, will you come fetch me out of the gulag?