Salon Wanderlust | Flying away

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A L S O+T O D A Y
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
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T A B L E_T A L K
New Year's Eve 1999: Do you have plans yet? Mark your calendars in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

R E C E N T L Y
Cold war
By Gary Kamiya
The Czechs battle the Russians on ice
(02/18/98)
The Christlike and redemptive powers of ice hockey
By Cintra Wilson
Our second Salon correspondent in Nagano reflects on Olympic evolution, personality cults and Russian mafiosi
(02/18/98)
Plastered in Nagano
By Koya Ide
Olympics sponsors' ads are everywhere
(02/17/98)
Passionate and penniless in Paris
By Maxine Rose Schur
A magical memory
(02/13/98)
Retro burger
By Gary Kamiya
Our Olympics correspondent muses on women's hockey, Japanese English, the quest for tosto and other cross-cultural oddities
(02/12/98)

Browse the
Feature archives

FLYING AWAY+|+PAGE 2 OF 2

Members of the U.S. women's hockey team show off their gold medals after their upset win over Canada in the final game.
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In the Saku train station, the jump and the celebration were playing on a TV in a waiting area. Six or seven people were watching. "I was there!" I announced excitedly to the group. They smiled. "Harada -- Japan's best!" a man said. "He seems like a good guy," I said. "He's a good papa!" the man replied.
At midnight in a packed 30s, Nagano's big Olympics bar, three Japanese students were celebrating. They were working on a mini-keg of beer. When they heard I'd been at the ski jump, they clapped me on the back. "Can you drink?" they shouted, and poured me a beer. "Harada is the most loved of Japan!" one of them shouted. "You see, he go like this" -- and he made a gesture of tears running down his face. "Harada! Harada!" we shouted. "I not proud of Japan before, but today I proud!" hollered one of the kids.
Another kid, much drunker, with a face like a leering temple guardian, grabbed me and dragged me over to his group. "You drink!" he screamed and tried to pour a big glass of what tasted like whisky into my mouth. I pulled my head back. When he heard I had seen the jump, he went even more berserk. "You there?" he howled. He grabbed me again and, before I knew what he was doing, he pulled open my shirt and bit me on the chest, as if I was a piece of the True Cross. Whoa, dude! Lighten up on the Jim Beam and general insanity!
It was a night for celebrations. It being my last night in Japan, I decided to miss the last train and check out Nagano's night life -- I'd been running my entire life by that damn 10:51 train so religiously and for so long and with such hideous fear of the park-bench consequences of missing it that when I found myself actually in a bar with a drink in my hand at 10:52, I burst out laughing. I had somehow expected to turn into a pumpkin, or fall into a coma, or something.
It turned out it was worth pulling an all-nighter, because at about 1:30 a.m. a bunch of women in white Team USA jackets squeezed into the teeming bar, preceded by a guy with a bullhorn yelling, "Here's the USA gold medal women's hockey team!" The U.S. had just beat Canada for the first-ever gold medal in women's hockey, and the girls were out on the town. I patted them on the back and congratulated them and said what they had done would be great for women's sports. They were jockettes of various degrees of likability. One of them ordered a big tray of shots of tequila, which they all downed. A bunch of guys had their pictures taken with them.
Some of the Finnish women's team were there. Several of the Canadian team members were there, too, hugging and talking to the Americans. I congratulated one of the Canadians. She shrugged. "It's disappointing." "Well, at least it looks like you get along better with the American women than the Canadian and American men do," I said. "Not really," she said. "We usually beat them, and then they don't want to have anything to do with us. Today they beat us, and now they're friendly." She said it without rancor. The happy crowd of celebrating Japanese and Americans cheered. It was a jumping night.
At 5, I started to fade. Getting off the bullet train at Sakudaira Station on this bitterly cold, clear morning, the mountains were dusted with snow so soft and powdery that it looked like a cloud had fallen asleep on the earth.
My Games are over. It's been a great ride, even if it was a bit frenetic. Images whirl up at me out of the past two weeks: The Japanese children, so well loved, laughing gleefully at who knows what. The ashen faces of the Czech fans when hated Russia scored to go ahead. The policemen in their toy uniforms running across the street to help me. The distant, joyful look on the face of Norwegian speed skater Aadne Sondral as he stood on the podium after winning the 1,500-meter race. The ugly-faced scalpers. The distant, elegant kinetic sculpture of the women's downhill, the evil unbelievable ice-tube blur of the luge. The woman who sells drinks and food from a cart on the first-class Shinkansen train turning to ceremonially bow to the passengers each time she leaves a car. The white-gloved taxi drivers. The Swedes and Canadians teasing each other and wrapping each other in their huge flags, the Japanese fans roaring for their heroes. The family of man eating, drinking, playing together. And a man flying through the air, frozen forever, like a figure on an ancient urn.
I wouldn't have missed this for the world.
SALON | Feb. 19, 1998

PHOTOGRAPH BY AL BELLO/ALLSPORT
Archived images are provided by Allsport Photography USA, Inc. all rights reserved, any redistribution, resale, re-print or other use is strictly prohibited without written consent from Allsport Photography USA, Inc. directly.


- - - - - - - - - - A L S O+T O D A Y 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 - - - - - - - - - - T A B L E_T A L K New Year's Eve 1999: Do you have plans yet? Mark your calendars in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Cold war By Gary Kamiya The Czechs battle the Russians on ice (02/18/98) The Christlike and redemptive powers of ice hockey By Cintra Wilson Our second Salon correspondent in Nagano reflects on Olympic evolution, personality cults and Russian mafiosi (02/18/98) Plastered in Nagano By Koya Ide Olympics sponsors' ads are everywhere (02/17/98) Passionate and penniless in Paris By Maxine Rose Schur A magical memory (02/13/98) Retro burger By Gary Kamiya Our Olympics correspondent muses on women's hockey, Japanese English, the quest for tosto and other cross-cultural oddities (02/12/98) Browse the Feature archives		FLYING AWAY+\|+PAGE 2 OF 2 Members of the U.S. women's hockey team show off their gold medals after their upset win over Canada in the final game. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - In the Saku train station, the jump and the celebration were playing on a TV in a waiting area. Six or seven people were watching. "I was there!" I announced excitedly to the group. They smiled. "Harada -- Japan's best!" a man said. "He seems like a good guy," I said. "He's a good papa!" the man replied. At midnight in a packed 30s, Nagano's big Olympics bar, three Japanese students were celebrating. They were working on a mini-keg of beer. When they heard I'd been at the ski jump, they clapped me on the back. "Can you drink?" they shouted, and poured me a beer. "Harada is the most loved of Japan!" one of them shouted. "You see, he go like this" -- and he made a gesture of tears running down his face. "Harada! Harada!" we shouted. "I not proud of Japan before, but today I proud!" hollered one of the kids. Another kid, much drunker, with a face like a leering temple guardian, grabbed me and dragged me over to his group. "You drink!" he screamed and tried to pour a big glass of what tasted like whisky into my mouth. I pulled my head back. When he heard I had seen the jump, he went even more berserk. "You there?" he howled. He grabbed me again and, before I knew what he was doing, he pulled open my shirt and bit me on the chest, as if I was a piece of the True Cross. Whoa, dude! Lighten up on the Jim Beam and general insanity! It was a night for celebrations. It being my last night in Japan, I decided to miss the last train and check out Nagano's night life -- I'd been running my entire life by that damn 10:51 train so religiously and for so long and with such hideous fear of the park-bench consequences of missing it that when I found myself actually in a bar with a drink in my hand at 10:52, I burst out laughing. I had somehow expected to turn into a pumpkin, or fall into a coma, or something. It turned out it was worth pulling an all-nighter, because at about 1:30 a.m. a bunch of women in white Team USA jackets squeezed into the teeming bar, preceded by a guy with a bullhorn yelling, "Here's the USA gold medal women's hockey team!" The U.S. had just beat Canada for the first-ever gold medal in women's hockey, and the girls were out on the town. I patted them on the back and congratulated them and said what they had done would be great for women's sports. They were jockettes of various degrees of likability. One of them ordered a big tray of shots of tequila, which they all downed. A bunch of guys had their pictures taken with them. Some of the Finnish women's team were there. Several of the Canadian team members were there, too, hugging and talking to the Americans. I congratulated one of the Canadians. She shrugged. "It's disappointing." "Well, at least it looks like you get along better with the American women than the Canadian and American men do," I said. "Not really," she said. "We usually beat them, and then they don't want to have anything to do with us. Today they beat us, and now they're friendly." She said it without rancor. The happy crowd of celebrating Japanese and Americans cheered. It was a jumping night. At 5, I started to fade. Getting off the bullet train at Sakudaira Station on this bitterly cold, clear morning, the mountains were dusted with snow so soft and powdery that it looked like a cloud had fallen asleep on the earth. My Games are over. It's been a great ride, even if it was a bit frenetic. Images whirl up at me out of the past two weeks: The Japanese children, so well loved, laughing gleefully at who knows what. The ashen faces of the Czech fans when hated Russia scored to go ahead. The policemen in their toy uniforms running across the street to help me. The distant, joyful look on the face of Norwegian speed skater Aadne Sondral as he stood on the podium after winning the 1,500-meter race. The ugly-faced scalpers. The distant, elegant kinetic sculpture of the women's downhill, the evil unbelievable ice-tube blur of the luge. The woman who sells drinks and food from a cart on the first-class Shinkansen train turning to ceremonially bow to the passengers each time she leaves a car. The white-gloved taxi drivers. The Swedes and Canadians teasing each other and wrapping each other in their huge flags, the Japanese fans roaring for their heroes. The family of man eating, drinking, playing together. And a man flying through the air, frozen forever, like a figure on an ancient urn. I wouldn't have missed this for the world. SALON \| Feb. 19, 1998 PHOTOGRAPH BY AL BELLO/ALLSPORT Archived images are provided by Allsport Photography USA, Inc. all rights reserved, any redistribution, resale, re-print or other use is strictly prohibited without written consent from Allsport Photography USA, Inc. directly.