At the time of this story, the firm I worked for was considered an "interactive media shop".  These days, it would probably be called a web design shop, but in the late 1990's, the web was still in its infancy, and not all of the work we did was for the web.  There were about a dozen of us in a small suite of offices in the Theater District in Manhattan.
 

IBM hired us to work on a project for the 1998 Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan.  We were to build the software which would be used by the athletes living in the Olympic Village to communicate with fans, build home pages, play games, and surf the web.  A large room was set up by IBM in a central concourse, filled with computers running our applications.  Today, that room would be called an Internet café, but IBM branded it the "Surf Shack".  It was going to be staffed by people from IBM who would assist the athletes and basically keep the place up and running.
 

This was a high profile, high stress project, and for months before the Olympics were to begin, we had daily status meetings every morning.  During one of these planning meetings, I joked, "If any of us have to go to Japan for this project, we should try to get tickets to see curling."
 

It was a joke.  1998 was the first year that curling was an "official" competition at the Winter Games.  If you don't know what curling is, think "shuffleboard on ice, plus brooms" (look it up if you don't believe me).  Of course it was a joke.  Who among the sane would want to watch curling competitions?  More on that later.
 

As the Olympics drew closer, and our project launch approached, IBM informed us that we would have to send a few people to Japan to assist in the maintenance of the Surf Shack.  A collective groan was voiced by all in my company, but volunteers were called for, and we assembled a small team of people who would be spending a few weeks abroad.
 

Our project officially launched a few days before the Olympics opened.  It was a success—a much wilder success than anyone imagined it would be.  The Surf Shack was filled with athletes from early morning until late evening, fourteen hours a day.  Congratulations and high-fives to all involved. 
 

A week or so after the Surf Shack opened, we received a call from one of the women from my company who was sent to work there.  She was depressed, exhausted, miserable.  She'd been working fourteen hour days (not including commuting time – she was staying at a hotel nearly an hour away from the Village), and she hadn't had a single day off.  She was ready to quit if we didn't send someone to relieve her.
 

An emergency meeting was held at my company.  We needed additional people to go to Japan on very short notice.  Lucky me, I was one of those chosen.  I had two days to get a passport (I didn't own one), and get on a plane for what would be an eleven day stay.  It wasn't a prospect which filled me with joyful anticipation.  My daughter had just been born three months earlier, and I did not want to spend a week and a half away from her and my wife.
 

But one does what one must.  After a thirteen hour plane flight (in coach), a two hour train ride, and a half hour cab ride (in the snow), I arrived at my hotel, and the next day, my daily routine began:  forty-five minutes on a Japanese commuter train, fourteen hours in the Surf Shack, forty-five minutes back to the hotel on a Japanese commuter train, dinner and collapsing in exhaustion. 
 

The work itself wasn't bad.  And I did get to meet a few B-list athletes (the A-list athletes didn't stay in the Village – they had luxury hotel suites and entourages).  I met figure skaters, skiers, hockey players (the ladies from the Canadian women's hockey team were very cool), a few guys from the Jamaican bobsled team, and a sad snowboarder who broke her leg on a qualifying run and spent every day playing games in the Shack.  I have some pins from various countries and photos and autographs and so on.
 

IBM had a number of tickets to various events to give away.  These were intended mostly for VIPs, but people in my company got to see some of the competitions.  Hockey tickets were the most sought-after.
 

One evening, my boss (a very smart, energetic, business-savvy woman) and I were having dinner at the restaurant in the hotel where we were staying.  With great enthusiasm, anticipating my reaction, she informed me that she had procured tickets for the two of us to attend one of the events.  Curling.  I don't recall if I laughed out loud or not, but I'm sure I didn't take her seriously at first. 
 

She was confused that I wasn't thrilled beyond words at the prospect of seeing a curling competition. 
 

"But you said that the one thing you wanted to see in Japan was curling!"
 

I really need to make sure that people know when I'm joking.
 

I paused, and after recovering my composure, and hopefully my tact, I told her that I would of course be delighted to go to the curling match with her.
 

The next night, we prepared for the journey to the curling venue.  The locations where all the various Olympic competitions took place were widely separated.  We had to take a bus, and the ride ended up taking nearly an hour.  We arrived at the skating rink, and the event was already under way.  We found seats easily (the arena was not exactly at full capacity) and settled in to watch the matches. 
 

There were six matches taking place simultaneously, side-by-side, down the length of the ice.  Six pairs of teams from different countries faced off against one another, hurling large stones with handles very slowly across the rink toward a bulls-eye target, while two teammates with brooms furiously scrubbed the ice ahead of the stone to slow it down, speed it up, or help direct its course, until it reached the other end, where it might bonk into one or more other stones already there.
 

It was as exciting as it sounds.  So we were surprised to find ourselves sitting next to a group of people who truly were thrilled to be there.  I think they were from Minnesota (or possibly upstate New York).  They were curling afficionados, and they were impressive.  They knew the teams, the players, the history, the rivalries, the gossip.  They kept score, and when one stone clinked against another stone in a certain way, sending it off in a new direction, they let out appreciative yelps or heartfelt groans.  They loved their curling.
 

My boss and I watched this for maybe half an hour, chatting with that group of fans.  We tried to enjoy the matches.  We really tried.  But eventually we began to succumb to fits of giggling.  We really couldn't take this seriously.  We looked at each other, and more or less simultaneously agreed that it was time to go.  We said goodbye to the good curling folks from Minnesota (or possibly upstate New York), made our way outside the arena, found a bus, and rode back to the hotel.
 

The rest of my stay in Japan was much the same.  Long days at the Surf Shack, one day off to go sightseeing in Nagano City, where I picked up some souvenirs for my family, and then finally a long plane flight back home.
 

My trip to Japan remains the one time I have actually traveled outside the country (except for the Caribbean, which I don't count).  And the most memorable part of my one trip outside the country was the result of a joke.
 

There's a lesson in there somewhere, but I haven't found it yet.