It dangles down from Nagoya, dividing Ise Bay from Mikawa Bay in the inglorious shape of one of yesterday's socks. While the upper, northern end soaks up the industrial overspill from Japan's fourth-largest city, its southern half works as a calming antidote to the madding metropolitan crowd. It goes by the name of the Chita Peninsula.
The association with summer's least wholesome item of clothing extends beyond physical form. About halfway down the western side of the peninsula, windsocks find customary employment around Central Japan International Airport. Built on an artificial island, the sleek facility is so highly regarded it made the top 10 both this year and last in the World Airport Awards.
Even though its other name, of Centrair, has had currency since the airport's 2005 opening — and the committee-approvable logic behind the handle is somehow quaintly understandable — it still sounds as if it would sit better on a cyclonic vacuum cleaner than on an international air terminal.
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