Love Hurts

I am in love with Nagano.

And, yes, love hurts.

As I type this, I am nursing some wicked snowboarding-induced soreness. This weekend, three fellow JETs invited me to tag along on an adventure to Nagano Prefecture, home of the 1998 Winter Olympics and some "real" mountains (read: not like the glorified bunny hills that I'm used to riding in Wisconsin and Michigan). I quickly learned that while I can hold my own with a snowboard on the gentle slopes of the Midwest, the formidable peaks of a world-class ski resort are another story.

But, oh, what a beautiful place to fall on one's a$$.

My Illinois-born eyes had never seen such powerful, snow-covered peaks and my Illinois-bred bottom had never wiped out in such pristine, soft powder. I spent the vast majority of our two-day adventure pulling myself up out of various spills and crashes, but I loved every minute.

When I wasn't down on the slopes, there were plenty of other adventures to be had in Nagano. We met some fellow Fukui-ites (see photo) in a lodge cafeteria on the first day. We chatted up a professional Japanese snowboarder and a Japanese indie rocker in a pizza pub at dinner. We hung out with an Australian mom and her son, fellow hostel dwellers, who were criss-crossing Japan via rail. We soaked away our soreness at a Japanese onsen (hot spring), where I lost my wallet, but found it - with all cash and contents intact - the next day (the Japanese really are the kindest, most honest people on the planet). And, lest the weekend be perfect enough already, we ate elusive-in-Japan Mexican food for dinner on our last night.

Oh, Nagano. Worth every last bruise and sore muscle.