Salon Wanderlust | Arigato, Nagano

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T A B L E_T A L K
London lodging: Give tips on where to stay and what to avoid in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
Tara and Michelle are great and I am a worthless protozoa clinging to their skates
By Cintra Wilson
(02/23/98)
Lost in Nagano
By Cintra Wilson
Our correspondent's innocent search for the men's slalom turns into an amazing half-day odyssey
(02/20/98)
Figure skating shocker
By Jonathan Broder
Lipinski upsets Kwan to take the gold. What happened? Skating expert Christine Brennan analyzes events on -- and off -- the ice in Nagano
(02/20/98)
Flying away
By Cintra Wilson
I sold my soul to the scalpers to watch mechanized super-teens Michelle and Tara kiss ass?
(02/20/98)
Flying away
By Gary Kamiya
Triumph on the slopes -- and parties all night long
(02/19/98)
Scalpers, skiers and cultural schizophrenia
By Cintra Wilson
Our woman in Nagano checks out deluxe slopeside port-o-lets, "child hornet" snacks and other Olympic oddities
(02/19/98)

Browse the
Feature archives

__ARIGATO, NAGANO _|_ page 2 of 2
Sunday, Feb. 22: Well, that was it, the last day. The Czechs beat the Russians, and all was right in the world of singing plastic clocks and people who don't speak English. Everybody knew that the Czechs had to win, the same way that Bambi has to have a happy ending after his mother dies in the forest fire. Win they did, and the plucky Czechs all dogpiled on heroic goalie Dominik Hasek.
Since I had swapped my ticket for the Closing Ceremonies, I decided to take a little trip to Nozawa Onsen, the site of the biathlon events that kept getting canceled. This is a place famous for its hot springs, so I opted for one of the spring-fueled public baths and spent an hour with a small group of naked Japanese women sitting on tiny plastic benches, soaping up with washcloths folded on their heads. The women there ranged in age from 13 months to 75 years, with a healthy dose of high school girls in between. It was one of the sweetest community things I've ever seen: old women scrubbing the backs of young women, young women scrubbing the backs of babies. The water was unbelievably hot in both the inside pool and the outside pool, but the outside pool had the extra fun touch of being outside in the 35-degree weather, with a keen, unobstructed view of the ski slopes, which I realized with some amusement also meant the ski slopes had an unobstructed view of my naked white ass.
Getting to the onsen, I had a real taste of Japanese hospitality at its most magnanimous and kind. A little businessman I had asked directions from on the train came to the information booth at the station with me and found out that there was a public bath near where he was going. He took me there in a cab, refused money, walked me into the bath, paid for my towel and asked the attendant to call a taxi for me when I was finished. He wouldn't think of accepting money from me. There was nothing funky or weird or lecherous about it. He just helped me and treated me because he was a solid citizen. You get little tastes of this in Japan, every now and then.
Yesterday I went to the Zenkoji Temple, which has become, essentially, an enormous souvenir stand, but there are parts of it that still give you the reverent collywobbles. You pay 100 yen (80 cents) and buy a small handful of incense, which you then throw into a big vat along with everybody else's incense. This is a sacred brass vat, and the Buddhists stand in front of it scooping the smoke out with their hands and rubbing it into their heads and faces. It leaves you nicely electromagnetically stoned afterwards, this smoke-bath, the way a mountain hike or a hot spring will. Japan is privy to these mysterious therapeutic secrets. Then you walk back out into the world and louse up your buzz all over again with the enormous crowds in front of the Kodak stand and the breakneck competition for a seat at the soba counter.
I watched the last half of the enormous Closing Ceremonies in the big hotel, surrounded by the great scalper exodus: all the greasy jerkwater mulletheads going back home in their NHL Starter jackets, thousands of dollars richer in some cases. The ceremony was full of pomp yet oddly moving: a whole stadium full of people with little illuminated lanterns, watching the token military official fold the Olympic flag, teenagers looking like they were having a genuinely good time, a massive fireworks display. A Japanese guy next to me was translating what the clown/emcee guy was saying: Roughly paraphrased, he would shout to the audience of adorable young people, "What place do you come from?" and they would shout back, "The earth," in Japanese. This was the prevailing vibe that came across these Olympics. There was a big generosity of Japanese heart these last two weeks, which came across despite the logistical fuck-ups and/or the profound language barrier -- all their childlike goofiness and kooky good will added up to a touchingly sweet job of hosting the world. Domo arigato, Japan.
I am a nervous flier, so all day the other day I was looking for a small rabbit as a lucky charm. Don't ask; I just feel more spiritually comfortable if there's a rabbit around. I couldn't find one suitable for my purposes, so I gave up the hunt. That night, in a little shop, when I was eating my grilled eel, an old Japanese man ran up to me and said, "Please, take," and ran away before I could thank him. It was an origami rabbit he had folded himself, with a little face he'd drawn on. He'll never know what it meant to me.
SALON | Feb. 24, 1998


- - - - - - - - - - T A B L E_T A L K London lodging: Give tips on where to stay and what to avoid in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Tara and Michelle are great and I am a worthless protozoa clinging to their skates By Cintra Wilson (02/23/98) Lost in Nagano By Cintra Wilson Our correspondent's innocent search for the men's slalom turns into an amazing half-day odyssey (02/20/98) Figure skating shocker By Jonathan Broder Lipinski upsets Kwan to take the gold. What happened? Skating expert Christine Brennan analyzes events on -- and off -- the ice in Nagano (02/20/98) Flying away By Cintra Wilson I sold my soul to the scalpers to watch mechanized super-teens Michelle and Tara kiss ass? (02/20/98) Flying away By Gary Kamiya Triumph on the slopes -- and parties all night long (02/19/98) Scalpers, skiers and cultural schizophrenia By Cintra Wilson Our woman in Nagano checks out deluxe slopeside port-o-lets, "child hornet" snacks and other Olympic oddities (02/19/98) Browse the Feature archives		__ARIGATO, NAGANO _\|_ page 2 of 2 Sunday, Feb. 22: Well, that was it, the last day. The Czechs beat the Russians, and all was right in the world of singing plastic clocks and people who don't speak English. Everybody knew that the Czechs had to win, the same way that Bambi has to have a happy ending after his mother dies in the forest fire. Win they did, and the plucky Czechs all dogpiled on heroic goalie Dominik Hasek. Since I had swapped my ticket for the Closing Ceremonies, I decided to take a little trip to Nozawa Onsen, the site of the biathlon events that kept getting canceled. This is a place famous for its hot springs, so I opted for one of the spring-fueled public baths and spent an hour with a small group of naked Japanese women sitting on tiny plastic benches, soaping up with washcloths folded on their heads. The women there ranged in age from 13 months to 75 years, with a healthy dose of high school girls in between. It was one of the sweetest community things I've ever seen: old women scrubbing the backs of young women, young women scrubbing the backs of babies. The water was unbelievably hot in both the inside pool and the outside pool, but the outside pool had the extra fun touch of being outside in the 35-degree weather, with a keen, unobstructed view of the ski slopes, which I realized with some amusement also meant the ski slopes had an unobstructed view of my naked white ass. Getting to the onsen, I had a real taste of Japanese hospitality at its most magnanimous and kind. A little businessman I had asked directions from on the train came to the information booth at the station with me and found out that there was a public bath near where he was going. He took me there in a cab, refused money, walked me into the bath, paid for my towel and asked the attendant to call a taxi for me when I was finished. He wouldn't think of accepting money from me. There was nothing funky or weird or lecherous about it. He just helped me and treated me because he was a solid citizen. You get little tastes of this in Japan, every now and then. Yesterday I went to the Zenkoji Temple, which has become, essentially, an enormous souvenir stand, but there are parts of it that still give you the reverent collywobbles. You pay 100 yen (80 cents) and buy a small handful of incense, which you then throw into a big vat along with everybody else's incense. This is a sacred brass vat, and the Buddhists stand in front of it scooping the smoke out with their hands and rubbing it into their heads and faces. It leaves you nicely electromagnetically stoned afterwards, this smoke-bath, the way a mountain hike or a hot spring will. Japan is privy to these mysterious therapeutic secrets. Then you walk back out into the world and louse up your buzz all over again with the enormous crowds in front of the Kodak stand and the breakneck competition for a seat at the soba counter. I watched the last half of the enormous Closing Ceremonies in the big hotel, surrounded by the great scalper exodus: all the greasy jerkwater mulletheads going back home in their NHL Starter jackets, thousands of dollars richer in some cases. The ceremony was full of pomp yet oddly moving: a whole stadium full of people with little illuminated lanterns, watching the token military official fold the Olympic flag, teenagers looking like they were having a genuinely good time, a massive fireworks display. A Japanese guy next to me was translating what the clown/emcee guy was saying: Roughly paraphrased, he would shout to the audience of adorable young people, "What place do you come from?" and they would shout back, "The earth," in Japanese. This was the prevailing vibe that came across these Olympics. There was a big generosity of Japanese heart these last two weeks, which came across despite the logistical fuck-ups and/or the profound language barrier -- all their childlike goofiness and kooky good will added up to a touchingly sweet job of hosting the world. Domo arigato, Japan. I am a nervous flier, so all day the other day I was looking for a small rabbit as a lucky charm. Don't ask; I just feel more spiritually comfortable if there's a rabbit around. I couldn't find one suitable for my purposes, so I gave up the hunt. That night, in a little shop, when I was eating my grilled eel, an old Japanese man ran up to me and said, "Please, take," and ran away before I could thank him. It was an origami rabbit he had folded himself, with a little face he'd drawn on. He'll never know what it meant to me. SALON \| Feb. 24, 1998