Yesterday Once More

Quick final note from Moose to the Legions of Loyal Fans just to let you know that we made it home to the most beautiful brown-eyed girl in the world, who is at this moment closely guarding her jet-lagged, snoring Goose. The trip was as miserable as you would imagine thirteen hours in coach would be. A baby cried every inch of those 7000 miles, and either ANA doesn't have as much leg room as advertised or I grew six inches over the past two weeks. In any case, we are back in the People's Republic of Takoma Park, safe, sound, and slightly giddy from the whirlwind of our Japan adventure. Perhaps the sole owner and proprietor of Roxie's World will be kind enough to afford me a little more space in these hallowed precincts over the next few weeks to reflect upon the journey now that it is over. We'll see. I'm sure the Creative Division will have to weigh in on the matter, and I know the folks over in Persona Management are still ticked at me over the "real-world" name faux pa(w)s in some of my early posts. That Mark Twain fella is a real stickler.

In the meantime, having re-crossed the International Dateline, I am busy re-living thirteen hours of the thirteenth day of August, which is just about as weird as it gets if you ask me. Having felt like we were living one Bill Murray film in the past couple of weeks -- Lost in Translation -- I now have an eerie sense of being trapped in another: Groundhog Day. Great flick if you ask me, and massively under-rated, but I will probably freak out if I wake up tomorrow morning and hear "I Got You, Babe" on the radio.

I leave you with a final image from the trip, a close-up of a page from the lengthy informational packet that compelled our attention during our stay at the ryokan (traditional inn) in Hakone. The document contains page after page of problems and situations the traveler might encounter in the course of a stay at what was apparently the most dangerous place on earth, peaceful appearances notwithstanding. Everything from burned-out light bulbs and bad odors to hostage situations and attacks by "gangsters" is addressed in tables with the Japanese characters on on side and English translations on the other. There are even lists of responses the innkeepers might offer to any given problem. Goose and I pored over this text for hours, trying to decide what potent combination of genuine concern and projected anxiety could have produced it. Click on the image to enlarge it, and you should be able to read my favorite section for yourself. It is important to me that you all realize I hew closely to the Roxie's World rule of never making stuff up when unvarnished reality is so enormously entertaining.

Peace out, kids. I think it's time for my nap now.

Love to all,
Moose

Parting Shots

Postcard from Japan (#10)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Our perfect last day in Tokyo began with running into the Dubliners (the Irish family we breakfasted with at the ANA Hotel in Hiroshima) as we were on our way to breakfast. They had come to Tokyo a day early, and we had stayed at the Park Hyatt a day longer than planned. We're staying on the same floor and practically smacked into each other in front of the elevators. I told Goose it reminded me of all those leisure-class travelers in Edith Wharton novels who keep bumping into each other as they make their way from one European watering hole to another, except that we're much nicer people with serious commitments and rich, full inner lives, despite my long-standing identification with the barbarian Indiana Frusk, the most brilliantly named character in all of literature, in my humble opinion. Anyway, the Dubliners were quite delighted to see us, and we were pleased to see them as well. It is funny the fleeting intimacies one manages to establish with complete strangers in situations such as this. In almost any other set of circumstances, we would never have seen each other, much less spoken, but I believed the garrulous Irish dad when he said they had been talking about us over their breakfast and wishing our time here would have overlapped.

After breakfast, we went out for a last bit of sightseeing and shopping. We stayed relatively close to "home" and enjoyed the Sunday rituals of downtown Tokyo: a stroll through the Meiji Shrine and gardens; a visit to the scene on the Harajuku Bridge, where mostly teenage girls hang out dressed as their favorite "Manga" characters (it's an anime thing, for the un-cool [like me] among you); and some shopping and cafe-sitting on the broad boulevard of Omotesando. It was a delightful afternoon, though a beastly hot one, and we were able to pick up some gifts and souvenirs, including a sweet little sake set, because the sake-seeking Bostonian finally convinced me this is a beverage worth drinking. Occasionally.

I could write a long, scholarly article on the topsy-turviness of sex and gender on the Harajuku Bridge, which would be full of profound insights into queer youth cultures around the world, with the appropriate disclaimers about being careful not to impose Western analytical models on non-Western cultures and practices, but it's late and I still haven't packed, so I'm just going to toss up a few images and let the English profs and queer theorists work all that out in Comments.

This sweet-faced drag king deserves two shots, because s/he is just about the cutest thing I saw in the course of this long journey.



This drag queen was unusual in being one of the few -- perhaps the only -- adult who was participating in the scene. S/he was also totally mugging for the camera, which the kids weren't doing for the most part, though most would pose if you asked them to (I didn't). They were hanging out, talking, goofing around, doing a lot of hugging. They weren't oblivious to the hordes of tourists taking photographs all around them, but it wasn't their main focus. For the drag queen, though, the scene was a major voguing opportunity:

Because it was a perfect day, we caught a rare glimpse of Mount Fuji in the summer, which I photographed through the windows of the hotel because that was the only way to do it. Here's proof that dumb luck is the best kind to have:


Our perfect day ended with a lovely dinner at the home of my sister Luanne's friend Laura in Roppongi Hills. Our thanks to Laura for her hospitality and great travel advice throughout our trip. And thanks to all of you for your company on this journey. You've been delightful companions and a generous audience for the maiden efforts of this inexperienced blogger. I look forward to returning to my regular role as mere amanuensis for the creative genius behind Roxie's World, whose beautiful brown eyes I can hardly wait to see. Be patient, Rox. The moms are headed home.

Love to all,
Moose

Land of the Rising Sun

Postcard from Japan (# 9)

Dear Rox and LLF,

[Prescript: Sorry for the delay between posts. Did you miss me? We had a day of travel on Thursday and were off the grid while at the Mikawaya Ryokan (traditional inn) in Hakone. We got back to Tokyo late yesterday afternoon and have been on a whirlwind of pleasure ever since. Except for Traveler’s Nightmare #742B: Camera Battery Death While Trying to Take Most Gorgeous Vacation Snapshot Ever, everything has gone beautifully. We leave here a little after 11 on Monday morning and by that miracle known as the curvature of the earth will arrive back in Washington about a half an hour before we left Tokyo. Don’t think about it too much, Rox. It will only make your head hurt.]

Call it the upside of insomnia. Yesterday I woke up at 4:30 in the morning, as the first streaks of dawn made their way through the curtains of our east-facing windows in the mountains near Hakone. (It’s weird. After nearly two weeks here, we still have a tendency to burst into wakefulness in that hour between 3:30 and 4:30 in the morning. The body can’t seem to let go of the idea that it’s the middle of the afternoon and surely we ought to be doing something productive.) At 5 I gave up and got out of bed, figuring at least maybe I’d get a good photo op out of the deal. (Oh, perhaps it’s the mind that can’t give up on the idea that we ought to be doing something productive.) I picked up my camera, stepped out on the balcony, and here’s what I saw:


A few minutes later I looked down to my right and saw a woman doing t’ai-chi on her balcony on the floor below. She had the incredibly graceful, cat-like combination of agility and softness my teacher always tried to guide us toward during my t’ai-chi years. I watched her until I began to feel guilty for intruding on the privacy of her lovely embrace of the morning. Goose joined me on the balcony around 5:30, and we shared a sunrise for the first time in many, many years.

This morning, back in Tokyo, we worked the early shift again, rising at 4 (I swear you read that right) to go to the famed fish market at Tsukiji, where fish is sold at auction to wholesalers in one of the most extraordinary spectacles I have ever seen. (Read about the market here.) We stood for close to an hour watching men (and the world of the fish auction is a manly world indeed) walk through long rows of frozen tuna, flashlight in one hand, awl in the other, inspecting the merchandise and in some cases tasting it. At 5:30 on the dot, three auctioneers mounted small stools at the front of the vast, chilly room, started ringing bells, and then began the auction. The auctioneers at work were like spoken-word artists or rappers or preachers possessed by the spirit. There was an amazing verbal and physical energy to their performances -- and performances they were. Even though they were conducting separate auctions, their movements, though lightning fast, seemed almost perfectly synchronized. Had they been dancers in a Broadway show, their number would have been a show-stopper. I can't do justice to the experience. Perhaps it's enough to say that it was worth getting up at 4 o'clock in the morning to see it! And because of the aforementioned battery failure, I didn't have my camera with me either, so I've "borrowed" some photos from National Geographic so you can see what the market looks like. These images are amazingly like what we saw this morning.

(Photo Credits: James L. Stanfield, National Geographic)

There is so much more to tell about the past two days, which have been full of so much bliss on so many levels. This is not the long, richly detailed post I wanted to write, but it's the one I was able to produce at the end of a day that began at 4 a.m. yesterday. More soon, I hope, before this humble English prof returns Roxie's World to its sole owner and proprietor.

Love to all,
Moose

P.S. to Rox and all her terrier fans: Thought you would like to see this photo of what looks for all the world like an ancient Japanese terrier, which I managed to snap yesterday in the Tokyo National Museum before I got yelled at for using my flash. Sure looks like a fox to me, don't you think? I'll let Roxie and her new pal Foxy weigh in on this vital matter of history and lineage, but I think it proves what we fox folk have always known: Terriers RULE!

On Seeing "Sameness"

Postcard from Japan (#8)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Scene One: Breakfast, ANA Hotel, Hiroshima

We’re in a rush, nearly an hour behind schedule because someone was up late blogging last night and then couldn’t fall asleep. We’re seated next to a “white” family but are focused on trying to figure out why we’re given lunch menus when the breakfast buffet is still out. We resolve that international puzzle and are tucking into our scrambled eggs when the woman next to us turns and says in a loud whisper, “It’s so nice to see non-Asians.” Yikes, we think, what is she assuming about us, and how do we respond to such an opening line? I think I took another bite of egg. Goose probably said something vague and noncommital like, “We’re pleased that it’s less humid here than it was in Kyoto.” Fortunately, a conversation ensued, and we quickly reached more comfortable ground. They were Dubliners, a mom, dad, and teenaged son just in the night before from Shanghai. They’ve been traveling for nearly a month. They are having the time of their lives, though the son seems a little road-weary and the mom thinks the Chinese are “pushy.” Dad, however, is wildly enthusiastic about China and insists we have to go there, and when we go we have to stay in Hyatts. “Hyatt is all over China,” he says, “and they’re wonderful. You have to go. China is where it’s at.” Dad is a little hard to understand, because his voice is soft and low, but his zeal for China is palpable. They’ll be staying in the Park Hyatt Tokyo on the 13th, the day we leave for home.

This close encounter is the first of this sort that we’ve had since we’ve been here, though I’ve noticed how often our glances momentarily lock on those of other “non-Asians” as we walk through the streets or sit on trains or see the sights. Perhaps it’s a reflex action, a natural response by members of a group accustomed to being in the majority who suddenly find themselves radically in the minority. Perhaps it’s another aspect of the “Nara-tology” problem I mused upon yesterday. When so much in a new environment is so deeply unfamiliar, like reaches toward like, even if the likeness proves to be superficial or based on error. I’m realizing, for example, that I was initially reading the “non-Asians” I was seeing as mostly Americans, but that is by no means the case. American tourists are far outnumbered here by Europeans, French and Germans in particular, and by Australians. Sameness and difference are shifting grounds, equally treacherous, equally uncertain, it turns out, in travel as in critical theory.

Scene Two: Ferry to Miyajima

Straight couple in their mid-30s is behind us in line for the ferry. He’s worried that they need tickets to get on board, though they have passes from the rail company that runs the ferry. He’s worrying in a loud voice with a British accent. We turn and assure him that you don’t need tickets when there aren’t reserved seats. We’ve got the passes, too. We learned this lesson half an hour ago in the Hiroshima station and are pleased to pass it along to fellow travelers. His girlfriend has a British accent too -- kind of but not exactly. We chat with them for most of the short ferry ride. Where have you been? What have you done? How long are you here? They also stayed in the Park Hyatt Tokyo and were jealous to hear that we would be going back in a few days. The girlfriend, it turns out, is from San Antonio, Texas but has lived in London for the past three years. “Oh, sweetheart,” I wanted to say after knowing her for ten minutes, “what else are you hiding beneath that fake little voice of yours? Whatever it is, is it really worth all the effort you’re making to conceal it?”

Scene Three: Train from Miyajima to Hiroshima

Mom in her mid-thirties is traveling with her daughter, who looks to be around six. They are seated facing us, speaking French. The kid is adorable. My heart melts. The train is crowded with day-trippers from Miyajima and assorted locals. A Japanese man with a cat in a carrier stands next to us and puts the cat carrier down on the floor. He engages the little girl’s attention by speaking to her and pointing out the cat. She is mesmerized, keeps tapping on the top of the carrier to get the cat to look at her. Suddenly, she looks over at me and asks if I speak French. “Oui,” I say, friendly but self-conscious about my rusty French, “un peu.” I ask her if she has a cat at home and she says she does, but he lives in the garden. Actually, Mom had to clarify that part for me. I have a hard time understanding the girl’s French. We have another version of the travelers’ chat, but this one feels warmer, probably because the kid is so cute and the cat gives all of us an excuse to smile and be silly. At some point we shift into English so that Goose can join the conversation (and I can stop asking the poor woman to repeat herself). Mom is a little uncertain about where their stop is, and they wind up exiting suddenly, a couple of stops before the main Hiroshima station. We barely have a chance to say good-bye, but when they reach the platform they turn back and wave. I’m not sure if they’re waving at us or at the cat, but we wave back enthusiastically. What’s funny to me is that I have found myself ready to lapse into French on several occasions on this trip, because it is wired into my limited brain as “the language that is not English.” I default into it whenever my main programming language doesn’t work. There it is again: the irresistible urge to find sameness within difference, to make the unfamiliar familiar. Oh, well. At least the French finally came in handy.

The trip is winding down now, kids. Tomorrow we’re off to Hakone for our night at a traditional Japanese inn (with thermal baths), then back to Tokyo for the last hurrah. Below are a few shots from Hiroshima and Miyajima. It was a little jarring to move from the somberness of Hiroshima to the loveliness of Miyajima, but part of what one takes away from Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Park and Museum is the value and necessity of finding (or building) beauty after ruin, so perhaps the contradiction between the two places isn’t as jarring as it seems. In any case, I won’t touch the subjects of war, peace, and nuclear weaponry, at least not here, not tonight. It’s late, and this weary traveler needs to get some sleep. I’ll let Goose pop off on those topics in Comments.

Love to all,
Moose

Memorial Cenotaph, Peace Memorial Park, Hiroshima
A-Bomb Dome (formerly Hiroshima's Industrial Promotion Hall, this building was directly below the atomic bomb blast but did not collapse)
O-torii ("big gate"), Miyajima (not quite high tide, so the "floating" effect is incomplete)
Floating Women (Photo Credit: Sweet probably German guy on beach)

Nara-tology

Postcard from Japan (#7)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Full disclosure: I coined the neologism “Nara-tology” on the train down to Nara before we had seen even a glimpse of its splendors and knew that it was deserving of such cleverness. I hope I don’t get in trouble with the Creative Division for that bit of advance planning, but this daily deadline pressure is killing me. I grab inspiration whenever and wherever I find it. Besides, I figured the English profs and grad students who are vicariously traveling with us on this journey would get a kick out of the pun. The two English profs who were actually on the train with me (Goose and the Bostonian) certainly chuckled, but I laughed uproariously, being, as usual, inordinately amused by my own joke.

By the end of our half-day (Monday) in Nara, we had collectively coined a couple of other clever and useful terms: Temple Snobbery and Temple Psychosis. “Temple Snobbery” is suffered by someone who has spent several days bagging the major temples of Kyoto, then stepped off the train in Nara and marched straight up to Todai-ji, the extraordinary temple that houses the Daibutsu, the colossal bronze statue of the Buddha. (Read more about Todai-ji here. Read more about the city of Nara here.) Once you’ve done that, especially if you’re on foot and the temperature and humidity are both somewhere in the 90s, you suddenly find you’re less impressed with the lesser, though lovely, temples that are everywhere in Nara. Oh, sure, we forged on to Ni-gatsu-do (Second Month Temple) to take in the panoramic views from its hilltop veranda and then headed for Kasuga Taisha to see the famous 2000 stone lanterns that line its pretty pathways through the woods. Your three middle-aged white chicks were as intrepid and cheerful as the Von Trapp family children singing their way through the (cool) Alpine countryside. And yet, by the time we got to Kasuga Taisha, we all agreed we didn’t need to pay the 500 yen entry fee to gain access to the main part of the temple complex. The afternoon was advancing. We hadn’t eaten lunch. We had more temples on our list to see.

In other words, we were rapidly advancing toward a state of Temple Psychosis, a condition not dissimilar to a traveler’s ailment Goose and I years ago identified as “Museum Psychosis.” You know the symptoms. You’ve been in Europe for about ten days, hitting the highlights of Westuhn Culcha. Suddenly you realize you’re wandering in a blind daze from one room to another. “Oh, look,” you think to yourself, “a Titian.” You shuffle to the next painting. “Huh, a Veronese. God, my feet hurt.” Next. “Hmmm, Tintoretto. Nice colors. I think I have to pee.” Yesterday, by the time we got to Kofuku-ji, with its impressive five-story pagoda, we could barely be bothered to point our cameras skyward to try to capture its magnificence. Temple Psychosis had definitely taken hold. Fortunately, the condition is amenable to a simple treatment of food, drink, and air-conditioning, all of which we were able to find in a small restaurant close to the train station on our way back. Within minutes, the lights were back on in all our eyes, and we declared another day of triumphant touring.

My jokes about the bodily and psychic discomforts of travel aside, Nara really is a spectacular place. The massive Daibutsu, with his huge, steady eyes and his gently upraised hand, inspires something close to awe. I continue to be struck by the mixture of tourism and reverence we see in all of these places and deeply moved by being in a culture so much quieter and more considerate than my own. It’s hard to write about it without sounding like an idiot who thinks she’s discovered the essence of the East five minutes after her plane landed. It’s equally hard to turn off the impulse to interpret everything according to the grid of that home culture, even when so many of the operative distinctions seem clearly not to work in the same way. Is that a wealthy neighborhood or a poor one, I wonder, as the bullet train speeds by a cluster of homes built close to the tracks? At home, of course, the rich never live close to the railroad tracks, but some of these houses seem solid, substantial, built out of expensive materials, though others. . .not so much. Is this an urban space or a rural one, I try to fathom, noting the rice paddies that butt up against the industrial-looking buildings? Is that a dyke? A tranny? A butch? A straight woman in sensible shoes? You see how quickly my “Nara-tology” has become a theory of uncertainty, of a defamiliarization so thorough that a reader can only shake her head and say, “I’m not sure. I’m just not sure. Most of my usual toe-holds are gone. I love it, but there is so much I can’t begin to understand.”

And so I remember what our Sweetie Boy (aka Queer Son, aka the Official Prep School Teacher of Roxie’s World), a military brat who spent time in Japan growing up, said to us when we called him from Dulles the morning we left for this trip: “Don’t try to understand it. Just let it wash over you.” Fortunately, I have a high tolerance for certain forms of uncertainty, so I am willing to be washed over, to be unmoored for awhile from the usual machineries of making sense. In less than a week, we’ll be home to a world whose coordinates are as familiar as the sound of our own heartbeats. In the meantime, we adjust – learn to say “thank you” in another language, to bow when we ask questions, to give way to the elderly, to get the cab to drop us at the right entrance to the train station. We do such things because a good “Nara-tology” is always a mixture of certainty and uncertainty, a movement between states of knowing and not-knowing. We work strenuously to make the unfamiliar familiar, because we are always striving to be better readers. And travelers. And humans. Or so we English profs are inclined to believe.

Below are a few photos from the trip to Nara. Please note that the big Buddha is a tough fellow to photograph, being a dark figure in a poorly lighted space. Hilarious shots of Goose feeding deer result from the fact that deer are considered sacred in Nara, which means they are completely domesticated and aggressively butt tourists looking for food. The poor Bostonian has a lovely soiled white linen shirt to prove it.

We are in Hiroshima now, on the day after the 62nd anniversary of the dropping of the atomic bomb. Details tomorrow or the next day on our latest foray into World War Tourism. Peace to you all, beloveds.

Much love,
Moose

Mother Goose Feeds the Deer of Nara

Daibutsu-den (Hall of the Great Buddha, Todai-ji Temple Complex)
Daibutsu (the Great Buddha)

Kaisuga Taisha

The Stone Lanterns of Kasuga Taisha

Sunday on the Streets of Kyoto

Postcard from Japan (#6)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Don't get all excited, kids, because this isn't going to be much of a post. Goose, the Bostonian, and I are getting ready to head off to Nara today (Monday), so I can't hang out here at the computer all day. Sometimes, in order to blog about the vacation, a girl actually has to go out and do a little vacating, you know? Nara is like Six Flags Over Buddhism or something. It's even got the world's tallest Buddha statue, so you know we have to see that. The guidebooks all say so, the American Express travel office said so, and the Bostonian's girlfriend insisted, so away we all shall go, as soon as I post and brush my teeth. The guidebook didn't tell me to do that; I came up with the idea of dental hygiene all by myself.

Yesterday our merry band of middle-aged white chicks hit the streets of Kyoto for more shopping and general exploration. We ended up in the area around Terramachi Street, which has a covered arcade of shops that were mostly tacky, but it was interesting to watch the crowds of non-tourist folks hanging out on a Sunday afternoon. After shopping, we wandered into the Gion district, famous for the tradition of geishas. We had dinner at a lovely spot along the river. We dined al fresco with the din of some kind of market on the river's edge as our background music. The food was Asian with a French twist. Goose had a delicate fish roll with hammo and lobster, the Bostonian had a rather extraordinary tuna "spare rib" (who knew there was such a thing?), and I had pork in a subtle pistachio sauce. We lingered at the table over sake and desserts. My companions, having now signed onto the green-tea project with gusto, ordered a green-tea pannacotta, while I sampled the sherbet of the day.

Here are a few snaps from the day, including a couple of the market by the river. I think the one of me is absolutely hideous, but I thought it was important for readers to see Moose and Goose together on the streets of Japan. Note to self: Next trip has to be to a more hair-friendly destination.

Love to all,
Moose

"Arigato"

Note from the Office of Persona Management:

It has come to our attention that in recent posts the inexperienced blogger known as “Moose” has referred to several individuals by non-blogospheric names such as “Mary Loeffelholz,” “Bob Pollak,” and “Erland Heginbotham.” This is a clear violation of OPM identity protocols and policies, and it has brought shame to all of us here in Roxie’s World. We would cut off “Moose’s” access to this space if we didn’t realize the mistake arose from jetlag and the aforementioned inexperience. Also, the Office of Clicks and Eyeballs reports that traffic on Roxie’s World is up significantly since “Moose” started offering up morsels of travel commentary and pretty pictures from Japan, so in the interest of giving the people what they want we have decided to let her keep posting but put her on a shorter leash. Our sincere apologies to those individuals whose “real world” identities were inadvertently revealed. Henceforth, they shall be known in these precincts as, respectively, the Bostonian, the Affable Economist, and the Sage Asianist. Please delete all other identity references from your memory banks.

Yours sincerely,

Mark Twain, Director
Office of Persona Management
RW Enterprises, LLC

Postcard from Japan (#5)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Wow, sorry for ruffling feathers over in OPM. Like I said, this blogging business is a lot harder than it was when all I had to do was type!

Back to what I do best: Saturday was an action-packed adventure here in Kyoto. Goose and the Bostonian were liberated from the conference and eager to do some serious exploration of the city, so we set off to the east side of town to hit as many temples, shrines, and other highlights as we could. Or so we thought, until the cab dropped us off at a temple on the west side of town, having heard our efforts to communicate our desire to go to the temple of Ginkaku-ji (which means “Temple of the Silver Pavilion”) as a desire to go to the temple of Kinkaku-ji (which means “Temple of the Golden Pavilion”). No matter. The Golden Pavilion is also a World Heritage Site, and it was well worth visiting. Originally built in 1393 as a shogun’s retirement home, the temple was rebuilt in 1955 after a fire, which was when all three stories of the building were covered in gold leaf, in accordance with the shogun’s original intentions. The golden structure seems to float above the beautiful pond on which it is built. Grounds are lovely, too, though the place is so packed with tourists that it’s difficult to stop and enjoy them.


From the Golden Pavilion, we found our way to our original destination, having learned to point things out on a map to make sure our awkward efforts to communicate were understood. The Silver Pavilion, is not, alas, silver, apparently because the shogun who built it for his retirement home ran short of time and money before he could carry out his plans. Buildings here are less impressive (at least from the outside, which is all we were able to see), but the grounds are beautiful – dry Zen gardens of raked sand, a verdant pond garden, a moss garden, tall, thin trees that reach skyward. This place manages to feel meditative despite the crowds.


Having bagged two major temples, we headed down the Path of Philosophy, which runs beside a delicate stream, in search of shade and quieter places. Goose and the Bostonian were having the experience of unrelenting heat and stultifying humidity that I had had over the past couple of days. We were a sweaty pack of middle-aged American grrls making our way along the path, but we embraced all the afternoon offered in a spirit of adventure and had a wonderful time. Just a few steps off the path, we found the temple of Honen-in, which gets my vote for highlight of the day. It was practically deserted, so it was easier to take in the feeling of tranquility that permeated the place – from its thatched-roof gate to its beautifully tended gardens to its large, peaceful cemetery. We splashed water on our faces from trickling fountains and reveled in a moment of coolness before finding our way back to the path. (Paws up to the Bostonian, by the way, who turns out to be a pretty darn good pathfinder. Even Goose deferred to her impressive skill in this arena. I will follow anyone who pretends to know where they are going because I never do, but that Bostonian knows how to read a map.)


We stopped briefly at a couple of shrines (the names of which we didn’t even note, though one was probably Okazaki) before deciding to head to a main street in search of shopping and cold beverages. We found the Kyoto Craft Center and spent a happy air-conditioned hour looking for ways to invest in the local economy. The Bostonian was successful in that mission, Goose and I less so. They had some beautiful stuff, but nothing spoke to me loudly enough to talk its way into my suitcase for the trip home.

Our quest for cold beverages was, like all good quests, fraught with difficulty yet ultimately successful. It can be hard to spot bars and cafes on the streets of Kyoto, but we were surprised to see so few in a busy part of town on a Saturday evening. We wandered for several long, hot blocks without seeing anything that looked like a bar. Finally, as we came to the river that divides the city in two along its north-south axis, we looked off to the right and saw a sign for Heartland Beer. (Never heard of it? Yeah, me neither.) Our spirits lifted as we made our way into a small but pretty and welcoming place that was deserted except for a friendly guy behind the bar. We settled into seats, managed to communicate a desire for beers all around, and toasted our good fortune in the delightful afternoon. With the first round, we were brought tiny bowls of delicious seaweed. By the second round, a woman had come in to wait tables, and we each got some sort of mystery nut or radish that popped into our mouths when we bit its skin. Then we were treated to sake served in the prettiest frosted glasses I had ever seen, at which point the sake-seeking Bostonian got all misty-eyed and said, “Let’s just stay here for dinner.” Goose and I immediately agreed that we had stumbled onto something marvelous and that we should embrace it as we had the other adventures of the day, assuming of course we could figure out how to explain what we wanted in the absence of English menus.

The Bostonian and I left that job to Goose, who can usually be relied upon to get what she wants through a combination of broad smiles, large gestures, and the repetition of a few key words. Sure enough, she and the waitress managed to settle on a menu of sashimi and tempura that proved to be stunning for its simplicity and freshness. We had a course of salmon and a course of yellowtail as well as the tempura, and then the Bostonian declared we had to have octopus. To convey this inspiration, the Bostonian drew a picture of an octopus on a napkin, which amused our host to no end while successfully communicating our desire. He consulted with other patrons on how to ask us if we would like our octopus to be “spicy.” We assured him we did. A few minutes later, there arrived on our table the most sublime octopus I have ever ingested. We devoured it and nearly wept with pleasure. Then I insisted we have green-tea ice cream for dessert because I am doing a study of green-tea ice cream on this trip and needed to conduct essential research. Even the ice cream was perfect.

Our evening of cross-cultural culinary nirvana ended on a note of high hilarity, as we insisted on thanking our hosts in their native language. Late in the meal, I had realized our Fodor’s has a glossary of basic Japanese words in the back. We had looked up the word for “thank you,” but under the pressure of actually trying to say it to someone we all got tongue-tied. “Wait, wait,” I said to our uncomprehending but smiling host and grabbed the book to look it up again. I flipped frantically around until finally I landed on the desired word. I looked up with a goofy grin and declared, “Arigato,” as proudly as if the word had never been said before. Our hosts beamed, bowed, and said “Arigato” right back to us, and then Goose, the Bostonian, and all the other patrons joined in a lusty chorus of “Arigatos” that accompanied us out the door and into the damp yet slightly cooler Kyoto evening. At that moment, I think it’s fair to say, we were the happiest travelers on the face of the earth. We would pass along the name of this fine establishment where we enjoyed such extraordinary food, drink, and conviviality, but the business card is written in Japanese, so we have no idea what it’s called. Perhaps the Bostonian will supply directions to the place in Comments.

Peace out, kids. Sorry for the late post, but it was a long day and it took awhile to write it all up. Arigato for your patience.

Love to all,
Moose

The Tourist as Bad Student

Postcard from Japan (#4)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Friday was a low-key day, touring-wise. Goose is embroiled in the conference, and the weather has been iffy with a typhoon, or rumors of a typhoon, somewhere in the area. The air is thick enough to slice, and the sky looks like it will explode at any moment, so the affable economist and I decided to keep things simple and just do an afternoon tour of the Kyoto Imperial Palace, conveniently located in a large, lovely park right across the street from our hotel. Our simple plan required not one but three trips through the park -- the first to ascertain that we could get a permit to join a tour that day, the second to actually get the permit, which we couldn't get on the first trip because someone neglected to bring her passport along (not realizing that proof of identity was necessary for a walk through a park), and the third for the tour itself, which turned out to be not an intimate look at the inner world of the palace but, as I said, a walk through the park that allowed distant views through the open doors of the palace.

When I realized that was all we were getting, I have to confess I sort of checked out on what the tour guide was saying and started scouting around for photo opportunities, keeping in mind my obligations to the loyal readers of Roxie's World. (I know it's late on the East Coast, and you haven't had your update yet today. Inexperienced as I am as a blogger, I feel your restless fingers out there, clicking on reload again and again, eager for your fix. Now I appreciate the pressure poor Roxie has felt in the past 18 months, the pressure of all that concentrated longing. Gosh, Rox, I don't know how you handle it.) Anyway, as I wandered around looking high and low for potential sources of eye candy, the guide's words occasionally landed in my brain, much as the words of Charlie Brown's school teacher would reach him from time to time. Here's a little sample of what was going on in my mind as the tour unfolded:

Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah, this room was used for ceremonial purposes, such as the Coming-of-Age Ceremony. . . .blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, damn, is it starting to rain? I think it's starting to rain. Or maybe it's just drizzling. Should I put the camera in the pack so it doesn't get wet and get out the umbrella? Yes, I think I should get out the umbrella. Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, this is the gate that the emperor uses when he is at the palace. This is the gate that lesser royals use when the emperor is not at the palace, and that gate, the one you came in, is the one that servants use. Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah, okay, maybe it isn't really going to rain. Should I put the umbrella away and get the camera back out? I think I should. I've got to get a shot of those finials on the roof. Those are the most fabulous finials I have ever seen. To hell with the rain. Roxie's readers will want to see those finials. Is that the right word, though? Are those really "finials"? Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah, this building houses the imperial thrones. In the center you see the emperor's throne. Over there to the left is the throne of the empress. It is ten percent smaller than the emperor's throne. Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah, and this is the Oikeniwa Garden, a strolling garden with an arc-shaped bridge stretching across the pond, and blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah, okay, kids, now we're gettin' somewhere, nothing like a Japanese garden for some good eye candy.

You get the drift. See for yourself whether my lack of concentration resulted in decent photographs.

Last night was the conference banquet, our second night in a row of a full-on traditional Japanese feast. I can't begin to recapitulate how many courses we had or what we ate, mostly because I often had no clear sense of what it was I was putting into my mouth, despite attentive and eager-to-explain Japanese table mates. Suffice it to say the meal involved small portions of everything but cheese and was mostly delicious. One Japanese custom around the rituals of eating and drinking that has impressed me is the one about re-filling drinks. You are never supposed to re-fill your own glass, because to do so implies that your dining companions aren't taking good care of you. As soon as your glass is half-empty, someone is likely to re-fill it. You are also never supposed to refuse a re-fill. If you're concerned about drinking too much, you just take tiny sips and try to assure that your glass stays at least half-full. (There's a half-empty, half-full joke in there somewhere, but I'm in too much of a hurry to make it.) Or, you just keep knocking them back to allow your dining companions to demonstrate how caring and attentive they are. Which is pretty much how I handled this crucial question of etiquette on foreign soil.

Saturday afternoon the conferees are liberated from the program to go touring. Goose and I will be off with Mary Loeffelholz to east Kyoto for temples, geishas, and shopping in more or less that order. More soon, fans, friends, family, and random pointers and clickers. May your glasses always be at least half-full.

Much love,
Moose

Kyoto Imperial Palace Photos

For Your Eyes Only

Postcard from Japan (#3)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Here’s an inconvenient truth: Kyoto is actually not a very attractive city. Someone here at the conference compared it to New Jersey, which was not intended to be flattering, though fans of Roxie’s World with New Jersey connections know well there is great beauty in the Garden State. Anyway, Kyoto: It has a hodge-podge, worn-out, architecturally dull look about it, as if it were thrown together without much thought and then left to its own devices. As you drive through the streets, however, again and again the dullness is interrupted by the unexpected loveliness of a temple or shrine. There are close to two thousand scattered throughout the city, so the eye is constantly surprised by these glimpses of quiet majesty. To the Western eye – or to my Western eye at any rate --, it is a jarring yet delightful experience. I said to a traveling companion yesterday, “I’m not sure what my expectations were regarding temples and Kyoto, but whatever they were they’ve been violated by the reality of the place.” My companion, an Asianist with thirty years of diplomatic experience, smiled and said, “You were expecting something a little more mystical, perhaps?” I had to admit I was, yet I also acknowledged there was something wonderful about seeing the temples so deeply embedded into the fabric of everyday life.

The great temple at Kiyomizu, which I visited on Thursday afternoon with my Asianist friend and an affable economist, departs a bit from this pattern in that it is built into the side of a hill on the eastern edge of the city. You approach it as you approach the cathedral of the Sacre Coeur in Paris, by walking up steep, narrow streets lined with small shops that cater to the thousands of tourists who visit every day. As our Fodor’s describes it: “Supported in part by 139 pillars, the temple juts out over the valley. Finding the courage to set out on a daring new adventure is likened to ‘taking a leap from the veranda of Kiyomizu.’” I like that expression, and I loved the way the bright colors of the temple stood out against the dark green background of the surrounding forest. The temple was originally built in 788, though the current structure dates from 1633. (For more information on Kiyomizu, click here. For more photos, click here.)

I know my modest attempts as a photographer can’t do justice to the beauties of Kiyomizu, but your kind comments have made me bold enough to subject you to more of my efforts. I like imagining that Katie will download these photos into a slideshow, with the perfect bit of Japanese music for accompaniment, as a special treat for her mom, our dear friend Jean, whose birthday is coming up in a few days.

Here then is my gallery of photos from Kiyomizu. I took all the shots, except for the one of a very sweaty me, which was snapped by Erland Heginbotham.

Love to all,
Moose

Views of the Main Temple Building, Kiyomizu






Looking Sideways

Getting Even Wetter

My Posse (Bob Pollak & Erland Heginbotham)

Looking Down on Kyoto

Sound of Feathers Waterfall (the water is drunk to prevent illness)

Random Pretty Statues

Getting Wet

(Note from Tech Support and the Special Task Force on Time Management: Moose wrote this post late last night (Wednesday) Tokyo time so that her East Coast readers would have fresh content early in the day. Unfortunately, the moms don't have in-room internets in their Kyoto hotel, and she couldn't get access to a connection in the lobby last night. Bear with us, kids. Our foreign correspondent is doing her level best to live up to her duties to supply a steady stream of eye candy and charming bits of local color to make us all feel that we are right there with them as Moose and Goose explore strange, distant lands. Let's catch up on yesterday's activities.)
(Photo Credit: Park Hyatt Tokyo)

Postcard from Japan (#2)

Dear Rox and LLF,

Today we are here, really here – not looking over our shoulders searching for the thirteen hours of our lives we lost when we crossed the International Dateline, not scared out of our minds (er, my mind) at every little moment of confusion that arises from living in a state of functional illiteracy. Today, we are here, in Japan, and it is glorious.

Paws up to Goose for booking us into a luxury hotel with a beautiful pool 47 floors off the ground. We began the day today with a swim in that pool, and it knocked the last vestiges of jet lag out of our systems, smoothed out all the kinks we got from sitting too long in one place and throwing overloaded backpacks too quickly over one shoulder. Morning light poured in through walls of solid glass, and we had the pool to ourselves for the first ten minutes or so. The water felt smooth as silk, and my strokes felt good, though I am not in shape for swimming, having been in a pool just a handful of times this summer. Still, swimming is such a primal activity, and it’s one that’s always had powerful emotional resonances for me, because I grew up with a backyard pool and spent the summers of childhood on swim teams. I love the clarity and simplicity of the body slicing quietly through water, the balanced movements of pulling and kicking, the gentle rhythms of the breath, in and out, in and out. I stepped out of the pool and felt completely myself again for the first time in a couple of weeks.

We checked out of the hotel and went straight to the train station to catch a bullet train for Kyoto in the middle of the afternoon. The rainy season has officially ended, but the air is hot and sticky – as warm as Washington in August but with an extra dollop or two of tropical humidity thrown in for good measure. We got there early, of course, to give ourselves plenty of time to be dazed and confused and still have a chance to buy lunch. Yes, Geoffrey, we got bento boxes and were on the platform ready to go a half hour before departure time. We stood there, proud and wilting in the sultry afternoon. At a certain point, I realized, you just have to abandon yourself to the experience of moisture like this. You give yourself over to it, because no matter what you say or think or do, your hair will end up plastered to your head, your shirt will be soaked, and even your pants will seem to be dripping wet. Happily, the train was on time and comfortably air-conditioned, so we dried out quickly and ate our lunches while the scenery flew by. The bullet trains really are amazing – fast, clean marvels of efficiency. We’ve got rail passes for the rest of our time here, and I look forward to spending lots of time on these beautiful trains.

We got into Kyoto around 4:30 and checked into our hotel, which is, let us say, modest in comparison with the Park Hyatt Tokyo but perfectly adequate. (Then again, the Taj Mahal might be modest in comparison with the Park Hyatt, so perhaps such comparisons are unfair). We met a few of the Dickinson folk as they straggled in from various places in more or less the same state of jet-lagged enervation. We got a dinner recommendation from the conference director and the desk clerk and headed off on our own to discover the culinary delights of Kyoto. We were not disappointed. The place was called Kamanza, and we sat at the bar, where we could watch four chefs in tight quarters perform an impressively choreographed ballet of prepping and cooking. We ate eel prepared to look like white flowers -- a summer specialty of Kyoto, according to the menu – minced pork in lettuce wraps, sautéed spinach, a couple of chicken skewers, and green-tea ice cream for dessert. It was all delicious, cheap, and served up in a welcoming atmosphere that included a musical backdrop of the kind of bad 70s music I love and Goose hates. Within our first twenty minutes there, we had heard “Reunited,” “Maggie May,” and “All I Need Is the Air that I Breathe (and to Love You).” Sweetie Boy, ya shoulda been there.

Back at the hotel, we found Dickinson pal Mary Loeffelholz in dire need of resuscitation through sake, so we headed right back out to another local establishment, which served equally good food though not very impressive sake. It appears further research on that crucial question is in order, but, hey, we are all trained researchers. I think we can handle it. I will keep you posted.

On tap for tomorrow: Goose is in Dickinson Society board meetings. Moose will be off on a preliminary sightseeing venture with other conference widows and widowers. So many temples, so little time.

Hope things are good on the homefront, Rox. One of the nice things about being thirteen hours ahead of the U.S. is that we blithely live most of our days before George Bush has gotten out of bed and mucked up the world any more than it was mucked up yesterday. That’s kind of nice. Be good for Aunt Isa, Rox, and thanks for giving me access to your legions of loyal fans. As an academic, I am not accustomed to having such a vast and passionately devoted following, but I will try my darndest to deserve some tiny slice of the loyalty Ms. Roxie has so carefully cultivated during her time in the blogosphere.

Back home, you are all settling into your cocktails, but here in Kyoto it's now time for breakfast. More later, if I can commandeer a cable.

Love to all,
Moose

Chasing Daylight

Postcard from Japan (#1)

Dear Roxie and Legions of Loyal Fans (henceforth "LLF"),

This will be brief, as it's past 10:30 p.m. in Japan, and our bodies are still trying to find their way in time. My computer tells me it's 9:35 a.m. at home, yet Goose and I just finished a lovely dinner here in the hotel. We were both wide awake at 5 this morning, but I think tonight we'll have a normal night's sleep and be more or less on local time tomorrow.

As I noted earlier today in Comments, our trip here was a smooth one. We were both exhausted before we ever got off the ground, so I can't say that I spent the 14 hours on the plane in a particularly productive way. I spent a shocking amount of time pondering the (to me) baffling fact that we traveled thousands of miles west, and it kept getting earlier and earlier and earlier (and it also never got dark), until we crossed a magical line on the planet and discovered it was already tomorrow. At one point, Rox, Goose looked over, and I was making a big globe in the air and dividing it up with vertical lines. . . .Oh, you know how literal I can be, Rox. Anyway, somehow, it is later here, though in California it is earlier. Go figure.

I have to admit we were intimidated this morning about going out to try to conquer this vast city. We had great advice from Luanne's friend Laura over our long breakfast and a detailed session with the hotel concierge, but when we hit the streets on our own it was still challenging to find our way through the maze of streets and the subway system without knowing the language or even the alphabet, though there are English signs here and there, especially in the subway. Ultimately, though, I'm proud to report that we managed to pick up train passes and find our way to Asakusa, site of a Buddhist temple built in 1649, the oldest temple in the city. It's a beautiful place, and it was fascinating to realize that the hordes of "tourists" there clearly saw it as a shrine and treated it with genuine respect (as opposed to the mostly fake respect we're accustomed to seeing in, say, European cathedrals). People paused to pray before statues of the Buddha, covered themselves in smoke from incense, washed themselves in water from fountains. It was a peaceful place, despite the crowds.

(Photo Credit: Moose; Main Hall, Asakusa Shrine, Tokyo)

(Photo Credit: Moose; Thunder God Gate, Asakusa Shrine, Tokyo)

From Asakusa, we went to a "shrine" of another sort, the upscale shopping district of Ginza. There was comfort in being in a place that had the familiarity of places like Fifth Avenue after the overwhelming strangeness of much of the day. The avenues in Ginza are broad, and many of the brand names are familiar, though the most amazing thing we saw was the "food garden" in the basement of the Mistukoshi department store. People had told us this was something we had to experience, and they were right. I've never seen such an astonishing array of delectable looking food. We bought some dumplings and sushi and then wrestled with the difficult question of where to eat. Goose was convinced that plopping down and eating in some random public place would constitute a major breach of local etiquette. I was starving and insisted that we sit down and eat the food we had bought and paid for. "Look, anyone who sees us knows we're Americans. They already think we're barbarians. Sometimes nationalistic stereotypes can be very convenient. Sit down. Eat." And so we did, though the normally "rules-are-for-little-people" Goose was dying from embarrassment the whole time. What can I say? We're in another world. The rules and the roles get a little screwy, though, fortunately, Goose can still get us home, no matter how challenging it is to navigate.

'Night, Rox. 'Night, LLF. We're closing in on midnight in Tokyo, which means it's darn near the day after tomorrow, and I'm afraid I can't handle a conundrum of that scale. Tomorrow afternoon, we head to Kyoto to hook up with the Dickinson folk. More from there.

Peace out,
Moose

(Photo Credit: Moose; Ginza District, Tokyo)