One Not-so-shining Moment

And tell me it won't be handy if I have to lead a mob up to Dr. Frankenstein's house again.

Our group was taken by bus to the seaside suburb of Alimos. I watched as, one-by-one, the torchbearers were dropped off into throngs of happy Greeks, who rubbed the shoulders and soothed the nerves of each anxious runner for the 30 minutes until the torch came to their hero.

But when I was pushed out of the bus at my spot on the highway, there were no arms to fall into. In fact, nobody was there. Remember North by Northwest, when Cary Grant gets dropped off in the cornfield? This was lonelier than that.

I sat on the embankment and waited. Not exactly as glamorous a deal as I'd pictured. Eventually, a fat old woman with three teeth and wearing a bikini top came up and spat out what sounded like a question in Greek.

To which I replied, "No, the swimsuit issue is closed for next year, but thanks for asking."

Finally, with 10 minutes to go, citizens started coming around. Old men. Kids. A truck driver. They were mesmerized by my torch, even unlit. I let them hold it, run with it, play with it. These people are going to be about $10 billion in the hole after this little 17-day party. It's the least I could do.

Minutes later, after I lit my torch from the flame of Athens housewife Anastasia Gregoriadou, I felt suddenly swept up in everything the modern Olympics stand for--bribery, drugs and bizarre mascots.

Actually, I was proud to be a tiny part of an amazing human chain, even in the stupid Richard Simmons shorts and headband they gave me. Proud I was passing along the same flame carried--for the first time--in Africa and South America, carried by Tom Cruise and Billy Mills and Miss World 2002 before me, and by Nikos Kaklamanakis to the Olympic cauldron itself not 36 hours after me.

So what do you do when you're proud? You dance! You spin 360s! You run around trying to get cabbies to slow down long enough to show them the torch!

And what happens? All that flitting around puts the flame out!