It's made from cow's, goat's and sheep's milk; the one I bought was very young and very moist. It is one of many, many robiolas available in this area; this one is name protected, which ensures uniformity in the production process. It was recommended by both the Official Guest Cheese Commentator of these games, Steven Jenkins, and by the owner of the Alpine Hut of Cheese.

Here's my final homage to Google translator:

Cheese without stagionatura neither maturation, absolutely fresh, of cylindrical shape, rather fat, product with latte vaccine, of goat and sheep, coming from from two mungiture to the day.

Here's a better one:

It is milky-white in colour, and the aroma and taste are delicate, savoury and slightly sour.

Serving suggestions here:

Consumed fresh, it is excellent if flavoured with a touch of extra-virgin olive oil, perhaps accompanied by a dry white table wine. The aged variety on the other hand goes well with sweet dessert wines. It also makes an excellent filling for cooking pastries or souffles.

To me the smell is wonderful, the epitome of freshness. My tasters' comments were lame; they are all tired, and they are watching the Closing Ceremonies (Avril Lavigne will perform soon), and they are out of cheese words. Libby Copeland said it tasted like wine. Mike Wise said it was the Cadillac of goat cheeses. Liz Clarke said it was so bland she didn't have a response.

I think it's irrestitable, especially that fresh smell and the fresh, tart flavor. I said to the office, "It smells like life." They all laughed at me.

I also had a cheese called bruss. Steven Jenkins had told me to find some. Here's how he described it:

Ask also if the Hut features a homemade "bruss", or "bross" (Piemontese dialect referring to the brush used to whip the curd in its colander-like container in order to release its whey). Bruss is a cheese spread made from dribs and drabs of cheeses lying about. They are shredded, combined with fresh milk (in order to re-coagulate the shreds), and usually some cognac, grappa or white wine. The mass is left in a cool place for a week or so before it is stirred (brushed) exactly twelve revolutions. These twelve-revolution brushings are repeated on the 15th day, the 28th day, the 35th day and the 45th day. This batch of bruss will be ready for the table in seven weeks. It's pretty sharp. Obviously an acquired taste, but once you've been bitten by bruss, believe me, you crave it. Crusty shards of bread and a funky piece of cutlery to spread the stuff and you're off to the races.

The Alpine Hut of Cheese does indeed make a bruss, but they said it wouldn't be ready until April. They sell a small jar of bruss that is made by a personal friend of the shop's owner. I figured why not.

The smell is pungent, especially as it gets to room temperature. The taste is the smell, magnified. It is a sharpness that lingers, a sharpness that heads up into your sinuses and sears your taste buds's collective memories. Sally Jenkins, easily the best cheese taster in the office, refused to try it. The taste made me shudder a few times, although I would eat it again. "Once you've been bitten," and all.

Since Steven Jenkins writes so well, and since so many people love cheese, here are his other recommendations:

Go back to the Alpine Cheese Hut, or however you referred to it, and ask again for Bettelmatt, the highly esteemed member of the "toma" family. Toma is an Alpine dialect word, as is the French Savoyard "tomme", which refers to a usually sizeable, round and thick disk of cheese coming from these westerly Alpine regions Piemonte and Savoie. But more importantly the word implies if not promises that the cheese was made by a cheesemaking specialist as opposed to having been made by a farmer who simply produces more milk than can be drunk or sold. Bettelmatt is a supreme example of a foodstuff that should have succumbed to the ravages of modernity decades ago. I remind you that the unique flavor of Bettelmatt is a direct link to a dominant herb called mottolina that grows wild in the pastures of Piemonte's high Val d'Ossola. This is a stoner's cheese supreme.

Robiola del Bec, referring to the fact that in October and November, when this ancient cheese is made, the does (female goats of the Acqui area) are being constantly hit on and certainly frequently nailed by the reigning he-goat of the season. This amorousness results in a riotous mammolactation on the part of the she-goat; she delivers extraordinarily rich milk at this time from which we derive the robiola named for the marauding, sex-crazed buck. Yet another example of males taking credit for female prowess, for stuff the male of the species had little to do with.

Of the innumerable robiola cheeses made throughout Piemonte, look for di Ceva and Mondovi (my favorite -- custardy, white truffle-y) as well as the famous, goat's milk, DOP (name-controlled) Roccaverano.

See above on that last one, obviously. And once again, buy Steven Jenkins's awesome book. And next time you go to your local cheese counter, try something you've never had before. Even if it's called bruss.

I was going to go watch the Fellini-inspired Closing Ceremonies tonight. I have an accreditation and everything. But I already had my Official Perfect Final Moment of the Olympics (which I'll post in a few more minutes), and I'm not sure what the C.C. would have added. Plus I'm supposed to appear on a New Zealand radio programme during the C.C., and I figured that would be easier done from the comfort of our office. Plus I've pretty much avoided going to actual Olympic events over the past three weeks, and I'm not sure why I should break my streak now.

I went shopping today with some co-workers, including Mike Wise, who is a major celebrity in the press center. He greets everyone he walks past, and they greet him. One Italian volunteer shouted after him today, "Miiiiiike." Another ribbed him for not talking to her enough lately. As for my celebrity, I saw Giorgio yesterday, my guide to the Alpini, and he yelled "Moby!" Awesome.

(Many thanks to Mike Wise for playing along this month as he became one of the stars of the blog. To reward him, I will give him this space for one paragraph. Mike writes:

Can you give one last shout-out to my sister Valeska, my best friend Pete and the unknown woman at Verolengo Village whose blow dryer I can hear every morning and who I imagine gets up in the morning, thinking, "Maybe today is the day I meet a bald American man with more issues than a bond measure, and a scraggly beard and a very pedestrian wardrobe. Maybe today is my day to meet this man."

We went shopping in downtown Turin, where crowds this afternoon rivaled those from the past two party-filled Olympic Saturday nights. On some streets, it was hard to move at all. People just packed from one sidewalk to the other. The weather was mild and sunny, and it felt like spring. I stopped moving my legs once just to see what would happen, and sure enough I was literally carried along for several feet. "Mamma Mia," the guys behind me said. "Forza!" they also said, encouraging me to blast my way through the masses.

People streamed in front of cars, and buses were completely stranded by the walls of shoppers. It was like seeing some post-disaster scene, where vehicles are in places that they shouldn't be, plunked down from above. There were oceans and oceans of people, and some external force had plopped random cars and buses in the middle, vehicles which would be unable to move for five or six hours. This would have led to several maimings in an American city, but there was no honking.

We were on Via Garibaldi, which was filled with large bright orange sculptures that would have been perfect accents to the Holland House. They were supposed to look like flames, I think, but they also looked like French Fries. Each French Fry had the name of an Olympic sport written on it in small letters. The French Fries seemed to be telling the shoppers, please, dunk us in some multicultural dipping sauce with as many colors as the ever-popular ketchup/mayonnaise combination, and sprinkle us with the salt and pepper of peace and harmony, and fry us in the oil of Canola.

I bought the first article of clothing I tried on at these games, a tight blue collared sweartshirt on which is written, "46ers." I have no idea to what the name refers. Someone suggested a marriage of the '49ers and 76ers, perhaps. Anyone who knows what it actually means, pass it on. With the blue color and tight fit and the stiffly upturned collar, I hope I look a little like cowboy-hat wearing, tobacco-chewing, nickname-accumulating Italian hipster and curling skip Joel Retornaz.

(The use of random English words is rampant in Italian fashion. I saw one black dress shirt today, adorned with orange fireworks and the phrase: "I'VE GOT A TV EYE; I'VE GOT A TV EYE ON YOU; DO IT CLEAN." I love it.

[One of my last times being The Official Idiot Journalist of these games: a reader writes to point out that "TV Eye" is a classic song by The Stooges. So maybe the rest of this is pure blather. But I'll let it stand anyhow. And apologies for being an idiot.]

I saw Italian shoes bearing the words, "Only For Player." I saw more shoes that said "Blue Horizon." I saw several jackets bearing a "True Love 1961" logo. I saw a hat that said, "Ice." I saw a store called "Razor Gator," whose motto was "Live on the Edge of Your Seat." I saw another store called "Blob." I saw a jacket that said "Dogs & Sons: Illegal Wear." Maybe American clothing is also adorned with nonsense words, but when you're walking in a sea of Italian and the words that jump out at you are "I'VE GOT A TV EYE ON YOU" and "Only for Player," you take notice.)

(Speaking of clothing, I also saw some FBI T-shirts for sale. I've never understood why a tourist in Washington, D.C. would want to buy an FBI T-shirt or hat. I understand it less in Turin.)

Mike Wise bought hipster shoes, part of his self-proclaimed "Italian Eye for the Slovenly Guy" mission. (Every store in downtown Turin sells hipster shoes, including such unlikely venues as Foot Locker and the Nike store, whose windows tell you "The World's Fastest Game Just Got Faster." I assume that this is a curling reference.) He was worried that the shoes were too small. The salesman tried to explain something in Italian that we didn't understand.

"Tell him they always say the same thing in America," Mike said. "They always say that the shoes are going to stretch, and then they make you go to a podiatrist."

Then Mike asked the salesman whether he could have an employee discount. We all traded pins.

(My pin hatred has multiplied in recent days. You see people walking around wearing giant bibs, on which every last thread is pierced by an Olympic pin. You see people who have set up pin trading stations on the street, or in the mall. These weirdos have hundreds and hundreds of pins. They could cancel the 2010 Olympics and just invite the pin collectors, and 37 percent of the visitors wouldn't even notice.)

(Anyone who really wants an Olympic pin, e-mail me here with your mailing address. I have a few extras. First come, first etc.)

We went to a store that we all agreed was the Gap of Italy, called GP Spartelli. As Mike Wise traversed the store, trying on clothes, he left the following items behind: his Olympic credential, his phone, his sweater, two bags full of prior purchases, and several items he had already tried on. The saleswomen collected all of Mike's stuff and brought it to us.

"I was just marking my territory," Mike said.

We went into the Brooks Brothers of Italy, and Mike tried on a sweater about 17 sizes too small for him. He looked like a speedskater. "You'll grow into it," said a Scottish customer, while stifling laughter.

(Several Italians have told me this week how they love hearing so much English on their streets. By reading below, you'll note my recent fascination with EU language statistics. Let me quote:

English is the language which is most widely "spoken" in the EU. While it is the mother tongue for 16 percent of the European population, a further 31 percent of the EU citizens speak it well enough to hold a conversation. English is the language which is most widely "spoken" in the EU. While it is the mother tongue for 16 percent of the European population, a further 31 percent of the EU citizens speak it well enough to hold a conversation.

So the Italians I talked to said it was progress for their city, which often feels ignored, to have this cosmopolitan influx, and that hearing English was one of its manifestations. These people actually hope the Olympics will have an impact on their city more lasting than Bode Miller slamming into a few slalom gates. I have no idea whether they're right. But they were all nice to me, so for them I say, "Go to Turin." I still think it's slightly smelly, but it's pretty cool.)

Anyhow, after Mike Wise began pretending to be a speedskater while wearing a sweater 17 sizes too small for him, he turned to me.

"I'm just your little wind-up toy for your blog, aren't I?" he said. "It's ending tomorrow, all the escapades. I'm going to go back to being a responsible journalist in Washington."

Aren't we all.

On Mike Wise's palate, from a friend:

Mike Wise's cheese comments shouldn't count towards C.O.T.D. I've witnessed him tasting a Milk Bone before!

Wise's response:

It's true, I ate it. It wasn't bad.

On the Potomac Curling Club's open house weekend, from reader and curler Jack:

I saw you ask about the Open House. Well it is after 9:00 p.m. and I'm just returning home from it. That's right the Open House that was supposed to run from 1-4 today actually ran from 12:30 to 7:30 p.m. We had almost 600 people there today alone bringing out total for the two Open Houses so far to nearly 800, and there's still one more of them [Sunday]. The line was actually out the club's door and down the building at one point, or so I'm told. I was on the ice doing sweeping instruction (as evidenced by the blisters on my hands) and when I looked into the warm room it was packed solid with people. I know that around 4:30 some people were told that the wait was going to be close to 2 hours and so they left with the intent to return tomorrow, but OMG, was it insane.

We had a lot of enthusiastic people who were just so jazzed to come out and try the sport it was amazing. Although, admittedly, us poor exhausted volunteers did cheer when it was announced that the final group was starting to make its way through the stations. We love the neophyte curlers to death but there's only so long that one's energy can last while explain the principles of sweeping. It was amazing to see the various groups from obvious college kids (including a group of students from Gallaudet who will be returning tomorrow) to families with their little kids.

Lines out the door? Two-hour waits? How long until my idea of a hipster-courting, high-end-drink-serving, gourmet-cheese-ageing curling rink in the District comes to fruition? Sunday morning, East Coast time, is your last chance to check out the open house in Laurel, if you can tear yourself away from the Finland-Sweden men's hockey final pre-game show.

On Americans' appalling language skills, mentioned yesterday, from reader D.S. in Turin.

Ok, D.S. is actually me. Anyhow, I read a story in the Independent that said almost two in three Britons are unable to speak a language other than English, in effect the worst record in Europe. On average, 56 percent of EU countries' residents can speak at least one foreign language, 28 percent can speak at least two and 11 percent at least three. Amazing. Americans, on the other hand, can speak one language, but they are able to do so very loudly. I learned this yesterday during our ChocoPass tour, when we were trying to get into the small, exclusive chocolate shop Al Bicerin, which makes some sort of chocolate coffee drink, which I still have not tasted. If you google it, you'll discover that every newspaper and magazine in the Western Hemisphere has written about that drink this month. It is the Bode Miller of coffee chocolate drinks. Seriously, there must have been some top-secret guidebook passed out to American Olympic journalists: when you get to Turin, you must write quirky, off-the-beaten-path items about Al Bicerin, curling, cheese shops, Susan Sarandon, Italian bus drivers and Valentine's Day. I scored 100 percent.

Anyhow, there were scads of people at Al Bicerin yesterday, and you could tell which were Americans by the way they chose to use their "outside voices" when addressing the woman who was taking reservations. Not that I was above the fray; at one point I threatened to hit the guy behind me in the head with the present I had recently purchased for my wife, which is heavier than a chocolate truffle but lighter than a chunk of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Finally I gave up, went inside the church across the street and looked at paintings of the crucifixion.

Anyhow, I haven't found the full chart from this recently released study, but this story notes that German is supplanting French as the No. 2 foreign language in the EU.

And by following this fascinating link, you can look at reams of EU language statistics. I've often promulgated the thesis this month that Dutch people speak better English than anyone in Europe. The EU figures say that the Dutch rank fourth in the percentage of English-as-foreign-language speakers, behind Malta, Denmark and Sweden. Italy is 15th.

I've been encouraged to throw my entire being into such esoteria by this e-mail from reader Erika, another Wise friend:

I started a Multicultural Management class today. A big part of it is regarding adapting to other cultures and knowing the perceptions of our own culture. While talking about the Olympics, I mentioned Dan's blog. My teacher (who is Finnish and is counting the hours until the hockey game) asked everyone to view the blog as examples of how different cultures celebrate/interact/etc. That as well as a good review on cheese.....his story today about catching a cab was perfect for our class discussion on the "Ugly Americans."

So if I'm already being taught in academic circles, I might as well throw in some EU links. Professors, I'm available for guest lectures on cheese, curling, Euro language skills or blogging by e-mailing here. And here are the key foreign language stats from the site:

+ In Luxembourg, nearly everyone speaks another language well enough to hold a conversation.
+ This is also true for more than 8 in 10 people living in the Netherlands, Denmark and Sweden.
+ People in the UK, Ireland and Portugal are least likely to speak another language, with less than a third of these population saying they can do this.

Libby and Aimee and I stopped in the Alpine Hut of Cheese for what will probably be the final time. Angela and Teresa and I posed for photos. Angela showed me a plastic sleeve in which they were keeping color proofs of my blog entries. Teresa asked whether we had any gourmet cheese shows in Washington. I said no. They gave me a package that blog reader Piero had mailed to me from Rome, in care of the Alpine Hut of Cheese, containing two Turin guidebooks. Grazie, Piero.

I had another list of cheese suggestions from Steven Jenkins, the Official Guest Cheese Commentator of these games, but the Hut didn't have much on the list, and we were making small talk the whole time, anyhow, rather than talking about cheese. A customer named Cristina told us her favorite offering was the Torta di Noci, a homemade mixture of Gorgonzola Dolce and Mascarpone with an internal layer of walnuts. Angela agreed. "Buono," she said. "Very, very buono." Cristina also raved about Castelmagno, as have several other folks I've met. I really do need to give it another try. The shop's owner tried to comp all of our cheeses for us, but we insisted that was impossible. Graft, and all. When we left, we all kissed, in the Italian style. My heart was heavy. Wheyed down.

"Those women are wonderful," Libby said. "I want to live here."

"I love it," Aimee said of the Olympics' Official Cheese Shoppe. "Quaint, beautiful, really nice people."

"It's wonderful," Libby said.

We tasted the Torta di Noci tonight. The Official Penultimate Cheese Tasting of these games. Gorgonzola is made in both Lombardy and Piedmont, and is obviously easy to find in the States. There are all sorts of similar Torti (?) made with Mascarpone that are available in U.S. gourmet food shops. They're used mostly as dessert-type cheeses, and I'm guessing real cheese lovers might turn up their noses at the stuff. But we needed a change of pace.

Mike Wise retched his portion out into a garbage can.

The comments:

Mike Wise: "Dude! [While guzzling water.] That is not cheese. I'm sorry. It looks like Tiramisu, but it tastes like the grossest thing I've ever had in my life. It makes Roquefort look manageable. I would eat two pounds of blue cheese before I'd eat one more little gram of that. Roberto Donna doesn't use this. That's what Roberto Donna gives his cats. It's the essence of Python urine."

Style writer Libby Copeland: "This is amazing. Oh my God, it's totally unbelievable. Gorgonzola and Mascarpone, it's so clever for them to put the two together. It's really, really good."

Nationals beat writer Barry Svrluga: "It doesn't have as much bite as I thought. As a dessert, it makes a pretty good cheese."

Brilliant writer and budding cheese expert Sally Jenkins: "Very curious. The Mascarpone softens the Gorgonzola. It's satiny. Almost tastes like liquor. The Gorgonzola has a slightly boozy taste. And then the Mascarpone takes all the toughness out of it, makes it dainty. It should be served on a doily."

Me: "[Out of cheese words temporarily.]"

Did anyone go to the curling open house in Laurel today? Any reports?

I also have a excess of Olympic pins, which I hate (both the excess and the pins). Today I'm trying to ditch a Denver Post pin, a Visa pin and an Italy ski boot pin. The first three people to e-mail me the correct answer will have their fill.

Sweden, which I hereby predict will lose Sunday's men's hockey final, is fourth on the list of Olympic men's hockey silver medals. What are the top three nations in Olympic men's hockey silver medals? Put hockey or something like that in the subject line.

Loose end No. 1: the chocolatier and Washington Redskins fan mentioned in the Miami Herald way back when I first started. As I should have guessed, his shop is EXACTLY DIRECTLY NEXT DOOR to the Alpine Hut of Cheese. The adjoining shop. Not sure how I never noticed that.

I went there this morning with Style writer Libby Copeland and IT whiz Aimee Sanders, who had each bought something called the ChocoPass, allowing them to have chocolate samples all over town. The Official Redskins Chocolate Shop of these games was on their list.

As the Herald's Linda Robertson wrote, Massimo Gertosio, who runs this shop with his father, is a former left tackle for Giaguari Torino, the Jaguars, a local amateur American football team that quotes Lou Holtz on its homepage. You won't believe why he prefers American football to its European cousin.

"I don't like soccer," he said. "The people play only for fame or money, not just for sport. It could be also for American football, but I know the players work for a target. They take it from the high school to the NFL, step by step."

Amazing, right? All these American hipsters love international futbol because of its purity or something, and now here's a European who loves American football because of its hard-working, non-money-grubbing, goal-oriented players. I guess we'd all like sports more if our heroes worked 3,000 miles away. Seriously, if you couldn't understand what your heroes were saying, and if you didn't have to get slammed in the face with their foibles and contract squabbles every day, and if you didn't have to watch them doing half-naked situps in their driveway, maybe the "spoiled athlete" talk would disappear and all would seem pure in the world of sports. Which is why all of you should pledge to make the Kiwi Curlers the focus of your sporting universe. You'll never read anything negative about them, and therefore, you can shower them with your unconditional love.

Anyhow, as a kid, Massimo was introduced to American football, and since his playing career coincided with the glory days of Gibbs I, he became a 'Skins fan, although he completely blanked when I asked whether he could sing "Hail to the Redskins."

"In the '80s years, I preferred of course the offensive line," he explained. "My perfect player, of course, was Jim Lachey. In 1991 I won, how can I say, it's like the NFC in Italy. My team in Italy was the best, so we won the Cup. It was the same year, 1991, the Redskins won and I got married. So it was a real great year."

But Gertosio does not follow the Redskins much nowadays (and sadly, it's not because of their owner). He said you must pay to watch NFL games in Italy, and he works so much in the world of fine gourmet chocolates that he doesn't have time for much NFL Internet browsing. (He did root for the Steelers in the Super Bowl, because the Giaguari use a similar black-and-gold color scheme.) Massimo doesn't play football anymore, either; he retired a few years ago, and is preparing to take over the shop from his father, who will soon retire.

"It's almost thinking about my work 24 hours," he said. "But I promise to follow [the Redskins] again."

(We did meet a woman in the shop, Franca Quaglia, who used to live in Syracuse and now resides directly above Gertosio's shop, where she is surrounded by the perfume of chocolate and croissants. And she ripped on French cheese. Just killed the stuff.

"French cheese, they taste alike," she said. "The Italian cheese, from North to South, such a difference. There are so many. You move from one little town to another, completely different. I think Italian cheese is better than French cheese." If it weren't a Saturday evening at the end of the Olympics, this could have made Shani vs. the Hottie look like the Care Bears go to Sunday School. International cheese lovers would have been at each other's throats. Drat.)

As is my habit, I also asked the Redskins-loving chocolatier Massimo whether he liked cheese. And after a flawless run through nearly three weeks, during which every single person I met loved cheese, I finally whiffed.

"No, no, no, not so much," he said. "Not particularly. I know that cheese contains saturated fats, is not good for blood. For the immediate energy, chocolate is much better."

After I finally left the Holland House last night, the utter lack of cabs in this city meant I stood on the corner and talked to some Dutch folks for 30 minutes in a cold drizzle. I told them I was an American. "No, really?" they said, mockingly. Guess my white sneakers gave me away.

They were very nice, and we ended up taking a cab together, and I offered one of the guys a place to stay next time he comes to the District, and our conversations about Americans were very predictable. We talked about soccer; they said Americans are too hungry for scoring, and that every 0-0 result can be thrilling and unique. We talked about language; they were disturbed, as they should have been, that I speak only English. We talked about Shani vs. the Hottie; they said Hedrick's boasts in the media came off as typical American arrogance. It was straight out of the American-sports-journalist-talks-to-European-sports-fans-at-3-in-the-morning-while-being-rained-on handbook.

(Let me now post this, from Italian reader Federica, just because it's interesting. I don't want to regurgitate the whole Shani-Hottie thing, but enough Europeans have tied Hottie Hedrick into international politics that it's probably worth a read:

Hedrick does make the U.S. look bad. He fits perfectly the stereotype of the arrogant American, and is a bad image of the famous 'Olympic spirit' that, unfortunately, I haven't seen enough. He said they would have probably beaten Italy with Davis in the team race, but also sport, like history, is not made by 'if'. How does he know? He seems not to give credit where its due, to our team in a country where skaters and money for that- and many other 'minor' sports- is little (damn, damn soccer!), and a meaningful victory. That's sport.

On the other side, Shani Davis is and represents the good face of the U.S. And you could see it by the applause of the non-American audience: they applauded him more than Hedrick, maybe also by knowing about those nasty, stupid racist e-mails Davis gets on his website (I read it on an Italian paper). Davis was the perfect representation of the Olympic spirit and what being sportsmanlike really is about. He was wonderful in his hugging and shaking Fabris's hair, in his compliments, in his not-faked smile.

By contrast, when Hedrick went to Enrico to shake his hand and Enrico instead hugged him, Hedrick was cold and didn't really 'join the hug' (no, this is not typical woman need for romance or sweetness, but the real love for sport and what it means). So, I will quote Enrico's interview I heard: " Davis told me he was proud of me and happy I won (bravo Shani). He gave a good example of what sport is, an example to follow, he was really nice" I agree, and that hug is an Olympic moment, for me.

So, as you can imagine Italians are more focused on our historical victory than the Hedrick/Davis thing, but I bet Davis is the good guy for us, whether he made some mistakes or not- but I leave that to gossip, sport is something else....For every Hedrick and Miller you have, you have a Davis and a Joey Cheek.....

One word on the Dutch supporters: while I am complaining about the lack of really sportsmanlike spirit, they represent it incredibly well. They cheered Fabris, with smiles, they were applauding in general every winner even if s/he wasn't Dutch, in spite of their disappointment. Their journalists and managers, differently from Hedrick, didn't have anything to say about Italian team victory. They said Italy deserved it, period, and said they were happy for us. And they had more reason to complain, since they've fallen, didn't they? The Dutch, with their 'Casa Olanda' [Holland House] open to everybody and their spirit about sport, win the medal for me, and have to teach something to both Italian and American supporters, together with all the others. They do know what sport is, and pay less attention to borders. Bravi.

And re: my prior entry about goats and chevre and all that, an alert reader just sent this link about a Sudanese man who is being forced to marry a goat. Believe it or not, the link will not send you to the Onion.)

And since Bode was the origins of the goat talk, check out the AP interview in which Bode says "I just want to go out and rock, and man, I rocked here," and also that he "got to party and socialize at an Olympic level." And God bless him for that.

The "Dutch Curling Team" research continued all night.

There were more explanations about the "younger generation" and its feud with the national federation, and the problems of the Dutch system, and the problems within the team.

"You shouldn't be writing all this down," Frank said. "You should be having fun."

So if these guys really are curlers, they appear to have excellent media relations skills.

One curler was named Bub Messing, which would be an excellent name for a Dutch gent pulling an Olympics scam, but it appears also to be his actual name. I asked him whether the "Dutch Curling Team" had ever represented Holland in an international curling tournament.

"Not yet, but we are practicing very hard and we will be in Vancouver," he said. "Holland is not really a curling country, but we will be." Added Maarten: "We will work for that, we promise you man." He told me they practice twice a week.

So if these guys really are curlers, they appear to be quite motivated.

The guys introduced me to Lotte Wieland, a young woman who said she was the team's mascot.

"Do you know Neve and Gliz for the Olympics?" she asked. "I am that for them."

So if these guys really are curlers, they appear to have groupies.

After the DJ finally stopped punishing my ear drums, I asked three of the curlers whether they knew who had won yesterday's gold medal game. One of the three answered correctly. I asked a guy named Marco (nickname: "Maracoca") whether he could name any of the Olympic skips. "I know the skipper of the girlie team," he said. (Remember, I successfully named nine out of the 10 Olympic men's skips. These guys, on the other hand, were preoccupied with the Swedish women's team.) I asked Maarten whether he could name any of the Olympic skips. "Not yet," he said.

So if these guys actually are curlers, they follow the sport less devoutly than any curler I've ever met.

Another curler told me that the "Dutch Curling Team" had played Denmark in an exhibition at the Olympic venue in Pinerolo last week. He said the Danes won, 10-0. In 98 Olympic curling games this month, men's and women's, no teams were shut out. And yet, in a meaningless exhibition, the "Dutch Curling Team" was apparently blanked.

So if these guys actually are curlers, they appear to be monumentally bad.

I talked to Oblong for the third or fourth time. ("I'll bet you his name's not really Oblong," co-worker Barry Svrluga said. "It's probably Trapezoid or something.") Oblong tried to explain the team's internal conflicts. One of his teammates had told me that Oblong was their best curler, but Oblong said there was some sort of political power play that was forcing him to the sidelines. Maarten came up and talked to us briefly, and then left.

"He is a stinking horse," Oblong said.

So if these guys actually are curlers, they are international curling's version of the Philadelphia Eagles.

I saw Maarten at the coat check, as the club was attempting to close. I tried to interview him again. He looked at my TNT hat. "You should be independent," he said. Style writer Libby Copeland came and dragged me away.

So where do we stand? I have no idea. The general consensus around the office is that these guys do curl, and that they do hope to represent Holland in the future, but that they have willingly allowed American journalists to think that they are more powerful in the curling world than they actually are, and that I know more about real Olympic curling superstars than they do. Which reflects poorly on all of us.

Let me let end the saga with a comment from reader Bobbie:

Oh, Danny! Does it really matter? Hasn't it been the ride of your life? Or at least the ride of these last two weeks of your life? And hasn't it been one strange and wonderful trip? Didn't one of 'em give you a red Olympics glove, just the right one? Heck yeah, they're real--as real as any of this all is...Deep breath, babycakes; then just keep on truckin'.

As mentioned earlier, when Baltimore Sun columnist Rick Maese and I walked into the Holland House last night, the first woman we saw said, "Oh, we're definitely letting this guy in." I should have mentioned that I had received some e-mail correspondence from the Holland House, and that the public relations person there had read my blog, which is why she immediately knew who I was when she saw my temporary Olympics credential, which identified me as "Steinberg, D.G." Apparently, parts of my blog were posted somewhere in the house.

I told the Heineken public relations person my concerns about the "Dutch Curling Team." She was very diplomatic, but she had also met these guys and had also had her doubts once or twice. Anyhow, she called a guide to escort us to the land of orange carpets and soul-vibrating speakers. I told our guide my theory about Dutch people speaking English better than anyone else in Europe (besides the English, but including the Scottish), and she said "that's what comes from watching old episodes of 'Friends.'"

So inside the party, Rick and I headed to the coat check, but before we got there I saw this guy I knew only as "Dries," one of the alleged curlers. The rest of the "curlers" were nearby, exactly where they had been the night before.

"You're not really the Dutch Curling Team!" I screamed at Dries. He seemed startled, and said "Yes, we are." I whipped out my roster. He studied it, and then brought me over to Oblong, who said he knew one of the guys listed on my roster. Dries quietly walked away.

I figured I should settle down. I was wearing a bright orange "TNT" hat, TNT being the Dutch mail-delivery company whose orange color scheme would give me cover on this night. I was also wearing my orange right glove, "Camille," that the "Dutch Curling Team" had given me the night before.

"Is that where you got that glove from?" Rick asked, after we left Dries. "That guy? Because he only had one glove."

Gold medal speedskater Joey Cheek tests the ice at the Holland House.

We found the rest of our group. The "Dutch Curling Team" had already been talking to Libby and Amalie. I saw "Frank," who had identified himself the night before as the skip for the "Dutch Curling Team." He was leaning against the wall of the small ice rink inside the Holland House.

"Joey Cheek," he said to me, gesturing toward the ice, where none other than Joey Cheek, wearing tight jeans, a white t-shirt and bright orange skates, was whizzing past.

I paused my curling investigation long enough to take photos of Joey Cheek speedskating inside the Holland House, and then questioned Frank about his team, and whether they were really the Dutch Curling Team.

"Up 'till now we're too young," he said. "We need to beat the older generation. The curling federation has a policy that youth should be first, and so from now on we are. Otherwise, we're never going to make it to Vancouver."

He gave me his last name--"Fraza" and his e-mail address. Libby came over to assist in the investigation.

"Do you have a Web site?" she asked.

"It's in progress," Frank said.

"Are you the official team?" she asked.

"No no no no no," he said.

I turned to another "curler," Maarten, who had the same story. "We're the next generation," he insisted. "What do you need? What do you need for proof?"

I didn't know.

A member of the "Dutch Curling Team," seeing how far his T-shirt will take him.

I said that the "Dutch Curling Team" t-shirts made me think they had represented Holland in international events. "But we never said that," Maarten said.

There were bottles of ketchup and mayonnaise everywhere. People were eating French fries and sausages and Dutch Croquettes (not sure exactly what they are, but they're heavily fried and smell like a combination of heaven and NASCAR).

Those t-shirts confer such legitimacy. Those t-shirts got these guys into the Wall Street Journal and the Miami Herald and the Chicago Tribune. And they're not even the nicest t-shirts in the world. They look like a shirt meant to appear old and filled with authentic hip, but one that is really new and filled with manufactured hip. They look like the t-shirt rack at Urban Outfitters. The background is white. There are some green stripes around the shoulders. The "Torino2006" logo is near one armpit, and "Dutch Curling Team" is near the other, and "Curling is My Life" is written, in green, across the center of the shirt. The "curlers" said they only had one shirt each, and many of them were marked by horrible stains, various shades of yellow and brown, stains worthy of a frat house couch.

U.S. speedskater and flag bearer Chris Witty told me she wanted to get one of the shirts. (Yes, Chris Witty was there, talking to the "Dutch Curling Team;" yes, I have multiple witnesses. Other speedskaters in attendance included Derek Parra, and reportedly, Jan Bos and Sven Kramer.) Chris Witty had been trying to barter with one of the curlers for his shirt, but he wanted $2,000.

Chris being from Wisconsin, we started talking about cheese. Domestically, she likes Wisconsin cheddar, which is a boring but understandable choice. Internationally, she prefers Saint Andre, a super buttery triple creme. We talked about the various pronunciations of "Gouda."

Joey Cheek came over. "You have a pen and paper," he pointed out. I told him that he is by far the most beloved Olympic athlete on this blog, and that my readers love him. "That's awesome," he said. "I'm flattered."

Meantime, Frank the "curler" was explaining how the "younger generation" should have been allowed to compete internationally over the past few years, to get more experience.

He had cigarettes.

"Curlers shouldn't smoke," Libby told him.

"They shouldn't drink, either," he said.

I had no desire to socialize last night, but I was getting obsessed with the Dutch Curling Team, and whether they were real or fake. I wouldn't have been able to sleep. So we went back to the Holland House, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. Turns out it's hard to get to the bottom of anything at the Holland Heineken House, save for small plastic cups of Heineken.

With five people we needed two taxis: Style writer Libby Copeland, former Washington Post scribe Amalie "sounds like family" Benjamin and columnist Mike Wise went in one car, and Baltimore Sun columnist Rick Maese and I went in the other.

(Here's an interesting column Rick wrote about how the "rings-are-falling" Olympics bashers need to take into consideration Web traffic and not just TV ratings, although, let's be honest, most of the Web traffic seems to be from people trying to decide which Olympic athletes are hottest.)

(As long as we're making asides, did you read this Jeret "Speedy" Peterson story? If you missed it, the U.S. freestyle aerialist was sent home for getting in a late-night altercation with an Internet reporter and one of his own friends. First of all, no, that Internet reporter wasn't me. Second, I'm sort of surprised stuff like this doesn't happen more often, with the number of parties and the quantities of alchohol consumed over here.)

(And one more: Bode's done. Oh-fer-Turin. I still don't get the personal criticism, though. If you didn't like his personality before the Games started, that's cool, but the fact that he flamed out here doesn't really change his personality. And the fact that he still finished fifth and sixth in the world at two events despite his apparent bar-hopping in the mountains...well, that's pretty good. I'd take being the world's fifth-best Olympics blogger. So when this story, or at least the headline, implies Bode could be the Official Goat of these games, I don't get it. Goats are for making cheese. Including one I bought today, which I'll discuss later. Thoughts on Bode?)

(By the way, blogger PenguinSix points out that there is a Swiss bobsledder here who is also a cheese maker. The fact that I did not know this before today makes me unworthy to wear my replacement Olympic credential.)

Anyhow, it was cold and raining and after midnight, and I was going to a dance party armed with curling rosters. Specifically, Holland's roster from the 2005 European Championships: Reg Wiebe, Steve van der Cammen, Reinier Butot, Christiaan Offringa and Mark Rurup, none of whose names appeared in my notebook after Thursday night's encounter with the "Dutch Curling Team."

Cabs are exceedingly scarce nowadays, which seems odd, given that there are mobs of tip-happy foreigners waiting on street corners all over the city. (Turin natives, I love you, but you need more cabs. Entrepreneurs, buy your Fiats and tree-shaped air fresheners and head to Vancouver right now. You'll make a killing.)

So we struggled to get a cab. And by the time Rick and I got to the Holland House, and by the time we wrangled with the cab driver (Rick wanted to tip him, the cab driver didn't want to accept the tip), and by the time we walked through the Official Mud Bog of these games, the other three were long gone.

We could have used Mike Wise's powers of persuasion. The security guards said nearly 4,000 people were already inside, and no more would be admitted on this night. (Four thousand people! How many sporting events here have failed to draw 4,000 people! If you don't count all the schoolkids! Clearly they needed to put a dance floor and DJ and some Heineken taps and bright orange curtains and a few dancing bartenders in the curling venue; then we'd have been all set.) The security guards told us to leave.

So Rick and I waded through another Official Mud Bog, and casually headed toward the press entrance, which made me feel not at all guilty, since I was actually here to fulfill a strict journalistic duty. We got inside the door and the first person who saw us looked and my name tag and said, "Oh, we're definitely letting this guy in." That's when I thought, it's good to have a blog.

Those guys who may or may not have been Dutch and may or may not have been curlers gave me one red Dutch Olympic glove last night. Just the right one. I'm not sure why. I've been wearing it today, fancying it my own version of Johnny Weir's "Camille." But now I don't know whether to wear the glove on my right hand or to use it to wipe away my tears of shame at the potential scandal I'm possibly, or possibly not, staring at.