“We waited 100 years for this moment, so we will sacrifice and endure any hardship,” said Guan Wenyu, 73, a retired textile worker whose tennis shirt, baseball cap and red armband ensemble identified him as a neighborhood “safety” volunteer.
But poke a bit deeper (and put down the reporter’s notebook) and the sloganeering can give way to grumbling. Many complaints involve traffic restrictions that have forced drivers to give up their cars, or security measures that require subway riders to undergo bag searches. Taxi passengers must submit identification at random police stops, and an opening night performance of “Hairspray” was raided by the authorities late last month because the theater, they said, lacked an adequate security plan.
Some of the city’s best-known clubs have been forced to go dark. Bars have been told to honor a 2 a.m. closing time — an existing rule that was rarely enforced. A bit hyperbolic, the tagline “no-fun Olympics” has become a cynical refrain among foreign residents and journalists.
Of course, residents’ complaints about inconveniences to their lives are common in cities hosting the Olympics. But for the Chinese who live and work here, the new rules and restrictions have put an unmistakable dent in the city’s zeal for the Games, which open Friday. A ban on construction work and smokestack emissions has forced employers to pay furloughed workers. Countless others have simply left Beijing, giving parts of town the languid feel of Rome in August.
A restriction on delivery vehicles means some restaurants and shops are scrambling for goods. When trucks do arrive, recipients often face a surcharge.
“We are very excited for the Olympics, but we little guys are not going to get rich,” said Yang Yuwei, a noodle shop owner, who said the cost of raw materials had gone up by about 20 percent. It does not help that the number of customers has dropped by about 30 percent in recent weeks. When the Games conclude, she said with a smile, “we will be happy.”
Some rules can be confounding. Qian Hai, who manages a fleet of gleaming rickshaws, said regulations that banned his vehicles from the narrow alleyways around Houhai, a lake that is a popular tourist destination, were hurting business. The 300 vehicles, all new, are restricted to the area’s main roadways, some decidedly lacking in charm.
“Tell the government that if they don’t change the law, we will not make any money,” Mr. Qian said, standing beside a column of idle drivers in white uniforms.
The most uncensored grumbling is on the Internet, where Beijingers can complain anonymously. They trade tales about the lack of mangos, empty “Olympic lanes” on the highway that squeeze everyone else into gridlock, and a favorite barbecue restaurant closed in the name of clean air — barbecue smoke was deemed a pollutant.
One blogger, a Peking University student who goes by the name Fu Gui, wrote: “Originally I really welcomed the Olympics. But because of these unfair regulations and treatments, I’ve started losing my passion for the event, and I’ve become more indifferent.”
Another blogger, whose online name translates as Speaking Against Injustice, wrote that the government’s relentless spending on road paving, flower planting and stadium building had soured his enthusiasm. “Does such an extravagant Games necessarily demonstrate our country’s strength and prosperity?” he wrote. “I think the so-called ‘century-old dream’ isn’t the people’s dream, and the so-called ‘best Olympics’ is nothing more than the ‘most costly Games.’ ”
One story passed around on the Web is a satirical fairy tale that recounts the suffering of Old Zhao, a fictitious Beijinger who is trying to schedule elective surgery for his father, but is told it must wait until after the Olympics. (The Health Ministry has instructed hospitals to postpone all but essential procedures.)
Back at home, he finds his wife serving a meal of shriveled kidney beans. The top-quality vegetables, she tells him, have been set aside for athletes whose produce has been irrigated with milk. Upon hearing this, Old Zhao nearly chokes. He feels that the five Olympic rings have become five loops that yoke his neck.
Just then a neighborhood committee volunteer arrives with good news: the Academy of Sciences has a new pill that will enable Beijingers to hibernate for a month. Old Zhao and his family eagerly take the pill. When they awaken on Aug. 26, they are pleased to learn that China has won all the gold medals in table tennis and diving, that the Games went flawlessly and that “all the foreigners were awed.”
The only unpleasant news? China’s star-crossed soccer team did not score a single goal, again.
The story ends with a dollop of sarcasm. When Old Zhao goes outside, the verdict from his neighbors is resounding. “Our nation has finally become powerful,” they say.
