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Nonetheless, the mood in the Savoie was generally reserved and pragmatic. After the synchronized smiling and security scowls of Seoul at the last Olympic stop, there was an air last week of quiet confidence, of mountain self-containment. The absence of a center of action -- Albertville, nominal host of the Games, is a Bovaryville with a population smaller than that of Rockefeller Center in New York City -- tended to diffuse the sense of panic and excitement, as did the cold reality of 10 sites scattered across 620 sq. mi. of mountainside. These genuinely did seem the small-town Games, the Games of one-lane roads and gyms turned into press centers. True, the main street of Albertville had become a huge window display for such arcana as smiling M&M's on skis, a version of the Olympic mascot, Magique, made entirely of chocolates and other gadgets Olympiques. Billboards around town featured uplifting quotations from Andre Gide and Catullus, while discos offered such unlikely come-ons as "La Nuit du Single People." But for the most part, the Savoyards seemed unaffected by the world's sudden attentions, and by the nomadic pin traders spreading their wares along the street.
For the Olympic organizers, watching the preparations with breath held in apprehension, this was the calm before the blizzard. There were a few contretemps: some Russians complained about the lack of fax machines in the Olympic Village, and the official Chinese news agency announced that the accommodations here set new Olympic records for discomfort. The International Olympic Committee provoked mumbles with its sudden threat to introduce blood testing, which it just as quickly dropped. Even official brochures treated the athletes like errant children: "Moving from one Village to another is of course possible -- if not recommended -- provided official permission is granted."
In Brides-les-Bains (pop. 650), normally a thermal spa for obesity treatment, the Olympic Village was tucked into an authentic Alpine village, with one whole side of the main street fenced off -- even the town hall was behind bars -- so that it felt as if the hamlet itself were under house arrest. Ear-flapped gendarmerie stood in front of the cage, and one French woman biathlete complained that "you can't even take a tea bag in without being checked." But the competitors could at least enjoy a taste of the high life: they dined every night under crystal chandeliers in a beautifully restored resort hotel, with a fully functioning casino next door and Poltergeist III screened on their behalf. Others, around the mountains, were put up in Club Meds.
The media, outnumbering the athletes by only 7 to 2, were quite rightly a % little lower down. The press settled in the sulfurous industrial area of La Lechere (now a center for phlebology), and the TV crews a little higher up, in the picturesque village of Moutiers. Highest of all were the I.O.C. officers, delivering their pronouncements from the mountaintop and sheltered in the mink-coat, neon-snazzy resort of Courchevel, the St.-Tropez of snowfall.