Fifty

The festival is in full swing by the time James and I make it out of our hotel room.

I’m back in my snowsuit and James, as usual, only has on a light jacket. How the man doesn’t freeze is beyond me, but at least it makes it easy to undress him later.

As we wonder through the giant sculptures made of ice and snow, I take as many pictures as I can, always asking the artist before I do. Thankfully most of them speak a little English and are more than happy to pose with their art. The ones that don’t are a little more hesitant, but when I show them my magazine badge, they usually agree.

We wonder the festival for hours, browsing the stalls of homemade chocolates, breads, leather goods, even handmade journals and clothing. Other stalls were full of alcohol and steins, candy coated fruit and toys.

By the time we’d walked the entire festival, I’d taken hundreds of photos and had half a notebooks worth of artist names to match their sculptures.

Five hours after we started, James and I ma