Local hospitality on speed dial

One of my lasting memories of this Olympics involves my memory — or lack thereof.

One day early in the Games, I forgot my phone on a bus coming back from alpine skiing.

South Korea, it ought to be said, has great buses — deluxe coaches, really. Some have espresso machines built into the console. Others have Las Vegas-worthy ceilings blinged out with neon and mirrors. Almost all of them have an LED television mounted above the driver — a TV nearly as wide as a bus — nearly invariably tuned to shorttrack speedskating if available. Anyhow, clearly some combination of all of these swank features distracted me, and I left my phone behind as I rushed to transfer from one coach to another.

Panic struck me like my palm to my forehead.

What kind of a journalist would I be at an Olympics without a phone? Might as well head to the Seoul airport and catch the next plane home. Such an idiot.

Luckily, these Olympics had great volunteers.

A series of them directed me to a woman named Daeun, who offered me sympathetic assurance of my chances of retrieving my device: “We will find it. I am sure.” Then she worked her phone. She called multiple bus drivers attempting to retrace my steps. One, she woke from his sleep. Two more said they’d left their buses at the depot; they’d check them in the morning. It sounded like I’d have to wait until sun-up to know my cell-wise fate. I headed back to the Star’s lodgings with shame in my heart and ghost vibrations in my jeans pocket.

A couple hours later, a call came in to my pal Bruce Arthur, who’d texted my wayward phone requesting the finder call him. Arthur, for all his many talents, does not speak Korean.

So it was back to the ever-patient Daeun, who graciously arranged a pickup point of a device thought long lost. I had to jump on another bus to get there; the short-track was more fabulous than usual.