Torch Goes From City That Can’t Miss to Cultural Abyss

From Gaudi to gaudy.

That was some torch pass the Olympics made late Sunday night, from castle-topped, sangria-addled Barcelona to chrome mud-flapped Atlanta, which has only four years to measure up to the sensory overload of the past two weeks.

By my calculations, all Atlanta needs to do is:

--Erect a dozen or so 17th-century cathedrals.

--Build a Montjuic.

--Buy a culture.

--Rent Sagrada Familia.

--Hire a king. (Ted Turner has been disqualified.)

--Airlift La Rambla.

--Age 1,000 years.

--And maybe lose the accent.

Barcelona, a city that sleeps grudgingly, weeps openly and revels in itself 24 hours a day, just set an Olympic record for sights, sounds and tastes. It used to be described as the world’s last great undiscovered city, but no more. These Games took care of that, for now and forever.

The world knows.

And next, the Summer Olympics move to Atlanta, which has been described as . . . well, it is undiscovered. At least in Barcelona it is. One reporter here took an informal poll of locals, asking them if they knew where Atlanta was located. Only one said the United States--”in northern California.”

What a four-year parlay this is going to be. Gazpacho and paella appetizer, followed by grits and pork rinds. Placido Domingo, opening for Billy Ray Cyrus.

Barcelona has the neo-Gothic cathedrals of Gaudi, the abstract sculpture of Miro, the floppy clocks of Dali.

Atlanta has the tomahawk chop.

Barcelona has cava sparkling wine, the most delectable nectar known to mankind.

Atlanta has Coca-Cola.

Barcelona has matadors and conquistadors and some of the planet’s most beautiful women.

Atlanta has Deion Sanders.

The transition toyed with many imaginations here, prompting one writer last week to speculate on the name of Atlanta’s then-undercover mascot:

“Cobi Joe.”

The reality, unveiled at the closing ceremonies, was worse than anyone could have feared--a giant ringworm with Kewpie-doll eyes and treacly Disney smile called, yes, you can’t make this stuff up, “Whatizit.”

Whatizit?

A pretty fair rationale for mascoticide, if you ask me.

Barcelona was crawling with operatives from the Atlanta Olympic Organizing Committee during the Games, and here’s hoping they took copious notes. Writers who have covered four, five, six Summer Games maintain that Barcelona’s were the most spectacular yet--and the city pulled it off while giving the impression that it was winging it from start to finish.

Has there ever been a more breathtaking Olympic venue than the diving pool atop Montjuic, overlooking all of Barcelona, from the green hills to the refurbished waterfront? There goes Fu Minxsia, up and over the spires of Sagrada Familia and into the water. It was a photographer’s dream, a spectator’s delight--and NBC rightly milked every inch of footage out of it.

Placa d’ Espana, at the foot of Montjuic, was the hub of Olympic activity, situated within walking distance of the track, swimming, volleyball, fencing, gymnastics, equestrian and wrestling venues, as well as the halfway house for foreign journalists, the Main Press Center.

Nightly, thousands upon thousands crowded the sidewalks and the hillside escalators, marveling at the multi-colored fountain show, sipping cerveza around patio tables, listening to traditional Spanish songs from the plaza sound system--as well as the occasional “Theme from Shaft.”

Time seemed to sprint by, stride for stride with Carl Lewis, largely because time is rarely a consideration in Barcelona. Dinner became an a.m. activity, because the dance clubs didn’t start hopping until 3. Studio 54, named after Manhattan’s palau d’decadence, became a major post-competition meeting point for the athletes. Spotted there bobbing to the technobeat pulse was Janet Evans, in something less than complete outer wear. In another corner, male and female runners introduced themselves with something more than a handshake. And at the other side of the room, drunken sportswriters floundered through a pitiful version of the sardana, dancing in a circle while tossing shirts, socks and bras into the middle of the ring.

La Rambla, Barcelona’s answer to Bourbon Street, was Charles Barkley’s kind of place, all noise and nonsense and overflowing glasses. Sometimes, the legend outstripped the reality, such as at Placa Reial, where the crowds are said to become so dense, tear gas is fired at 5 a.m. to disperse the revelers.

Hoping to write the lead of the Olympics (“It was 5:02 in the morning when the canisters hit the ground . . . “), a few colleagues and I made a trip to Placa Reial. A few pitchers of sangria were had and by 3:15, waiters were stacking chairs. No gas, no tears, highly overrated.

Entertainment being this city’s main natural resource, the Games themselves had a high standard to reach. They succeeded. Gail Devers, winning and losing. Derek Redmond, the injured British 400-meter runner, being helped to the finish line by his father. Switzerland’s Marc Rosset collapsing on the clay after winning a five-hour tennis duel with Spain’s Jordi Arrese. Italy and Spain waging six periods of water polo overtime in the gold-medal game. Spain’s soccer triumph, sending the city in convulsions. The sheer virtuosity of the Chinese divers, the Dream Team-without-the-shoe-contracts dominance of the Cuban baseball team.

For the sporting fan, at home or on site, it was quite an act to follow.

For Atlanta, it could be the impossible act to follow.

“Maybe we can rebuild Tara,” one Atlanta official suggested.

Start working, Atlanta. You only have four years, and the meter is running.