By Sara Bright
The Winter Olympics have kicked off. Again.
I was in Milan on Friday, watching the whole thing unfold at the San Siro, and I have to say: Italy knows how to throw a party. Or at least, they know how to dress for one.
The 2026 Winter Games are, by all accounts, a logistical nightmare. Two host cities – Milan and Cortina d’Ampezzo – separated by hundreds of kilometres of mountains. Four different event hubs. A budget that makes your eyes water. And yet, for a few hours on Friday night, none of that mattered. What mattered was the spectacle.
And what a spectacle it was. It was chaotic, beautiful, occasionally baffling, and deeply, unashamedly Italian.
The Giant Heads and the Papier-Mâché Dreams
Let’s start with the visuals. Because you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a giant papier-mâché head of Giuseppe Verdi dancing to a techno remix of La Traviata.
The ceremony opened with seventy dancers from La Scala, pretending to be statues coming to life. It’s a classic trope, sure, but when you have the backdrop of Italian history to play with, it works. Then came the composers – Verdi, Puccini, Rossini – bobbing around the stadium like parade floats that had escaped from a fever dream.
It was kitsch. It was loud. It was perfect.
Italy understands that culture isn’t just about dusty museums; it’s about energy. It’s about taking the sacred cows of high art and letting them loose in a football stadium.
The Diva and the Diamond Necklace
And then, Mariah Carey walked out.
I’m still not entirely sure why she was there. Is she Italian? No. Does she ski? I doubt it. But when Mariah Carey walks onto a stage wearing a white Roberto Cavalli gown and a fur cape the size of a small car, you don’t ask questions. You just watch.
She sang Volare. It was surreal. It was American glitz colliding with Italian soul. She wore a necklace worth $15 million, because of course she did. It was the kind of excessive, unapologetic glamour that the Olympics used to be famous for before everyone started worrying about carbon footprints and austerity.
The Ghost of Giorgio
There was a moment of genuine emotion, too. The tribute to Giorgio Armani.
The legendary designer died last autumn, and the ceremony paused to honour him. A runway show, right there on the pitch. Models in green, white, and red. And leading the pack, carrying the Italian flag, was Vittoria Ceretti.
You might know her as Leonardo DiCaprio’s girlfriend. But in that moment, she wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend. She was a symbol. She was wearing Armani Privé, looking like a statue herself, walking with that specific, haughty grace that only Italian supermodels seem to master. It was a nod to the fact that Italy’s biggest export isn’t sport; it’s style.
The Geopolitics of Applause
But you can’t have an Olympics without politics. It’s baked into the DNA.
The parade of nations is always a fascinating barometer of the world’s mood. When the Ukrainian team walked out, the stadium erupted. It was a roar of solidarity that felt physical. You could feel the weight of the last few years in that applause.
Then the USA arrived. Cheers, mostly. Until the camera cut to JD Vance, the Vice President, sitting in the VIP box. Then came the whistles. It was a sharp, jagged reminder that the “Olympic Spirit” of unity is often just a thin veneer over deep, simmering divisions.
And the Russians? Thirteen athletes. Neutral flags. No anthem. They walked in quietly, almost apologetically. It was a stark contrast to the bombast of previous years.
The Two Flames
The most interesting part, though, was the ending.
Usually, you light one cauldron. It’s the climax. The money shot.
But because this is a dual-city games, they lit two. One in Milan, at the Arco della Pace. One in Cortina, in the mountains.
It felt like a metaphor for the whole event. A festival split in two. Urban and rural. Modern and traditional. The grit of Milan and the snow of the Dolomites.
It’s a risky strategy. It dilutes the focus. But watching the flames flare up on the big screens, synced perfectly (or as perfectly as Italian timing allows), there was a sense of connection. A bridge being built across the Alps.
So, has Italy saved the Winter Olympics?
The games have been in trouble for years. Climate change is melting the snow. Cities are refusing to host them because they cost too much. The whole enterprise feels a bit like a dinosaur.
But on Friday night, Italy made a compelling case for its survival. They reminded us that we don’t watch for the bobsleigh (well, not just for the bobsleigh). We watch for the stories. We watch for the opera. We watch for the sheer, bloody-minded human effort of trying to make something beautiful in a cold, difficult world.
It wasn’t perfect. It was a bit long. It was a bit chaotic. But it was alive. And in 2026, that’s enough.
Now, bring on the skiing. And maybe let Mariah have another go at the mic. Why not? It’s a party, after all.
