I had just attended a USA men’s basketball practice at a tiny gym in the Flamengo Club—at one point I watched Carmelo Anthony splash about 20 straight shots into the bottom of the net from beyond the three-point line—and afterward I hustled to catch a bus. But at the bus stop, an Olympic worker who spoke virtually no English told me, “No bus, no bus, no bus.”
Well, according to the schedule, there was a bus. But at the moment, this was a rather moot point.
The worker was on a phone that looked big enough that he could have been talking to someone on the space station, and he kept shaking his head back and forth at me.