Ni hao (Hello, in Mandarin. I think. I hope.)

Great flight. Blue skies. No traffic. Nice people. Huge room. HBO. Cocoa Puffs. Minute Maid. Highway signs in English.

Talk about putting your best foot forward.

The Chinese government views the Olympics as a method of opening its country – commercially. The people view it as a chance to show their progress, to refute stereotypes, to be considered a 21st-century nation, a power, progressed, significant.

So far …

Around 2 p.m. local time yesterday, or Tuesday, which would have been 2 a.m. in Philly on Tuesday, I landed. (BONUS: Shared a three-seat row with one skinny guy – Rick, I think, IBM bank machine troubleshooter – so we had a seat between us.) Rick (I think) slept almost the whole flight (no inane chatter) and even snagged my snack for me while I was sleeping.

Why do you care? Well, the thought of 14 hours in the air made my gizzard curdle . But it wasn't that bad.

Shuttle ride to the hotel a little unsettling: Seriously: No traffic. Maybe 30 cars in sight on our side of an 8-lane highway in from the airport. Mostly Volkswagens, if that matters .

Since July 20, there have been traffic restrictions on both private and government vehicles. Saw maybe 20 private cars en route from the airport – true, it wasn't rush hour, but still: Imagine I-95 near the airport virtually empty at 2 on a Tuesday. Cops at every onramp checked to see that no one violated the odd-license-plate-on-odd-dates policy.

(Hey, despite considerable easing of personal liberties over the past 30 years here, it's still a very conformist communist country. What the Man says, goes. Period.)

And … Blue skies, baby. You know those photos of smog-shrouded buildings, the stories of not being able to see 30 feet in front of you, of feeling the grit in your teeth? Well, factory slowdowns and construction restrictions, combined with a spate of air-cleansing rain and wind last week, seems to have scrubbed the city to an acceptable, Pittsburgh-like dinginess. A damp haze hung over the city, but it was a foggy sort of obfuscation, not a dirty sort.
An asthmatic, I was worried, but I've been fine; no need to pull out the Brookstone personal air purifier (which, oddly, came with a free bag of magic beans).

IT CERTAINLY WASN'T NASTY ENOUGH EITHER DAY TO WARRANT WEARING A MASK, AS THE U.S. CYCLE TEAM DID AS THEY SLUNK THROUGH THE AIRPORT.

The IOC medical chief, Arne Ljungqvist, scoffed at the precaution. USOC chief communications officer Darryl Seibel called it "unnecessary"

Nothing like insulting the hosts. Way to go.

The cyclists, Michael Friedman, Sarah Hammer, Bobby Lea and Jennie Reed, later issued a statement through the USOC in which they apologized.

The statement read, in part: "The wearing of protective masks upon our arrival into Beijing was strictly a precautionary measure we as athletes chose to take, and was in no way meant to serve as an environmental or political statement. We deeply regret the nature of our choices. Our decision was not intended to insult BOCOG or countless others who have put forth a tremendous amount of effort to improve the air quality in Beijing."

Anyway, thanks to a screwed up body clock I got up at 4 a.m. today, Wednesday. Like most sportswriters, I've seen my share of 4 a.m.'s, but seldom from the rested, fully sober perspective.

Upon rising I went to the front desk, where volunteer concierges Charlie, a new dad (with a SUPERhot wife), and Jack, a student in Beijing, attempted to correct my atrocious Chinese (hence, the headline). Pitying me, perhaps, they then offered to show me Beijing when they finished their 11-7 shifts.

I accepted, but had to cancel; seems swimming's answer to cardboard cutouts and the latest middle-aged hero (Michael Phelps and Dara Torres) will hold court at midday.

Sigh.

Other observations:

• Unlike most Americans, but like people from most other nations, Chinese people are relatively lean. Especially compared with me.
• Highway signs were in English as well as Chinese.
• There is no litter.
• Recycling is the state religion, and everyone worships.
• At this point, anyway, there are 47 volunteers/workers/sponsor gofers for every journalist. You can't open a door or empty your cafeteria tray, and you ask for something, it's done, immediately. I feel like a Pewterschmidt .