Live City is heavily fortified; it's surrounded by a high wire fence, and entry requires a half-hour wait in a queue, followed by a metal detector pass-through, a bag check and a vigorous patdown. I can remember the exact date when these lockdowns became necessary -- July 27, 1996, when a nail-bomb exploded in a trash can in Centennial Olympic Park. I had cut through the park on a shortcut earlier that evening, on the way back from an India-Pakistan field hockey match; when I returned the next day, the park was closed. When it reopened several days later, a visit required full consent to search, a photo ID, and a full day booked. The waits were three hours long.

That was the day, I think, when the temporary corporate Olympic towns stopped being street fairs and became destinations. That wall necessitated a decision on the part of spectators to go, which is different than the Olympic street experience, which is full of wandering around corners and discovering things. But on Saturday, I made that decision to go, and I got in line at Live City.

As I approached the gate, I was giving my consent to be photographed. This is nothing new; there were signs like these in Atlanta and Athens too. To enter Live City requires giving over a piece of yourself, the part of your soul that some claim is stolen when a photograph is taken. Everybody who enters these gates during the Vancouver 2010 Games could end up as an unpaid extra in a commercial.

And it wasn't going to be a commercial for Pepsi or Sony or Apple. A list of "allowed and disallowed items" at the gate detailed 21 classes of objects not permitted in Live City -- including commercial advertising of anykind -- and there was a large trash bin full of Starbucks cups, non-Coke soda bottles nearby. The "allowed" list was very short: cameras, personal video and handheld electronics. They wanted you to take as many pictures as you could.

In twenty minutes, I was inside. I was surrounded by tall plastic skyscrapers in this fun district. The band Wilco was on a giant aqua-colored music stage with two mammoth high-definition screens on each side; they were sound-checking for a free evening performance, underwritten by the corporate sponsors. All around the grounds were brightly colored tents, each bearing a gigantic logo. There was Coca-Cola and Samsung and Acer and Panasonic represented, all the exclusive worldwide Olympic partners.

I noticed three things right away: the ground was wet from the constant rain. There was also a lot of land bare and uninhabited -- the long wait at the checkpoint had nothing to do with scarcity of experience. The other thing I noticed was that nobody was in a party mood. Eyes seemed glazed over, and I wasn't sure if that was directly related to the dampness or not.

With nothing to do, and nowhere to sit, people gravitated towards rope lines near the giant corporate buildings. There were queues a hundred deep at the hangar-like Coke structure and the Acer cube. I walked by the latter, and asked a man in a retro Canada hockey jersey what was inside.

"I dunno," he answered politely, shrugging. "Laptops, I guess."

The Samsung building promised an "Olympic Rendezvous" and lured guests to "discover your every WOW moment" -- the lines seemed longer there. The chatter outside the Panasonic pavilion seemed to indicate that something was being shown on a giant screen inside. But the building seemed smaller than the giant screens on the side of the nearby stage. How impressive could that be?

So I went over to the Coke tent, figuring that there would be free (and tangible) stuff there. But what?

I skipped the line into the building, and went around to the side, where a stream of people were trickling out back onto the wet concrete of Live City. They were holding small 10-ounce Coke bottles, but they were shrinkwrapped in a thin white plastic casing. A few people jiggled the bottles up and down, the way you might hold an object when the weight doesn't match your mental image of what it should be. These bottles were empty.

I asked a kindly-looking Canadian couple what it was. "They said it was made out of plants," the woman said, examining her souvenir. "Some new kind of bottle."

"Oh," I replied.

But it wasn't a completely wasted hour. I got to pet a cute and friendly husky.

I returned for the Wilco concert later that night (a 90-minute wait outside the checkpoint in the rain) but I don't think I'm going back to Live City. I know where it is now, and I can orient myself based on its location if I get lost in Yaletown, but it isn't much of a destination. Live City represents a mundane everyday disappointment -- wanting a drink, but getting an empty bottle instead.