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New Hampshire Union Leader Night Editor Sherry Wood spends 10 days in Japan on the trail of the 1905 Portsmouth Peace Treaty.
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The nail that sticks up gets hammered down. Some consider it the proverb that most describes the Japanese mindset, and it was quoted to me more than once during my 10 days in Japan. The words came to me as I stood overlooking the broad sweep of a mountainside 10 miles outside Nichinan City, sister city to Portsmouth, N.H. In the early 1930s, the inhabitants had cultivated a rice paddy in that amazingly inhospitable environment. Imagine bringing water for irrigation from a valley a mile away. "It shows our attachment to rice," Takenori Okamoto of Nichinan City's Board of Education told me on the second day of a tour of the area he conducted with great kindness and insight. The tiered rice paddies are no longer cultivated for the crop they provide -- growing rice doesn't pay, Okamoto told me -- but for the camaraderie and community they provide. "Many volunteers come here to plant and harvest," Okamoto said. The fields are divided by 9-foot piles of stone put there by the original farmers, who built the walls in exchange for use of the land. It brought to mind the walls constructed by New England settlers who found a practical use for the rocks that filled their fields. Some believe that rice cultivation promotes wa, or harmony. Wet rice cultivation, practiced 2,000 years in Japan, is a labor-intensive task. To survive, families have to pool their labor. They also share their water resources and irrigation facilities. Now that Japan buys much of its rice from abroad, rice cultivation has become a form of weekend spiritual renewal for some. Families travel from the city to the country to work in the rice paddies together. In the fall the dry fields were dotted with scarecrows and scented with the Obi cedars that grow in improbably straight lines from the sides of the surrounding mountains. A brochure given to me by Mr. Okamoto showed families holding cookouts and watching traditional dancers at a cultural festival in the fields. The nail that sticks up gets hammered down ... working ankle-deep in water alongside your neighbor for a common cause definitely promotes human connection. Perhaps the neighbor irritates you, but you know him intimately. Compare this form of cultivation to that in the United States. We each carved out our plots of earth and fiercely guarded our independence and borders. Each cornfield was a family fiefdom. "Good fences make good neighbors," Robert Frost wrote in the poem "Mending Wall," penned at his Derry, N.H., farm almost 100 years ago. It explains a lot about the differences between east and west. I've written an article about the Nichinan tiered rice fields in the Jan. 13 New Hampshire Sunday News. To learn more, go to http://www.city-nichinan.jp/english/enn02.htm
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We stopped at the breast shrine on the way to Nichinan City, sister city to Portsmouth, N.H. (See my story about Nichinan in the Nov. 11 New Hampshire Sunday News.) The Udo shrine was tucked into the cliffs of the southern Kyushu coastline. Our taxi passed through the vermilion torii gate and drove along a very narrow road for a mile or so. To the right was a drop of at least 100 feet to the Pacific; to the left were rock surfaces that resembled Star Trek sets. I asked if they were volcanic formations; my guide Sumiyo dryly informed me the cliffs had been sealed with concrete to prevent rocks from falling onto the road. It began to rain lightly as we entered the shrine's parking area, which was almost full. The breast shrine is in a cave at the foot of a series of graceful steps and bridges. The ocean boomed against giant boulders, foaming into a recess opposite the cave entrance. At the orange railing, people stood tossing marble-sized clay balls they had purchased from the shrine keepers. The object is to get a ball into a square hole cut into a turtle-shaped rock some 25 feet below. Women are to use their right hand and men their left. If you get a ball into the pool of water filling the hole, your wish will come true. I tried and failed with five clay balls. The cave is very open and illuminated by natural light. The first thing you see are the charm sellers (the charms are gold turtles with movable silver feet, tied to a purple knotted thread). According to one legend, the first emperor of Japan, Jinmu, and his wife stopped at the cave on a journey with their newborn son. She was trying to feed the baby, but could produce no milk. A liquid began dripping from the roof of the cave, and the Empress filled a bamboo bottle and fed her son. Hence, the "breast shrine" is a popular destination for nursing mothers, pregnant women or women who want to become pregnant and newlyweds hoping for a happy marriage. A sharp left turn just past the cave entrance leads you into a large open space. "There are the breasts," Sumiyo said as my eyes adjusted to the slightly dimmer light. I looked in the direction she was pointing. All I could see was a rock wall. In its center was a white sign with a black arrow pointing downward at about a 45-degree angle. "Turn sideways," Sumiyo said. "Look at where the arrow is pointing." I did as instructed and saw them, jutting from the wall of the cave. Two perfect breasts, about five times life-size (think Dolly Parton). The shrine said everything about Japan, the most simultaneously spiritual and practical place I have ever visited. The Shinto reverence for nature and spirit within nature was there, but a large sign with an arrow marked the spot.
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Who would have guessed that during the 1960s, student protesters at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in Troy, N.Y., spent a night on the table on which the Portsmouth Peace Treaty was signed? That's one of the tidbits I ran across while reporting a story for the New Hampshire Sunday News. "Tables and chairs" is an account of the furniture that was in Building 86 at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard during treaty negotiations between Russia and Japan in August and September 2005. It's not really a story about furniture -- it's a tale of human triumph and loss, a look at the complicated dance that is the relationship between Japan and the United States. In 1905, the U.S. government was eager to recoup expenses for the fancy fittings it had purchased for the treaty negotiations, and it sold the furniture at auction as soon as the ink was dry on the treaty. While in Japan last month, I met with Masayoshi Matsumura, president of the Russo-Japanese War Association. He's the man that found the table and got it back to Japan, though it took him 17 years. I would guess he is in his 80s, but he remembers the events of 1971 with crystal clarity. We sat at a coffee shop outside his home in Narashino City, an hour's train ride from Tokyo. Licensed tour guide Sumiyo Terai kindly translated and made sure we all had cake and coffee. Mr. Matsumura discovered the table's whereabouts in 1971 from Portsmouth historian Thomas C. Wilson, who was an avid collector himself. The table had been purchased for $100 by Rear Admiral Charles W. Parks, a civil engineer at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard and an 1884 graduate of Rensselaer. Parks bequeathed it to his alma mater in 1930. That's how it ended up in the board of directors' meeting room that hippie RPI-ers occupied in the 1960s. Rensselaer's president eventually agreed to give the table to the Japanese, but only if Matsumura and company raised a hefty sum for a fellowship for Japanese graduate students. "Now there are many foundations," Matsumura said, "but in those days it was quite difficult."
But he did it. In 1988 the table was shipped to what Matsumura described as the "Williamsburg of Japan," the Museum Meiji-Mura in Japan's Aichi prefecture, a two-hour journey by train from Tokyo. Matsumura is still triumphant about getting the table back to Japan. But the fact that he didn't get one of the chairs -- specifically the one sat in by lead Japanese negotiator and iconic figure Jutaro Komura -- still sticks in his craw. According to Matsumura, he told historian Thomas Wilson the chair was at the Emma Willard School for Girls in Troy, N.Y., (not far from Renssalaer). Without saying a word, Wilson went behind his back and bought the chair for $500, according to Matsumura. That chair is now in the possession of the Portsmouth Athenaeum and is part of a centennial exhibit at the Portsmouth Historical Society's John Paul Jones House Museum. Of course, there were a dozen chairs around the treaty table, and I asked Portsmouth Athenaeum Keeper Thomas Hardiman if he knew of the whereabouts of the other chairs. Various worthies -- many in New Hampshire -- are said to own them. One turned up on e-Bay recently that was almost certainly a fake. So we've come full circle, from 1905 to hippies to e-Bay. Find out more by checking out my story. I'd love to hear your comments.
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On the bullet train to Kyoto, my guide, Sumiyo, purchased a box of chocolates from the snacks trolley rolling down the aisle. It was labeled "Gentlemen's Pocky." "Why gentlemen's," I asked. Sumiyo explained that Japanese men had considered it effeminate to be seen eating sweets, so the Pocky people had created a special variety of their chocolate-dipped pretzel stick just for the stronger sex. Instead of milk chocolate (apparently the word "milk" evokes images of females), they chose bitter chocolate. It was a lovely combination, I thought as I bit into one of the crisp delicacies. Not necessarily manly, but quite delightful. Pocky's gentlemen's variety was a success, and now it is safe for Japanese men everywhere to eat chocolate-covered pretzels in public. Last night I brought several boxes into the New Hampshire Union Leader newsroom. The male population was extremely appreciative and nibbled away at the treats as Dice-K and his countryman Hideki Okajima pitched the Red Sox to their second World Series. Cries of "Dice-K" alternated with "Pocky" as we chewed our fingernails and the pretzel sticks. The candy helped inspire the idea for today's Page One headline about the Sox victory, "How sweet it is."
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On the way to Tokyo/Narita airport Thursday, I presented my interpreter and guide, Sumiyo, with a small stuffed bear wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words "New Hampshire." The bear, whose lips curved slightly, appeared to be smiling. "I will keep him on my desk," Sumiyo said gravely. Then her eyes sparkled with mischief. "There is one thing I have noticed about stuffed animals in your country," she said. "They often wear T-shirts. But they never have pants." I agreed this was so. "And I feel a little sorry for them," she continued. "They must be cold, and a little embarrassed." I imagined all the stuffed animals in America wishing they had pants. And started to giggle. So did Sumiyo. It is this sort of tiny and yet great cultural divide, bridged by laughter and understanding, that characterized my trip to Japan. Whether it was kneeling to see the "breasts" projecting from the cave walls of a Shinto shrine on the towering cliffs of Nichinan, with the Pacific surf booming in the background, or placing my foot in the exact spot where Jutaro Komura and his fellow students had worn down the step at the entrance to their school in the Obi district, there was a hugely physical aspect to this journey. The sharing of food and cabs, the discussions about World War II -- the war remains very much in the consciousness of the over-40 generations -- all led to a sense of connection between the body and spirit. And I mean this in a larger sense. The body and spirit of Japan and the body and spirit of America walked along together for a few days, and each learned from the other. Ogenki de. (Be well.)
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Today is my last day in Japan. After a trip to witness cutting-edge technology at the Panasonic Center, I am headed to Narita/New Tokyo Airport. I will be sad to say goodbye to this fascinating country and my new friend, interpreter Sumiyo Terai. And I will be sad to stop talking to all of you. Your comments have made this trip even more meaningful. It is as if I've had you along with me on the journey. I enjoyed your company very much. There are many stories I have not yet shared -- some I hope to tell in the pages of the New Hampshire Union Leader. But I have a question for you. After I return home, can I do a few more postings? There are some stories that are too good to leave untold.
Please let me know what you think
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I've never worked for a paper whose circulation was more than 100,000 (on Sundays). Yesterday I visited a paper whose circulation is 10
million and change.
OK, OK before you start yawning, let me give you a few juicy facts. The
Yomiuri Shimbun, which describes itself as the largest paper in the world, takes
its name from the Japanese phrase, yomi-uri, or "selling a newspaper
while reading." This derives from the original newsboys, who a couple
of centuries ago walked around with papers delivering the news in a
sing-song voice.
The paper's parent company owns everything from a symphony orchestra to an Eye
Bank to a helicopter service (Sirius) that takes to the air to get news
stories and has its own department, which resembles a group of
kibitzing air traffic controllers. But its best-known holding is
Japan's oldest major league baseball team, the Yomiuri Giants.
A banner curving along the front of the newspaper's 10-story Tokyo
headquarters proclaimed the team's recent win of the Central League
Crown. The team is headed for the Japanese equivalent of the World
Series next week. But when the team doesn't do well, the newspaper's
phones ring off the hook, said Satoru Watanabe, deputy international
editor and manager for international affairs. Who takes the calls from
irate readers, I asked.
"Everyone," he said. "Including the international news department."
Let's put this in context. Pretend a certain Boston baseball team was
known as the New Hampshire Union Leader Red Sox. Imagine things weren't
going well (no, I'm not trying to jinx the team; stop your
superstitious blather). Say Manny was having one of his episodes. I'm
sitting at my desk in the newsroom that night. The phone rings.
Caller: "You've got to do something about Manny."
Me: "What?"
Caller: "I don't know. You people own the team. Just do something."
Me: "I'll get right on that."
Mr. Watanabe says no one at the paper likes getting these calls. And
don't forget that in between baseball criticism the newspaper
(delivered to 1 in 5 households in Japan) has 346 news bureaus and 34
overseas newsgathering centers. Its North Tokyo printing plant can
crank out 85,000 copies per hour (there are 28 other printing plants in
Japan, not to mention the ones in London, Bangkok and Hong Kong). It
employs 2,700 reporters inside the country and 60 reporters overseas.
The paper recently expanded its sports and science departments, despite
seeing a 1 percent circulation loss in the last year, and maintains two
smoking rooms (cigarettes are big in Japan) as well as 6,000 personal
computers. The "personal computer department," separate from IT,
boasts a dozen frantic people.
In the room across the hall, a group of junior high kids were busy putting out the Yomiuri Junior Press.
"Many eventually get jobs at the paper," Mr. Watanabe said. "Some of
the reporters working here now started there. It's been going on for
more than 30 years."
Despite the presence of these young whippersnappers, the paper is
dealing with an aging readership -- 22 percent of Japan's population is 65 or over. In fact, the newspaper is
almost one-third wider than American papers, and this is partly because the
type has to be large to accommodate the aging eyes of readers.
When I suggested the paper consider reducing its size to save newsprint (as nearly all American papers have), Mr. Watanabe looked wistful.
"I wish we could," he said. "But our readers would not be happy."
Just think of the phone calls they'd get...
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I have eaten many unfamiliar things since I arrived in Japan last week. Most were delicious. Some had eyes staring up at me -- the raw lobster sashimi I enjoyed in Nichinan was laid across the body of the crustacean, whose eye stalks seemed to follow me as I picked up each curved layer with chopsticks. At least he didn't have to be boiled alive, I thought. And then I wondered just how he had met his end.
But just now, I think I may have eaten the strangest thing yet -- a mashed potato sandwich. I grabbed what appeared to be an egg salad/salami/cream cheese combo in the hotel canteen in Tokyo because I didn't feel like eating alone, and I was hungry. The half-sandwich was accompanied by a 500ml Asahi super dry beer (being consumed as I write, so I'd better finish before my lucidity begins to fail). The egg salad seemed normal. The salami wasn't salami, but it was a salted meat, so it passed muster. But the white sandwich (on white bread, with the crusts trimmed off) tasted just like mashed potato. I swear it was mashed potato and mayonnaise. Even at my most white-bread moment, I have never made a mashed potato sandwich. Even on Thanksgiving night, when the fridge is filled with mashed potatoes and there's a loaf of Wonder Bread calling my name, I have never made a mashed potato sandwich. It makes me think that the Japanese food marketing board got together and said -- what do you think Americans, Brits and Aussies who can't handle sushi would want to eat? And somewhere, from the back of the room, someone called out, "Mashed potato sandwich."
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Say the word "Portsmouth" anywhere in Nichinan City and doors open. The two are sister cities because Nichinan was home to Jutaro Komura, the lead negotiator for the Japanese in Portsmouth in 1905 and a revered figure in Japan. I learned quite a bit about Komura the man during a tour led lovingly by Takenori Okamoto: the diplomat liked eels and sake (but not necessarily at the same time). He was a long thinker. When he made up his mind, he would strike the stem of his pipe on something. The more forceful the strike, the bigger the decision. He slept with the windows open. He had two sons and a daughter. It is these kind of details I was looking for. After years of reading very straightforward accounts of the Portsmouth Peace Treaty, I am hungry to know the people behind the politics. Today I had the pleasure of meeting Nichinan City Mayor Yoshiyuki Taniguchi. He doesn't speak much English and I speak no Japanese, but he managed to communicate such sincere warmth that no words were really necessary. I had several gifts for him, including letters and drawings from New Hampshire schoolchildren and a proclamation from Portsmouth Mayor Steve Marchand. He was clearly touched; his mouth curved into a wide smile. "Portsmouth is the most familiar foreign city to us," he said through translator Sumiyo Terai. "We value the tie with your city." Mr. Taniguchi visited Portsmouth during the treaty's centennial celebration in 2005. On the wall of the Nichinan City Hall meeting room was a large photograph of Eileen Foley, who was mayor of Portsmouth in 1985, the year the sister city connection was made. I'm glad I could help keep the sisterhood fires burning. There is much more to tell. But the 600-mile journey back to Tokyo has worn me out and I have a very full schedule for the next three days...
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Yes, I'm on the trail of the Portsmouth Peace Treaty. But I'm also in search of Dice-K, who is pitching for the Red Sox Monday. My assignment? To get reaction in Japan for a story in Tuesday's New Hampshire Union Leader. Will people be watching the game? Are they big fans of Daisuke Matsuzaka? I've been asking university students and taxi drivers and hotel desk clerks. The story is shaping up. And just as I was checking into the Prince Hotel in Nichinan City tonight, the bus for Dice-K's former team, the Seibu Lions, rolled in. It's the minor league team -- the Dice Man played for the major league division -- but it's still the SAME team. Life has a way of curving back in on itself...stay tuned.
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I admit it. After a day of golden and silver pavilions, Zen gardens and palace floors that sing like nightingales, I needed a cheeseburger.
I just returned from the food court of a shopping center next to Kyoto train station, where after perusing the many healthy choices (this is why Japanese people are not fat) I drifted into Log Kit. (A variation of Log Cabin?) The servers wear black cowboy hats and speak English. The specialty is the sasebo burger, which appears to have everything on it (including a couple of things I hadn't expected). The sasebo comes in two sizes, one normal, the other the circumference of a dinner plate.
There are four kinds of French fries. They vary slightly in color and size. I chose the spicy ones. And of course I had Coke. The burger comes in a paper wrapping. I noticed most people did not remove it and found out why; the sandwich oozes mayonnaise and ketchup with each bite. The French fries are served in a paper cone decorated with an American and British flag motif. Perhaps this explains the Britney Spears and Beatles memorabilia; Log Kit was covering all the Anglo bases.
The burger was good. But interspersed among the tomato and onion and iceberg lettuce and cheese was a fried egg and piece of ham. All around me the people of Kyoto were eating their sasebo burgers with an air of concentration, not unlike the look on the faces I saw earlier in the day in the garden of Ginkakuji Temple. I wanted to explain to my fellow diners that the hamburger is not typically garnished with fried eggs and ham, but it seemed rude.
After all, I had been treated with great politeness a few hours before as I blundered my way through a tea ceremony. My guide, Sumiyo, kindly accompanied me and gave me gentle instructions as I removed my shoes and crawled headfirst through the small sliding door that puts everyone on the same level when they enter a tea room. Scooting across the tatami mats on my knees, I entered an austere room with the tea-making equipment in one corner. A lovely woman in a pale geen kimono waited for us to take our places. After serving us small cakes filled with red bean paste -- something sweet to counter the bitterness of the tea -- she scooped steaming water from a container atop a brazier and added it to the powdered tea leaves in the bottom of an elegantly decorated bowl. Using a bamboo whisk, she gave the green liquid a cappuccino-like froth and then proffered it with a bow. I bowed in return (not low enough, despite my years of yoga) and took the tea. The decorated portion of the bowl is rotated away from the lips and the tea is drunk with gusto; the last sip should be noisy. The curved edge of the bowl is wiped delicately and it is then rotated counter-clockwise three times so that the decorated side faces the host. She removes the bowl. There is more bowing. You exit the room via the same low door. I was told it typically takes 10 years to become fully certified in the tea ceremony. Sumiyo managed it in six. The idea is to have the ritual down so perfectly that it is not a distraction. There is no talking, or very little. The people taking part are sensing each other's spirits, communicating soul to soul. After a tea ceremony you know something about the other tea takers -- and perhaps yourself -- that you didn't know before. I am realizing that it is these contemplative acts in everyday situations that make Japan such a harmonious society. It is not perfect; no human institutions are. But there is definitely a gossamer-like web connecting the people here, and the tiniest vibration is felt by all. It is a revelation for someone from the Live Free or Die state. Tomorrow we fly to Nichinan City, sister city to Portsmouth, N.H.
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Rushing into the hotel room in Nagoya (after a long ride on curvy roads to an interview at Meijo University, and a trip on the 163-mph Nozomi Super-Express Train No. 29 out of Tokyo) I managed to make two blunders in less than 30 seconds. I pressed the spray button instead of the flush button on the toilet and I washed my mouth out with soap. Neither act was difficult. Every toilet is a little different in Japan. The one thing they share is their maker, the American Standard of the East, Toto. (The joke is that the British band Toto was on tour in Japan in the 1980s and thought their fans had enscribed their name on every toilet.) And what I thought was tooth paste -- it was a tube and was labeled in all caps, "WHITIA," was no promise of pearly whites but a "cleansing foam." After several minutes of coughing and rinsing, I realized I had done what my mother had always threatened to do -- washed my mouth out with soap. Fortunately, this did not diminish my enjoyment of the soup at the hot noodle shop. The miso (soybean) broth was served boiling with chicken and eggs (which came first, I wondered). As instructed, I put on a bib and slurped my noodles. Japanese comfort food! Tomorrow we get back on the bullet train for the 38-minute ride to Kyoto, ancient city of temples. The tea ceremony is at 1 p.m. Say a little prayer for me; it involves an hour of kneeling.
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"Have you been to a Godzilla movie," my guide, Sumiyo, asked as we stood on the main deck of the Tokyo Tower, the beautiful curve of the Rainbow Bridge beneath our feet. I admitted I had seen the antics of the cranky lizard, who regularly terrorizes the citizens of Japan in cinemas. "This is where he goes first," she said, nodding her head at the tower and noting the monster had destroyed the Tokyo icon at least 10 times that she could recall. Think King Kong and the Empire State building. I can see why Godzilla would head to the city's best view and highest point; at 1,093 feet, it is higher than the Eiffel Tower. Completed in 1958, it was a symbol of hope for a city coming back from the destruction of World War II, Sumiyo told me.
Our trip to the tower followed a visit to the Diplomatic Record Office of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where a white-gloved Kazuhisa Naito uncovered a treasure chest of original Portsmouth Peace Treaty documents. The Japanese consider the 1905 treaty one of the high points of their history, the first moment when they were on a level playing field with the Western powers. The near-destruction of the Russian fleet in a battle over strategically placed Sakhalin Island made them a player in world affairs. Unwrapping layers of acid-free paper, Mr. Naito showed me a letter signed by President Theodore Roosevelt, who won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1906 for overseeing the treaty negotiations. Then the archivist reverently laid open the treaty's final page, where Baron Jutaro Komura and Sergius Witte had signed, and the seals of the Japanese emperor and Russian czar -- the doomed Nicholas II -- lay waiting for examination. The room was completely silent. Tears came into my eyes as I realized I had traveled from sitting alone in front of a computer, dreaming up the story of Annie Daniels and the Portsmouth Peace Treaty, to standing in front of a piece of paper touched by the diplomats I have come to admire so greatly during my research. There is something personal about ink and parchment and sealing wax and string, some sense of the power and vulnerability of human beings.
Earlier in the day -- a warm day, somewhere in the 80s -- I sat in a warm room with Koji Tsuruoka, director-general for global issues. In 2005, the government began a Cool Biz campaign, urging offices to keep their thermostats at 82 degrees during the summer. He and I were both sweating. I was the sweatier of the two because Mr. Tsuruoka was not wearing his jacket or tie and had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. He had not rolled up his sleeves, but that is apparently allowed too. "Climate change takes priority over the ceremonial requirement of wearing a suit and tie," he told me. Because resources are very precious in this island country, the Japanese have been extremely motivated to conserve energy. This is combined with a tradition of reverence for nature. It didn't happen overnight, Mr. Tsuruoka said, but Japan now accounts for less than 5 percent of greenhouse gas emissions; its share of the world's economy is 12 to 14 percent. On the way to the next appointment, our taxi passed a gas station. A quick conversion of liters to gallons and yen to dollars revealed the price: almost $9 a gallon. At 5 p.m., we called on Professor Toshiyuki Shikata, a retired military man who now teaches international relations at Teikyo University. He is also counselor to the governor of Tokyo, with a specialty of disaster planning. He directs simulated exercises involving dirty bombs and bioterrorism. This is all done in a huge room at the Tokyo Metropolitan Government Office. The amphitheater-style space is filled with tiers of desks, each equipped with a phone. An enormous lit-up map of Japan covers the wall. It looks like something straight out of James Bond.
Finally, dinner with Mr. Kazuyuki Yamazaki, the assistant press secretary and director of the Ministry of Foregn Affairs' International Press Division. We had Kobe beef, prepared before us by a chef who used none of the Benihana antics we in America are accustomed to. It was fabulous, though I did have trouble managing the bean sprouts with my chopsticks. Today it's on to Nagoya!
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I'm here. The first person I met was my guide, Sumiyo Terai, a lovely woman who spent a summer in New Hampshire studying at Dartmouth and lived a year in Boston in the mid-90s. And yes, she's heard of Dice-K. The first thing I saw on approaching the city was an enormous Ferris wheel, its neon outline making a colorful curve against the night sky. It is open year-round and is a favorite evening spot for couples. It takes almost an hour to complete a full circuit, and the views of Tokyo must be breath-taking. What a great place to kiss! I've been up 24 hours, so I think it's time for a rest so I can be prepared to talk about global warming tomorrow with Koji Tsuruoka, director-general for global issues, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I'm presenting him with "Abandoned in the Arctic," a book about Adolphus Greely, who took scientific measurements in the Arctic between 1881 and 1884. After the Navy finally rescued Greely and his five surviving men (two resupplying missions had failed) the six were taken to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard and given a hero's welome in Portsmouth in 1884. The measurements Greely took are being used as a baseline in a climate change study that is part of the 2007-2008 International Polar Year. So you see, all roads really do lead back to New Hampshire. Tomorrow (Tokyo is 13 hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time) I will also get to visit the Diplomatic Record Office and see some of the original Portsmouth Peace Treaty documents, and talk to Professor Toshiyuki Shikata of Teikyo University. The day ends with a dinner hosted by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs' director of the International Press Division. Better get some sleep!
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I was woken this morning by the cries of a flock of geese and looked out the window to see them curving their way south. It seemed a fitting beginning for a day in which I will be on a plane for 15 hours. Let's just hope someone is there to meet me at the airport in Tokyo. Otherwise I will have to make use of my slender stock of Japanese, which includes: "arigato gozaimasu" (thank you), "ogenki de" (be well) and "nomisugi shinai yo ni" (don't drink too much). Wish me well.
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