Bubblicious: The Water Cube's mantle of high-tech bubble wrap helps save energy in heating and lighting.

Not only do locals want their weather to be on its best behavior, but they are themselves exhorted by countless ads to adopt new manners that leave a good impression on foreign visitors: not cutting in line, not pressing into pedestrians next to them, and using tissues instead of openly spitting on public streets. Olympic prep classes are mandatory for taxi drivers, who will learn a few simple English greetings and the importance of smiling at all times.

As my taxi comes within sight of the complex, the top rim of the Bird's Nest unexpectedly glints in the sun, like a hypnotist's mesmerizing silver pocket watch. The Bird's Nest, which will seat 91,000 for the Olympics, is a quarter-million square meters in area, built with 36 kilometers of unwrapped steel weighing a total of 42,000 tons. The stadium's exterior metal bands chaotically and daringly twist in and out with abandon, like scattered strands of a clutch of linguini suspended in air. Construction vehicles parked along the top rim resemble tiny Tonka trucks, underscoring the immense scale of the stadium. (Some BJs grumble about the enormous sums spent for momentary national vanity and about construction funds that may have been "misdirected" to well-connected contractors.)

The Water Cube is a steel-frame structure clad with 100,000 or so square meters of a very thin, pillowy material that is more light- and heat-efficient than glass. In the bright morning light and against blue skies, the Water Cube looks like the world's most expensive bubble-wrapped Costco warehouse, akin to the installation work of Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

In fact, both venues are more like modern art installations than buildings. Neither is finished, and the drumming noise from incessant pounding and drilling continues unabated, evoking the thunderous Chinese ritual that signifies the ending of one dynasty and the beginning of a new one. (Those who watched CNN on the eve of July l, 1997, when British Hong Kong reverted back to China at midnight, saw legions of traditionally costumed men covering Tiananmen Square, huge drums slung sideways against their hips, beating in unison.)

To avoid a long line, I enter through a side entrance of the National Indoor Stadium. Inside, a young lady dressed in red silk greets guests in front of a giant red welcome banner and rows of potted red carnations. The vast gymnastics floor includes a large mat for floor exercises, uneven bars, a vault table, and a balance beam. An announcer booms out in American English, "The competition is going to start soon." Many of my student friends at Bei Wai, where I was lecturing on my book, The Eighth Promise, have volunteered to work at the Summer Games. English is the foreign language of choice and many bilingual students have been recruited; every university in Beijing now plans to close in August.

Polite and efficient, young men and women help us to our seats. A French contingent sitting a few rows behind us move to take over the empty first row reserved for broadcast camera operators who are flitting from section to section. A few minutes later, a single young Chinese usher smoothly escorts them back to their original seats.

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