IT wasn't the same. But, then, it couldn't be. Some 13 or 14 days ago, back in that hazy time before Ali's outstretched torch lit the Olympic flame, I made my first acquaintance with an area in downtown Atlanta which, when Billy Payne first presented his blueprints to the IOC, was intended to be the Media Transportation Mall.
Instead, it became the people's park. Centennial Park. The heartbeat of Atlanta `96.
The return journey to the 21 acres park on Tuesday night was different. So different. Previously, the stroll into the park was met with a wave and that insincere "How y'all" of the local hospitality police which greets anyone who resembles an out of towner. This time, a bomb sniffing dog, with an unsmiling, burly, gun toting lieutenant at the other end of the lead, provided the greeting.
Saturday night's bomb had changed everything.
Earlier Tuesday, the park's re-opening had attracted the people back in their droves. Officials, too. Billy Payne, Juan Antonio Samaranch and Atlanta Mayor Bill Campbell were all present, rubbing shoulders with the common people, for a service conducted by Andrew Young, one of those responsible for bringing the Games to the deep South.
The queues still stretched back along International Boulevard when my turn came to contribute to the park's rebirth that evening. It was okay to have a dog sniff your bag. Fine for the troopers to eye your baseball cap with an Irish tricolour pinned to the front, rather than the Braves. Acceptable to have a security guard put grubby fingers through your belongings. Nobody complained.
Inside, the light tower, the scene of the pipe bomb, was the new attraction. Not the AT&T Global Village, or the Swatch Pavilion. Not the Trading Pin Centre, or the Budweiser hut. No. The light tower. Eerie. Kodak cameras clicked in harmony, capturing the scene of death. Not only newsmen, but ordinary men and women, too. Pictures for posterity. Strange.
A shrine had appeared on the grassy spot to remember the dead and injured. Little American flags on little sticks, stuck into the ground. The same ground a bomber had walked on four nights previously. Some flowers. And notes. One said. "The World's Heart Cried for a Nite, but You Didn't Break it."
Another touch of irony. Up on stage, two disc jockeys halted the music to play a video More death. The scene was Africa. Asia. Famine and disaster People were asked to put their hands into their pockets "Just two dollars," they were told would help the Olympic Aid appeal.
It seemed untypically American, in a Games where their insularity has been so evident. "To help people in places like Bosnia and Afghanistan," came the words from the stage. People close to the light tower were crying. For what? The memory of Saturday's bombing? Or the tragic pictures on the giant screen?
Over by the fountain, children and teenagers seemed oblivious, soaked to the skin. A father trying to drag his young daughter away. The girl determined to stay, to take part in the fun. She won. The father decided to take a snap shot instead.
The people's park was returning to a semblance of normality, even if the carnival atmosphere was absent. And it is the people's park, paid for by donations recognised by names on bricks which adorn the ground. Names like Caitlin Welsh, of Plain City, Ohio. And just plain Jerry O'Brien. No address. Ordinary people who wanted to be part of the Olympic dream. And they are. Always will be.
Outside, the green T-shirted newspaper seller was holding up the special edition of the Atlanta Journal Constitution with the headline "FBI suspects `hero' guard may have planted bomb".
Three white teenagers approached the vendor. "We want to get that guy. We want him. We wish he was here right now," they yelled.
Things have changed. The people's park is open again and a brave face is being put on things but, in all honesty, it just isn't the same.
