I would have liked to be Donald Sutherland for one day.

I would have woken up in the morning, taken a shower and when looking in the mirror, I wouldn’t have bothered to shave. I would have gently touched my wedding ring while putting on my new coat that I had gotten the day before. I wouldn’t mind the five little circles that were on the neck of the coat, for they were merely a symbol of unity, not of capitalism.

Outside, the streets would be filled with snow, and I would have walked a while before holding a cab, bringing me to the Olympic venue. There I would have taken a seat in a quiet part of the stadion, not many people around, and while waiting for the match to begin I would have spent my time reading the book I had been carrying for so long, the book I had read so many times and that I would keep reading. The coffee stains at the bottom and the bookmarkers in it showed how precious it was to me. Alice Munro was born four years before me, over 2000 miles away, and the stories she wrote were in no sense connected to my own life for I was no young Canadian woman, nor had I been at a turning-point in my young intellectual life. I had not not been aware of this at the time, but her romantic yet realistic sense of synchronicity and universal events, that she was able to put down in these words, moved me. The words lingered on and fulfilled me with a calm feeling of awakening.

Then, when hearing the Olympic soundtrack that announced the start of the game, I would have put down my book and looked up. The teams would start playing, the Canadian women winning the first game from the Swiss. Fully concentrated I would have watched the game, the women in the book in the back of my mind, wondering if these athletes in front of me would be anywhere near the characters in the book; wondering if they were aware of the meaning of this event, the impact it would have on tomorrow, and the day after. Winning this game and winning the silver medal the next day, losing from the Swedes. Would they know? Could they know?

I would have folded my hands, put my elbows on my lap and softly rested my head on my hands. My eyes would have gazed in the venue, my eyelids comfortably lowered. I would have felt my beard on my hands. I wouldn’t have noticed that my picture was taken.

And if I noticed, I would have looked at the man with the camera and smile.