The Peace Correspondent Read Online Free

in frosty fields ready for Bonfire Festival burning.
    In Nagano, I am first off the train and down the platform, but a skier chases me with the large box I had somehow forgotten.
    Our new retinue includes three driver/escorts and Sarah, an American who works for the prefecture. Sarah, who appreciates all things Japanese, expresses admiration for the ungainly Matsumoto ball I still clutch, but declines the offer of it as a gift.
    First stop is the city hall board room, crowded with moreofficials and local press, for introductions and card exchanges (Wago-san, Yamazaki-san, Usui-san…). Available light fades over the temples and castles we wish to photograph as the speeches and a few polite questions (nothing pointed now) drone on. Finally, they bestow their largesse: an international digital time zone clock, cassette tape, Japanese noren door curtain and press kits with musical guidebooks which play a Nagano song when opened. By now, the tiny closets in our hotel rooms are piled high with souvenirs.
    In three cars, we take to the countryside, our Japanese companions desperately chewing gum to avoid upsetting the gaijins (foreigners), who, they understand, do not like cigarette smoke.
    In Obuse, the town that artist Hokkusai visited for inspiration, we admire what has been designated as one of the country’s 10 best toilets. It is closed for the winter, so we do not experience it.
    Near the town temple, we happen on a winter festival, with food kiosks and souvenir tents displaying blank-eyed, legless daruma dolls from the size of a fist to bigger than a beach ball. When we separate to wander on our own briefly, our guides, armed with walkie talkies, follow each of us, concerned we might get lost, while also exhibiting the Japanese love of hightech gadgetry. There will be a traditional parade and fire-walking ceremony within the hour, but we have to move on. It is not on the itinerary.
    At Nozawa Onsen village, a scenic ski resort town, the skiers look longingly at the slopes as we are ushered into city hall for tea and talk. A resort official explains that of Japan’s 650 ski resorts, including 107 in Nagano prefecture, Nozawa Onsen has the finest facilities, with 23 hot springs, two gondolas and 30 lift systems. With 26 ryokans and 360 minshukus (family run inns), the town accommodates 20,000 skiers, or about 800,000 a season.
    The mayor (his card identifies him as the burgermeister) thenhands out peach-colored silk scarves for the ladies and moss-green ties for the men, as well as life-sized woven pigeons on wheels. A printed explanation of their legend points out that the straw birds are designated as a number one craft in Japan.
    On this, our last day, it appears the outdoor writers will finally get on the slopes when the chief ski instructor and village officials lead us past long lineups to jump queue onto the gondolas for the 18-minute climb up Mount Kenashi.
    At the summit, they lead us past the lifts, straight to the lodge. Looking longingly at the cafeteria yakisoba, curry rice and other basic dishes, we are ushered into a private room for the official lunch, an exotic Western hybrid of oyster soup and tender steak accompanied by a local mashed radish and onion dip. During the gift-giving (head bands and gloves for tonight’s festival), Sato-san mentions that he has received a telephone call that a Matsumoto ball was found in our Nagano hotel, and will be returned. Welcoming speeches, lunch and card-passing leaves just a few hours for the visiting skiers to get on the slopes, finally.
    Tonight is the Himatsuri Bonfire Festival, held every January 15 since 1839 to eliminate evil spirits and honor the male offspring born that year.
    In the evening, a restive air of excitement hangs over the town, with roving revelers getting into the festival spirits. A group of wandering minstrels sings “Sake is my Friend,” a long paean to the rice wine with much hand-clapping and jolly, red-faced drunkenness.