In British Columbia, the northbound kilometers of Highway 99 were slick and dark. Only a few cars ran alongside my rented Kia, speed stifled a bit by a misty rain. I passed roadside hotels with red neon "Vacancy" signs. And soon I was in the city.

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Within the borders of Vancouver, there are nearly 600,000 people; the metro area contains 2.1 million. VANOC estimates that 300,000 people, myself perhaps included, will be arriving here to visit during the Winter Games. But the Olympics were hiding somewhere, they had disappeared into this city. The 99 faded gently into Granville Street, and even with my limited knowledge of local geography I knew I was on the main landmass. I parked at 16th and Granville in a free zone, within a semi-upscale shopping district, and set about my search on foot.

In the storefronts, there were kids with angular haircuts drinking coffee in Starbucks, thin blonde girls shopping for clothes, women getting their nails done at salons. The only outward clue was the set of Vancouver 2010 banners on the lightpoles, and acrylic flags of the world on the sidewalk... those were leading people to a cosmetic store. The streets counted down to the Granville Bridge, over Granville Island, spanning over an inlet to the heart of the city.

On the other side of the bridge, there were neon signs and marquees everywhere. Packed bars and restaurants lined the street, with people hurrying along with umbrellas and slickers to beat the rain. Rickshaws mingled with the cars, which traveled freely down Granville. At first glance, this might be just another spring Friday on Yonge Street in Toronto.

But finally, five blocks in, there it was. The gateway to Olympia.

The streets were closed to traffic at Davie, with pairs of yellow-coated security men at every corner in the Olympic area. The asphalt was covered with wet people, some carrying giant Canada flags, others with rain slickers covered with Olympic rings. I saw the "blue jackets" everywhere, the Vancouver 2010 volunteers with pins on their chests that read "hello" in their native language ("Bonjour!" seemed popular). While the mood was elevated here, there was a ceiling; the rain was coming down more steadily now. Many squared their sholuders, put their heads down, and tried to get around as quickly as possible.

Here, there were street art displays and interactive photo opportunities. You could pose next to a giant Vancouver 2010 logo, or stand on a snowboard, or stand next to an Opening Ceremonies countdown clock, which now read +1 hour, 15 minutes. Buskers played the "Chariots of Fire" theme and the Canadian anthem on assorted instruments. A hotel had covered its entire 10 stories wrapped in a giant maple leaf flag. It was a happy, wet festival.

I noticed that a crowd had gathered at Howe and Robson streets, near the Vancouver Art Gallery. About two thousand people were watching CTV's coverage of the Opening Ceremony projected on the side of a building, and I wedged myself in. It was the last stages of the artistic portion of the event, with giant clouds and an electrical storm, and... slam poetry. When Shane Koyczan unleashed his tribute to Canada, I knew exactly and immediately how well that was going over south of the border, and how much snarky blog entries and tweets it would generate. Exactly how many families at home, watching NBC, looking at each other with pained expressions.

But when Koyczan intoned, "Some say what defines us is something as simple as please and thank you," the crowd in downtown Vancouver erupted. And with the slam phrase, "We are an experiment going right for a change," the people went totally ballistic. There were flags waving everywhere (some attached to hockey sticks), and chants of "Can-a-da! Can-a-da!" This is a definitely a country with a proud of confident sense of self.

The protocol section isn't anybody's favorite part of any Opening Ceremony... except perhaps for the people who get to speak. The crowd in downtown Vancouver turned their attention to an overhead double zip line, an attraction sponsored by the province of British Columbia. As the zippers whizzed past, there were whoops and cheers from the people below. And chants of "Can-a-da! Can-a-da!"

And then the rain suddenly stopped, the stadium went golden, and k.d. lang began singing about the minor fall and the major lift. Leonard Cohen's song "Hallelujah" might not have been the most traditional musical selection for that moment, but it was certainly the most appropriately subversive -- with lyrics about the sacred and secular, and the endless disappointment between them. At Howe and Robson, less than a mile from B.C. Place, more than a few people knew all the words. The night had turned clear and cold, and we were all singing along and overwhelmed, crying, crying...

Five minutes later, the spell was broken by the return of the rain. It was coming down angrier now, and the assembled people tried to fight against it by yelling for the Canadians holding the Olympic flag. Even though the Opening Ceremony was being held indoors, something had changed inside as well. As the five torchbearers ringed the infield, the music kept going, and they just... stood there. Steve Nash nervously waved to the crowd. Finally, the CTV announcer broke in.

"It looks like have a problem with the hydraulics..."

Only three of the giant devices emerged from the floor and came together in a pyramid. There were, as per the broadcast, supposed to be at least four. Now, cauldron lighting mishaps aren't unprecedented -- you might remember how Cathy Freeman stood for minutes on end waiting for a giant ring to emerge from the water at Sydney 2000. The success of those Games have obscured that detail; people will only remember the "Campfire Log Incident" (as named by some in the crowd) if Vancouver 2010 is the disaster some are expecting.

And then Wayne Gretzky took the flame and left the building. He was headed for the "external torch," which will burn for all 16 days at Vancouver's waterfront. As the television shots of Number 99 hanging out of the top of a SUV driving through the streets flashed on the giant screen, an idea, unspoken, rippled through the crowd.

We all had to get over there.

Hundreds, thousands of people taking off at once, all headed in the same direction. As we streamed eastward, we picked up folks along the way. ("Where's everyone going?" "Waterfront!!!!") It was a flash mob.

When I arrived, Gretzky had already lit the external torch, a miniature (and complete) version of the campfire inside the B.C. Place dome. But at that same moment, fireworks burst into the sky. Thousands and thousands of people cheered, yelled, climbed on Canada Post boxes and waved giant national flags. Every few minutes, an impromptu rendition of "O Canada" would break out. A hundred hundred people pressed against the wire fence, ripped away pieces of the green and blue curtain for souvenirs, and took pictures of the Olympic cauldron, a flame lit once again to symbolize another experiment in global unity.

And the rain stopped again; it wouldn't return.