Becky's Kanoya Blog

Three Things to Do With a Giant Jar of Honey

2010-05-26T20:25:00.000+09:00

May 26, 2010

I’m talking about the good kind of honey. Not the supermarket, squeeze-through-a-plastic-bottle kind. This is the honey you found at a farmer’s market or at a Co-op and splurged on. A rich, thick, delectable honey. Pure sweetness spun into liquid gold. It sticks to your spoon and sticks to the top of your mouth and makes you think of summer fields.

The problem was that they weren’t selling it in tiny little jelly jars. The only size available would, if empty, hold a month’s worth of coffee. So, you have your honey; now what? But fear not. A little creativity and that giant jar of honey will empty faster than you would believe. I humbly offer these tips.

1. Dip strawberries into it.

Admit it: you’ve been eyeballing those small, bright red strawberries they sell at that same Farmer’s Market, haven’t you? Well, go ahead and buy a pack. For an extra kick of sweetness, set out a small bowl of honey and dip them in. The honey is sweeter than sugar, and will wrap around the fruit like a glaze. It’s a simple, light, yet delicious summer dessert.

2. Add it to your coffee.

Want to make plain old coffee exotic? Add a teaspoon of cinnamon to your coffee grounds, and, after brewing, add honey instead of sugar. The unexpected blend of flavors will jolt you awake. It’s a good way to make your coffee special without spending extra money.

3. Make French Toast.

Get some thick slices of homemade bread and dip it in a mixture of egg, milk, vanilla, sugar, and cinnamon. Fry the bread in butter until brown. Add strawberries and honey instead of maple syrup. Good bread, cinnamon, honey, and strawberries swirl around for homey-spicy-sweet-tart palette of taste. I recommend eating it on an early summer evening while listening to Ella Fitzgerald.

Golden Week: Hiroshima

2010-05-26T20:03:00.009+09:00

May 22, 2010

Hiroshima was our last stop. We arrived by ferry on May 4th and took a street car to the center of the city. Thus far, all my cities have been obscure, but I’m sure the name Hiroshima rings a bell. The iconic Atom Bomb Dome, stripped bare and mangled, sits at the beginnings of Peace Park; follow all those paper cranes until you come to the Peace Museum detailing the horrors of the end of World War II.

Hiroshima Castle

But neither Masako nor I were in any mood to visit the Peace Park or the Peace Museum. Masako had been traumatized by the museum, and I, having seen it once before, wanted to see other aspects of the city. So, instead, we went to Hiroshima Castle and Shukkei Park.

Hiroshima Castle is, naturally, a reconstruction; it was already a wreck before the Atomic Bomb dropped and finished it off. One interesting thing I noticed was that there were ruins of former military headquarters all over the grounds of the castle. In fact, one sign said that Hiroshima Castle hosted “the partially underground strategic command control room and the communication room of the Chugoku Regional Military Headquarters” during World War II. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was one of the reasons Hiroshima was targeted for the atomic bomb. This same sign also mentioned that students from the Hijiyama Girls’ High School were working in this same communication room, and they were the first ones to report the news of Hiroshima’s destruction to the rest of Japan.

Ruins of Old Military Headquarters

Today the castle is beautiful. There are green lawns and green trees and green-blue water in the moat. The “Carp Castle” Hiroshima Castle is sometimes called, and indeed, it lived up to its name. Carp swam in the moats and carp flags blew in the wind at a shrine in the castle grounds. Inside the castle, there was good English signs, and I found out interesting things about the Lord of Hiroshima Castle.* I have to say, it was my favorite castle of the trip.

Shukkei Garden

Shukkei Garden is no one’s prize-winning garden, but it was fun and, because it happened to be Green Day, we got in free. And really, how can you not love a garden where turtles swim so close you can reach your fingers into the water and stroke their smooth shells? There were several small islands and stone bridges and huge Peony flowers shaded by artful red umbrellas.

Turtles at Shukkei

But the best part was when we stopped for a snack. Masako bought a cone of soft serve ice cream and discovered that she had gotten two cones instead of one—when she bit into the paper wrapper of the second one. She had to gnaw the edges of the first cone while pulling out the paper of the second, all the while I laughed and cruelly snapped photos.

The specialty food of Hiroshima is okonomiyaki—a kind of savory pancake. Usually it’s a mixture of batter, cabbage, and meat, but in Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, or Hiroshima-yaki, they make each layer separately and add yakisoba noodles to boot. I still remembered the first time I came to Hiroshima, as an exchange student, in March of 2005. We came to the station at noon, and the smoke of okonomiyaki filled our nostrils. But time was short, and the counters were crowded. So, we went to another restaurant and passed on our one chance to eat Hiroshima-yaki.

Okonomiyaki: Phase 1

I have regretted that moment ever since.

This time, I was bound and determined to eat Hiroshima-yaki, so Masako and I hunted down a place called Okonomiyaki Mura (Village). It was actually a building with three stories crammed with cheap-looking okonomiyaki stands, none all the different than the rest. Masako and I finally decided on one run by an old man with baseball posters.

Okonomiyaki: Phase 2

Watching the okonomiyaki cook is half the fun, so I took plenty of pictures and hastily scribbled notes (which, after three weeks, no longer make sense). Here’s the gist of it: first the man ladled a thin amount of batter, like a crepe, onto the sizzling iron counter. He piled cabbage, bean sprouts, green onions, tempura bits, and pork onto the crepe, also sprinkling seasoning, and added oil to the grill. Then he flipped the whole thing over, so that the pancake was on top and the pork was directly under the heat. The pancake acted as a lid, he explained, and steamed the vegetables. The vegetables steamed for some time. In the meantime, he put yakisoba noodles (cold ramen) on the counter and fried it up with salt and oil. The pancake went down the yakisoba. The last ingredient was an egg, which he scrambled into a yellow circle. When the okonomiyaki was arranged, pancake-side first, on the plate, he cut it into four pieces with his spatulas, painted on okonomiyaki sauce, and topped it all off with bits of seaweed.

So, now I had my Hiroshima-yaki. My purpose in this vacation was complete. I could go home a happy woman.

Okonomiyaki: Final Result

* The Lord of Hiroshima: I was trying to find out the family crest of the Lord of Hiroshima, when, lo and behold, I discovered it was the exact same motif as Lord of Choshu (Yamaguchi): a bar and three dots. The Lord’s name was Mori—again, sounding familiar of Choshu. Well, it turned out that Mori Terumoto was the Lord of Choshu—and Hiroshima—and about 5 other Domains. (Makes sense; Yamaguchi and Hiroshima are neighbor prefectures.) However, Mori lost in the crucial battle of Sekigahara in 1600 to the Tokugawa family and their allies. As a result, he lost all but two Domains, and had to give up Hiroshima to the Fukushima and later Asano families. Which sort of explains why Choshu hated the Tokugawas enough to overthrow their entire 250 long reign as Shoguns by the year 1868. Oh, the hostility that battle caused. Another loser of Sekigahara, Satsuma (Kagoshima) also helped topple the Shogunate.

Golden Week: Matsuyama, Day 2

2010-05-26T19:29:00.014+09:00

May 22, 2010

Masako really liked the business hotel. For her, sleeping on a bed was a treat. We were both too tired to play crossword puzzles, and to be honest, I was getting a little bored of them anyway, so we just went to bed early. We’d already decided to be down for breakfast by 7:00 the next morning and leave the hotel shortly thereafter. After all, the early bird gets the worm, and the early tourist avoids the crowds.

Somewhat.

Dogo Onsen

On Monday, May 3rd, just before 8:00 AM, Masako and I arrived at the historic Dogo Onsen, an old public bath house, whose special waters had its own shrine (I kid you not) just down the lane. The sun was beginning to stroke the blue-green tiles of the roof, and there was already a line coming out the door.

Fortunately, the line was only for the people wanting the deluxe bath, with tea and a yukata (bath robe) after it. Masako and I opted for the $4 regular option. Even so, we still had to wait in line for 15 minutes to use the showers. Women sat there washing their hair, rinsing, sudsy-ing, and rinsing again. I was getting annoyed. When it was my turn, I was done in about 5 minutes. (I did not wash my hair, by the way.)

Matsuyama Bathhouse

Although the bath house seemed fairly large from the outside, the bath itself was small. The women gathered around the edges, making it difficult to find an opening to step in. The water wasn’t too hot, and there was a white fountain in the center that poured streams of water soothingly on my neck and back. On the back wall, there was some kind of picture on the ceramic tiles, but as I didn’t have my glasses, I had to go right up to it and squint.

Botchan Clock Botchan Clock

Stepping out of the bath at about 15 minutes ‘til 9:00, the line into Dogo Onsen was even longer, making a maze-like formation on the side, the kind you see at amusement parks just outside the big coaster. Crowded as it had been, we were lucky we had got there early. At 9:00, the Botchan Clock played whimsical music, and characters from Natsume Soseki’s famous novel popped out and bobbed back and forth to the song.

Ishite Jizo

Our next stop was Ishite, one of the weirdest Buddhist temples I have ever been to. It seemed like people took architectural elements from all the different sects and threw them randomly together. There were several small Jizo statues for children who died in infanthood; an elephant statue and a temple that had a needle pointing up; and round Christmas-looking ornaments hanging near red-haired, blue-skinned warrior gods painted on a wall. I didn’t really know what to make of it. Neither did Masako, though her family’s not Buddhist either.

Buddhist Caves

There were also some caves, or cement tunnels if you like, which I found by following white-clad pilgrims to what looked like a door into a hill. I climbed right on in, and Masako bravely followed, despite not really liking caves. It was cool and pitch dark in there. I could make out white pictures of something on the wall and gray looking shapes, but it wasn’t until I snapped my picture, letting off an explosion of light, that I could see the old statues adorned with red cloth, just tossed near the wall in a jumble. As we made our way through the cave, I used my camera’s flash to see what was going on around me.

Then, we went to the treasure house. I normally don’t like these things, because I can never understand what all the weird random artifacts actually are. But this time, I had Masako to explain it to me. The Major Treasure of the Temple and the reason for its name was—drum roll please—a small gray pebble about the size of your thumb and forefinger joined together to make a circle.

The Treasure of the Rock

But it’s not just any pebble; of course, there’s a story behind it. Once a very miserly rich man was cruel to a famous monk who happened to be passing through. He threw a bowl at him, and it cracked into three pieces. Later, his three sons died. Repentant, the rich man decided to go on a pilgrimage all around Shikoku to find the monk. This became the basis for the Pilgrimage of 88 Temples, which still goes on to this day. The rich man died without ever meeting the monk in person, though he may have met him in a dream. Years later, the small son of a nobleman held something in his hand and would not let it go. When he finally opened his hand, they saw a small rock with the rich man’s name miraculously written on it. If you squint at the rock, you can still the characters etched into the stone. The temple took charge of this treasure, gradually earning it the name “Ishi-te” or “Rock Hand” Temple.

After visiting a shrine where scholars gave thanks for solutions to tricky math problems and also checking out the aforementioned shrine to the water of Dogo Onsen (which did make my skin feel nice and refreshed), Masako and I caught lunch. We had Tai Meshi, a specialty of the area. Tai is a kind of fish, in this case cut into sashimi and spread over rice. There was also a bowl of yama imo and soy sauce to pour over the fish for flavor. Yama imo—how do I explain this one? The name literally means “Mountain potato,” but the only time I’ve ever seen it is when it’s been grated into a kind of slimy white goop. For some reason, though, I like it, and I rather enjoyed my Tai Meshi as well.

Tai Meshi

Now, so far, I think I’ve been very good about not boring you with a long tirade on some obscure historical figure you don’t really care about. But as we come to the Shiki Memorial Museum, I ask your indulgence just one more time. Because the life of this man really moved me.

Masaoka Shiki was born into the Meiji* era, and in many ways, he was a quintessential man of the times. He enjoyed the new fad sport of baseball, even becoming the one to coin the Japanese word for it, “yakyu.” He was a journalist and went across the seas to cover the Sino-Japanese War. He took a hard look at classical Japanese poetry and made great reforms to the haiku in particular, challenging poets to drop time-worn clichés and create new kinds of verse. He became friends with some of the greatest literary minds of the era, including Natsume Soseki (“Botchan,” I Am a Cat”) and Mori Ogai (“Gan”), and opened a salon of burgeoning poets. And he was dying.

Masaoka Shiki

When he was 21 years old, he spit blood for the first time. That image became his pen name. Shiki is a song bird with a red mouth, a symbol of his illness. This sickness continued until his death in his 40s. So can you imagine spending 20 years knowing your life is slowly spinning away? Can you imagine struggling to be involved in an exciting, tumultuous era of reform, while wracked with pain, immobilized at times? Often, the thought haunts me. If I were to live for only a short time, would I ever be known for anything? And if I, at 21, the pinnacle of youth, discovered that life was ending, would I give up or make the most of what I had?

All right. That’s all I will push on you. Now back to frivolous stuff.

Botchan Dango and Taruto

Masako and I did more sightseeing in the afternoon. We stopped at an old school that marked the first major effort of Matsushima to educate boys in the modern era, which was ironically sat inside an operational public high school (with high school students practicing baseball only a few feet away). We also saw the house Natsume Soseki and Masaoka Shiki shared as roommates, which eventually became Shiki’s salon. Between these two historical buildings, we sipped water at our hotel lobby and ate Botchan dango (three colored balls on a toothpick, with the texture of Playdough, that was surprisingly good) and “Taruto” (what looked like a slice of roll cake with a chestnut inside).

* The Meiji era: from 1868-1912. The era when Japan became modernized. Two important wars were fought at the time. The Sino-Japanese War, wherein Japan and China fought over Korea, ended with a decisive Japanese victory and a signal that Japan was no longer a backwater country. Later, in the Russo-Japanese War, Japan gained a victory over Russia, the first time in modern history that an Asian country defeated a “European” country, causing the West some degree of shock.

Golden Week: Matsuyama, Day 1

2010-05-26T19:06:00.005+09:00

May 22, 2010

The next morning, bright and early, Masako and I crossed the Seto Inland Sea and entered the island of Shikoku. Our train made a satisfying noise as it swooped over the long, steel laced bridge. Shikoku, the last of the four main islands of Japan, is definitely the most rural. I could tell because when we came to Matsuyama, the largest city on the whole island, the station didn’t even have automatic ticket machines; we had to hand our tickets to the people working there.

(Incidentally, Shikoku means “Four Kingdoms.” There are four prefectures there. I had been to three—Tokushima, Kochi, and Kagawa—in summer of 2008. Ehime was the last one.)

Riding on the Seto Inland Bridge

Ehime Prefecture, where Matsuyama City is located, is best known for oranges. But I didn’t want oranges for lunch, so we (and by we, I mean Masako) asked the receptionist at our hotel what was good to eat and where we could eat it. She mentioned Go-shiki Somen, or 5-colored noodles, and also Tai Meshi, Tai being a kind of fish. The restaurant she pointed out had curtains of straw in alternating colors, mimicking the appearance of the somen noodles. Our noodles, however, were primarily white, with a dash of green, pink, and yellow. (What was the fifth color, I wonder?) Even so, the cold somen was delicious, and there was a piece of Tai fish and orange-flavored Inari-zushi (sushi wrapped in sweet tofu).

(Supposedly) 5-Colored Noodles

By now, we were well into Golden Week and it showed. Crowds were everywhere. We had to stand in line just to buy a ticket for the lift that took us up the hill, where Matsuyama Castle was. And when we got there, we were greeted with this announcement: the castle was full, and they weren’t letting people in at this time. Masako and I chilled with some shaved ice (mine had pieces of orange and gelatin at the bottom) and enjoyed the amazing view of the old castle, the city, and the bay.

Matsuyama Vista

Once we finally did get in, we battled more crowds. People, people everywhere, ruining the experience. It was kind of sad because Matsuyama Castle was an original castle, not a reconstructed one, and had lots of English signs, neat tidbits of history, and some cool artifacts. While reviewing my pictures, I stumbled upon a tea caddy with the Tokugawa crest on it (signifying the close relationship between Lord Matsudaira of Matsuyama and the Shogun) and old graffiti of a samurai’s head. But when I think back to the castle, all I can actually recollect is lines of people shuffling around the displays and waiting to go up and down all those steep, dark, narrow staircases.

Golden Week: Kurashiki

2010-05-26T18:52:00.008+09:00

May 22, 2010

Me In Front of Ohara Museum

On May 1st, a Saturday, we visited Kurashiki, a small city a half hour away from Okayama. Fat carp swam in green canals, ivy grew on brick buildings, and vendors spread jewelry over black fabric on the road in the sun. Masako and I went from museum to museum. In the Ohara Museum, the classic Roman build, hid a maze of room, up and down, stuffed with classic Western paintings. Across from that, a very old and traditional house had been bedecked in models of space men and lantern-eyed cats, with a whole dragon’s erupting from the top window. A small private museum housed scarred statues of warriors and crows.

Kojima's Painting

At the Kojima Museum, Masako and I discussed what it meant for art to truly be Japanese. Mr. Kojima was born in the late Meiji era, a time when Japan was borrowing liberally from the West while still trying to maintain their own Japanese soul. One of the main works of Mr. Kojima was a large Impressionistic painting in soft pastels of a Japanese woman in a kimono surrounded by flowers in full bloom. Masako and I both agreed: we didn’t like it. It just didn’t seem Japanese. The flowers exploded every which way, crowding out the empty space, and losing some the simplicity and austerity of the Japanese heart. Another work, done in a realistic “Western style” showed a mother with a child asleep at her breast and a young girl near her sharing a quiet moment in the dark of a water mill. We both loved this painting.

Tea at a Pottery Shop

The day slipped into afternoon. We had frothy green tea and snacks in a pottery shop. Our table was an old stone well with a sheet of glass covering the top. When I looked down, I could see weeds poking out of the cracks and darkness. Around us, sweet-smelling pink orchids brushed against the shelves and shelves of brown bowls and cups. Just above were several beautiful photographs of humming birds, one bird perched on a branch of pink plum blossoms, another hovering above a lucid spear. The shop owner, while whipping up our tea, told us he took the pictures and explained how he arranged the props, lured the birds with honey, and waited hours and hours just to get that one perfect picture.

Shrine at Twilight

The afternoon slipped to twilight. We visited a shrine. At top, a strong wing blew my hair, and we could see all of Kurashiki displayed below us. But I was more fascinated with the way the sinking sun’s golden rays sifted through the purple blossoms dangling from a Wisteria vine.

Golden Week: Okayama

2010-05-26T17:59:00.009+09:00

May 22, 2010

For seven days the weather was perfect. Golden warm, sunny, with blue skies and a light breeze. Now, I consider a seven days without rain in Japan a small miracle. That those seven days just happened to align with Golden Week was something like divine intervention—or perhaps good karma after my disastrous Yokohama trip.

On April 29th, I rode the bullet train up to Okayama with Masako. Masako is a friend who volunteers as a guide at San Gan’en, the main tourist attraction in Kagoshima City. Her English is excellent. After a half hour or so, I completely gave up trying to speak Japanese. My bumbling attempts seemed pathetic next to her very polished English. I asked if she knew what the specialty food of Okayama was. Kibidango, she said. She was planning to take some home to her kids as a souvenir.

Okayama, as it turned out, has many specialty foods. Muscat grapes and giant peaches were famous, too. I asked someone how big these giant peaches grew, and he held up his hands to indicate the size of a small pumpkin. Incidentally, this probably explains why the legend of Momotaro, the Peach Boy, hails from this area.

A Statue of Momotaro and Friends

Long ago, an old man saw a huge peach floating down a river. He brought it home to his wife to eat for supper, when, lo and behold, the peach split and out popped a healthy baby boy. The childless old couple adopted him and named him Momotaro. (“Momo” means peach in Japanese.) When Momotaro grew up, he decided to seek his fortune. Along the way, he met a dog, a pheasant, and a monkey, and gained their valuable services by sharing some kibidango with them. Together they traveled to Oni Island and defeated the demon that lived there. (“Oni” means demon in Japanese.) The four companions shared the demon’s treasure hoard, and they all lived happily ever after.

The statue of Momotaro just outside Okayama Station was a little smaller than I expected, but cute nonetheless. The station itself was a maze of small shops: places selling honey water and fresh waffles and all the kibidango you could hope for. (No giant peaches though; they were out of season.) But toward the back of the station, where our hotel was, it was surprisingly quiet. As soon as we stepped outside, the crowds melted away.

That first night, Masako and I spread our futons on the tatami mat floor and did crossword puzzles from a book Masako had bought. This became a tradition all the while we were in Okayama. These puzzles were both easy for me and hard at the same time. For instance, I knew the name for a prehistoric flying dinosaur, but can anyone spell the word “pterodactyl” off the top of their head with 100 % confidence?

Goraku-En

The main tourist attraction in Okayama was Goraku-en, a garden ranked as one of the three most beautiful in all of Japan. I’ve said it before, but honestly, I don’t understand the ranking system. There so are many beautiful gardens in Japan. Why did this one deserve a medal?

Masako and I came to Goraku-en bright and early the next morning. I remember the long, sweeping green lawns, much like the quad at my college, and the clever use of “borrowed” scenery: Okayama Castle, which appeared pleasingly miniature in the background. An old rest house was uniquely designed with a stream splitting the building in half; people sitting on the floor could dip their toes into the water. There were small rice fields gone fallow, tea bushes, and cages filled with peacocks. And there were flowers, too.

Peach Soft Serve and Wisteria

I swear, every time I go on vacation in Japan, I become obsessed with some flower or another. The first time I went to Kyoto (in 2005), I marveled at the Irises. I was inspired by Cherry Blossoms in Yamaguchi and enchanted by the Hydrangeas in Hokkaido. This time, it was Wisteria. Purple and sometimes white flowers that hung like bunches of grapes from the vines. The straw roof of a tea shop in Goraku-en was wreathed in Wisteria. I ate peach soft serve ice cream just underneath them, while Masako sat in the sun and sipped green tea.

After visiting a few small museums near the garden, Masako and I made our way to Okayama Castle. We crossed a bridge over a river, and the castle grew bigger and bigger. Okayama Castle has the nickname of U-jo or “Crow Castle,” so named for its black color. The name is also a deliberate contrast to the white “Heron Castle” of Himeji. Unlike Himeji Castle, U-jo is a reconstruction; I liked it nonetheless. Black castles are cool!

Okayama Castle

Coincidently, U-jo was hosting an exhibition on my favorite historical era: the Bakumatsu*. It was called “Aizu, Choshu… and Okayama.” But I have to say that the exhibition contained precious little on Okayama, and I already knew about Choshu (Yamaguchi) and Aizu, having visited them before. Even more disappointingly, the signs were mostly in Japanese and no pictures were allowed. However, I did snap an illegal photo of the one English sign that actually explained Okayama’s role in this turbulent era.

Basically, the lord of Okayama was actually the brother (or at least half-brother) of the last Shogun in Japan, Tokugawa Yoshinobu. This, as you might imagine, made them enemies of Choshu. There was also one local hero who made great political gains in Aizu—which came to naught when Aizu was conquered by Choshu. Eventually, however, this man became governor of Okayama.

Kibidango and Waffles

Masako and I visited another museum, but by 2:00 we had run out of things to see. So, we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the clean, pretty town and did some shopping. Masako bought cups of clear gelatin with fruit in it. I bought kibidango in peach, Muscat, and yuzu (citrone) flavors. We shared our feast for dessert that evening.

*Bakumatsu: the time from approximately 1853-1868, wherein an alliance between Choshu (Yamaguchi) and Satsuma (Kagoshima) succeeded in toppling the Tokugawa Shogunate. Plenty more detail in my blog. Just follow the link.

Translation: Katsura Kogoro: Chapter 1, Part 5

2010-05-06T16:07:00.007+09:00

Hagi Stories: Katsura Kogoro. By: Issaki, Taro. This book was given to me by Osaki Yoko, a kind lady at Hagi Museum.

Chapter 1: From Hagi to Kyoto

Page 13-14

The Joi Policy

In June 1858, the Shogunate approved the main part of the Japan-America Treaty of Amity and Commerce (The Harris Treaty), which dealt with the issue of free trade. This was done, again, without receiving Imperial permission, and Emperor Komei, a fierce hater of foreigners and a die-hard believer in the principal of Joi (“Expel the Barbarians!”), was indignant. A deep fissure appeared between the warriors of the Shogunate and the nobles of the Imperial Court.

Wishing to mediate between the Shogunate and the Court, Choshu samurai Nagai Uta put forward his “Policy of Expansion Across the Seas” in March 1861, backed by the support of Choshu Domain. Although it recognized “open country” as an established fact, nevertheless, Nagai’s policy was favorably received by both the Shogunate and the Court.

The students of the Shoka Sonjuku School, however, in following their teacher Shoin’s beliefs, thought that Choshu should instead unite around a policy of Sonno Joi (“Revere the Emperor!” “Expel the Barabarians!”). This soon developed into a violent political movement. The believers in Sonno Joi insisted upon a Japan centered around the Emperor, which resisted foreign pressure and took action to push back foreign intrusion.

The Imperial Court rallied; they disdained the proposed mediation they had initially agreed to. Choshu retracted its proposal, and Nagai, who had so incurred the Emperor’s wrath, was forced to commit suicide.

On July 6, 1862, in order to decide which policy Choshu should adopt hereafter, Lord Mori invited lower-ranked samurai to his Kyoto mansion in the Kawahara District and held a strategy meeting. Kogoro, who was by now a diplomat to the Court and to other domains, attended this meeting, as did Sufu Masanosuke and Nakamura Kuro. As a result, Choshu decided to completely rescind upon Nagai’s policy and instead dedicate themselves to obeying the Emperor’s will and doing all in their power to expel the barbarians.

Translation: Katsura Kogoro: Chapter 1, Part 4

2010-05-06T15:57:00.006+09:00

Hagi Stories: Katsura Kogoro. By: Issaki, Taro. This book was given to me by Osaki Yoko, a kind lady at Hagi Museum.

Chapter 1: From Hagi to Kyoto

Page 11-12

Studying the West

Kogoro, having experienced the disturbance caused by the black ships, was in shock. The feeling of crisis pierced him through and through. Although he regarded and hated the West as an enemy, Kogoro decided against vainly trumpeting the exclusion of foriegners. First, he went in search of a teacher.

Egawa Taro of Nirayama was the top-ranked official in Western gunnery. Kogoro became his disciple, and at one point, the two went to inspect the defenses along the coasts of Musashi, Izu, and Sagami—all near Edo. In addition, Kogoro studied ship-building under Nakashima Saburonosuke, an officer of the old Uraga police station. In both thought and action, Kogoro was rapidly becoming a man of the times.

Another man who studied the West all the while he resented their tyrannical attitude was Kogoro’s old friend, Yoshida Shoin.

Shoin confided his secret plans to board a Russian warship at Nagasaki to Kogoro and gained his approval. Eventually, Shoin would attempt to board an American warship at Izu Shimoda in March 1854—and failed. He was shipped back to Hagi and imprisoned for trying to break the law against foreign travel. Although still under house arrest, Shoin built and presided over the famed Shoka Sonjuku School, where he guided the ideas of many young men in the neighborhood.

But due to his loud criticism of the Shoguate’s “open country” policy, Shoin became a victim of the Ansei Purge* He was kept in Tenmacho Prison, and on October 27, 1859 he was executed. He was 30 years old.

Kogoro, along with another one of Shoin’s disciples, Ito Shunsuke (later to become Ito Hirobumi, Japan’s first prime minister), brought back Shoin’s remains and buried him at Senju Kotsuka Field.

* Ansei Purge: So named for the year of Ansei (ironically, “peaceful government”), this purge involved the imprisoning, execution, or censure of those who spoke against the Shogunate. It was a policy of Ii Naosuke and came to an end abruptly with his assassination, thereby setting a rather troubling precedent of dealing with contraversal politicians. Victims of the purge also included Saigo Takamori and oddly enough, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, who would go on to be the last Shogun.

Translation: Katsura Kogoro: Chapter 1, Part 3

2010-05-06T15:48:00.007+09:00

Hagi Stories: Katsura Kogoro. By: Issaki, Taro. This book was given to me by Osaki Yoko, a kind lady at Hagi Museum.

Chapter 1: From Hagi to Kyoto

Page 8-10

The Arrival of Perry’s Ships

As a young boy, Kogoro appeared sickly, despite having a good physical build.

Kogoro studied at the “Merinkan” school under Yoshida Shoin, who was three years his senior. In later years, Kogoro and Shoin would build a relationship beyond student and master and become good friends and kindred spirits.

In September 1852, Saito Shintaro, the eldest son of famed Edo fencing instructor Saito Yakuro, visited Hagi, the castle city of Choshu, where Kogoro lived. An opportunity arose for five students to visit Edo and study martial arts there. Although Kogoro was not one of the selected five, he did receive permission to “study abroad” in Edo on his own expense.

And so, tagging along, Kogoro reached #3 Koji-Machi, Edo, address of Saito Yakuro’s dojo and military training hall, and he crawled underneath the gate. Upon entering the dojo, it wasn’t long before Kogoro displayed such talent that he quickly climbed ranks to the top of the class.

While in Edo Kogoro also conversed with young people from different feudal domains all over the country. This would have an important influence on Kogoro’s activities later in life.

In June 1853, a fleet of “black ships,” under the command of Commodore Matthew Perry, could be seen off the coast of Uragawa. Perry had come to urge the Shogun to open Japan to trade, and his method was to use his warships to exert high pressure.

Kogoro, 21 at the time, was still in Edo, and he got to witness this unprecedented crisis unfold in real time.

On June 4, 1853, he wrote in his diary: “Now I hear rumors of a black ship called Tallamesh*.” The next day he wrote: “Gradually, the rumors have become widespread. It was my wish to go to Uraga by the hour of the dog (7:00-9:00 PM) and witness this appearance for myself, but some other business suddenly came up, and I was unable to go.” On June 9th, Kogoro was added to the line of soldiers under Lord of Choshu Mori Yoshichika (later Mori Takachika), charged with guarding the Omori Coast. Kogoro faithfully discharged his duty.

On June 13, Perry left Japan, having obtained the Shogun’s promise to respond to America’s demands in a year’s time. One year later, Perry did indeed return. The Shogunate, folding under pressure, signed the Japan-America Treaty of Amity and Friendship (also known as the Yokohama Treaty) in March of 1854.

*The spelling of this word, as well as the spelling of many foreign names written in Japanese, should be taken with a grain of salt.

Translation: Katsura Kogoro: Chapter 1, Part 2

2010-05-06T15:42:00.005+09:00

Hagi Stories: Katsura Kogoro. By: Issaki, Taro. This book was given to me by Osaki Yoko, a kind lady at Hagi Museum.

Chapter 1: From Hagi to Kyoto

Page 6-7

Born in Edoya Quarters

Today, Kido Takayoshi is famed as one of the “Three Great Men” of the Meiji Restoration, along with Saigo Takamori and Okubo Toshimichi, both of Satsuma. His family home in the Kokkaku block of the Edoya Quarters still exists. A stone monument stands before the gate, announcing “Place of Kido Takayoshi’s Birth.”

On June 26, 1833, Kido Takayoshi (not yet his name) was born to a physician in the samurai class named Wada Masakage and his second wife Seiko. They named their child Kogoro. Although Kogoro’s father received a stipend of only 20 koku, he also practiced medicine on private citizens and owned and rented real estate, so it seems the family was quite prosperous.

Wada Masakage was already 52 years old when Kogoro was born. He already had a daughter, Suteko, from his first wife, and Suteko’s husband had already been adopted as the family heir. So, Kogoro was instead adopted into the Katsura family when he was eight.

The Katsura family was a member of the “Calvary” Unit (also known as the Yakugumi or Ogumi). In reality, it was this class that took charge of most of the practical affairs of government, and many became of them close associates of the Lord of Choshu.

The Katsura family’s stipend was originally 150 koku, but due to the late nature of Kogoro’s adoption (which took place as Katsura Koroheiei was on his deathbed), it was cut to 90 koku*.

Thus, Katsura Kogoro was born.

The year following his adoption, Kogoro’s adopted mother also passed away, and so Kogoro, now head of the Katsura family, went back to his old home where he was brought up by the Wadas.

* Adoption: It was fairly common practice to adopt sons from other families as heirs, but apparently adopting one right before dying was not a good thing. In the old days this was forbidden, but later they simply added a fine.

Translation: Katsura Kogoro: Chapter 1, Part 1

2010-05-06T15:35:00.005+09:00

Hagi Stories: Katsura Kogoro. By: Issaki, Taro. This book was given to me by Osaki Yoko, a kind lady at Hagi Museum.

Chapter 1: From Hagi to Kyoto

Page 4-5

Hagi’s Lower Castle District

During the Edo era, the military base of the 369,000 koku* Choshu Domain was constructed above the delta in an area known as Joka, or the Lower Castle District. In this northeastern region, the figure of the Shizuki Mountain thrusts out of the Sea of Japan, like an overturned rice bowl. At the foot of the mountain, the 5-tiered castle once towered over the land below, but at the start of the Meiji era, the castle was torn down, along with the residence of the Mori family, lords of Choshu. Today, only the stone walls remain.

From the castle, separated by the moat, the Horiuchi (also known as Sannomaru) Quarters stretch out. At one time, the shining eaves of the Mori family mansions and the mansions of all its most important ministers stood together in a line, a boundary. With the clay walls and stone bases still intact, the atmosphere remains even today, a designated important historical district.

But if you cross the moat at the east, you come to the Lower Castle District with its checkerboard streets, the district where Choshu’s rich merchants and samurai once lived.

Onari Street, the road used by the Mori Lords, runs east to west. Across this street, three parallel roads stretch out. Their respective quarters are named for the powerful merchant houses that lived there: Kikuya Quarters, Iseya Quarters, and Edoya Quarters. Looking at old maps from the Bakumatsu era, you’ll find these three streets, like sinews, connect to the backbone of society: about 30 houses of Choshu’s samurai families, their eaves lined together in a neat row.

*Koku: Literally stone, it is a unit for measuring rice and an indication of wealth

Translation: Katsura Kogoro: Preface

2010-05-06T15:25:00.007+09:00

Hagi Stories: Katsura Kogoro. By: Issaki, Taro. This book was given to me by Osaki Yoko, a kind lady at Hagi Museum.

Page 3

Preface

During the Bakumatsu, when Choshu Domain was facing a crisis, Katsura Kogoro lied about his identity and for 10 months remained hidden deep in the mountains of Tajima (in the north of present-day Hyogo Prefecture). The people of Tajima, with their long history of rescuing the defeated, took Kogoro in with great generosity. Before long, Kogoro’s name, changed now to Kido Takayoshi, would become known all over Japan as one of the prominent Genkun* of the Meiji Restoration. The people of Tajima who had helped Kogoro would take pride in their role in history. Even today, the stone memorials to Kogoro scattered throughout the Tajima region are proof of this affection.

Particularily notable are the words “Place of Resurrection,” carved into a stone monument which stands on the ruins of the store Kogoro ran in the lower castle district of Izushi. These words are not so unusual. Kogoro unabashedly fled from an impending crisis and was ridiculed as “Runaway Kogoro.” Yet he would return to accomplish many great things. In this way, he was indeed “resurrected.”

I think that it’s necessary for today’s politicians to have, in the same vein as Kogoro, this “shrewdness” coupled with good intentions. For example, in the case of “No wars” or “Don’t get involved in wars.” The Genkun exhibited their shrewness by crawling under the pandemonium that engulfed Japan. If, during the times they faced defeat, they had listened to impressive-sounding words, Japan would have run amok and ended up in ruin. Listening to speeches of current politicians, it seems that either shrewdness is combined with bad intentions or only a very small impression is made, and this is a terrible thing.

Now, of all times, I think Japan’s politicians should study and learn from Kogoro’s shrewdness, and with this in mind, I wrote this small booklet. Although the main feature of this book is Chapter 3: “Hiding in Tajima,” it is not possible to understand Kogoro’s career with this alone, so I have also included events before and after. I have also undertaken a critical biography about Kogoro/ Kido Takayoshi separate from this with plans to publish it some time next year. If you read both together, you will have a better understanding of the person.

I would like to offer my most humble thanks to Ms.Horikawa Taeko of Izushi Construction Public Corporation and Mr. Toritani Ryujiro of Kiosaki Onsen Tsutaya, both of whom were particularly helpful to me at the time I was collecting data.

* Genkun: a dignified, revered person who lived a (relatively) long time and gained some amount of power; an elder statesman.

Translation: Thomas Glover and the Satsuma Exchange Students

2010-05-06T15:10:00.006+09:00

From: Illustrated Browser: Bakumatsu and Meiji Restoration. By: Takano, Kiyoshi. Kabushiki Compay, Satsuma Branch, Printed in Japan 2005.

Page 142

Thomas Glover and the Satsuma Exchange Students

After the Satsuma England War of 1863, which ended in a draw, deep bonds of friendship sprang up between Satsuma Domain and England. One of the ways their relationship grew was through the Satsuma exchange students, many of whom would take on important roles in maintaining the country after the Meiji Restoration.

The Fruits of an Illegal Journey

Tokugawa policy forbade overseas travel for the Japanese populace, but in March of 1865, seventeen Satsuma samurai secretly departed Japan from Hashimaura (an island in Satsuma) and studied abroad in England. Thomas Glover, a British merchant living in Nagasaki, interceded on Satsuma’s behalf and made arrangements.

In July of 1863, during the Satsuma-England War, Godai Tomoatsu and Terashima Chuzaburo voluntarily became prisoners of England. They were released but remained hidden in Nagasaki, where they met Thomas Glover. It was here, through Glover’s exhortations, that the epoch-making idea of sending samurai to study abroad was born.

Twelve students of the prestigious Satsuma “Kaiseijo” school were chosen, along with another five high-ranking samurai, for a total of seventeen. On January 20, 1865, they left Kagoshima City proper (under the pretext of a business trip to Koshikijima Island) and headed for Hashimaura in Kukino. To avoid recognition from the Tokugawa government, they changed their names. In the open seas of Hashima, they boarded a merchant vessel owned by Glover and headed for Hong Kong, on route to London. They were introduced to British Consul Gower, who, thanks to Glover’s arrangements, welcomed them to his side.

These are some of the accomplishments of the Satsuma exchange students:

•Machida Hisanari During his sojourn in England, Machida attended several exhibitions and gained valuable experience. He later served in the Ministry of Internal Affairs and founded a historical museum.
•Asakusa Moriaki Asakusa studied mining and restored the abandoned Ikuno Mine in Tajima.
•Sameshima Hisanobu From England, Sameshima crossed the ocean to America, where he studied international relations. After the Meiji restoration, he worked at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs as Envoi and was the vice ambassador to Spain, Portugal, and other countries.
•Yoshida Kiyonari Yoshida studied economics in America, and upon his return home, he took on the heavy responsibility of obtaining foreign loans for the Ministry of Finance.
•Mori Arinori Mori studied in America and became the first Japanese Ambassador-in-Residence for the United States. He also served in the Ministry of Education.

Page 143

Other Exhange Students from Influential Domains

Behind the Surface of Joi

Despite the ban on foreign travel, Glover’s intercessions made it possible for seventeen Satsuma samurai to travel to England. But Satsuma was not the first domain to send out exchange students. Beating them to the punch was none other than the domain responsible for spear-heading the Sonno Joi (“Revere the Emperor!” “Expel the Barbarians!”) Movement: Choshu.

On May 5, 1863, in accordance to the principal of Joi (“Expel the Barbarians!”), Choshu bombarded foreign ships with cannon fire in the Shimonoseki Straights. That day, they were victorious. The next day, however, the tides turned…

But by this time, due to intercessions from the Jardin-Mattheson Company, Choshu had already sent out five students to study abroad in England, including Inoue Kaori and future Prime Minister Ito Hirobumi. (This battle in Shimonoseki would prompt Ito and Inoue to return from England, in order to help Choshu negotiate the terms of surrender.)

Although Choshu was carrying out “Joi” on the surface, they also had the foresight to send exchange students to England right behind the Shogun’s back!

The Number of Exchange Students, by Domain
Satsuma: 26
Choshu: 11
Fukuoka: 7
Sendai and Kaga: 3 each
Aizu, Sakura, and Fukui: 2 each
Tokushima, Higo, Saga, and Kurume: 1 each

Tea

2010-04-27T18:45:00.000+09:00

April 27, 2010

Yesterday, when I came to Kanoya Nogyo, I was told that the students were picking tea leaves from 2nd-4th period and would I care to join them? Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought my camera, so you’ll just have to listen to my description unaided.

It was a warm, blue-sky day. The tea bushes were like row and rows of unruly hedges. Eager stems stretched out from their bushes and overcrowded the slim space between rows. I waded in, waist-deep in verdant leaves. One of the students explained that when you pulled up a stem, you had to look for one, two, three leaves, and then at the third, you broke off the tip of the stem. When I pulled it, it snapped like a pea pod—very satisfying. I plucked off three-leaved stems of tea for roughly ten minutes, before I had to go back and teach a class.

I learned later that the students would pick tea by hand for less than half a day and after that, the farm hands would bring in a machine to harvest the rest. The leaves would be transported to a factory where they would be roasted. The final product is the plastic bottle of 100% Seishun (Youth) brand tea that they sell at some convenience stores, with the ridiculously cute cartoon characters of a boy and girl in Nogyo uniforms. I’ve drank it before. It’s delicious.

English Camp at KAPIC

2010-04-11T13:36:00.002+09:00

April 11, 2010

The day of my farewell party, March 26th, was also the first official day of spring break—for the students. Teachers are still required to come to work. For ALTs, this usually means sitting at our desk trying to keep ourselves amused for seven hours a day, while all the “real” teachers scramble around preparing for the new school year. This time, however, Matt and I volunteered at an English camp to take place at the Kanoya Asia Pacific International Center, otherwise known as KAPIC.

Ah, KAPIC, that magical oasis near the lake, with its pastel-colored Asian museum and its confusing passage of stairs. I had done a summer camp here once before with Shibushi Junior High School, but this camp was more generally geared to any interested junior high or high school student. The director of the camp was named Sakura. She told us ALTs that she was the only one allowed to speak Japanese to the students. The rest of us, no matter the level, had to feign ignorance.

Of course, it’s always ideal for us to speak to the students in English as much as possible. But in my case, it proved to be difficult. Matt and I were paired up to look after a group of six 13 year old girls: Nanami, Chiaki, Haruka, Azumi, Mayu, and Yui. These girls had only been exposed to one year of English, so their level was pretty low. The task Matt and I were given: help the students that research a foreign country and present that information in English at the end of camp. We had three days.

This sounds simple, but let me put it this way. The first day, after the students chose a country (France), they had to research the continent, bordering countries, and boarding oceans; the size and how it compared to Japan’s; the population and how it compared to Japan’s; and the capital. Look at those words again: location, continent, bordering, population, compare, and capital. Not exactly English 101.

Matt and I decided to split the girls into pairs and have each pair research a different topic. That wasn’t too difficult, as our classroom was set up with wireless internet and tons of laptops which the ALTs brought. What was harder was getting the pairs to share that information with the wider group. In the end, we confiscated a whiteboard. Each pair wrote the information and gave a mini-presentation while everyone else took notes.

This was extremely effective, but it took all afternoon and it wasn’t even the main part of the presentation. We still had to get the students to choose a different topic to research, write out a speech, make a poster, and practice saying their presentation. We had two full days left and an hour on Friday morning.

I must also add that, besides those basic requirements, there were no guidelines set out by the camp. I think they wanted to give the students freedom to express their creativity and a democratic work ethic. A Western-style learning environment. All well and good, but Matt and I were dealing with students who could barely answer, “What do you like?” We decided, in an unspoken way, that we were going to have to take charge of the group.

This was not the case for everyone. There were four groups of 4-6 students with 2 supervising ALTs per group. Some of those ALTs seemed to do very little work. One group, in particular, had most of the high school students, and those students simply plunged into their topics. While our group was struggling to read out “The population of France is sixty-five million, four hundred forty-seven thousand, three hundred seventy four people,” their group was making posters for the history of American cinema.

We didn’t care. We worked at our own pace. The next morning, Matt and I spent the first half hour presenting a list of topics for the pairs and having each pair choose one. Then the girls got to work.

Oh, there was drama indeed.

First of all, there was a problem with one of the pairs. Nanami, a bright, flighty, outgoing girl, had been paired with Chiaki, a slow, diligent, reserved girl, and needless to say, their styles clashed. Matt and I split them up and gave them each a different topic. We had been warned that Chiaki was at an extremely low English level. Her topic was the French language and fortunately we had a French-Japanese language book. But her entire method of working was to write “(English word) is (French word).” That was all she did the entire first day.

Nanami, on the other hand, finished most of her work that first day and still had enough time to get her heart broken. Matt and I saw her suddenly become depressed and start crying. We didn’t know what was going on. We weren’t allowed to speak Japanese. Fortunately, some of the other ALTs comforted her and she cheered up by the next day, though she still spent an inordinant amount of time making eyes at that boy.

In the meantime, Yui, who had been up all night, felt sick and had to lie down. Her partner, Mayu went with her, so they were out half the afternoon. Then, the next morning, Haruka and Azumi, who had drawn an absolutely beautiful poster, were told by Sakura that their speech was too short. They had to research new information and translate it into English—an hour before the deadline for finishing their speeches. Rather than push back the deadline, we separated the pairs and helped each girl with their speech.

It was at this time that I learned the loophole to the “no Japanese” rule. We weren’t supposed to speak Japanese. No one ever said we couldn’t understand Japanese. Azumi wrote down the information she wanted to say, and I translated it for her into simple English.

On the afternoon of the third day, after a trip to KAPIC’s Asian museum, we took the girls outside and had them practice their speech. Matt and I decided we’d begin the presentation by having all the girls say “Bonjour” and end with “Au Revoir.” I made them stand on “stage” (a slight hill) and practice, over and over again. I also went to each girl individually and coached them through their speeches, tirelessly correcting their pronunciation.

In the morning of the fourth day, in the hour or so before the presentation, we stood the girls on the stage (the real stage), hung the posters on the whiteboard, and went through about three dress rehearsals. There was no doubt about it—our group was prepared.

Unfortunately preparation was not one of the criteria being judged.

They threw this at us literally right before we had to get on stage. That is, Sakura mentioned there would be a contest on the first day, but she did not say how we were being judged. The categories, it turned out, included content, memorization, and creativity. They were not in our favor.

But you know what? I didn’t care. Yeah, we didn’t have much content. Yeah, we hadn’t memorized our speeches at. Yeah, we didn’t have costumes or props or do a dance like the Austrian group did. But our girls gave a solid performance. They pointed to their posters when and where they were supposed to, they made eye contact with the audience, and they spoke fluidly. And by the way, did I mention, we were the FIRST group to get on stage. I was proud of our girls. We came in fourth, but it was a close fourth. I bought the girls soda from the vending machine as a reward.

Matt and I talked about it in the car afterwards. Winning, we both agreed, had never been the point. The point had been for the students to learn English and feel the confidence that came with it. Through our constant supervising, explaining, correcting, and cheering, we had accomplished this. Chiaki, who had hunched into herself at the start of the camp, was beaming by the end of it.

A picture of me and Matt that Haruka drew.

Office Sobetsukai (Sniff, Sniff)

2010-04-11T11:10:00.010+09:00

April 11, 2010

The sakura, the famous Japanese cherry blossoms, reached their zenith a couple weeks ago, and now green leaves are shooting from the branches, as the petals drop slowly, slowly down. The individual petals coast the gentle breeze like a surfer riding waves; when a stronger gust shakes the branches, they scatter like confetti. I’m a little sad about the departure of the sakura. It might very well be the last time I see them bloom in Japan.

The Japanese school year came to an end March 25th. At the same time the students plotted ways of neglecting their spring homework, the teachers were in a frenzy. After almost a month of waiting, the secret list of transferees had come out. I spent the last three days of classes going from school to school to find out which teachers were leaving and saying my last farewells. Some departures were expected, others came like a bolt from the blue.

All in all, I had four sobetsukais—or farewell parties—spanning from Friday to Friday. But the last party was by far the most poignant. On March 26th, I went to my office’s sobetsukai—my own farewell party.

For the last two years and eight months, my official place of work has been the Osumi Board of Education, which ALTs simply refer to as the office. We gathered there on Fridays and during student vacations. Our supervisor, Shibahara-sensei, takes care of us. He makes our schedule, fills out our paperwork, gives us information, logs our vacation days, and so on. And everyone in the office looks out for us during times of crisis: when we get sick, when we get in car accidents, when I lost my keys in the rain and people from the office had to climb up my balcony so I could get inside my apartment…

But due to a change in the system, none of us three ALTs will go to the office as of April 1st. Instead we will each have a base school in Kanoya: Kanyoa High School, Kanoya Kogyo (Technical) High School, Kanoya Nogyo (Agricultural) High School. (Mine is Nogyo.) In a way, it makes sense. We ALTs do nothing in the office but take up space and talk each other’s heads off. That doesn’t change my feelings, though. I like the office. I like these people and the close relationship we’ve built up over time.

Our farewell party was held at Sennari, a traditional Japanese restaurant, shoved down the end of a narrow street. The ever cheerful Ikeda-sensei stood in the parking lot and guided our car (or should I say Matt’s car) into the parking lot. Inside the restaurant, there was a large fish tank and an arrangement of flowers.

We weren’t allowed into our party’s room right away. According to sobetsukai ritual, the guests of honor must enter last, while everyone else applauds them. It occurred to me that this was probably the only time I was going to have this kind of special treatment. If some of the people in my schools throw me a farewell party come July, it will probably be an informal gathering only. What does it matter? When I’m part of these official parties, I actually feel included as a valued worker, rather than just the random foreigner hastily remembered at the last minute. It’s strange. We ALTs are about as useful as lumps of coal in the office, yet they always make it appoint to include us in these things.

As I walked into the room and took my seat under my banner, I realized for the first time how many people were leaving the office. Those leaving outnumbered those staying. The turnover rate for the office was so high. At two years and eight months, I had been there longer than all but one other departing person. (Yoshida-sensei, the youngest person in the office, beat me; he was here three years.)

Although trays of artfully decorated appetizers, sashimi, and tempura were sitting right on the table in front of us, no one could eat until the speeches were done. Akune-sensei, the “big boss” of the Osumi Board of Education, was the representative for those who were departing, and he made a long but intimate speech. Individually, he praised us. For me, he said that I took care of the other ALTs, and my heart glowed a little. Once, Akune-sensei got choked up and had to stop for a few minutes to recover. I felt like I was going to cry, too.

After speeches, we poured our drinks and toasted. “Kampai!” As at all enkais, the food on our tray was only the beginning. Course after course came: sushi, tonkatsu (fried pork cutlets), suimono (a clear soup) with a sakura floating in it, and chawan mushi (steamed egg custard). Alcohol began to flow. I don’t drink straight alcohol, so I had expected to be hitting the cola and ulong tea, but to my surprise, they had brought chuhais to the party, a kind of wine cooler with a shochu (potato spirits) base.

Midway through, there was another round of speeches, with all the departing people giving their own. I was the first of the ALTs called, and I reminisced about the past and expressed my gratitude. Although I spoke emotionally, inwardly, I felt calm. Even so, my face must have expressed some of my sadness, because Andie, next to give her speech, broke down and started tearing up. This surprised me, because Andie struck me as being fairly tough. Later, she blamed me. Seeing other people cry made her want to cry and the atmosphere here was so emotional.

Matt gave his speech last and ended with a touch of aplomb. At the very end, he thanked Shibahara-sensei personally and gave him a gift of his very favorite beer, Heinkein. Shibahara-sensei raised the bottle high and said that he didn’t intend to share. After the speeches were finished, Andie gave Shibahara-sensei her own present. It was a very nice black bag, a little smaller than a suitcase. Her teachers had suggested it, as a very useful item for travel. It turned out to be a very good suggestion. Shibahara-sensei’s face creased with joy, and then he started crying. He turned away from us, but I could see his back shaking.

Now, I hadn’t bought a present for Shibahara-sensei yet, and I was beginning to wonder how the heck I was going to compete with these presents. But I got an idea, as the party wound down. For once, I had remembered to bring my camera to the party, snatching it up before I ran out the door. And even though Matt is a semi-professional photographer and Andie is Japan’s own personal paparazzi, I had oddly been the one snapping pictures all night. I decided to make my photographs my farewell present to Shibahara-sensei and everyone else.

The formal party at Sennari came to an end around 9:30, with more short speeches and three rounds of “Bonzais!” But the night was young, and Akune-sensei was hosting a nijikai—or after party—at his house, as he was wont to do. A bus waiting at the restaurant parking lot shuttled us all to Akune-sensei’s house. More food waited for us there. Huge platters of sushi, bamboo salad, edemame and peanuts, and drinks, drinks galore, sat on the tatami mat floor. We thanked the women who had prepared the food excessively and had another toast.

For the next hour or so I buzzed around, making small talk, taking pictures, and trying to shove a little more food into my already full stomach—out of politeness, of course! By 11:00 or so, I decided to take my leave, hitching a ride with Matt. As we left, the women were just starting to bring out bowls of ramen—just in case there was the faintest possibility that we weren’t all completely stuffed.

Over the weekend, I made copies of my photos for everyone in the office and a special scrapbook for Shibahara-sensei. I gave it to him Monday morning. By then, he wasn’t drunk, so he didn’t cry. But several people in the office were delighted and thanked me warmly.

Yokohama and Kamakura

2010-04-10T12:55:00.012+09:00

March 5, 2010

This morning I was half-woken by a thunderstorm. I say half-woken, because despite the bright flashes of lightning and the sound of thunder, my body physically refused to get out of bed and open my eyes for more a few seconds. On the other hand, I couldn’t very well sleep through it. Not when I could feel the thunder crash upon me like a tsunami and rumble through the apartment like an earthquake.

This storm, by the way, has nothing to do with the real topic of my newsletter, which is my trip to Yokohama. But it seems appropriate symbolically, given that my sightseeing activities ended up being—dare I say it—stormy.

Not that it started off with any particular trouble. The first day of my trip—Saturday, February 27th—was nothing more than travel: a two hour bus ride to the airport, a two hour plane ride to Haneda airport, a half an hour bus ride to Yokohama station, another half an hour walking in a slow daze with my black duffle bag hanging off my shoulder and my guidebook open my hand while streams of people swept by me. You know, the usual. I got to my hotel at 4:30 and spent the rest of the night reading.

The next day was Sunday, and the only full day I had for sightseeing. So naturally, it was raining. I sighed, wrapped my stuff in plastic bags, and headed out the door. Now, my hotel room was a very nice temperature: warm, but not overheated. Not so when I stepped outside. It was freezing, and I had foolishly left my gloves in the hotel room. Rather than go back for them, I pressed on for the station, thinking the weather would get warmer as the morning grew later.

That was a mistake.

I came to Kamakura Station around 9:00. Kamakura is a small, but historically significant city only a half hour from Yokohama. It was established as the base for Minamoto Yoritomo in 1180, and the government he set up later became known as the Kamakura Shogunate, the name of the age the Kamakura era. What Kamakura is really famous for, though, is the Big Buddha. I decided to see this first.

I wasn’t disappointed by the Big Buddha. Unlike the one in Nara, it did not crouch in a dimly-lit hall, but rather sat, starkly, among the cloistered pines and distant hills. There was also no fanfare leading up to the Big Buddha. I paid for my ticket… and there it was. And this is what made it so impressive. Like a mountain or a river, it needed nothing. It simply was.

Although my guidebook warned me that crowds swarmed the Big Buddha on weekends, I only saw a few people here and there. This might have been due to my timing—it was still early in the morning—but personally, I think the rain was keeping people away. It was pounding steadily on my umbrella, forming puddles in the ground. Try as I might to step carefully, my shoes splashed and the hem of my pants became wet. Rain alone I might have been all right with. Possibly. But unlike in Kagoshima the rain did not wrap me in a warm blanket of humidity. It was cold. My hand holding the umbrella slowly froze and none of the many souvenir stands were selling any gloves.

I am of the opinion that the best way to explore a city is on foot or by bicycle, wherein you can really get a feel of the physically geography of the area. My original plan had been to walk the hiking course from the Big Buddha to the north Kamakura Station, a good 90 minutes, stopping along the way to explore small shrines and temples along the way. Half an hour of standing in the rain and those plans went out the window.

Instead I took the train to Engaku Temple and later rode the bus to Tsurugaoka Hachiman Shrine. Both had interesting histories, the former having a faint connection to Kublai Khan’s failed invasion of Japan and the latter being founded by Minamoto Yoritomo himself. Unfortunately, none of these things came across in the places themselves. The temple was a temple and the shrine was a shrine, beautiful in their own way, but similar to dozens I’ve seen across Japan.

In the meantime, I was getting wetter and wetter. Shrines and temples are open buildings for the most part, and all the benches were waterlogged. I bought a hot lemon tea from one of the vending machines and briefly used that to warm my hands. It occurred to me that I was not really enjoying Kamakura. And so my plans shifted again. I’d just go back to Yokohama. There was a museum I wanted to see, and it wasn’t open Mondays (my only other sightseeing day). I’d go there.

By the time, I made it to the train platform again, the rain had stopped and flits of sunshine could be seen between the clouds. Figures.

As I sat on the heated train benches, I kept noticing the kanji for “tsunami alert” sliding across the message board, between announcements of upcoming destinations. Due to this alert certain train lines were being suspended. In fact, as I discovered upon reaching Yokohama Station, my train line was being suspended. This was not only the train that went to the museum, but the same line that took me to my hotel.

Why were the trains being suspended? Was the area closed off, too? Was I in danger? There were no English messages. Everyone in the station seemed to be going along their business as usual. But, really, what did that mean? Did people really stop what they were doing just because a disaster might hit? I imagined people hurrying here and there, caught up in their lives, right up until the moment an enormous wave blotted them out. It was easy enough to imagine. I was as wrapped up in my own life as anyone else; despite my worries, I mostly just wanted to get to my museum as quickly as possible.

Eventually, I found out the subway was still in operation, and a few minutes later I walked up to the Yokohama Archives of History. A museum my guidebook mentioned had good English signs. A museum which I hoped would mention Yokohama’s role in the Bakumatsu era, my favorite time period in history. A museum which was closed until April for remodeling purposes.

I was floored. I had cut short my trip to Kamakura for this museum, and it was closed!

I drowned my sorrows in the Silk Museum, and then decided to check out a few smaller museums in the hour or so I had left. The lady at the counter told me the three individual exhibitions were 200 yen each, but it was 500 yen for a combination ticket. So I bought the combination ticket and went to check out the displays.

Two of the exhibits had no English signage whatsoever. If it were an art museum, it wouldn’t have mattered. It was not an art museum. It was the Museum of Urban Development and a special exhibit about—I’m not even sure—a Westerner and piping in the city? Now, yes, I can read Japanese, but I’m not proficient enough to read something as highly specialized as that. At this point, I was pretty pissed off. The lady might have warned me that there was no English before I bought the ticket. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t tell I was a foreigner. I wrote an angry note (in Japanese) and stuck it in their questionnaire box on my way out.

By the time I went back to my hotel, I was practically in tears, I was in such a bad mood. Nothing had gone as planned. I had dealt with cold rain, a confusion of tsunami warnings, and now these stupid museums blocking me off from the information I craved. This was my one full sightseeing day and it was a complete waste. An expensive waste. It cost money to come to Yokohama: between transportation, lodging, and meals, it came to a total of just over 100,000 yen (1,000 dollars). And for what!

“The seminar had better be good or I’ll have thrown away my money for nothing,” I grumbled through my teeth.

I did eventually calm down and visit the famous large “Chu ka gai” or Chinatown, which was only a few feet from my hotel. While I had no particular interest in it, the bright, gilded facades eventually distracted me from my misery.

That night I tried to watch the Olympic figure skating gala, but the “tsunami alert” kept flashing prominently in the corner of the T.V. screen. I switched off the T.V. and looked out the window. My hotel was only a 15 minute walk from Yokohama Port. If a tsunami came, what would happen? I imagined a wall of water barreling down the streets. I was on the sixth story. I was high enough to survive a tsunami. Right? Or would the water pressure cause the building to collapse? What if the water came pouring through the building, filling my room like a fish tank, until I couldn’t breathe?

Such morbid imaginings did nothing to ease my anxiety.

Needless to say, a tsunami did not hit and I survived the night quite easily. I spent Monday morning walking along Yamashita Park and checking out the old foreigner district, whose lush houses were open to the public. I had wanted to check out a museum which had artifacts related to the black ships, but, of course, it too was closed. Because it was Monday.

I had a navy blue suit jacket under my coat and wore tight, slightly high-heeled black shoes instead of my comfy white tennis. Formal business wear. The shoes pinched at the toes and did nothing to cushion against the hard concrete. After a morning of walking up and down the town, blisters had formed between my toes, and I limped my way to the seminar. Stupid cheap shoes. I cursed my own stinginess.

Seminar for Returning JETs: Annex Room. So said the sign at the Pacifico Yokohama when I arrived at around noon. The top of the building crested into white waves. It was almost the same color as the overcast sky. There was a heavy fog.

At the risk of being anti-climatic, I am not going to go into detail about the seminar, which took place from March 1st until March 3rd. We checked-in, received our materials, chatted with people we knew, sat at the tables, and took notes as speaker after speaker bombarded us with information. There was information on Reverse Culture Shock, Resumes, and Grad School. There were sessions on specific careers: journalist, translator, teacher; there were Q and A panels; there was a job fair which was mostly grad schools and volunteer organizations. Start preparing now, they said. Network, they said. Join the JET Alumni Association, they said again and again.

It was a business seminar. Like any other business seminar, I suppose.

But for some reason, I enjoyed it. True, the sheer amount of information overwhelmed me in the beginning and exhausted me in the end. But I was grateful to have it. It was not all as vague and obvious as I made it sound either; there were websites and email addresses attached. Moreover, it was good to hear from people who started off like me, having no idea what to do, and ended up with interesting careers. I reflected a little during the seminar and I will keep reflecting later on.

But now, my dear patient reader, who has stuck with me through this long and tedious email, I would like to mention one last thing before I wrap up. The food. You did not think I would forget such an important facet, did you?

In Kamakura, I stopped at a small eclectic restaurant called “Umitsuki” or “Seamoon.” As I was browsing through menu, I laughed out loud. What I had thought was a simple picture of a maguro donburi (tuna sashimi rice bowl) was in fact red slices of basashi lying over rice. Basashi: raw horse meat. A specialty of Kumamoto, just one prefecture up. I did not order the basashi, by the way, opting instead for a safer vegetable and clam noodle dish, but I did use the basashi to launch into a conversation with the restaurant staff. It turned out the restaurant owner was originally from Kumamoto. The cook went to college nearby, too, in Miyazaki. The things you learn.

Most prefectures in Japan have their own special food. Kumamoto has basashi. Kagoshima has kurobuta (black pork) and shochu (potato-based liquor). Hokkaido has… every food known to man. But what Yokohama’s specialty food item was, I never found out. I was too busy gleefully stuffing myself with foreign food.

They had a Subway in the building next door to the Pacifico Yokohama. I have never seen a Subway in Japan. They had Krispy Kreme and Cold Stone! Their Italian restaurants served lasagna and gnocchi. But best of all, on the fifth floor of the World Porters building they had the most delicious Mexican food I have ever found in Japan. Japan’s concept of Mexican food is limited to tacos. That’s it. But this restaurant served pork enchiladas and chicken taquitos and mango margaritas. They had a salsa bar with homemade salsas, not that canned stuff or that vaguely spicy red sauce made with Chinese peppers that I found at a different “Mexican” restaurant. The food was so delicious. It tasted like an actual Mexican restaurant I would find at home. I was so happy.

Yeah, I know, you-who-can-eat-Mexican-food-anytime-you-want are laughing your heads off at me. Go ahead and laugh. I’ll laugh right back at your Japanese restaurants with their so-called sushi and their lack of soba.

On Wednesday, March 3rd, the conference came to a close around noon, and after grabbing lunch and some souvenirs, I went back home. Besides getting lost in Yokohama Station and taking a half an hour to get to the bus stop across the street (which, in my defense, was actually the main highway), my return trip was problem free. I got home at 10:00 PM, dropped my stuff on the floor, and curled up on my bed in a tired heap.

Three days later, I have yet to fully recover.

Setsubun

2010-04-10T00:46:00.002+09:00

February 3, 2010

Happy Setsubun!

It's February 3rd here in Japan and that means it's the day of the bean throwing festival. I consider Setsubun the equivalent of St. Patrick's Day, given that you don't get a day off from school or work and I almost always forget about the holiday until it's literally the day of. Today, I was reminded just after fourth period when my teacher commented to a student that she was being strict with him, "like an oni," and the student responded by pretending to throw beans at her.

Supposedly families, especially ones with young children, celebrate Setsubun by throwing beans and saying, "Oni wa soto, fuku wa uchi," which translates into "Demons begone! Happiness arise!" if you're being poetic, or, more plainly, "Bad luck outside, good luck inside." I have no idea who sweeps up the beans when all is said and done, because I've never seen that part celebrated. The most I've seen are a lot of teasing about who's an oni. Oh, and I got some peanuts today, which apparently qualify as beans. Heck, for all I know, they might technically be beans. Does anyone know the classification of peanuts? I know, thanks to an insanely old trivia robot, that a peanut is neither a pea nor a nut.

Setsubun is also celebrated by eating gia-normous rolls of sushi. I usually skip this part along with the beans, but today I didn't feel like cooking, so I picked up a log of deep-fried shrimp sushi. There's some sort of lucky direction you're supposed to eat it in, but I didn't bother to find out which one.

I am happy about Setsubun for two reasons. The first has to do with what the word Setsubun means. "Setsu" comes from the word "kisestu" and means season. "Bun" means split. The splitting of the seaons, which means, that winter is sort of unofficially at an end and spring is on it's way. Granted the first time I "celebrated" Setsubun (by receiving beans) I was in Nagoya and it snowed the next day. But I can feel signs of spring coming. The ume (plum) blossoms are starting to bloom, little and white and sweetly scented. I love ume, what I consider the first sign of spring. There are other little signs, too. My energy has been going up, and I've been more efficient and motivated. It's still cold, and yet the cold isn't really bothering me anymore. Once I've adapted to one season, it's a sure sign the next one is on its way. I'm happy, because I love spring. I love the weather, the flowers, and how inexplicitly genki I become.

The second reason I'm happy has nothing whatsoever to do with Setsubun. I just got the results from my JLPT, that ridiculously difficult test I've been studying for for the last two years. And guess what? I PASSED! I squeaked by with a 63%. (Passing is 60%) I got 76% on kanji and vocab, 61% on listening, and 58% on the doubly weighted reading and grammer. Level 2 means, and I quote, "The examinee has mastered grammar to a relatively high level, knows around 1,000 kanji and 6,000 words, and has the ability to converse, read, and write about matters of a general nature." Come to think of it, that sounds rather bland. A more concrete example: today I listened to a Japanese teacher (that is a teacher of Japanese) explain the meaning of an old, obscure Japanese quote in Japanese and I understood it, without asking an English teacher for translation or cracking open a single dictionary.

Sorry to brag so much, but I'm just in such a good mood. I think I'll celebrate by eating strawberry-flavored mochi ice cream.

Have a nice Setsubun!

Translation: Saigo Nanshu Memorial Musuem

2010-04-10T00:33:00.005+09:00

(A pamphlet I was asked to translate from the Saigo Nanshu Memorial Museum. The director “highly evaluated” my work.)

Welcome to the Saigo Nanshu Memorial Museum

(Building Guide)

The Saigo Nanshu Memorial Museum took life as an enterprise in 1977, marking the 100 year anniversary of Saigo’s death. It was made possible through the private donations of over 200,000 individuals who wished to honor the Elder Nanshu, officially known as Saigo Takamori*. After completion, ownership of the museum was transferred to Kagoshima City in 1978, with management entrusted to the Foundation for the Saigo Nanshu Memorial Museum Committee.

* Please note: All names are written in the Japanese style, with family name first and personal name last.

Route: Museum and Shrine (Estimated time: 30-60 minutes)
(From the front of the parking lot) Museum-Graveyard-Nanshu Shrine and Epitaph for Fallen Soldiers

Parking (free) Up to 10 buses and 50 mid-sized cars

Architectural Outline Main building. Total area: 550 m². Basement: 75 m² (furnace, storage). First floor: 264 m² (office, display). Second floor: 211 m² (display). Equipped with air conditioning. Annex Building. Area: 230 m². 30 desks, 120 chairs, 2000 books. Can be used for display or research.

Museum Hours 9AM-5PM (tour takes 15 minutes at a quick pace, 60 minutes at a leisurely pace)

Holidays Monday (should Monday fall on a national holiday, the museum will be closed on the following business day) New Year (Dec. 29th-Jan. 1st)

Admission Adult: 100 yen. Child (Elementary and Junior High): 50 yen. 20% discount for groups of 30 or more.

Address: 2-1 Kamitatsuo (Nanshu Park), Kagoshima City, 892-0851
Telephone: 099-247-1100 FAX: 099-247-1100

By Route Bus, get off at Tateba; from there, a 7 minute walk
By City View Bus, get off at Nanshu Park Entrance (Nanshu Koen Iriguchi); from there a 6 minute walk.

[Display Contents] [1st floor] There are 10 dioramas in this museum.

Entrance Original bronze statue of the Elder Nanshu (Saigo) in dialogue with Elder Suge “Fallen Cow” Gagyu.

Lobby Portrait (1889, by Italian artist Kiyosone)

1. Timeline of Saigo’s Life Saigo was born on January 23, 1823 and died at Shiroyama on September 24, 1877. He attained the rank of Shosanmi posthumously in 1889.

2. Diorama The Town of Great Men. Many leaders of the Meiji Restoration came out of the Shitakajiya district, one after the other. They included the Saigo brothers, Okubo Toshimichi, Yoshii Tomozane, Iji Chishoji, Shinohara Kunimoto, Murata Shinpachi, Oyama Iwao, Togo Heihachiro, and Yamamoto Gonnohyo’e.

3. The Young Saigo From age 21-25, Saigo studied Zen under the instruction of his teacher, Musan. He was also educated in a neighborhood school, called a Goju.

The Goju was an independent school system unique to Satsuma (Kagoshima). The students in the Goju were ranked from highest to lowest: Head of Nise (older students)- Nise - Head of Chigo (younger students) - Older Chigo - Younger Chigo. The Goju also functioned as a warrior group where young men voluntarily trained their bodies and minds, the older students teaching the younger students and the Head of Nise supervising all. The textbooks were Satsuma Government Educational Reader, Kagoshima Domain Reader, and Four Books and Five Classics.

4. Diorama Saigo was selected as Head of Nise for Shitakajiya Goju when he was 19 years old. In this small district of about 70 houses, many future leaders of the restoration grew up under the guidance and influence of Saigo. Their education included an exercise regiment of running up mountains to build leg strength, a balance of diligent study and vigorous martial arts, and the cultivation of loyalty and filial piety, according to the aims of the Goju schooling system.

5. Annual Character-Building Events of the Goju (Dates according to the old lunar calendar.) May 28th—Sogo Don’s Umbrella Burning Festival. June 23rd—Visit to Jisshin Temple (Takeda Shrine). July 18th—Visit to Shingaku Temple (Hiramatsu Shrine). September 14th—Visit to Myoen Temple (Tokushige Shrine). December 14th—Reading of the Tale of the Akogi Warriors, known in the West as the 47 Ronin—a group of samurai who severed ties with their home to avenge their fallen master. Licensing of Jigen-ryu-style swordsmanship. The Jigen-ryu Bokuto, which involved training with wooden swords in the sea at New Year.

6. Diorama When he was 17, Saigo became a clerk in the government office which was responsible for collecting taxes (paid in rice) from the farmers. But Saigo, a man of deep compassion and justice, sympathized with the farmers and often broke off his own small salary to help the sick, the poor, and the suffering. He wrote up reports of the unfair dealings he saw and sent them to his superiors.

7. The Great Accomplishments of Shimazu Nariakira Shimazu Nariakira was the 28th Lord of Satsuma Domain and a great influence on Saigo’s life. He was responsible for buying the Shohei-maru, a modern ship from England; he created the Hi-no-maru design used on the Japanese flag; and he encouraged Satsuma kiriko, or cut glass.

8. Diorama At the age of 26, Saigo was discovered by Shimazu Nariakira and became a gardener in Edo (Tokyo). (At the time all lords were required to keep a separate residence at Edo and visit every other year.) Nariakira took Saigo under his wing. He gave Saigo the important task of monitoring events and meeting some the most prominent people in the entire country. Before long Saigo inherited Nariakira’s will to reform the government, and this would lead him to accomplish some of the greatest deeds of the revolution.

9. Diorama During the Ansei Purge (a time when people who stood against the government were silenced, imprisoned, or executed), the monk Gessho of Kiyomizu Temple in Kyoto was pursued by the Shogunate. Gessho begged Saigo’s help, and Saigo offered him the protection of Satsuma. But after the death of Nariakira, Satsuma feared the Shogunate and banished Gessho to Hyuga. Saigo, loyal to the end, decided to die alongside the monk. One winter’s day they flung their bodies into the frigid waters of Kinko Bay. (Saigo was 30 at the time, Gessho was 44.) Gessho died, but Saigo was resuscitated.

10. Resurrected Saigo After he was revived, Saigo changed his name to Kikuchi Gengo. For the next three years, from 1859-1862, he hid away on the island of Amami Oshima in the village of Tatsugo. A stone monument dedicated to Saigo in Rutakuchi (in Amami Oshima). A tray used by Saigo. A stone monument dedicated to Gessho.

11. Banished Again In February 1862, Saigo was recalled back to the mainland. He immediately became busy in national affairs, which stirred up the anger of the new lord of Satsuma Domain, Shimazu Hisamitsu. As a result, Saigo was banished to the distant islands of Tokunoshima and later Okinoera Bujima (Wadomari), where he was imprisoned for a year and a half.

12. Diorama Saigo spent a total of 5 years on the Amami islands, from the age of 31 to 36. For the first three years after entering the water with Gessho, he remained hidden in Tatsugo village to escape the eyes of the Shogunate. After that, he was imprisoned in Tokunoshima and Okinoera Bujima for provoking Hisamitsu’s wrath. He endured this without complaint. In the midst of his suffering, Saigo forged his temper and grew in spirit.

13. The Satcho Alliance In 1866, after Saigo was brought back from the islands yet again, there was a secret agreement between former rivals Satsuma Domain and Choshu Domain (Yamaguchi Prefecture), made possible through the efforts of Sakamoto Ryoma. With Satsuma and Choshu now united under the slogan of Tobaku (“Overthrow the Shogunate!”), they received a secret Imperial edict in 1867, lending legitimacy to their cause. People who played active roles in the Satcho Alliance were Saigo Takamori, Komatsu Tatewaki, Kido Takayoshi, Sakamoto Ryoma, and Nakaoka Shintaro.

14. Diorama Although the last Shogun, Tokugawa Yoshinobu, had abdicated at the end of 1867, the supporters of the Shogunate continued to wage war in his name. In January 1868 their 15,000 man army advanced to Kyoto and met Saigo’s 5,000 man army at Toba Fushimi, where they opened fire. The supporters of the Shogunate were defeated. Hoisting an Imperial banner overhead, Saigo, as Eastern Expeditionary High Command, left Kyoto on February 14th and marched his army to Edo to attack the Shogun’s stronghold and decisively end the war.

15. Diorama The date for the Imperial Army’s all-out offensive was fixed for March 15, 1868, and had such an attack taken place, the chaos within Edo would have been like poking a beehive with a stick. The army governor of Edo, Katsu Yasuyoshi (also known as Katsu Kaishu), saw the impending crisis clearly and requested a meeting with Saigo Takamori. With good will and sincerity, two great men met and talked out an agreement. In the end, Saigo ordered the offensive to be canceled. On April 11th Edo Castle was taken without bloodshed, sparing millions of people in Edo the fires of war.

Television Room Broadcasting the life of “Saigo Takamori.” Time needed: 30 minutes. “Saigo and Okubo,” presented by the Prefecture Scholarship Association, 20 minutes.

[2nd Floor]

16. The Proverbs of Elder Nanshu Shonai Domain (the Tsuruoka region of Yamagata Prefecture) had continued their assault on behalf of the defeated Shogunate, but by October 1868, they admitted defeat and surrendered to Saigo, now head of the Northern Expeditionary Attack Force. Rather than punish Shonai Domain, Saigo treated them with kindness and leniency. In later years a close friendship would develop between them. When Saigo was branded a traitor, the people of former Shonai defended him and in 1889 published The Proverbs of Elder Nanshu, which spread the knowledge of Saigo’s great character throughout the country.

17. Saigo as Sangi In 1869, at the request of Shimazu Tadayoshi, the last lord of Satsuma Domain, Kagoshima was reformed into an assembly government.

In 1871, Saigo achieved the high rank of Sangi and took with it corresponding duties on the national stage. From then until his resignation in October 1873, Saigo actively endorsed many important policies, including the abolishment of domains and the establishment of prefectures, reform within the Imperial Palace, a new educational system, the establishment of a national bank, the creation of a universal conscription army, the inauguration of the railroads, the adoption of the solar calendar, and so on. From May to July of 1872, he escorted the Meiji Emperor on a tour throughout western Japan and Kyushu as Commander in Chief of the Imperial Guards. In June 1873, in addition to Sangi, he took on the role of General of Japan’s first national army.

18. Saigo’s Korean Envoy Korea rejected a treaty with new Meiji government. Between this and its oppression of Japanese settlers, animosity towards Korea was building and a debate broke out over whether or not to go to war. Saigo suppressed the sect that favored using military force. In 1873, he proposed instead that he be sent to Korea as an ambassador. Although the Cabinet meeting initially supported Saigo’s Korean envoy, opposition from Okubo and Iwakura ultimately caused this proposal to be rejected.

19. Diorama In the fall of 1873, Saigo retired from his position as Sangi and returned home. Before long, he had established a society to reclaim the land along the Yoshino plateau and Terayama region. Wielding a hoe to break the ground, Saigo and his students returned to a life of being partners with nature.

20. Saigo’s Private Schools When Saigo retired, many in the government also left their posts to follow him back to Kagoshima. Bearing these men in mind, Saigo founded a system of private schools in June 1874, which included a rifle corps, a cannon corps, and basic education for young pupils. Shinohara Kunimoto and Murata Shinpachi were supervisors.

21. The Seinan War Begins The national government began to ship weapons and munitions out of Kagoshima. At this time, a spy revealed that there was a scheme in play to assassinate Saigo. Hearing this, Saigo’s students went off in a rage, which eventually progressed to a full-scale war against the government. At the time of their departure for Tokyo, there were 13,000 men in Satsuma’s army, but cooperative armies from Miyazaki, Kumamoto, Oita, and Fukuoka comprised another 7,000 men, and a supplement of recruits added another 10,000 men, for a total of 30,000 men. Roughly 6,800 of these men would die during the course of the war. The government army was 60,000 men strong, and they would absorb 6,971 casualties by the end of it.

22. Diorama On September 24, 1877, the morning of the Imperial Army’s general offensive, Saigo left his cave, and his army took their position at the mouth of Iwasaki Valley in Shiroyama. As he was making his way to the front line of the Satsuma army, Saigo was hit by a bullet from the Imperial Army and sat where he fell. He prayed to the Emperor in the far-off east and turned Beppu Shinsuke. “Shin, it is time,” he said to Beppu and ordered his friend to strike off his head. Although officially Saigo and the Satsuma army were called traitors, the Emperor and the people did not in their hearts think of Saigo as an enemy.

23. Seinan War Miniature battleground of the Satsuma Army. Rough sketch (with omissions) of the Seinan War. Chronology of the war.

24. Pictures of the Seinan War 19 pictures (Artist: Osa Hidehiko)

25. Seinan War Brocade picture. Articles of the deceased. Saigo bill. Military notebook of a Kagoshima soldier who fought against Saigo’s troops.

26. The Spirit of Nanshu Hanging scrolls written in Saigo’s own hand. 10 scrolls. Saigo Takanaga’s (Takamori’s) letter. Murata Sansuke’s Letter of Appointment.

27. Articles of the Deceased Kamoshimo (old ceremonial dress) bearing Saigo’s family crest with cotton crested haori (half jacket). Shinohara Kunimoto’s military uniform. Saigo bill.

28. Articles and Letters of the Deceased Saigo’s leggings and underclothes. Letters of Oyama Tsunayoshi and Kirino Toshiaki. Letters of Okubo Toshimichi.

29. Satsuma Biwa (Lute) “Shiroyama,” composed by Katsu Kaishu. A flag draped in black belonging to Yokoyama Yasutake (Nanshu original writing). The Satsuma blade of Yamanoda Kazusuke, who cut down many Shinsengumi, a band of samurai in Kyoto who supported the Shogunate. Yamanoda’s diary. Naminohira, the old sword of the commander of Satsuma Army.

30. Photographic Record of the Seinan War (1st and 2nd floor transom) 122 pictures. Taken by Ueno Hikoma.

Nanshu Elegy

“With false accusations hung upon him like laundry on a line, he died, at the mercy of the games of children.” —Katsu Kaishu

Translation: Okubo Toshimichi

2010-04-10T00:23:00.004+09:00

(From the Museum of the Meiji Restoration, in Kagoshima City)

The Tragedy of Okubo Toshimichi

The Meiji era deepened and history treated Okubo coldly. In Kagoshima, he was censured as the man who drove Saigo to his death during the Seinan War (1877). The image of Okubo’s character hardened into that of a cool-headed realist, a man who mulled things over dispassionately, made a decision, and carried that out that decision to the end, regardless of human consequence.

But in a national crisis like the Bakumatsu (the ten year collapse of the Tokugawa Shogunate), it was necessary to make and implement decisions in a composed manner. Okubo’s firm-to-the-extent-of-heartless posture steered Japan through the Meiji era and put it on course to be an independent nation, unyielding to the pressure of foreign countries.

In the 11th year of Meiji (1878), Okubo was assassinated by a band of disgruntled samurai. After his death, a different side of his character came to light. People had imagined that a man who had sat in the seat of power for so long had accumulated quite a bit of money. Actually, he had 75 yen in cash (in current value, approximately 1 million yen) and a total debt of 8,000 yen (100-140 million yen). He assumed these debts under his own name to supplement a shortage of government funds. This shows Okubo to be a man who threw away his own self-interests and sacrificed everything he had for the nation.

When He Learned of his Friend’s Death

From the days of their youth, Saigo and Okubo grew up together, strong-willed and like-minded. But when they reached middle age, their opinions split and finally, in the Seinan War, they were forced to become enemies. Okubo was a man who hid his regrets and always exhibited a calm exterior, but when he learned of his friend’s death, his true feelings were laid bare. His younger sister Mineko related the confusion that seized Okubo upon hearing of Saigo’s demise:

“My big brother, whose stature was so tall, walked in circles under the lintel between the sitting room and the hallway. He was impatient, refusing to sit, and he smacked his head with his hand, a great many tears filling his eyes.” We can imagine at this time that memories of his old childhood friend were circulating in his mind.

Later, Okubo would make this request to Shigeno Yasutsugu, a historian living in the same town: “I wish to write the inscription upon Kichinosuke’s (Saigo’s) tombstone.”

A Warm Affection and Respect for his Wife

The face of Okubo as a family man is not well-known to the public. Although considered “cold-hearted” and “unfeeling,” a different portrait of Okubo can been seen through a small number of materials and family accounts.

While Okubo was away Edo and Kyoto trying to bring about the Meiji Restoration, his wife, Masuko, protected the house in Kagoshima, along with their children and her husband’s parents and sister. Although they were separated by a great distance, Toshimichi was forever thinking of his wife and the great labors she performed. He always began letters addressed to his house with “My Dear Home” (his affectionate name for Masuko), and even when he sent letters to his younger sister, the first name he wrote on the paper was “Masu.” * This shows the respect he had towards his wife, as well as his thoughtful consideration of her.

When he traveled to America as part of the Iwakura Delegation, he attached this line of a song to the end of a letter to his wife: “Wherever I go, my thoughts surround you. My wife, who beats at the loom, as the dusk of the autumn sky deepens to black.”

* It has been speculated that by doing this, he gave his wife permission to look over his sister’s letter and be sure he wasn’t speaking ill of her behind her back. This also, in a sense, set her up as head of the household, as it gave her the authority to oversee items that came into the house.

Isei Seimei

Okubo often wrote out the calligraphy for “Isei Seimei,” or “Pure Ruler.” The words mean “Politicians must first examine their own character and have integrity and righteousness,” and they express Okubo’s desire and lifelong aim.

The Accomplishments of Okubo Toshimichi

• Okubo is one of the Ishin Sanketsu, the Three Great Men of the Restoration. Moreover, he was the only one to consistently play a role in the center of government politics and thus was able to carry out extensive reforms.

• Okubo was a part of the Sono (“Revere the Emperor!”) movement. He advocated government change within the domains, organized the loyalists, and caught the eye of his mentor, Shimazu Hisamitsu (the new head of Satsuma Domain), who saw Okubo’s talents and utilized them to the fullest extent. Alongside Saigo, Okubo recruited like-minded men to their cause and synthesized various domains’ arguments on how to deal with the crisis. He traveled all over Japan to promote the idea of uniting the feudal domains into a single national government, and he actively endorsed restoring the Emperor to power and returning all land to his control.

• The two times Saigo was banished to the islands—once to Amami Oshima to hide from the Shogunate and then to Okinoera Bushima—Okubo went to work in the government to get him released. Once Saigo did return, he and Okubo combined their talents and the Meiji Restoration took off.

• After the inauguration of the new Meiji government, Okubo pushed for the transfer of the capital from Kyoto to Tokyo. He came out with new government programs, one after the other, and he was especially adamant about creating a prosperous country with a strong army and promoting enterprise and industry. He poured all his energy into making Japan a modern nation.

• After Saigo helped him abolish the domains and establish prefectures in their stead, Okubo went on an overseas expedition with Iwakura Tomomi, among others, to tour Europe and America. Prussia’s Bismarck, in particular, made an enormous impression on him, and once he returned, Okubo enthusiastically devoted himself to creating a monarch-state similar to that of Prussia.

• In Okubo’s absence, Saigo had been left in charge of the government and had planned to send an envoy to Korea. This clashed strongly with Okubo’s own ideas of prioritizing internal matters. Sadly, the fallout between the two would eventually lead to the Seinan War, but Okubo, as Minister of National Affairs, did his best to control the crisis.

• Okubo was assassinated on May 14, 1878, a year following the Seinan War. His killers were six disgruntled samurai led by Shimada Ichiro of Iwakawa Prefecture. At the age of 47, Okubo’s life came to an end.

• Okubo was given the rank of Shoni’i and the prestigious title of “Minister of the Right.” Afterwards, he was awarded the rank of Juichi’i.

Please note: All names are written in Japanese style, with the family name first and the personal name last.

Translation: Saigo Takamori

2010-04-10T00:02:00.005+09:00

(From the Museum of the Meiji Restoration, in Kagoshima City)

A Man of Virtue Trusted Even by His Enemies

During the Boshin Civil War (1868-1869), Shonai Domain (located in present day Yamagata Prefecture), which was a supporter of the Tokugawa government, came under fierce attack by the Imperial Army and was defeated. It is well-known that, under the influence of Saigo, the “rebel army” of Shonai Domain was treated magnanimously, and as the government changed and the Meiji era began, Shonai Doman felt an obligation and special trust for Saigo.

In the 4th year of Meiji (1871), Suge Sanehide, the chief retainer of Shonai Domain, met with Saigo in Edo (Tokyo) for the first time. The record of Shonai Domain contains the following statements: “The Elder (Saigo) is honored as an older brother” and “The Elder is in fact a great Sage, bestowed with Oyu’s gift of virtue.” It was also written that the previous year the former ruler of Shonai, Sakai Tadazumi, personally studied under Saigo during his visit to Kagoshima, and his retainers trained with riffles as rank and file soldiers in Hayato Garrison in Satsuma (Kagoshima Prefecture). Due to this association, a number of people from what was once Shonai Domain joined the Satsuma troops at the outbreak of the Seinan War.

Men Who Put Their Lives in Saigo’s Hands

There seemed to be a special kind of power to Saigo’s charisma. After the inauguration of the new Meiji government, Saigo differed in opinion with Okubo Toshimichi and Kido Takayoshi over whether or not to dispatch ambassadors to Korea and was subsequently dismissed. When that happened, many Satsuma officials holding high positions in the government also resigned and returned home to Kagoshima under the direction of Saigo. The number reached into the hundreds, including such distinguished men as Shinohara Kunimoto, the Major General of the Imperial Guards; Kirino Toshiaki, the Chief Justice of the Army; and Murata Shinbachi, the Deputy Chief of the Imperial Household. Many of these military officers and public officials would later take part in the Seinan War and share in Saigo’s fate.

Masuda Sotaro, who was in command of Oita Prefecture’s Nakatsu Corps, said this about Saigo: “If you know Saigo for a single day, the love of one day is born. If you know Saigo for three days, the love of three days is born. With each day, the love for him increases, until it won’t let go. It is enough to live and die with him…” The men who followed Saigo to their death at the end of the Seinan War probably thought the same thing. It is for this reason that Saigo is called “A person of great affection.”

The Mystery of Saigo’s Real Name

Although it was common for samurai to change their names several times over the course of their lives, the amount of names Saigo went through was excessive even for the time. (See chart.)

Age Name Reason for Change

Birth-14 Kokichi In Saigo’s family, this was the traditional name for the eldest son and heir.

15-26 Kichinosuke This was used from Saigo’s coming of age on forward.

27-29 Zembe Saigo took this name after his father’s death when he inherited control of the family.

32-35 Kikuchi Gengo During the time of the Ansei Purge, Saigo harbored the monk Gessho, a fugitive. Saigo was forced to change his name by edict of Satsuma Domain.

35 Oshima San’uemon The name he took after being reinstated and returning to Kagoshima.

35-37 Oshima Kichinosuke When Saigo was banished to Okinoera Bujima (an island in southern Kagoshima Prefecture near Okinawa), he was again ordered to change his name by domain edict.

38-40 Saigo Kichinosuke

41-Present Saigo Takamori

Takamori was not, in fact, Saigo’s real name. His real name was Takanaga; Takamori was the name of his father. However, when Saigo was awarded the rank of Shosanmi in the 2nd year of Meiji (1869), the government made a mistake in their documentation and used his father’s name instead. Saigo ended up refusing this rank, but in doing so, he sent back the name “Takamori.” From that time forward, Takanaga and Takamori were used interchangeably until the last years of Saigo’s life, when the name Takamori stuck.

Kei Ten Ai Jin

The words Saigo carried with him all his life Kei Ten Ai Jin, or “Revere Heaven, Love Man” mean “As Heaven blesses all people without discrimination, so I, too, with a heart of compassion, want to love mankind.” Saigo demonstrated this philosophy throughout his life.

The Accomplishments of Saigo Takamori

• The people who contributed the most to the Meiji Restoration are known as the Ishin Sanketsu or the Three Great Men of the Restoration. Saigo is one of them.

• Saigo was selected by Shimazu Nariakira, the head of Satsuma Domain, to travel the various feudal domains in Japan and drum up support to reform the Tokugawa Shogunate.

• After Nariakira’s death, Saigo was banished to Amami Oshima and then to the distant island of Okinoera Bujima. Both times he was summoned back, and in the first and only year of Genji (1864) Saigo demonstrated his skill and capability in the handling of the Incident at the Forbidden Gate and the first invasion of Choshu (Yamaguchi Prefecture).

• In the 2nd year of Keio (1866), Saigo played an important role in the alliance between Satsuma and Choshu, bringing the movement to overthrow the Shogunate one step closer to fruition.

• Saigo gained full authority over the Imperial Army as the Eastern Expeditionary High Command during the Boshin Civil War (1868-1869). By meeting with Kaishu Katsu, an important official in the Tokugawa government, he was able to take Edo Castle without bloodshed. His army came to dominate the domains of Nagaoka (Niigata Prefecture), Aizu (Fukushima Prefecture), and Shonai (Yamagata Prefecture), to name a few.

• After the new government was established, Saigo became General of Japan’s first national army and attained the ranks of Totoku and Sangi. His important work in the government led to feudal domains being abolished and prefectures established in their place. He also began to overhaul the education and conscription systems, and he was active in the center of Japanese modern architecture.

• In the 6th year of Meiji (1873), Okubo Toshimichi and Iwakura Tomomi returned to Japan from their trip to Europe and America. They opposed Saigo’s plan to dispatch diplomats to Korea, and Saigo went back to Kagoshima. Saigo built schools for the samurai youth, but his students came to distrust the new government. This invited a storm of controversy, which eventually led to the Seinan War (1877). After several violent skirmishes, Saigo’s army was defeated by the government army, and in September 1877, he died alongside his students. He was 49 years old.

• After the war, Saigo was branded a traitor and stripped of his official rank. But by the 22nd year of Meiji (1889), Saigo’s accomplishments during the restoration had come to be much admired. With the issuing of the Constitution of the Japanese Empire, Saigo was granted a pardon, the name of traitor was removed, and he was awarded the rank of Shosanmi.

Please note: All names are written in Japanese style, with the family name first and the personal name last.

Ash from Sakurajima

2010-04-09T23:49:00.005+09:00

January 2010

It’s been a really long time since I’ve written. You’d think I’d be bursting with new information, but no. As of now, I have nothing in particular happening in my life.

Our volcano, Sakurajima, has been spewing more ash than usual into the air for a while now. It turns the streets grey. Today it rained and as I walked to school, my laces splashed in the puddles of ashy water and got the hem of my khaki-colored pants stained an awful drippy black. The weird thing was that once my pants dried off the ash just fell away, restoring the color, as if nothing was wrong in the first place. Weird, no?

The ash falls onto my balcony. I’ve been sweeping it weekly lately. Even so, by next Saturday a layer of grey soot has formed. I sweep it up and it completely fills my dustpan. Sometimes I can taste it at the edge of my teeth or feel it like grit in my eye.

With so much ash in the air, it’s no wonder I kept getting sick this fall. I still get a little bit hacking/ gagging in the mornings, but not nearly so bad as in October, November, December. I think it’s gotten better since I finished my test. I took the JLPT (Japanese Language Proficiency Test), 2nd level, this December. I’d been studying like crazy for it. Now that it’s over, and now that the holidays are over as well, I’m a little more relaxed. I’ve been studying Japanese by translating museum signs into English.

I spent my holidays cleaning my house and trying to ignore the germ of loneliness growing in me. The holidays are the worst: everyone is away or busy and the whole community turns into a ghost town. For my 25th birthday, I wanted to have a party, but in the end, only one person could come. We had fun talking, but it isn’t quite a party. It’s not just that. It’s coming home and having no one to talk to, no one to cook for, no one to take care of or take care of me. When I first got my own place, I was so excited about having my own space and my own rules. But I kind of miss having people around.

That’s how I know I have to come home. The papers are signed; I’ll leave in August. There’s a conference for “Returning JETs” in Yokohama to help us deal with adjusting to life outside of Japan and write resumes and things like that. I want to go. I do want to attend this conference, but I also want to visit Yokohama (a city near Tokyo, one of the 5 largest in Japan) and, more importantly, Kamakura. Kamakura is near Yokohama. It was the capital of the really, really old Japanese Shogunate. It has one of the two famous “Big Buddha” statues in Japan .

School is going fine. I’m teaching the kids about rhyming. I’m getting better at preparing lessons. Not perfect, but better. The odd thing is that the more I understand what it means to be a teacher, the less appealing it becomes to me. I love to teach students who love to learn. But I hate trying to control noisy classes, motivate students who don’t want to learn, and grade papers. And that seems to be most of what being a teacher is. Honestly, I’d rather be a student; or better yet, just give me my own work and I’ll do it happily.

Northern Japan: The End?

2010-04-09T23:40:00.002+09:00

Late August 2009

Writing this took almost as long as the trip itself. Fortunately, traveling refreshed me, and I returned home healthy and bursting with energy. I tackled the job of writing down my experiences. Like putting together a scrapbook, I carefully arranged my thoughts and feelings.

I included a lot of history, and I know that’s not everyone’s cup of tea. But history is an integral part of my travel. I chose cities with the theme of the “losers” of the Bakumatsu conflict, but I ended up retracing the Boshin Civil War (1868-1869) in backwards manner.

In the spring of 1868 most of Japan had already acknowledged the new Imperial government, created under the alliance of Satsuma (Kagoshima), Choshu (Yamaguchi), and, to some extent, Tosa (Kochi). But there were pockets of resistance. The direct retainers of the Tokugawa Shogunate fought the Imperial army in Tokyo in the summer of 1868. They were defeated. War raged in Aizu that autumn, led by such people as Saito Hajime. By November, Aizu was broken. Enomoto Takeaki, Hijikata Toshizo, and a few others retreated to Sendai, briefly, then up to Hakodate. They set up the Ezo Republic that winter. The imperial army arrived in spring of 1869 and destroyed the republic. The Boshin Civil War came to an end.

And with it, officially, Bakumatsu history.

I have run out of places to visit. This was my last major history-themed trip. That’s not to say I won’t travel in Japan anymore or find ways to bore you with my obscure interests. But I will not put as much effort into planning my trips or recording my adventures afterwards. It’s just too much work. I have one more year in Japan. I feel like this part of my life is coming to an end, and I need to prepare for the next phase.

I hope you enjoyed the ride. I did.

Northern Japan #6: Edo-Tokyo

2010-04-09T23:18:00.014+09:00

Late August 2009

(Friday, Saturday morning)

Last time I came to Tokyo, there were times people gathered so thick around me, I felt like I was no longer walking but getting swept away by a slow-trudging river. Even at its best, Tokyo was a city where you couldn’t escape people. A walk in the park meant tripping over picnickers; breakfast at a temple was shared with a film crew.

But this time it was different. I caught the 8:45 train on the Yamanote loop from Ueno to Akihabara on a Friday morning. By all logic I should have been crushed like a soda can in a trash compressor. Instead, no one even touched me.

Obon probably had something to do with it. The tradition of returning home to pay respects to the ancestors is the one genuine excuse the Japanese have to travel. Then again, it might have been the places I chose to visit: Iriya, Ebisu, and Ryogoku aren’t exactly popular. Whatever the reason, Tokyo didn’t feel as crowded as I’d remembered.

Long colorful paintings of sumo wrestlers met me at my stop. The Sumo Stadium was somewhere nearby, but I drifted along to the Edo-Tokyo Museum. My guidebook called the massive building structure impressive; I called it ugly. The bottom part of the museum was hollowed out—groups met under the shade and waited for their guides to buy tickets—while the roof was bulky, containing most of the exhibits. I wondered that the roof didn’t simply squash us flat. Grass or trees might have softened the effect, but there was nothing but concrete around the area.

The Edo-Tokyo museum was my entire reason for coming. A month earlier, two phone calls and a fax had secured me an English-speaking guide. I met him on the sixth floor in front of the permanent exhibition. He was an older Japanese man with slightly longish grey hair. I asked his name and he told me to call him “Simon.”

“If you’re Simon, then you can call me Isako,” I said, jokingly. From the very beginning, he and I got along wonderfully.

A giant bridge, a replica of the Nihonbashi, split the permanent exhibition in half: Edo to the left, Tokyo to the right. (Just so you know, Edo and Tokyo are both names for the same city; it was called Edo from 1600-1868 and Tokyo from1868 on out.) The room was dimly lit, but I could see the various life-sized buildings and artifacts scattered just below the bridge. Most impressive was the kabuki theatre and newspaper building.

On a normal day, I think Simon would explain the basic history of the two eras, but I already knew that, so we just leaned against the railing of the bridge and chatted. I told him I was from Kagoshima Prefecture and that I liked to study about the Bakumatsu period (1853-1868) in Japanese history.

“You probably know more about it than I do,” he said.

The Edo-Tokyo museum focused on the Edo era (1600-1853) and skipped over my favorite era completely. This didn’t really surprise me. It didn’t bother me either, because the actual lifestyle of the people in the Bakumatsu era was almost identical to that of the Edo era. Except with more violence.

We eventually walked off the bridge and came to a life-sized replica of a palanquin. Simon urged me to get inside. The lacquered box was roomier inside than it looked. I could stretch my legs all the way out. While I was making myself comfortable Simon told me that this palanquin was used by the lords.

“You’ve probably heard of this word—‘alternate attendance.’ ”

I did. It was a system set up by the Tokugawa Shogunate wherein the lords, sometimes called daimyo, were required to make trips to Edo every other year. This trip drained them of their money and broke their ties to the land. A very clever system for to keep control of the daimyo and ensure the samurai didn’t rebel.

“How long do you think it took to come to Edo from Kagoshima?” Simon asked me.

“Four months?” I said.

“Maybe three or four months. As soon as the daimyo came to Edo, he had to start planning his trip back.”

We passed more traditional documents under glass. Simon showed me a picture of Edo burning and explained that in 1657 a great fire burned down 60% of the city. They had to rebuild, a common theme in the history of Tokyo. A crowd was gathered next to a chart of the Tokugawa lineage, but I had no interest, so we moved on.

We came to models of the aqueduct.

“The water went to wells,” Simon said. “Of course the samurai had their own well, but the townspeople had to share. They also shared toilets. But the waste from the toilets didn’t go underground. The farmers took it. They would come in the mornings with buckets of vegetables and leave with buckets of manure. It was useful for growing vegetables. Nothing wasted.”

I like to think of myself as fairly well-versed on Japanese history, but Simon made me look like an amateur. He told me about hazardous birthing practices, explained that bookstores didn’t sell books, and showed me a print of carpenters worshipping catfish as a symbol of earthquakes. I followed with my notebook open, a pencil in my hand, and eagerly scribbled notes.

We came to a display of gold coins—gold for Tokyo, although Osaka and Kyoto used silver. The big flat bars were used only by the Shogun. I pointed to the small coins with the hole in the middle, resembling a five-yen coin of today.

“Did people use those coins when they went shopping?” I asked.

No, Simon said. Most people didn’t actually go shopping. Vendors came to them, selling fish or tofu or renting out books. People knew each other face to face, and they didn’t exchange coins except once or twice a year. Credit was the preferred method. I thought this funny. Japan, the land of cash, using credit long ago.

Simon led me to a miniature of a long, impressive building with a black roof and no walls on the first floor. Faceless little people bustled in and sat on the tatami mat, looking at the displays of goods.

“Now this was a very successful store,” Simon said.

“What’s its name?” I asked.

“Mitsukoshi,” he said. “Do you know it?”

“It sounds vaguely familiar.”

“It’s still in Tokyo. Today it’s a department store.”

Mr. Mitsukoshi had been a very clever man, Simon explained. First of all, his enterprise was based in Kyoto, so he benefitted from the gold-silver exchange rate. The actual store, like Wal-mart, had everything. People from all ranks and classes could shop freely. But what made the store so revolutionary was its “cash only” policy. You see, those vendors working on credit occasionally had people who would take off when their bill was due. So, to insure they made money, they charged interest. But because Mitsukoshi only accepted cold, hard currency, it did away with the interest. It sold its products at rock bottom prices.

There was so much to see and soak in—but I won’t bore you any longer. There is only one more display I’d like to mention because it seemed to be of special interest to him. It was a simple map of the city of Tokyo during World War II. A press of the button and various sections of the city lit up.

“When we become a tour guide, they make us learn three dates,” Simon said. “1657—that’s the year of the fire. 1868—you know, the year of the Meiji Restoration. And March 3, 1945.”

“March 3rd?” I said. It didn’t sound familiar. “Why is that date important?”

“March 3rd,” he said, “was like our September 11th. That was the day the air raids fell hardest on Tokyo.”

For each area that had been bombed a portion of the map lit up. At first, it was only a couple of small insignificant areas. But on March 3rd a huge chunk in the center of Tokyo flashed red on the map. All that area destroyed. And the air raids continued—for three months—until the whole city was blotted out.

“Tokyo—our capital city—was completely destroyed,” he said. “But even then, we didn’t give up.” This last point was important to him.

“I didn’t know,” I said.

“Even Japanese people don’t know,” he said. “They forgot. Because after that—Hiroshima and Nagasaki…”

“The atomic bomb,” I said. “It overshadowed it.”

The atomic bomb gets a lot of attention, but we forget—normal bombs can do the same amount of damage. It just takes a little longer.

“March 3rd is nothing like September 11th,” I said. “We only lost a few buildings—you lost a whole city. America doesn’t know what that feels like.”

After that, we sat on the benches and talked. I explained my theory about how the difference in America and Japan’s views on war and peace springs from their different experiences in World War II. As the conversation turned to cultural differences, I jabbed that Japan liked “losers” of battles more than winners. He acknowledged this, but jabbed back that America’s tendency of liking only the winners was “simple.” I said that sometimes I really didn’t understand Japan’s way of looking at things, but that I still loved to learning about their culture.

“I just wish there were more information,” I said and vented my frustration at Aizu.

“They should have English signs,” he said adamantly. “How can foreigners learn about our culture?”

“But I was so happy to meet you,” I said. “I learned so much. Thank you.”

Words—such a poor way to express my actual gratitude.

How can I express what this experience was like? It was as if, for a moment, I was a college student again, in class with a favorite professor, and the other students forgot to show up, so we just chatted casually about whatever struck our fancy.

When I talk about the history of Japan in English to my friends and family, I end up explaining. When I talk history in Japanese to strangers or acquaintances who share my interest, we generally toss a few names around and give our opinions. But to be with a person who can teach me about history and to have complicated discussions about how it affects our culture afterwards—that is a rare treat. And I think Simon enjoyed my company as well.

After the museum, I did a little sightseeing. I went to Meiji Shrine in the afternoon, a large but oddly plain shrine dedicated to the Emperor Meiji. The next morning, I walked around Imperial Palace Park in central Tokyo. There, pieces of old Edo Castle mingled with a background of shiny skyscrapers. The park was large and spacious. A few people came for jogging or sightseeing, but certainly not hoards of people. All in all, it was a lovely walk.

The food in Tokyo was expensive, but delicious. The first night, I had spaghetti with meat sauce and a fluffy scrambled egg on top. I know it sounds weird, but it was excellent—and I rarely, if ever, compliment Japan on their Italian food. The second night I had hearty Russian food and Russian tea. I was a little wary about the tea—three kinds of red wine added and strawberry jam—but it was good. The chunky jam made the tea sweet and fruity, and I could hardly taste the wine at all.

But excellent food was just the icing on the cake. The cake itself—my reason for falling in love with Tokyo at all—is due to Mr. Simon Aga and the Edo-Tokyo Museum.

Northern Japan #5: Aizu-Wakamatsu, Tohoku

2010-04-09T22:47:00.018+09:00

Late August 2009

(Tuesday afternoon, Wednesday, Thursday morning)

It was 6:00 when I arrived at my hotel. Dinner time. But as I walked around the quiet neighborhood, I realized a problem: there were no restaurants. There were several small hotels like mine that would feed you breakfast and dinner if you ordered it when you made your reservation—I hadn’t. There was a tourist attraction nearby—the large housing complex of an important samurai—but the two or three cafes and souvenir stands were already dark. Besides that there were only residential houses, a long empty street, and a 7/11 around the corner.

I didn’t want to have dinner at a convenience store, but I didn’t have a choice. There was no other place. I made the best of it. I tried the “red” spicy fried chicken (very tender) and a piroshky, a Russian snack that resembled a fried dumpling. It was cheap—even with drinks and dessert and breakfast for tomorrow, I still spent less than ten bucks. It was casual—I plopped myself down on my futon bed, spread out my food on the tatami mat floor, and ate while holding a book to my nose. It was fun.

Aizu-Wakamatsu reminded me of Kanoya, except with more history and less restaurants. It had a very small-town feel, and like Kanoya, it’s in the middle of nowhere. There are hills inside the city and hills surrounding the city on the outside, but no ocean. Aizu is as deep inland as a city in Japan can be.

When I woke up the next morning, a miracle happened: my earache, which persisted since Hakodate, suddenly vanished. I was healed! Of course, this ailment would be replaced with another, namely giant blisters on my toes, but I don’t want to complain. Point is, I was mostly healthy by now and feeling pretty good.

My first stop was the aforementioned tourist attraction, Aizu Bukeyashiki, the home of one of the most important retainer samurai of the old Aizu domain. The houses were typically pretty with wooden beams and gleaming roof tiles. There was even a pond with golden carp that swam so close to the edge of the water, you could practically scoop them up in your hand. But what I liked even better were the life-sized dolls interacting with the artifacts in the room. A samurai greeting a guest, a woman playing a musical instrument, a girl with short hair playing with a paper ball.

And the signs! Glorious English signs! They explained things like why there was a wagon of sand underneath the toilet. (Apparently the doctor checked the excrement for warning signs of sickness—ew!) Or that the giant chugging water wheel in the dark room that smelled of damp wood was a rice polishing machine. (Although it didn’t explain how it polished rice or even why rice needed to be polished in the first place.)

But there were no English signs in the museum. Coming up the stairs from the rice polishing machine, I stumbled across a room filled with the portraits of great men. Hanging off the second floor balcony was a banner showing the last lord of Aizu, Matsudaira Katamori, and two members of the Shinsengumi, including my old friend Hijikata. (Remember him from Hakodate?) I was curious. What was the relationship between the two parties? And why was it displayed here, in a house neither owned by the lord nor the Shinsengumi?

I asked these questions to the women at the front desk in my garbled Japanese.

“No, there’s no relationship between these people and this house,” she said. “The banner is old.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “I have an interest in the Shinsengumi.”

The women picked up the phone. “Just a minute,” she said.

A short while later she showed me the location of the Shinsengumi Memorial Museum on a Japanese map. Incidentally, this did not appear on my English map at all. I thanked the woman and bought an akabeko keychain from a basket on her counter. An akabeko is a red cow with a bobbing head that’s a symbol of Aizu.

Another museum on the grounds showcased women and children of the household committing suicide. Two women slumped over, one with a child over her lap, its eyes shut. The dolls wore traditional white gowns of seppuku. Considering seppuku involves ritually disemboweling oneself, their clothes were oddly pristine and bloodless.

When Satsuma and Choshu (Kagoshima and Yamaguchi) declared the end of the Shogunate, the restoration of the Emperor, and the coming of the Meiji era in 1868, Aizu resisted. The Imperial army marched on Aizu, and their armies clashed. Aizu’s castle burned. Sensing defeat, the wife of the manor declared the household must commit suicide. Seppuku followed.

A third woman in white leaned up in agony. She gazed up at scary-looking soldier with a long orange vest and a sword in his hand. “If you are a friend, help me to die,” she pleaded. In fact, he was an enemy. But he obliged. A quick swipe of his sword, and she too lay dead.

The soldier had long red hair.

“Kenshin!” I gasped in horror.

(Kenshin is a red-haired samurai who worked as an assassin for Choshu at this time in history. He appears in the comic series Rurouni Kenshin, which I read in college.)

Somehow, though, I doubted the fictional hero of my comic would appear in a history museum. My memory flickered; I recalled another red-haired soldier among the miniatures of Goryo-kaku Tower in Hakodate. There was a pattern here. If only I knew what it was.

Before leaving the samurai villa, I asked a woman working at the souvenir shop why the soldier had red hair. Apparently the men in the Imperial army wore wigs in order to intimidate their enemy. They were supposed to resemble some kind of animal. What animal? I didn’t actually catch that, but later I read something about “red bear” wigs. Odd. Whoever heard of a red bear?

The bus ran a loop from tragedy to tragedy. My next stop was Iimori Mountain. In a tale similar to that of the women in white, a group of teenage boys had climbed the mountain, seen the smoke of the castle burning, and decided to plunge their swords into their stomachs. Today souvenir stands crowd the base of Iimori Mountain, selling deep-fried vegetables, soft serve, and a thousand brick-a-bracks with the name of the group plastered on it.

Byakkotai. White Tigers. Most of the boys in the group were only 16 or 17, but they were samurai and soldiers. Two swords hung at their hip, and they held a long black riffle in their hand. I studied their statues and the paintings of their journey, from a skirmish at a bridge to a retreat up the mountain. What struck me was their clothes. They all wore black, high-collared military jackets with a line of buttons down the front. I’d seen those jackets before: it resembled the school uniforms worn by my own high school students.

The White Tigers are enshrined in a temple at the mountains, and tourists surround their graves, burning incense and taking pictures. What is it about stupid acts of teenage suicide that tickles the sensibilities? Why do people think it’s romantic? It’s not. It’s a waste of life. Yet here are the White Tigers, the biggest tourist attraction in Aizu, and me, a hypocrite, snapping pictures just like everyone else.

The bus ran a loop from tragedy to tragedy, and now I came to Aizu Castle, also called Crane Castle. The crux of both acts of suicides. The fact that the castle had been at least partially burned down a hundred and fifty years ago didn’t in any way hinder its existence today. Its grey tiles gleamed in the sunlight, and its walls shone bright with a fresh coat of paint.

My English pamphlet patiently explained all the information I already knew. Yes, yes, yes a battle was fought here and Aizu lost. I got that. But how did they lose? How did their castle get burned? What was the breakdown of the battle? Who were the people involved and how did they decide to surrender? All the answers may have been inside. But if they were, they were all in Japanese—and I couldn’t read them!

I was a dog behind a chain link fence with a juicy bone on the other side. No matter how I jumped at the bone, the metal links would snap me back. That’s how I felt when I explored the museum inside the castle. I saw pictures of the battle, but I couldn’t read the explanations. If only there was a guide, like that lady in Yamaguchi Prefecture, someone who would take me by the hand and lead me like a child through the displays—but there was no guide, no one in this afternoon crowd who would stop and talk to me.

That was the real source of my frustration, I think. I went to these places of history in order to find someone who shared my love of history.

To find someone to talk to.

The alarm rang the next morning. Slowly, sleepily, I got out of bed, sorted my trash, and packed my bags. It was time to leave Aizu, but not before making one last stop. The Shinsengumi Memorial Museum was located in the old town district of Aizu. The train station had no automatic wicket or even a person to take my ticket. I walked right out without anyone checking to see if I’d paid the correct fare. Across the street was a temple and down the road, rows of quaint, wooden shops selling painted candles and local crafts.

I recognized the Shinsengumi museum by the triangle-striped banners bearing the kanji “makoto” or sincerity. The first floor was packed with Shinsengumi figurines and memorabilia, candy to my eyes, but I didn’t buy anything until after I saw the museum, on the second story. This floor was even more crammed with artifacts—no English of course—but as I had some information of the Shinsengumi already, I didn’t mind. I browsed through the small, empty museum and took pictures of anything that caught my attention.

Quite a bit caught my attention: banners, paintings, old photographs—and costumes. I came across a black button down jacket very similar to the ones the White Tiger boys wore, except pinned to the sleeve as a badge of identification was the word sincerity. It was a Shinsengumi uniform. After taking a picture, I skimmed the explanation for any kanji I knew. A single horizontal mark caught my eye. It was the mark for the number one, but read as a name it could be Hajime.

Saito Hajime. Unlike most of the Shinsengumi, he survived, long into the Meiji era. He became a policeman. That’s what impresses me, that he continued to live and serve in society. Compared to all the other tragic suicidal wastes in Aizu, here was a man who chose to live.

When I came down stairs, I said to the man at the counter, “You probably like the Shinsengumi?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you like them?”

“I like Saito,” he said.

Saito? He wasn’t one popular ones. “Really? Why?”

“He fought for Aizu,” he said.

That was true. Saito was the one who led what little Shinsengumi remained in the battle of Aizu, amid the burning castle.

“Have you seen his grave?” the man said.

“Grave?”

“It’s at the temple over there.”

He drew me a map and I thanked him. The temple was quiet. It was not a major tourist attraction; indeed my guidebook hardly noticed that part of town. But there was a sign, surprisingly in English, that identified the grave as Saito’s and gave a brief account of his life. According to the sign, he wished to be buried at the temple.

Maybe it’s better this way. Tourists flock to the graves of the White Tigers, buying souvenirs and making a racket. But Saito, who in surviving showed more heroism than any of the foolish boys, is able to rest in quiet, dignified peace.

Northern Japan #4: Matsushima, Tohoku

2010-04-09T22:35:00.008+09:00

Late August 2009

(Tuesday morning)

Matsushima, or “Pine Island(s),” is one of the Three Great Sights in all of Japan. Why is that, I wonder. It’s not as though the many small islands of dark pines calmly floating the sea aren’t lovely—they are. But what makes this place greater than the ribboned waterfall of Yakushima or the fog-clouded mountains of Tsuwano? How can you objectively rank what’s beautiful?

The coastal town is small, and many of the tourist attractions were within easy walking distance. I visited an old, grey temple with Chinese zodiac animals carved into the wood. I walked along the spongy, moss-covered paths in Fukuura Island. (It was like stepping in mud, except my shoes didn’t get dirty.) I marveled at the caves in front of Zuigan Temple, blackened from cremation, with mossy stone deities guarding them.

Actually, Zuigan Temple was the best attraction on the island. It had a treasure house and murals inside the main building. One room featured a mural of hawks devouring cranes. According to the English description, the hawks represented the samurai of Sendai. Very well. But who were the cranes? It reminded me of a cover idea for my high school year book, one they decided against, a hawk with a rabbit in its talons. Our school’s mascot is a hawk, our rival Victor’s mascot is a jackrabbit. Tee, hee. So which enemy was Sendai symbolically disemboweling? Alas, the description was too polite to say.

I wandered the island in a dreamy state. This mood had little to do with the natural beauty of Matsushima. To be honest, I was only half-paying attention to this “one of Three Great Sights in all of Japan.” I had come to the critical point in the Agatha Christie novel I was reading, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, and the ending blew me away. (I won’t say anymore; go out and read it!) Even after I knew who the murderer was, my mind was firmly planted in the world of my book, and I drifted from attraction to attraction like a ghost.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was the second Agatha Christie book I read on the trip and the fourth book overall. By the time vacation was over, my tally would come to seven. It was wonderful to gobble down so many stories all at once. So relaxing. Like being a kid again.

Northern Japan #3: Sendai, Tohoku

2010-04-09T22:32:00.001+09:00

Late August 2009

(Monday afternoon)

Sendai didn’t like me much, and, as a consequence, I didn’t like it.

Buildings were crammed together, tangled with big streets and side streets and even a crowded little marketplace that sold melons and fish; gigantic department stores, chain convenience stores, drug stores, and construction, all so very Japanese and so very tiresome, battled for space and narrowed my view. A huge bus/ taxi circle was plopped right in front of the station, and I couldn’t get across.

I had to go up to the second floor to the pedestrian overwalk. But even from there I couldn’t see more than two or three buildings deep. My little map to the Library Hotel had made it look so simple. Just go straight down a certain street. If only I could find said certain street. There were several roads branching off from the station, not all of them listed on my map. And I couldn’t see the landmarks, because the damn department stores were blocking my view. I stared at the city several minutes, raindrops blurring the ink of my map—did I mention it was raining?—before deciding there was nothing to do but push off and do my best to find it.

Of course I got lost.

The rain, which had started off barely a drizzle, became malicious. It pounded down. And then the wind came up, blowing strong. My small black collapsible umbrella could not shelter the bulk of my backpack, my duffle bag, and my shoulder bag combined. My shoes filled with water. I went up one road and decided I went too far. I turned left and went down another road. I went back to the first road. I turned right and headed back toward the direction of the station.

I never did find my hotel. I found a Library Hotel—it turned out there were three near the station. The people at the front desk were kind enough to let me transfer my reservation from the Library Hotel I couldn’t find to the one I could. They were also kind enough not to remark on the gallons of water I was dripping onto their nice, expensive-looking floor.

On the train ride down I had packaged souvenirs for my family, and my first order of business in Sendai was to mail them. Once I finished, it was pushing 3:00. I wanted to see Sendai Castle, but that was on the other side of the city and the buses only ran every half hour. And after that I still had errands: buying books, picking up a Starbucks Sendai tumbler for my teacher, and doing my laundry. Time, like a vice, was beginning to squeeze me.

I was obliged to see the castle. I was obliged to see something, how could I just stay in my hotel and see nothing of the city. On the other hand, did I really want to go traipsing about the ruins—that’s right, not even a real castle—the ruins of Sendai Castle, in the rain and wind and mud when I had seen a dozen Japanese castles already and would see at least one more before the trip was over? Did I really care about Sendai City and its proud history?

Would visiting Sendai Castle lead me to health and peace of mind? Or would it make me more stressed?

It would, I decided, stress me out.

The weather cinched it. Would anyone blame me for not going out in a mini-typhoon? No. I proceeded to my bookstore, where I bought three Agatha Christie novels. I read one and a half books while I did my laundry. Perhaps it was a bit of a waste, not seeing the castle—but to be honest, I couldn’t think of a more delightful way to pass the evening.

One last thing. Although I didn’t eat anything exotic inside the city of Sendai, I did eat a rather interesting bento, or boxed lunch, on the train ride to Sendai. It was called “gyuutan” or cow’s tongue, which happens to be Sendai’s specialty food. When I pulled a string, my box puffed up and steam swooped out through the cracks. After about ten minutes I had hot rice with about five strips of beef (and a flower-shaped slice of carrot) laying on top. The cow tongue was a little greasy, but tasty. The only thing that disturbed me was the bumps on the surface of the meat.

Northern Japan #2: Hakodate, Hokkaido

2010-03-13T00:05:00.021+09:00

Late August 2009

(Saturday evening, Sunday)

Character. The word sprang unbidden to my head. Hakodate has character.

Bright cutesy cartoons of sea life splashed the faded shops of the Asa-ichi, the morning fish market. Although it was evening, a few men and women still hawked their wares: whole crabs in crates of ice, stacks of corn, and green overpriced melons. In front of one shop, a small white rowboat was being used as a tank—for crabs, I assumed. But when I looked inside—zip, zip, zip—sleek purple squids skimmed the surface of the water.

Other places sold food—rice bowls topped with pieces of shredded white crab meat, glowing red fish eggs, or amorphous orange sea urchin blobs. One clever dish used somen noodles to form the body of a squid, strips of sashimi for tentacles, and real fish eyeballs for …well… the eyes. It was barely five, but people were already standing outside and holding out dinner menus.

“Irasshaimase. Iikaga desho.”
“Won’t you come in? It’s good.”

But when I say that Hakodate had character, I don’t just mean the fish market. At the Hakodate JR Station, artistic statues intersected with huge souvenir shops, an open bay with the skyscrapers of downtown. A mural on the side of a department store depicted gray towers and white church steeples, painted in an old-fashioned style that for some reason reminded me of the 1950s. “Welcome to Hakodate,” it said. Just below the mural—or was it part of it?—sat a small picture of a beer bottle and the words “Sapporo Soft.”

Character. I can’t describe it any other way.

Sunday morning greeted me with a sharp, piercing earache. I stuffed my left ear with cotton, but it throbbed every time I swallowed a piece of my chocolate-swirled melon bread. As the day went on—and I kept sucking on Halls throat drops—the pain eased. But it never entirely went away.

I walked the fort of Goryo-kaku first thing in the morning. Across a bridge, up a mound of earth, to a museum showing cannons from a battle. But try as I may, I could not make out the famous star shape of the fort. It wasn’t until I took the elevator to the top floor of Goryo-kaku Tower and saw the fort from a bird’s eye view that I understood. The sudden bend in the road I walked—that was the arrow-head point of the star jutting out.

But I am a girl of strange taste. I did not marvel for long at the breath-taking view of the city below for the top floor of Goryo-kaku Tower also featured several lovingly crafted miniatures acting out the history of the fort. That and an English pamphlet held me completely entranced.

Many ships of the rebel army had already capsized in the rough waves of October, but those that survived pulled onto the shore. Among them was Hijikata Toshizo, “demon of the Shinsengumi” and now the military leader of the struggling group of soldiers. They attacked Goryo-kaku fort and took it as their own. Those few that resisted the Meiji government built the Republic of Ezo in December of 1868. But by spring of 1869, the Imperial army had come.

Hijikata knew death was approaching. “I am not going to battle to win. …I will fight the best battle of my life to die for the country.” The detailed miniature shows him astride his horse, sword drawn, mouth open in mid-yell. He was shot down dead.

Nowadays, the gift shops at the bottom of the tower sell key chains, towels, and file folders with his image plastered on. There are also a couple of Hijikata statues floating around. I induced a lady wearing eccentric clothing to take my picture with one such statue. Then I selfishly talked her ear off for a good twenty minutes about Hijikata, the Shinsengumi, the Bakumatsu, and Japanese history in general. She was a good sport; she even gave me her address.

In the shadow of Hijikata is a lesser known statue: Enomoto Takeaki—the president of the Republic of Ezo, perhaps the only president in all Japan. After he surrendered in May 1869, he went on to serve in the Meiji government as ambassador, among other positions. I didn’t know much about him at the time, so I didn’t pose for a picture near his statue. But later, when I checked my Wikipedia sources and learned about his life, I grew to respect him. By not dying, by serving the government that defeated him, he actually helped create the Japan we know today. And in my heart of hearts, I admire that more than all the myth and hoopla over Hijikata.

It was now about 11:00, and I decided to eat lunch. Fortunately, just down the road sat Lucky Pierrot, a quirky little hamburger restaurant decorated with a giant clown head and religious paintings from the Italian Renaissance. I ate the #1 popular Chinese Chicken burger. It was delicious. Not in a fine dining sort of way, but cheap, good, and fun. The tourists besides me took pictures of their meals. Apparently, this Hakodate chain was an attraction in and of itself.

After a brief visit to the sight of Hijikata’s last stand, I rode the tram to the old Motomachi district. Black lampposts climbed the hill. A statue of a boy stood near a ship’s steering wheel and looked down, down to the bay below. A bronze lady in a puff-sleeved dress and flowered hat sat in neat squares of red and white flowers. At the top of the hill a yellow-trimmed Victorian house stood and bushes of violet Hydrangeas gathered near four copper men. To the right lay a green field and a solitary statue of Commodore Matthew Perry. To the left, a white colonial building with a blue doorframe and blue windowsills. The old British Consulate.

I had tea at the British Consulate. The lady working there brought me a steaming tea pot and cake with fresh cream and rose syrup. While waiting for the tea to brew, I read over the museum information. The Consulate was established to look after the needs of British citizens abroad, but under the guidance of Consul Eusden, it evolved into a place of international cooperation and exchange. I strained the leaves from my tea pot and took a bite of my cake. The syrup was delicious. I could taste the texture of the petals, yet it was sweet.

I spent the afternoon walking idly from museum to museum in the Motomachi district. The Canemori general store had been turned into the Museum of Local History, and it had old bottles of beer and cans of venison. I tried to talk history with the men inside, but I couldn’t for the life of me fathom they were saying. I visited the Museum of Northern Peoples and then walked along the bay, snapping photos of statues near the waterfront.

For dinner I ate curry soup—a specialty of Hokkaido. My order was a coconut, seafood curry. A little spicy, it reminded me of Thai or Indian curry. I liked the oysters and eggplant especially. The sun began to set. I crossed a bridge near the old Mori warehouses, brick, turned into stores now. Boats rested in the bay and jellyfish bobbed in the water. I caught part of the Sai World Music and Dance Festival. An Indian man sang beautifully, and a French group of dancers made me laugh.

At the end of the day, my ear still hurt. I had acquired a headache around midday and it lingered long into the evening. But something had changed. It was 8:00 and I didn’t feel the least bit tired; walking back to my hotel, I smiled and hummed music from the festival. For the first time on my vacation, I really had fun. My lethargy faded; little by little, I was beginning to feel healthy again.

Northern Japan #1: Sapporo, Hokkaido

2010-03-12T22:50:00.013+09:00

Late August 2009

Friday evening and Saturday morning

If you imagine the island of Hokkaido to be an uchiwa fan (not a folding fan, but the kind with a big circle of paper on a stick), then Sapporo would be where the wood and the paper meet. It’s almost in the center of Hokkaido. Within the city, I didn’t notice any hills or rivers, which are typical features in Japan. In fact, when I got out of the train stations, I wondered if I was in Japan at all.

The city seemed too… spacious… to be Japanese. I could see the blue sky peeking out in patches between the skyscrapers. For some reason this reminded me of LA, but not quite LA. The streets were lined with leafy green trees and statues were spattered here and there. In the front of the station sat red-bricked vine-covered department stores, which alluded to Hokkaido’s Meiji past.

Saturday morning the weather was very fine, nice and cool, and I could wear a light sweater without feeling warm. But I was still a little flushed from my stress sickness, so I kept my sweater off. In keeping with my “relax” motto, I didn’t go very far: just a ten minute walk to the Former Hokkaido Government Office Building and another ten minutes after that to the Botanic Garden of Hokkaido University.

Hokkaido’s history, as an important island of Japan, didn’t really begin until the Meiji Restoration, that is, the late 1800s and early 1900s, when Japan was rapidly making itself into a modern nation. That was the reason for so many red-bricked buildings in Sapporo, including the Former Government Office. It was a large, stately building, and looked more European than Japanese.

Inside were a free museum and several paintings by local artists. As I looked at the artifacts—a black and white unsmiling photograph of children near their new school, advertisements of fish sketched in colored pencil—it occurred to me that Hokkaido was a lot like the American west. Around the time, American settlers were crossing the prairie by train and fighting in the Cowboy-Indian Wars, people from poor fishing villages in Japan were urged to “immigrate” to Hokkaido with the promise of cheap land and new opportunities. Even in the paintings, I could see a physical resemblance: the vast blue skies, the wide yellow plains punctuated by dark mountains, people on horses, people who would tame this new land, but looking somehow small and insignificant compared to the rolling landscape.

In fact, Hokkaido even has its own “Native Americans,” a group of hunter-gatherers called the Ainu, who flourished in Hokkaido long ago. In the Botanical Garden, there was a museum of Ainu artifacts, such as a seal skin jacket and intricately carved rice paddles. I watched a video of a sacred ritual involving a bear in a cage (poor bear) and admired the altars of woven grass. But what impressed me the most (and not in a good way) was a kind of smelly plant they hung near their houses to ward off demons. I believed it could ward off demons; in the stuffy museum, the scent nearly overwhelmed me.

The museums (there were several) in the Botanical Garden were nice, but the actual plants didn’t impress me. In the middle of summer, it was nice and green but there were no flowers. With one exception. On my way to a sadly withered rose garden, I stumbled upon a patch of Hydrangeas in full bloom. Vibrant blue and rich purple blossoms, clothed in alternating shadow and sunlight. Beautiful.

In Japan, Hokkaido means food: ramen, beer, milk and dairy products, fresh caramels, melons, corn, potatoes, asparagus, crab, sea urchin, squid, strawberries, sausage, and probably a few other products I’m forgetting. I had planned to eat my way through. The famous Sapporo ramen was all right, but I really enjoyed the “beer hall” tofu.

Slices of white tofu were garnished with sauce, chopped sausage, and chopped cheese. I don’t know if the sauce had beer in it or not—maybe. In the beginning I thought it tasted strange, but the more I ate it, the more I loved it. The sausage and cheese were excellent. Even after I finished my tofu, I scraped up the crumbs with the tip of my chopsticks.

Northern Japan: The Beginning

2010-03-12T22:48:00.000+09:00

Late August 2009

Lifting my eyelids was like trying to pull water from a deep well. The alarm rang, and I hit the snooze. Then I hit it again. When my mind finally decided I had to get up, I moved slowly. There was an ominous pricking in my left ear. I had a headache and felt slightly flushed.

Stress sickness. I had felt it before.

“Stress sickness” is my own word. It’s that feeling of dancing dangerously on the edge of a cold. Technically, you’re not sick, you know you’re not sick, but if you push yourself too hard, you might well become so. It usually follows some period of intense work or stress. Hence the name.

When I was in Yamaguchi Prefecture last spring, I had felt these same symptoms, but the difference was they came in the middle of the trip—after I worn myself out trying to look at every single place of historical significance that I could find. This time all I’d done was wake up and I was already exhausted.

It was not an auspicious sign.

I got on my plane, read a book, and arrived at Hokkaido, and still my spell of exhaustion had not passed. So, then and there, I made a decision. This vacation I was not going to focus on seeing and doing as much as I could. This vacation I would have a new priority: relax.

It became a theme that wove through my vacation. It was my command, my order to myself. At the crossroads of a decision, I would ask myself: will this lead me to health and peace of mind? Or will it make me more stressed? It was my mantra that I chanted over and over again in my mind.

Relax. Relax. Relax.

Pre-Hokkaido Business

2010-03-12T22:43:00.004+09:00

Early August 2009

From Friday August 7th until Saturday August 15, I will be on vacation in Northern Japan. My first stop is Hokkaido, which is the second largest and northernmost of Japan’s four main islands. In the old days, it was a rough and wild land, and even now, Hokkaido is known chiefly for its agriculture and delicious food. I will spend one day in the main city of Sapporo (famous for beer and ramen), and then move down to Hakodate, which was the site of a famous battle, for two days.

After that, I will move to the Tohoku region, which is the northern area of the main island of Honshu. My first stop will be Sendai, which is one of the larger cities in the region. Then I will move down to Aizu-Wakamatsu, the site of a famous rebellion and suicide tragedy, for two nights. Finally, I will end in Tokyo, where I will do some research at one of the museums for a short story I’d like to get published.

So, that will be my summer trip. Naturally, I will give you more details once I actually do my traveling.

But in the days before my vacation, I find myself unexpectedly busy. On paper, it looks like I should be winding down with the arrival of summer. Not so. Classes ended at the third week of July, and I found myself just getting busier. Technically, these days are filled with “office days” which usually means going to the Board of Education, sitting in an air conditioned room, and doing whatever they can find for us to do. Usually that’s nothing. Usually.

Except, that with the end of July comes a change in ALTs. The old Assistant Language Teachers go home and the new ones arrive. And this year, the two other ALTs in my office, Rachelle and Vickie, were both leaving. And, in fact, I was changing schools so I had my share of goodbyes.

Someone decided that rather than having us waste time going to the office, it would be better for each of us ALTs to report to a “base” school, which could relay information to us. These base schools would be Kanoya High, Kanoya Kogyo (Technical), and Kanoya Nogyo (Agricultural)—in short the three Kanoya schools. All well and logical—except two of those schools were mine. To make a long story short, I had to switch Kanoya Kogyo (technical) for Koyama High, a smaller school further from my house.

So, in the last few weeks, I cleaned out my desk, wrote instructions for my successor, and prepared a goodbye speech (in Japanese). Every time I went to Kogyo (admittedly only three times in July), I was struck with a heavy emotion, a mix of sadness and stress. I really hadn’t expected to leave any of my schools, and I had a special affection for Kogyo, my nearly all-boys school. I had started off having almost no classes and ended up averaging four classes a day and actually preparing lessons. Kogyo was the only school where I felt like a real teacher. And that was the school I had to leave.

So, after I said goodbye to Kogyo, I had about a week and a half to say goodbye to Rachelle and Vickie. The two of them were even busier than I was. They had to clean, pack, and say goodbye to everyone. Still, we found some time to spend together. We went to see Harry Potter and I took them out to dinner. The Kanoya girls met one last time for Shirokuma: shaved ice with condensed milk and fruit. Of the six girls present, I was the only one staying.

Yesterday (was it really only yesterday?), Rachelle and Vickie left Japan. I woke up early that day, not only because I had to be at the office before 8:00, but I was also a little restless. July 29th had been wedged in my mind like a splinter. The day my friends were leaving. The day the new ALTs were arriving.

Rachelle brought some friends with her to the airport, including Noriko, a teacher from her school, and Masako, a friend who was a volunteer English guide. They reminisced while we waited in the airport. Before long, Rachelle and Vickie were waiting in line to go through security. All this time, I had been with my two friends, wondering why I didn’t feel sadder… or really anything at all. It didn’t really hit me, until I saw Noriko with tears streaming down her face and Masako wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. And then I just felt heavy.

But this tender moment was broken by a bit of comedy—well, to me it seemed as such. Jinnouchi-sensei—a teacher Kushira Shogyo, my school, and her daughter Yuana were coming to say goodbye to Rachelle. But they hadn’t told anyone until Rachelle and Vickie had given everyone hugs and were about to pass through security.

What made this event funny to me was that Jinnouchi-sensei had only spent time with Rachelle maybe four or five times—she was more my friend than Rachelle’s. But if you knew Jinnouchi-sensei at all, you would know she’s a hyper-social butterfly and she really loves making friends with people. Plus, she’d had Yuana call me and ask me about Rachelle’s departure time a few days earlier, and so I suspected something like this would happen.

Anyway, this had a happy ending, because Jinnouchi-sensei and Yuana got there just in time. They appeared right before Rachelle was about to disappear through the metal detector and had about three seconds to say goodbye. For this they had driven two hours to the airport and would drive two hours back.

Rachelle and Vickie passed through security. We all—in true Japanese fashion—stood by the glass window, waving, until we could no longer see them at all.

By now it was about 11:30. Everyone but Noriko decided to go to lunch. Now, the silent figure in all of this drama—the person I haven’t even mentioned yet—was our supervisor, Shibahara-sensei. As the only male and the person with the least English, that really wasn’t surprising. But this is how much of a social butterfly Jinnouchi-sensei is. She had never met Shibahara-sensei before, so she immediately set about getting acquainted. We went out to lunch, and the restaurant was busy, so we had to break into two groups. Jinnouchi-sensei volunteered to sit with Shibahara-sensei.

Volunteered nothing. More like, she told us how it was going to be. They sat chatting, while Yuana, Masako, and I talked about castles in Saga prefecture. Of course, Jinnouchi-sensei paid for our lunch. This did not surprise me in the least; whenever we go out, she pounces on the bill. I don’t even try to stop her anymore; just make a note in my head and try to get her a treat later on.

After lunch, Jinnouchi-sensei, Yuana, and Masako left, but Shibahara-sensei and I stayed at the airport. The new ALTs arrived at 1:30. I had the laminated signs Rachelle and Vickie had made. I was anxious. I was waiting for people I had never seen before who I would hopefully make friends with. It wasn’t just me either. Half of all ALTs coming to Kanoya were on this same flight, so the people from the Boards of Educations from all over the prefecture were gathered together with signs of their own.

The flight emptied out, and out came all the foreigners. Matt, Vickie’s replacement, was the first one we saw. He was tall, with reddish brown hair and glasses. Since he was getting Kogyo, I had emailed him a couple times before. I knew he was a year older than Vickie, from New Jersey, and liked taking photographs and sports.

Andie, Rachelle’s replacement, took a lot longer to come out. Andie was short, petite, and black. I can’t say African American, because she’s from Jamaica. All I knew about her at the time was where she was from and her age (one year older than Rachelle).

So, there we were. As soon as I saw them, most of my anxiety left. I don’t know why, but knowing what they looked like was a big relief. They were both nice and polite and wanted to know a lot about Japan. So I told them. Whatever I could think of. About halfway through the car ride, we stopped at a convenience store for drinks. I remembered how my boss had bought us ice cream the first day, so I decided to do the same.

We went to the office and the ALTs made their self-introduction speeches in Japanese. Both Matt and Andie had, oh I’d say maybe a year’s worth of Japanese, and so they could manage that just fine. But when the boss made the speech in Japanese, I was the one to translate it into English. In my two years I’ve risen into the position as the unofficial translator, a post I hold with some pride.

I offered to take the new ALTs grocery shopping after work. Then we went out to dinner and I showed them around Rina City, a shopping center near our house. By the time I got home it was 8:00. For all intents and purposes, it was a 12-hour day. And by no means was I finished.

Today, in the afternoon, we went to the bank and city hall, while I explained the two hundred ways Japan makes us sort garbage (I’m only slightly exaggerating), helped fill out forms, and did more translation in general. I don’t begrudge the extra work or the enormous amount of information that must be passed down. I actually like feeling helpful, like an older sister. At the same time, I know these are adults (both of whom are older than me) who want to be independent as soon as possible. I feel like in a few weeks I’ll be obsolete and they’ll know more about Kanoya than I will. There are already so many things I don’t know, questions I can’t answer.

They both seem nice, but I haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other. We’re still on polite, information gathering mode. I’ve been talking and talking, but all of it practical: how to tell soy milk from normal milk, where the coin laundry is, the way ATM cards work in Japan….

Besides all this saying goodbye and saying hello, I’ve been keeping busy with other tasks, which include studying Japanese (from 1-4 hours a day), finishing a chapter (and trying to write another one), taking a medical exam (but first translating the questionnaire into English), making dinner (hoping the food doesn’t spoil too quickly in this heat), fighting insects (they’re winning), reading reviews from fans of my fanfiction (some are threatening to kill me if I don’t write another chapter), and viewing a rare once in a lifetime eclipse (which I couldn’t see at all because it was cloudy). I might go see fireworks on Saturday. I definitely have to clean my house by Sunday.

To put it succinctly, lately I’ve been just a little stressed.

So, I’m looking forward to this vacation. A break from studying Japanese. Long train rides to read in. Beautiful scenery and good food with no cooking and no washing dishes.

Post From a Tired Becky (Yakushima)

2010-03-12T22:17:00.012+09:00

June 4, 2009

I’m a bit tired right now. I’ve been getting ready for my trip back to America to see my brother’s graduation. I’ve cleaned a bit and sorted through my books, trying to decide which ones to take home now, which to take home later, and which to leave in Japan. In less than a week I’ll be on American soil, but in the meantime, I have a bunch of chores to get caught up on.

The main culprit has been a sudden and very thorough obsession with fanfiction. If my novel is my wife, then fanfiction is my mistress and whenever I’m frustrated with the former, it’s so easy to turn to the latter to relieve my stress.

But the problem is that my “mistress” often exhausts me. Apparently, I don’t just write fanfiction, I become obsessed with it and spend my every free moment in the throes of passion, writing, writing, writing, until I get completely burned out. My “simple” fanfiction ended up being about 25 pages per draft and went through about five drafts, which meant in the space of two weeks, I probably wrote something like 100 pages, most of which got deleted. How did I do this? By neglecting everything else. Chores. Letters. Japanese. That pesky problem with my sink…

Oh, yes, my kitchen sink was having some problems draining. I would do the dishes and it would take a few minutes for the water to drain away. I discovered a bottle of some kind of Japanese drain-o left by my predecessor and kept pouring it in, bit by bit, with limited results. In the end, I got frustrated and dumped the whole bottle in. I ran the water and foam came out. Then, suddenly, with a giant belching sound, the sink sucked up the water. I thought that solved my problem. If only.

Anyway, my fanfiction didn’t quite get completed before I ran out of time. I’d told Vickie I’d go to Yakushima with her in the last weekend of May. Friday night, I put my fanfiction aside and tried to get some things done. Packing. Cleaning. Laundry.

Ah, yes, laundry. That was when the incident with the drain reared its ugly head with a vengeance. I stepped into my bathroom to collect my wet clothes and found the floor was completely flooded. The washing machine had drained right onto my floor. I had to mop it up with my dirty towels.

Now, what did that have to do with my sink? Well, when I emptied my kitchen sink of dish water, I heard a familiar belching from the bathroom. I looked and sure enough there was a new puddle of water floating around my washing machine. Apparently, the drain to my kitchen sink connects to my washing machine as well (though not, thank heaven, to the toilet or the shower). This drain had gotten clogged with thick muck, and every time it had to drain too much water too quickly, it would vomit it back out via my washing machine’s drain. Then it would try to suck the water back in, but not before leaving a residue of foul-smelling muck all around the area near my washing machine.

Well this was a nice thing to discover the night before a trip. And this same day, I found out the back tire of my bike was flat. Besides which, two weeks of spending hours without rest writing and writing left me suddenly mentally exhausted. I couldn’t even deal with packing that night, let alone all these unexpected problems.

Saturday morning, I woke up at 6:00, packed, tidied my house, and waited for Vickie. She arrived at 7:30. Yakushima is an island, and it takes about four hours to get there by ferry from Kagoshima City, which is maybe two and a half hours from our city of Kanoya, when timing is going our way. Poor Vickie. She gets a bit seasick. I managed just fine, blasting my iPod and focusing on the music. But I did feel a little wobbly on land.

Yakushima is World Heritage Sight. It’s a mountain on an island, and it’s famous for a particular type of cedar tree called Yakusugi. This tree is a highly fragrant, light-weight wood, similar to the redwoods of California (but not quite so red). Yakushima is also one of the few places where sea turtles lay their eggs. It’s a very unique place and I’m not going to do it justice with my quick summary of what happened.

We got to shore, paid way too much to rent a car, and headed off on a forty minute drive to Yakusugi Land. While on the twisty mountain road, I had to make reservations in Japanese on Vickie’s cell phone to see the sea turtles while the reception kept cutting out. It nearly made me car sick. We went hiking for about an hour at Yakusugi Land and then drove to the other side of the island (an hour and a half) to make camp. Yes, we went camping. Vickie borrowed a tent and some sleeping bags from another ALT. After that, we went zipping down the winding coast as wild deer and monkeys popped out onto the road. Made for nice pictures. We hunted down dinner, which was no easy task; we were on the half of the island where we couldn’t even find a convenience store, let alone a restaurant. We finally found a nice little izakaya (a Japanese tavern) run by a friendly lady and ate there.

By now, we were at Nagata Beach, where sea turtles lay their eggs from May to July. Okay, I’m going to stop my break-neck pace and actually spend a few minutes describing the sea turtles, because that was cool.

They told us to come at about 8:30 at night, and while we waited, a couple of tourists showed us some fireflies near the river. There was a lecture about the sea turtles in Japanese and I could understand about half of it. To be honest, we really didn’t know what we were going to see when they walked us on the beach. But there was a turtle, sitting in a self-dug hole, laying eggs. We could see the eggs shudder out of her, in little bursts of one or two. So many soft, slimy eggs. We were transfixed.

When the turtle finished, she tried to bury her eggs. At this point our guides measured her shell and stuck a tracking device in her leg. She didn’t like that, and started slapping sand into the air and snuffing. The guides said she was a small turtle, but her shell was still as big as a breastplate, and her face looked like a dinosaur. She made her way back into the ocean and as she did, she crossed paths with another turtle, just coming out of the ocean.

You know, I can’t help but feel like our turtle somehow conveyed to the turtle just coming out of the water that there was a crazy group of people who would stare at you and poke at you—because it wasn’t very long before the second turtle turned and returned to the water as well. The turtles, as you can imagine, were very slow, and by the time we got back to the car, it was 10:00.

The next day, we went to a fruit garden and they let up sample the fruit: bananas, passion fruit, papaya, and several kinds of oranges, all naturally grown and delicious. We saw two waterfalls, did some shopping, and went to a museum. We made chopsticks. Our instructor gave up two rough sticks of cedar wood and had us carve it and sand it. The curls of wood gave off a strong, fresh smell. I felt like such an amateur and my chopsticks came out weird, but when he added a thin strip of decorative paper and put it in plastic, it ended up looking nice. The last thing Vickie and I did was take a drive, where we discovered a shrine hidden in the back of a cave. Vickie said that the cave went further back than the shrine. Who knows what could have been hidden there?

By 4:20, we were on the ferry back. While Vickie zoned out, I started reading my latest book, World War Z: an Oral History of the Zombie War. We got to Kagoshima and—I swear this always happens on my way back—we just missed the Terumizu ferry, which goes across the bay to our side of the prefecture. So, we had to wait another hour to catch the next one. I ate dinner on the ferry; Vickie didn’t. We got home at about 10:00. I dumped my stuff on the floor, took a shower, and went to bed.

Monday, I still had to deal with a clogged drain, a flat tire, and a load of dirty towels that needed to be washed ASAP. Plus, I had to pick up my tickets to America. I couldn’t do much about the drain, but I did fix my tire and go to the coin laundry.

The weather lately has been humid and cloudy. I know that tsuyu, or the Japanese rainy season, is going to break on us any day now. Truth be told, the rain should have burst on our heads that weekend we went to Yakushima, but we got lucky that weekend: not a cloud in the sky. The rain won’t hold out much longer though. The ajisai (hydrangea) bushes look thirsty for water.

Bugs, Mudbaths, and Fanfiction

2010-03-12T22:09:00.006+09:00

Golden Week 2009

The weather has been lovely lately, warm and sunny in the day, cool in the mornings and evenings, and no rain in the longest time. The downside is that the spring weather has also brought out hoards of insects. There were four pesky flies buzzing around my house all weekend (although two drowned in my coffee cup when I was away at school), as well as the usual ants, cockroaches, and giant spiders. There are also giant black butterflies the size of my palm that dive-bomb me while I'm riding my bike, but those stay outside.

In other news, the beginning of May gave us the glorious holiday known as Golden Week, three consecutive national holidays, a five-day weekend for me. This is important because it's the longest free holiday we have and the last one until July. Most ALTs use this time to travel. Vickie went to China. But what did I do? I sat around my apartment writing fanfiction.

But in my defense I did spend one day traveling/ socializing. On Saturday, May 2nd I went to Kirishima with Rachelle, Jinnouchi-sensei, Yuana, and Shimizu-sensei. It was a nice little road trip. In the car, Rachelle, Yuana, and I played with some "What if..." cards Rachelle had printed off the Internet. (If you were an animal, what would you be? If you had to eat your friends to survive, would you?) We stopped along the way at an ashi-yu or foot bath and dangled our legs in warm water. The foot bath gave us the perfect view of our volcano, Sakurajima, and it was such a clear, fine day. Afterwards, we visited Kirishima Shrine and ate lunch.

The main event on our little road trip was sakura sakura onsen, a hot springs public bath complex of some local fame. Jinnouchi-sensei had been wanting to take me since I first met her, but I was... shy. (Let me remind you, you go into Japanese onsens NAKED.) However, a year and a half later my shyness was going down. I think you just have to live in Japan a while to understand. You just sort of get used to the idea; it's not such a big deal.

Anyway, what made sakura sakura onsen was its "mud baths." Now, I don't know about you, but those words evoke the image in my mind of sitting in a giant warm mud puddle. Actually, it was nothing like that. In the area outside (yes, it was outside; no, no one could see us, the area was well blocked off) there were containers of a special sulfuric mud harvested from Sakurajima. Apparently, it was good for the skin. So you slathered this mud on and then sat in a specially marked-off bath that you were allowed to murk up. Jinnouchi-sensei was in a playful mood, because she kept pouring mud down my back and let me tell you, that mud was COLD! I got her back though.

This mud bath was supposed to be good for the skin and I suppose it did make my skin softer for about a day. However, I don't recommend it. Sulfer has a very distinctive smell and not the good kind. What's worse, it lingers. I don't think it was overpowering enough for other people to notice, but I noticed. The smell stuck for a full three days. What's worse, it clung to the clothes I wore. I couldn't get it off my jeans despite washing them twice.

So, maybe that's some excuse for staying in the house for the rest of my weekend--I was smelly. For the next 4 days I didn't go further than the grocery store. I was so busy writing and rewriting the latest chapter of my fanfiction. And actually I didn't finish until two days after Golden Week ended. So much effort spent on one little 18 page chapter.

And yet it as worth it, because I got a review from Ninnik Nishukan. This is my favorite, FAVORITE fanfiction author, one who does such sweet romance stories, I rank her (I think it's a her?) right below Jane Austen on my list of favorite romance writers. (Granted my list isn't long.) So, she's a brilliant writer and she complimented my story. Not just, "Nice story," but "I didn't think there were still people around who actually wrote GOOD Ranma 1/2," and "I might even have to try to remember the password to my old Ranma 1/2 blog so I can recommend your stories at some point." I was practically dancing around with glee. I mean, I don't care if it is fanfiction, when an author you respect and admire compliments your writing, wouldn't you be happy too?

Translation: Rozando (literally Dew Mountain Palace)

2010-03-12T22:03:00.002+09:00

(From a signpost in Yamaguchi City)

In April of the 3rd year of Bunkyu (1863), the feudal lord of Hagi, Mori Takachika, moved the han office from Hagi to Yamaguchi City in order to deal with the political situation of the Bakumatsu. He built the government palace on the same spot as today’s prefectural office. At the same time, he set up a tea ceremony house near the government palace, on the foot of Ichirozan Mountain, and, omitting the character ichi, the building became known as Rozando, literally “Dew Mountain Palace.” On the pretext of tea ceremony, Takachika brought many people, regardless of social standing, to this one room, where they secretly discussed overthrowing the Shogunate, restoring Imperial rule, and other great deeds. After the abolition of hans, he was forced to move elsewhere. The building changed hands many times and began to fall into disrepair.

Shinagawa Yajiro, a close associate of Takachika who worked tirelessly to overthrow the Shogunate, knew about the state of this building and thought it was a shame to let a place with so much history fall into ruin. As a volunteer, he made plans, raised funds, and purchased this building, which was moved to its present location in April, in the 24th year of Meiji (1891). At this time, a park was also built in the area around the tea ceremony house. Afterwards, in the 38th and 48th year of Showa (1963 and 1973), construction was done to extend the area, giving the house its current look.

Translation: Chinryu-tei (Literally, Pillow-Flowing House)

2010-03-12T21:58:00.002+09:00

(From a signpost in Yamaguchi City)

This building, located in front of Yamaguchi City Dojo Gate, was a detached Japanese-style house belonging to the prestigious Abe family. Because it was near the Sakagawa River, it was called “Chinryu-tei,” or “Pillow-Flowing House.”

During the Bakumatsu period, Choshu han and Satsuma han, which had opposed each other in events such as the Incident at the Forbidden Gate (also called the Battle of Hagomori-go-mon), were brought together in an alliance, mediated by Sakamoto Ryoma, in the 2nd year of Keio (1866). The purpose of this “Satcho” Alliance was “Tobaku,” the overthrowal of the Tokugawa Shogunate.

Saigo Takamori, Okubo Toshimichi, and Komatsu Tatewaki were among the Satsuma samurai who visited Yamaguchi City in 1867 for the purpose of discussing the deployment of Satcho union troops. They held secret meetings in Chinryu-tei with Choshu samurai Kido Takayoshi, Hirosawa Sanneomi, Shinagawa Yajiro, and Ito Hirobumi, among others.

This building is thought to have been constructed towards the end of the Edo period. Since then, it was moved twice and was transferred to its present location in the 35th year of Showa (1960). As there are few buildings from the Meiji Restoration in all of Japan, Chinryu-tei is a valuable historical site.

As a note, Chinryu-tei was originally attached to a much larger building structure, but during the repeated moving process, it was scaled down to its current size.

Yamaguchi #9: A Dull City

2010-03-12T21:38:00.005+09:00

April 2009

I had lunch at a crowded restaurant near Kozan Park, in Yamaguchi city, on Friday. Because all the private tables were taken, I got placed at a long table in a tatami-mat room, shared by an older woman who was elegantly dressed. By and by, the woman and I began to talk. There are days when grammar and vocabulary come together in my head, and Japanese rolls off my tongue almost eloquently. This was not one of those days. But I tried to speak to this woman. I tried so hard.

The lady let me ramble on for about 20 minutes before revealing, at last, that she spoke perfect English. Well. Didn’t I feel foolish, then?

After lunch I had soft serve ice cream at the park. The advertisement read, “Teutsu Soba Soft Cream,” and I had to do a double take just to make sure I was reading it right. Yes, it actually said “Handmade Buckwheat Noodle (Flavored) Soft Serve.” I ordered it mixed with Hokkaido cream (the most delicious cream in Japan), and the person put some kind of crunchy, vaguely nutty topping on the soba side. Actually, it was pretty good. Not as sweet as most ice creams and a little more earthy.

Kozan Park was known for its five-storied pagoda, Ruriko-ji. Since it was spring vacation and beautiful weather, everyone was out doing hanami near the temple, that is, having a picnic and enjoying the cherry blossoms. I ate my ice cream. There were two white women (a grandma and a mother) and two Asian-looking kids in front of me, and the mother was speaking to the kids in English. At one point, in the temple, she explained how people in Japan would ring the bell and clap. I thought this was interesting, because later I saw a Japanese mother take her two kids up to Xavier Memorial Chapel and I could just imagine her trying to explain to them how Christian religion worked.

The other two things I came to see in the park had to do with history, of course. Chinryu-tei and Rozando. Unfortunately, I didn’t know much about them, because my guidebook ignored Chinryu-tei entirely and only said of Rozando that the Mori lord held secret meetings to overthrow the Shogun. The signs at the sight weren’t helpful either. No English for Chinryu-tei (but inside were portraits of revolutionaries I knew), and maybe one English sentence for Rozando, saying basically the same thing my guide had.

Oh, well, that’s how it goes. I was in Japan after all. There was nothing to do but take pictures of the Japanese signs, print them out after the trip, and painstakingly translate them for myself. Which is exactly what I did.

All in all, though, Yamaguchi City was rather dull.

Yamaguchi #8: At the Edge of the World

2010-03-12T21:17:00.010+09:00

April 2009

(Technically in Shimane Prefecture)

The weather didn’t improve much the next day. It was still cloudy and cold. There was only one redeeming attribute. The fog. Not that fog was exactly pleasant to ride a rented bicycle through first thing in the morning—but it was beautiful. Breathtakingly beautiful. “The fog creeps in on little cat feet…” But in Japan it glided around the dark round mountains like a dragon. And in the valley below, the red tiles of the houses glistened.

Originally, I intended to go to the castle ruins, but I changed my mind. Fog is perfect weather to visit an Inari shrine. And Tsuwano had one of the larger Inari shrines in all of Japan.

Any proper Inari shrine has several red torii, or shrine gates, forming a kind of tunnel into the main shrine. In the case of Takodani, the Tsuwano Inari Shrine, it had torii going up the whole side of the hill, painting it red. I ascended and came to the main building, which was bright orange and white, with a huge straw rope handing in the front of it.

I heard flutes and drums. At first, I thought it was a recording, but it seemed too pure, too alive. I followed it to the main shrine. The building’s walls were open, so I could see inside. Musicians were playing, a priest was swinging a branch, and a few dedicated people were sitting inside watching. Then, the music stopped and the priest began talking in a normal voice. I thought I heard something about a meeting. I swear he must have been doing announcements. I felt a little embarrassed at gawking at them, as though I had busted into Sunday service at church.

Tsuwano is a small town, and although it has many attractions, you could probably see all of them in a day. I visited a few notable places, like Japanese Meiji-era author Mori Ogai’s house (which interested me only because I had read his book, “The Wild Geese,” previously) and a chapel dedicated to the Nagasaki martyrs, who stopped at Tsuwano, before being crucified. There were also a few non-notable places. The biggest disappointment was the Tonomachi District. The guidebook had promised me beautiful ditches and ten thousand carp. But the ditches only went on for a few blocks, and I saw more fish at a noodle restaurant in Ibusuki.

I circled around the town and came back to the mountains. My last attraction for the day was the ruins of Hagi castle. There was a lift mentioned in my guidebook and I had imagined a “ropeway,” one of those glass boxes suspended from steel cable which pulls you up the mountain. Well, the lift was sort of like that. But without the glass box.

Instead there were green chairs with a single armrest on the right side and not even a seatbelt to keep you from tumbling out of it. When I saw it, I thought it was scary, and told the man so. In fact, it was fun. The ground was only a couple of feet down and on it was soft-looking green grass. I was fairly certain that if I did fall I wouldn’t die. The rope pulled me slowly, and I was suspended in the air, my feet dangling just above the ground, feeling happy as a clam.

A short walk later, I was tramping through dried grass and staring up at enormous walls. I can’t quite convey what it was like. I was at the very top of a deserted mountain, with a wood in the back and a flat expanse of grass where I imagine the actual castle used to be. And the walls, the very stone foundations of the mountain. They were massive. And it made no sense to me, that such a small town like Tsuwano would ever need such a huge castle? One wall was embedded into the grass and when I walked to it, I found myself looking down the mountain at the valley of small houses below me. It was like I was standing at the edge of the world….

Yamaguchi #7: Under the Weather

2010-03-12T21:04:00.007+09:00

April 2009

Wednesday began with a spectacular flash of lightning and a growl of thunder. It woke me up at some God-awful hour. The rain was pouring while I got dressed and flipped through my guidebook, but it receded to a drizzle by the time I actually stepped outside.

I saw the remains of Hagi castle that morning. The castle had been dismantled in the Meiji era and made into a park; now only the walls remained. I liked it better that way. There’s something more imaginative about just seeing the old stone walls of a castle. Something more mysterious. I climbed a hill of moss covered steps, through branches of falling sakura blossoms, to stare over into the rich blue moat.

In addition to the walls and the cherry blossoms, there was also a nice shrine in the park. It had a quaint, arch-shaped stone bridge and an old house next to it that still retained its screen paintings. But the best part was when I followed an obscure trail to the back of the park and found the last of the castle walls, opening, like a gate, to the rocky beach and the ocean. I think I’ve said it before, but there’s nothing like walking around in a park first thing in the morning.

Amendment: there’s nothing like it when the weather is nice. The weather was not nice. The rain had let up, but it was still overcast. Moreover, it was cold. People in Kanoya warned me it would be and told me to pack accordingly. But did I? Not really. It was the problem of baggage I mentioned before. So, here I was, wandering in the dank park for an hour or so and later spending another hour walking back to the station. After a while, the cold started to bother me.

And it wasn’t just the cold, either. Since Shimonoseki, my shoulders had been knotted up and painful. I was a little tired and stressed. I had been to three cities in three days, was immersed in Japanese, and was dealing with a change of climate that was colder than I was used to. I began to feel a little “stress sick.” Not really sick, but a kind of feeling like you’re on the edge of a cold and if you don’t take it easy, you might actually end up sick. To put it succinctly, I was feeling under the weather.

And it was going to get worse.

I took a bus to Tsuwano at around noon, and, I swear, on the way there I saw a brief flurry of snowflakes. I hadn’t even brought gloves. When I actually got to Tsuwano, it was merely raining. And windy. And cold. It was so cold, I really wanted my gloves and my scarf and maybe a nice hat, too.

When it came time to check into my ryokan, I didn’t want to leave. I had two good hours of sightseeing left and little within my room to keep me amused, but you could not have dragged me out of there. The room had a heater and, more importantly, a kotatsu.

A kotatsu is basically a table with quilts trailing from the edges like a tablecloth and a heater underneath. You stick your legs underneath and it warms your lower body right up. Well, this kotatsu was hot. It was like submerging yourself into a piping hot bath. I didn’t so much sit underneath as stretch out on my stomach like a cat, so only my head, shoulder, and feet were sticking out. The weather got worse and worse, but I just lay in my room, reading out of my two-ring binder, until dinner. Which was in the ryokan, just downstairs.

Wednesday began with a storm and it ended with one. I remember this because this was the night I had to do my laundry. I looked out the window and shuddered at the thought of going out into that rain and wind in a strange city, finding a Laundromat, and somehow having to haul my clean clothes back. But fortunately, it all worked out. When I asked the lady who ran the ryokan where a coin laundry was, she simply took my clothes and did my laundry for me. This is why I love Japan!

Yamaguchi #6: My Treat

2010-03-12T20:49:00.006+09:00

April 2009

“There’s no English signs in the Hagi Museum,” the lady at the information desk told me apologetically (in Japanese).

“It’s all right,” I told her.

To be honest, I hadn’t really expected any. I had learned not to expect any. That’s why I had brought with my two-ring binder with Wikipedia articles on anything I could find about the era and the people in it, and also the diaries of Kido Takayoshi. I was prepared. I could make my way around the museum by myself.

But the lady at the desk didn’t know that and apparently she wasn’t satisfied with my assurance that I would be fine. I came back from the natural history room, to find an older woman (not the lady at the reception desk) waiting for me. She would be my exclusive guide for the remaining trip to the museum, and I was very happy to have her.

We were in the hall, we hadn’t even got into the main exhibits, when my guide drew my attention to a bench and table made of smooth pine wood. She asked me to sit down on it, and so I did. Then she told me (in Japanese of course) that Kido Takayoshi, Takasugi Shinsaku, and the rest had all sat here. Apparently it was part of Yoshida Shoin’s “Under the Pine Trees” school, the one that everyone who was anyone had been in. My immediate reaction was a silly-giddy feeling, as though I were somehow sitting next to the ghosts of the revolutionaries themselves.

My guide, who’s name I found out later was Osaki Yoko, showed me the culture room which featured, among other things, tiny dolls, no bigger than my finger, crafted with the most intricate and beautiful detail. Most dolls could be made assembly style, with one person making heads, one person making hands, and so forth, but these ones had to be made by the same person. It was a time-consuming process and so each small doll was extremely valuable.

I saw other cultural things as well, but I was antsy about getting to the history room. The main exhibition was, of course, Yoshida Shoin. I have to say, even though I saw his grave, Yoshida Shoin was not my favorite revolutionary. He really didn’t do anything—he was executed long before Choshu really became involved in national politics—and yet for some reason, the people of Hagi seem to be obsessed with him. He has a shrine and a wax museum.

I asked Yoko who her favorite person in the Bakumatsu era was, and she answered it was Shoin-sensei (which is how they address Yoshida Shoin in Hagi). Why? I wanted to know. And why, out of all the great men born in Hagi (including the first prime minister and one of the “three nobles of the restoration”) did the people adore this man so much? Yoko answered that it was true that there were many great men in Hagi, but they were all taught by Shoin-sensei. And without Shoin-sensei, they might not have become great.

I’m not sure how much I agreed with that statement. It wasn’t as if he had taught any of them for very long—he started the school at 25 and died by 29, so therefore the longest he could have taught was 4 years. But as she told me more about him, I did respect him a little more. She told me he had traveled all around Japan, from Kyushu to Northern Japan, seeking out all the great masters of the age. Naturally, I didn’t know any of them, but I was still impressed. The trip had taken 3 years and I’m pretty sure he made it as a teenager.

Naturally, my Japanese wasn’t perfect and I didn’t catch everything she was telling me, but since I had suitable background information, I caught quite a bit. I was able to practically finish her sentences. At one point I showed her my two-ring binder, and tried to explain that I had Kido Takayoshi’s diaries in English. That really impressed her.

I asked her if she liked Bakumatsu era history and she said that it wasn’t Bakumatsu history or the history of any one era that interested her, it was Hagi’s history. I could sense the fierce pride she had in her town. I couldn’t blame her either. This small city did more for Japan than many larger cities had.

We ended at the gift shop, and my guide followed me there. She wanted to buy me a book, she told me. At first I protested, no, no, no, but she insisted. She said that even though she was the guide, I had ended up teaching her about the history of the era. So did I want a book on Kido Takayoshi or Yoshida Shoin? I paused. Well, I’d prefer Kido Takayoshi. She bought me the little paperback book in Japanese and, although I couldn’t read it, I told her I’d study hard and try to translate it.

I also ended up buying a translucent file of the Choshu Five and some postcards. I had planned to have some of the museum’s “summer mikan” soft serve ice cream from the beginning, and when she found out, she bought me that too. I couldn’t do anything but thank her profusely. She told me she was 77, and I told her that was about the same age as my grandma. You know, come to think of it, my great-grandma came from Yamaguchi Prefecture, so there’s a chance, however remote, we may have been related.

Other Japanese people also gave me special tours of old houses, out of guilt perhaps that I couldn’t read the signs very easily, and I was grateful to them as well. But Yoko holds a special place in my heart. After all, it’s not everyday I get treated to a book and ice cream, two of my favorite things in the world.

Yamaguchi #5: Sakura and Graveyards

2010-03-12T18:05:00.014+09:00

April 2009

There is no denying that sakura, or cherry blossoms, are beautiful. No matter how hard I try, no photograph can ever capture the impression they make. Each blossom is individually gorgeous, but when you see them together, thousands of tiny translucent petals bunched together on dozens of trees, it’s magical. I can’t quite describe what it’s like, riding near the river on a sunny day with rows and rows of sakura trees in full bloom, a soft white veil hanging over your head.

But there is also a deep sadness ingrained in sakura. As soon as the flowers reach the height of their beauty, the petals are already falling. But it’s not just that sakura dies quickly, for many other flowers do as well. No, what makes it sad for me is the human associations that come with it. I lost my grandpa around the time I first saw sakura bloom. The second time I saw sakura blooming in Japan, I came back to my school to find, to my surprise, that some of my teachers had left while I was on vacation. This year, more teachers left, and some of my favorite ones as well, making it all the more painful. No, happy as I am to see the lovely cherry blossoms, sakura will always be seared into my mind as a symbol of loss.

So it was fitting perhaps that on this day, I was hunting down the graves of the heroes and martyrs of the Bakumatsu.* I pushed my bicycle up a hill and found a small, obscure little graveyard. I knew the names on the headstones and I knew their stories. I also knew the age they passed away, and that’s what made the graves particularly tragic.

The headstone read Takasugi Shinsaku. He negotiated the treaty of Shimonoseki (I visited the place of the battle in the last email) and was nearly murdered by his own countrymen for it. A year later, he would lead those same people in a battle against the Shogun, which they would decisively win. He mixed peasants with samurai to create a fierce army and he trained them in the ways of modern warfare. He died of tuberculosis at the age of 28.

Another one read Yoshida Shoin. He was Takasugi’s teacher, and also the teacher of Ito Hirobumi, Kido Takayoshi, and anyone who would become anyone in Choshu at that era. He plotted to assassinate the Shogun, got caught, and stupidly confessed his scheme. He was executed and made a martyr by the Shogun just before Choshu really became involved in the effort to overthrow the Shogunate. He was 29.

I went to a temple called Toko-ji and, in the back, just before the more impressive display of stone lanterns, I found a small area with monuments to samurai who had died for the revolution. I didn’t know their names and couldn’t read the signs very well, but I did figure out their ages. It’s kind of sobering reading about people who were your age or just a little older than you when they died.

Kido Takayoshi (also called Katsura Kogoro) was one of the “three great nobles of the restoration,” and I had some of his diaries with me. In the first year of Meiji** 1868, at the culmination of all his years efforts to restore the Emperor to the throne, Kido wrote: “…the Restoration was fully realized only after many loyal and benevolent men had sacrificed their lives in the service of the Imperial family. Several dozens of my friends fell as martyrs to the cause of the Empire, but by chance I have survived to this day.” He did not survive much longer, though. Nine years later, he died too, at the ripe old age of 43.

They say that a samurai’s life should be like a cherry blossom: beautiful, but brief. I find this ideal morbid, but in this case the metaphor is apt. These men lived short, intense lives, and even now I mourn their death, people who died a hundred years before I was born in a country I didn’t know. Why did they have to die so young and so violently? It doesn’t seem fair.

It’s rarely mentioned, but even as the petals are falling, green leaves are shooting from the branches of the sakura tree. By the time the last cherry blossom is gone, the tree has a healthy crown of leaves that will last it all summer. I wonder if it’s the same thing with these samurai. Even as they died, new people were being born into an age that would be the beginning of a new Japan. Cherry blossoms can’t live forever, there must be leaves, there must be fruits. The beautiful sacrifice of the flower sustains the life and the health of the tree.

*Bakumatsu: The last years of the Shogunate. It dates from 1853, when Admiral Perry’s “black ships” entered Tokyo Bay, until 1867, when the Shogun abdicated and the Emperor was restored. The time is characterized by foreign pressure from outside Japan and revolutionary forces from within.

**Meiji: The era following the Bakumatsu, from 1868-1912. It’s characterized by the modernization of Japan, politically, economically, and militarily. During this time, Japan fought and won two foreign wars: the Sino (China)-Japanese War and the Russo (Russia) –Japanese War. The era began with the restoration of the Emperor Meiji and ended with his death. He was posthumously named after the era.

Yamaguchi #4: The Choshu Five

2010-03-12T17:59:00.002+09:00

April 2009

When I visited Nagasaki a year and a half ago, I stumbled upon an old photograph dating from the mid-1800s showing five young Japanese men wearing suits, their hair cut short in Western style. The term “exchange students” must have come up in the explanation of the photograph, because that term got stuck in my mind. These “exchange students” made an impression on me. There was something about the way they were posed, almost carelessly around a balcony, one sitting on the rail, one leaning against it with his hand in his pocket and a certain swagger about him. The photograph was taken in the time when Japan was just starting to open up to the world, my favorite era, and I could imagine these young men bringing back knowledge that would help make Japan into a modern nation. I took a picture of the photograph and posted it on facebook, and I didn’t think about it much after that. But in the back of my mind the image lingered romantically, a symbol of an era.

Go forward a year an a half. Now, I’m in Hagi. I’ve rented a bicycle and I’m just beginning my barrage of history sightseeing. After visiting the Yoshida Shoin shrine, I decide to visit the former home of Ito Hirobumi, the first prime minister of Japan, who was born in the area. I find the house, and I’m about to go inside, when a sign catches my eye. I see a photograph of five young men lounging around a balcony. The photograph looks familiar.

Imagine my surprise to discover that one of my “Nagasaki exchange students” was the prime minister of Japan. And he wasn’t even the only important person pictured there. The sign in front of the house explained, with some English, that these young men (age 21-29) were the “Choshu* Five,” five men from Yamaguchi Prefecture who studied abroad in England and would play a large role in modernizing the nation. Ito Hirobumi, as I said, became the first prime minister of Japan. Inoue Kaoru was the first foreign minister, Yamao Yozo was the “Father of Engineering,” Inoue Masaru was the “Father of Railroads,” and Endo Kinsuke became the director of the mint. It’s kind of crazy, isn’t it? It’s one thing to imagine these people doing great deeds, it’s another to hear that they actually did. Ah, Japan. Where else can I trip over history one year, and find out what I tripped over the next.

*Choshu: The name of Yamaguchi Prefecture before the Meiji era. Choshu means “long state.”

Yamaguchi #3: The Case of the Backwards Obi

2010-03-12T17:51:00.006+09:00

April 2009

I think in the future I will make it a habit to ask a Japanese person working at a museum one random question, the answer to which, if they know it at all, they will barely be able to convey to me, what with my limited Japanese. Case in point:

I wandered into the Akita Commerce Building shortly after consuming the fugu burger. It was a pretty old building, it was on my way to the park, and it was free of charge. Naturally there was no English signage and the man inside spoke no English, but I managed to get the gist of what made this building so special: it was the first building in Japan to have a rooftop garden, and perhaps the first such building in the world.

Visitors weren’t allowed onto the roof, unfortunately, but I did get to wander through all three stories. On the second floor, in one of the rooms, there was a case with two Japanese dolls wearing kimonos. What was odd about the dolls was that their obi—the large flat belt—was on backwards. The bow was tied in the front. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen such a style in Shimonoseki. A woman wearing a backwards-obi kimono was featured on the front of one of the tourist maps, and pictures of these same kind of women were featured in the Akama Shrine.

Way back when I was living in Nagoya, I learned that, if you wear a kimono, you must never wear the bow in the front. Why? In the Edo era, this was how prostitutes wore their kimonos. As Rachelle said, “easy access.” Not that I thought the women in the pictures were prostitutes—the Edo era was long gone—but still, it surprised me. Why wear clothing that symbolized it?

I tried to ask this question to the man. Needless to say, he didn’t quite understand what I wanted to say. I managed to covey the fact that I wanted to know why the dolls upstairs and the women on my map wore their obis backwards, but since I didn’t know the word for prostitute, that was as far as I got. The man himself didn’t seem to know, and so he went into his room to call for help.

While I was waiting by myself downstairs, two women came in, a foreigner and a Japanese woman. They both spoke English. I explained my question to them, and they brought out their theories. The Japanese woman explained that though these women were prostitutes, they were the highest level of prostitutes, called Oiran, almost like geisha. Well that was all very well, but why were they a symbol of the town? The foreign woman suggested that because Shimonoseki was a port city, there was more trade, more sailors, and prostitution thrived in an environment like that.

Just then, the man came and explained what he learned. At Akama Shrine, a little boy Emperor drowned during a battle a thousand years ago. I had learned about this in my guidebook. Well, fast forward a few hundred years to the Edo era, and the local Oiran were so touched by this incident that they decided to perform dances at the shrine every year on the anniversary of the Emperor’s death. This soon evolved into a full-fledged festival, which continues to this day.

Isn’t that bizarre? The town celebrates prostitutes from three hundred years ago showing their reverence for an emperor who died a thousand years ago by dancing at a shrine. This is just the sort of thing that can only happen in Japan.

Yamaguchi #2: What’s a Fugu Cream Croquette Hamburger?

2010-03-12T17:40:00.006+09:00

April 2009

Almost every area of Japan has a special food product. Moji, for example, invented Yaki Curry, which was basically a normal Japanese curry with an over easy egg and a ton of melted cheese added to it. I ate this the first night of my vacation. It was incredibly rich, but oh, so good. I try to make a point of finding out what the special food of an area is and sampling it. It adds something to the trip.

The specialty of Shimonoseki was fugu, the infamous poisonous puffer fish.

I wasn’t afraid to eat fugu because of the poison. Nowadays, the risk of dying is negligible. What scared me was the price. I’d heard that fugu could go upwards of 10,000 yen ($100) and that, adding insult to injury, it wasn’t very tasty, either.

But I guess that’s only if you go for the very nice, traditional fugu meals. If you get creative, you can still eat it for cheap.

I found a small restaurant at the fish market called, “It’s Christmas.” The name alone would have enticed me to eat there. But in addition to this, they were also advertising a “Fugu Cream Croquette Hamburger” for less than 1,000 yen ($10). I had to try it.

So, what is a Fugu Cream Croquette Hamburger? Well, first of all, do you know what a Croquette is? (No, it’s not the game they play with flamingos and hedgehogs in Alice in Wonderland.) A Croquette is a patty of usually a soft or creamy substance, such as mashed potatoes or creamed pumpkin, that is then breaded and deep-fried. It’s quite common in Japan. In this case it was fugu that had been creamed and made into a patty. This special Croquette was then stuck between two buns, like any normal hamburger. All in all, it sort of resembled a fish filet, but not so fishy. The cream was strong.

Although it seems like its almost cheating, I’m going to add fugu to my list of weird Japanese foods I’ve eaten, along with beef intestines, raw chicken, and natto, which is fermented soybeans. (The natto is definitely the most disgusting.)

Yamaguchi #1: The Importance of Packing Light

2010-03-12T17:15:00.009+09:00

April 2009

I brought nothing I did not need. Clothes for four days, toiletries, camera, camera charger, iPod, cell phone, and wallet. And books. Oh, books were the hardest to cut down. I brought my guidebook, of course. And then, a two-ring binder (the only kind in Japan) stuffed with Wikipedia articles on the people and events of the Bakumatsu, a few essays by Romulus Hillsborough, and the diaries of Kido Takayoshi. Because, after all, I was going on this trip mainly to hunt down history, but the signs and pamphlets are all (surprise, surprise) in Japanese.

Last but not least, I had to decide what to read for fun. I had a three hour trip to the city, followed by a five hour train ride, and had to amuse myself somehow. I selected The Kite Runner by Khaled Housseini, a literary novel set in Afghanistan (and later San Francisco), which was beautifully written and a little bit depressing. I also selected Mistborn, by Brandon Sanderson, a good solid fantasy that sort of reminded me of my own writing.

In my mind, I packed only the essentials. And, to be fair, I used everything I brought. However, as much as I had cut back, all my stuff was heavy. Three books and a two ring binder with some hundred pages of computer paper start adding pounds quickly. It was only the start of the trip and already I had to divide my stuff into two bags: my backpack and a black duffle bag. All this was not a problem on day one, when I simply threw my stuff in the compartment above my head and buried my nose into Mistborn. But it became a problem on day two, when I decided to walk to Shimonoseki.

I could have taken the train or the ferry, left my stuff in a locker, and done my sightseeing unburdened. The problem was that I had arrived in Moji a little late the previous evening (4:00) and by the time I found my hotel, I was too tired to do much sightseeing. I did want to see Moji. On the other hand, there were places I desperately wanted to see in Shimonoseki, especially the place of the Bombardment of Choshu in 1864 and a statue of Takasugi Shinsaku, a great military leader from that same era. The problem was that my hotel reservations that night was in Hagi, still a good two hours away by train. I had to see the sights in two cities and still get to Hagi by a decent hour. Impossible, right?

But I found that I could walk to Mekari Park and from there take the undersea tunnel to Shimonoseki, right near the spot of the battle I wanted to see. From there I could see the statue and whatever else struck my fancy en route to Shimonoseki train station. In this way I didn’t have to go back and forth and wait for trains or boats or buses. It was an efficient use of my time. The only problem was I would have to drag my stuff, the whole way there.

Mekari Park was perhaps, forty-five minutes from my hotel by foot, but I got lost once, so it was perhaps closer to an hour. There was a shrine near the water and a mural of a Genji-Heike battle I wanted to see. The shrine was easy enough to spot. But the mural was somewhere on the top of a mountain (which, in Japan, means a moderately sized hill). And the map didn’t say where. I scrambled up one trail, duffle bag in tow, and discovered, not a mural, but a monument the French had erected in memorial of the battle. I tried another trail, but ended up getting nervous about time and gave up. It was now around 10:00.

Kanmon Tunnel, the undersea tunnel that connected the island of Kyushu to the island of Honshu, was decidedly less impressive than it sounded. I had sort of been picturing a glass tube that would show you the sea life as you walked through. But it was just a tunnel, albeit one decorated with glow-in-the-dark fish-shaped stickers. The graph showed that the tunnel wasn’t even in the ocean, but underneath it, in the earth below the water. Still, as it was free, I couldn’t really complain. It only took about twenty minutes to get to the other side and I rode up the elevator practically on top of the site of battle.

I’m not going to bore you with details about how I practically squealed with glee over the rows of cannon replicas or how I gazed over the water trying to imagine the ensuing fight. Suffice it to say, Becky, the history nerd, was satisfied.

Later I walked along the water’s edge, visiting anything that caught my fancy. I stopped at the bright red Akama Shrine and the sight of the signing of the Peace Treaty to end the Sino-Japanese War (1894-1895). I also found a monument to Korean envoys, who held diplomatic relations with Japan during the supposed “closed” Edo era. I didn’t know that. I had lunch at a fish market and asked weird questions at the Akita Commerce Building.

I have to say, walking is one of the better ways to get to know a city. (Bicycle is best, though.) You stumble upon things you wouldn’t normally see just looking out from a bus, and you start to feel a connection to land. I enjoyed the blue skies, the crisp breeze, and the lovely cherry blossoms. However, by the time I finally started to hunt down my statue, I was getting very tired. My shoulders were stiff and my duffle bag drooped.

On the map, the statue didn’t look so far away. But the map didn’t take into account that the statue was on top of a hill. A very high hill. I didn’t know this until I came to ten thousand steps ascending upwards. I wouldn’t have minded, except that I was carrying a heavy backpack and a heavy duffle bag. And I had been dragging these around all day.

But, what could I do? I climbed up the hill. Took a picture of the statue. And climbed back down. I came to the train station at around 3:00 and got to Hagi in time for dinner.

Yamaguchi: Intro

2010-03-12T17:12:00.001+09:00

April 2009

So, vacation has ended, and now my house is a mess again, swamped with old maps, information pamphlets, and souvenir food stuff for my schools. I’ve been trying to sort out all my pictures and memories. I have a few interesting stories to talk about, but for now, I just want to show you a few pictures and give you a general idea of how my vacation went.

I began my trip on Sunday, March 29th. I took the bullet train (and later the plain old express train) to Kitakyushu, a city at the very top of Fukuoka Prefecture, on the island of Kyushu. I stayed the night in Moji Port, a pretty old section of Kitakyushu City, with several bricked buildings hailing from the Taisho era (the era between the Meiji era and World War II; the 1920s). The next morning, bright and early, I walked to Shimonoseki, the southernmost city in Yamaguchi Prefecture, on the main island of Honshu. Yes, I walked between islands, in a pedestrian tunnel under the ocean, and it was the first time I crossed the prefectural boundaries by foot. Shimonoseki is the largest city in Yamaguchi Prefecture. It’s famous for pufferfish and the home of many naval battles. I spent most of the day sightseeing, and then I hopped on a train to Hagi.

I spent that Monday night in Hagi, and I would spend Tuesday night as well. Hagi was my main reason for going to Yamaguchi Prefecture. It’s a coastal town toward the north of the prefecture, which birthed many heroes and revolutionaries. There was so much history to be enjoyed. I spent all Tuesday on a rented bicycle pedaling from shrine to grave to temple to museum to old samurai houses, while above me the sakura cherry blossoms were in full white bloom. Wednesday morning I saw the ruins of the castle before departing to Tsuwano.

Technically Tsuwano is not in Yamaguchi Prefecture. It’s in Shimane Prefecture, which is just west of Yamaguchi, only a couple hours from Hagi. It’s a small town buried in the mountains, and when I came that Wednesday, it was rainy and cold. The weather being too horrendous to do much sightseeing, I spent the rest of the day huddled under the kotatsu (the heated table) in my Japanese hotel. Tsuwano is so small, however, I found I could hit all the major sights on Thursday without even having to rush. On Friday I went to Yamaguchi City, the capital of Yamaguchi Prefecture, but a rather unremarkable city nonetheless, neither big nor small. By Saturday, I was back on my bullet train and I made it home by 6:00.

That, my friends, is the short and sweet version of my trip to Yamaguchi Prefecture. But you should know by now, I won’t leave it at that.

Ibusuki

2010-03-09T22:29:00.006+09:00

November 3, 2008

My life in Japan has normalized. I’m not fluent in Japanese, but I make my way around. I don’t know every nook in my town, but I know how to navigate my way around the area. And while Japan does sometimes surprise me, it’s not exotic anymore.

In August, the new ALTs arrived, including Victoria, who’s from Canada. Watching Victoria, it’s sort of a revelation on how much we’ve learned in a year. When she remarks about the foot deep open gutters at the side of the road or can’t find her way from the library to the supermarket or asks me for help on how to transfer money using the ATM, I remember (fondly) how I had to adjust to Japan only one month ago.

Enough nostalgia. Since August, nothing big has happened to me. The weather has, of course, cooled down, to the point where I’ve had to close my windows and wear gloves when I ride my bike to school in the mornings. But it’s not cold enough for the teachers to bring out the kerosene stoves.

In the meantime I had a few enkais (drinking parties) with teachers from my school, I’ve taught lessons on grammar and holiday and writing postcards, I’ve been to a Vietnamese concert. In October Vickie hosted a Canadian Thanksgiving party (apparently they have it a month earlier than we do). I made mashed potatoes. We didn’t have turkey, but we did have stuffing and a sweet potato casserole and cute little pumpkin pies. Oh, and an actual, normal-sized, homemade apple pie. It was absolutely delicious. I ate it with vanilla ice cream and thought of my grandpa.

But recently the most exciting news I’ve had is going to Ibusuki over a three day weekend. Ibusuki is a small town in my prefecture. Imagine Kagoshima Prefecture as a pair of pants straddling the Kinko Bay. My town of Kanoya is on the right pant leg, what is called the Osumi Peninsula. Ibusuki is on the left pant leg, called the Satsuma Peninsula. I had wanted to explore the Satsuma Peninsula, but, being that there’s a large body of water blocking my way, it did take a little planning.

The trip was a little unusual for me in that this time I didn’t go alone. I mentioned my trip to Victoria and asked her if she wanted to go. To my surprise, she said yes. Apparently she wants to do as much traveling as she could in Japan, but she does have a little problem: she speaks almost no Japanese. I do, but, as you know, I don’t have a car and that makes it hard to get around in the…ahem…more rural areas (such as Ibusuki and the Satsuma peninsula). Vickie has a car, so it was a good trade-off—I handled the translation and she handled the driving.

On Saturday, November 1st, we left the house at 9:00 and drove south along the coast until we came to the ferry. It was a scenic drive and a nice boat ride. We arrived at the Satsuma Peninsula at around noon and drove to Ibusuki. After a café lunch of soy-sauce flavored rice with chicken and mushrooms, we walked down to the beach, where the major attraction of Ibusuki was. What Ibusuki is known for—it’s reason for being—is the sand baths.

Sand baths. We paid a fee, changed into yukatas (light Japanese kimonos), and walked down to the beach. Under a covered tarp, many workers were scooping out shallows for people to lie in and covering them with sand. They showed us how to wrap our small towel around our head so as not to get sand in our hair. Then, quickly and efficiently, they shoveled sand onto us, until everything but our heads were buried.

The first thing I noticed about the sand was that it felt heavy. It felt as if my body had been sucked into one of those air-tight containers and I couldn’t freely move. I wiggled my toes just to assure myself I could move.

Although the sand had been only lukewarm, it started to feel very hot before long. My body began to sweat. We weren’t supposed to stay in the sand baths longer than fifteen minutes, but to be honest, I don’t think we stayed longer than ten. Time seemed to expand. I was a bit uncomfortable, but in a meditative sort of way. I felt my pulse through my body, pounding within the sand. It was very strange.

We rose from the sand like Frankenstein’s monster rising from the grave and then we went to the public baths. It was Victoria’s first time in a public bath, which, as you know, is segregated by sex, but everyone is naked. Vickie adjusted quickly, even washing her hair before entering the bath. The public bath was actually the opposite of the sand bath—it starts off scorching hot, but if you sit in it a while, eventually you get used to it.

We were very refreshed after our baths. I have to say one thing about Japanese baths—it may seem strange, but man it makes you feel good—very healthy and relaxed. We hunted down our ryokan—our Japanese hotel. Do you know, I had no map, no instructions and had to call the ryokan the day of to get directions (in Japanese)? But it turned out to be surprisingly easy to find; it was right next to the sand baths.

After that, we pretty much called it a night.

The next day was our big travel day. We drove to Chiran, another small town, about 40 minutes away. I was so glad we had a car. After a year and a half of getting by on public transportation, it was a revelation to drive wherever we wanted, whatever time we wanted, no worrying about bus schedules, stopping whenever we felt like it. The freedom of it! And it was so relaxing—for me, anyway—I wasn’t driving.

The first place we went to was the Peace Museum for “Kamikaze” pilots. Of course, I knew about the “kamikaze” (“divine wind”) pilots who would fly into U.S. ships and blow themselves up—chilling to think about, especially after 9/11—but I had never really thought about where they came from. Somewhere. But little did I know that in my very Peninsula, in this small inconsequential town, these young pilots gathered and were later deployed for their last mission.

The museum had many uniforms, letters, and even full planes. But it was probably the pictures that were saddest. They were so young—in their twenties or their late teens. I saw one picture of a pilot who was 17. There were a few letters translated into English. Those were sad to read. What was interesting was that they talked about everyday things, sort of mundane. If you wrote a last letter, what would you say?

After that, Victoria and I went to a collection of samurai houses, the other major tourist attraction in Chiran. Although “houses” is sort of misleading—they were really more like samurai gardens. The gardens featured many “dry waterfalls,” stones whose shape was supposed to suggest a waterfall. Personally, I would have preferred a real one. The gardens were pleasant, but nothing spectacular.

Lunch was spectacular. The restaurant was in our little samurai village, one of the old houses, with a roof that looked like bundled trees and garden filled with potted bonsai trees. There was an art in that garden of making new things out of old broken ones. Like a tuft of flowers growing on a wave-shaped broken pot. Or the wall made of plastered wavy tiles.

The inside of the restaurant was a tatami mat room. But our table was a giant cobalt vase with a flower growing in it and a sheet glass put over it as a surface. We were charmed, even if we didn’t have enough room to fit both our meals on it at the same time. (They gave Victoria a raised tray that sat on the floor near us.) The food was simple, delicious, and reasonably priced.

We drove back to Ibusuki. On the way back, we dropped by Lake Ikeda. Lake Ikeda is—how should I say it—it’s a very pleasant tourist trap. The lake is inhabited by large eels and supposedly a monster (a la Loch Ness) that they’ve dubbed Isshi. From the edge of the lake, we could see neither eels nor sea monster, but all the souvenir stands provided us with real eels and plaster sea monsters. One also had a waterfall and a family of tanuki statues. I bought a soft serve ice cream cone, sweet potato flavor (the specialty food product of all Kagoshima Prefecture). I prefer the seaweed flavor from Tokushima. Vickie bought some black somen noodles for her mother. I read the kanji. “Baboo charcoal” somen. Weird. But intriguing, like so many things Japanese.

We went to Mount Kaimon, the “Mount Fuji” of Kagoshima Prefecture. Most mountains in Japan are round and sloped, more like glorified hills, really. Mt. Kaimon, like Mt. Fuji, is a triangular mountain off. The contrast is striking, as it sits by itself, rather than as part of a mountain range all. We went to the mountain, but didn’t hike it. We saw some goats on the way back.

Our last trip of the day was to the archeological museum, which somehow got the name COCCO. They had videos that played when we walked past and a recreation of an ancient hut. But my favorite part was a 3D interactive vase puzzle. The vase was broken and the pieces scattered. Press a button and surface was magnetized so that the pieces would stay in place. You had one minute to put it together before the effect ended and the broken pieces would come crashing down. It was fun. Near the museum was a park with reconstructed ruins. In the rain, Vickie and I flitted in and out of the houses and took pictures.

That was our day. If we had wanted to, we could have taken another trip to the sand baths. But once we got settled into our ryokan hotel, we didn’t want to leave.

There is a small island just off the coast of Ibusuki. When the tide is right, a natural sand path appears, connected the island to the mainland. A narrow strip of land with the ocean on either side. Vickie wondered people were allowed to walk across. I pictured everything that could go wrong, from the water rushing back right as you were in the middle of walking the path. Or getting stuck overnight on a deserted island. Who knows what could happen.

Anyway, it was a moot point, because the tide was not right when we got there, early the next morning. We could see a lump of sand in the middle of the sea—part of the path—but that was it. We also saw a fisherman and a couple of Japanese men, who tried talking with us, first in English, then in Japanese.

From there, we went to Nagasakibana and to an animal park. How can I describe this odd little place? It was sort of like a small zoo, with a few monkeys and lemurs and less exotic animals—pigs, donkeys, dogs. There were birds—some exotic, some not—that were allowed to roam freely. Vickie liked it, because she worked in a pet shop and missed all the animals, especially the birds. I liked the view it had of Mt. Kaimon. We took plenty of pictures and saw the rat show.

For lunch we went to a restaurant called “Tosenkyo Floating Noodle” (according to the English pamphlet) or “Tosenkyo Somen Flow” (my own translation). It was mentioned in my guidebook, and mentioned on the blue road signs. Not advertisement billboards. The prefecture signs, which also pointed to Mt. Kaimon, Lake Ikeda, and Chiran.

It was not exactly what we expected. First, we had to climb down a staircase embedded into the hill. The first thing we saw was a small shrine sitting in the water. The water was filled with large fish—not koi. To the left was a path through a series of buildings. On the side of the path was a strip of water filled even more with fish—these ones smaller. When we came to the restaurant, I began to suspect the fish weren’t all just a part of the scenery. On the menu, one of the featured items—was a small salted fish on a stick.

The other prominent feature is, of course, the somen, a very thin white noodle that’s usually eaten chilled. It was 600 yen for a bowl—very reasonable. A man who spoke flawless English met us and explained how it worked. We bought a ticket for our food and chose our table. The eating area was half inside, half outside, with a giant waterfall in the back. We sat next to the waterfall.

The tables were round and in the middle was a ring of water which was flowing round and round. When our noodles came, we dumped them in the water. They flowed round and round, until we stuck in our chopsticks. In a matter of seconds our chopsticks were heaped with thin white noodles, which we then dunked into the sauce. Not only was this incredibly fun, it also made eating extremely easy. The water was crisp and cold; I could taste it in my noodles, and it was delicious.

We did all this and still got home before dinner. Our trip was over.

Anecdote #10: Going Home

2010-03-09T22:27:00.001+09:00

April 25, 2008

Day 12: Monday, March 31st
Tokyo

It was raining.

It was a cold rain, an ugly rain, a rain that left puddles in the street. I had a backpack, a purse, and two additional pieces of baggage, and we (all five of us) tried to huddle under my tiny collapsible umbrella. Before long my bags were dark and slick from rain and my shoes were soaked through.

“Why don’t we eat in a café today?” I said to Jenny.

Our last day in Tokyo and we forsook our morning tradition of eating at Senso-ji Temple. (But perhaps it was already broken since Hedy was gone.) I had ham and eggs and toast and coffee. Jenny just had ham and eggs. She was looking through her guidebook and fretting about how much shopping she could squeeze in before her flight. She’d be shopping by herself. My flight was at 1:30—I had no time to shop.

We pulled our luggage through Sensoji Temple toward the subway entrance, Jenny carrying one of my bags for me. Even on a Monday, even with the rain, there were still hoards of people crowding the shopping area. Their umbrellas swayed as they moved. Still, it was less crowded than normal, and we were able to walk down most of the street without having to press through people.

When we got to Ueno station, Jenny and I parted ways.

Haneda airport was less intimidating this time. I felt my way around and had lunch. I got on my flight to Kagoshima and looked at Tokyo as I departed. It was grey and bursting with houses. The ocean was a slate blue.

It was about 4:00 when I came back to Kagoshima airport. It was sunny.

Anecdote #9: Fushimi Inari at Sunset

2010-03-09T22:25:00.003+09:00

April 25, 2008

Night 5: Monday, March 24th
near Kyoto

There has always been something a little unnerving about so many red arches snaking through raw forest up the mountain. Why is that? Perhaps in broad daylight Fushimi Inari is nothing but another novel tourist attraction. But at sunset, as the tourists begin to leave, as the last orange light makes the shrine softly glow, there is something thrilling about walking through all those torii, like the start of a grand adventure.

To put it simply, Fushimi Inari at sunset is creepy. But then, that was what we were hoping for.

We brought a picnic dinner to Fushimi Inari: riceballs and snacks we had bought in Uji. When we got to the shrine, the fading sunlight was perfect pictures, which made me happy. Jenny and Hedy were happy going underneath the torii, their first time. The forest around us was bright and crows were cawing.

“This isn’t so scary,” Jenny said.

“Just wait.”

When we sat down to eat our dinner, there were two cats watching us. They were bold cats. I was eating Inari-zushi, rice wrapped up in sweet fried tofu. The cats came right up to us and stared at our food.

“Shoo,” said Hedy, waving at the cats with her hands. They moved two feet back and hissed.

Fushimi inari is named after the god Inari, who uses foxes for messengers. There is nothing foxes like so much as inari-zushi. Foxes can change shape in Japanese mythology. They are neither good nor bad. Some are benevolent. Others are vengeful, malicious tricksters. They take perverse joy in tricking humans.

Hedy had gotten natto sushi by mistake. Natto, fermented soybeans, are pungent and disgusting. “Throw them to the cats.” Hedy rolled it into the forest, but the cats didn’t chase it.

They want my inari-zushi, I thought as I popped the last one into my mouth.

It was getting darker. Crows cackled constantly. Caw, caw, caw. Light was flitting through the rustling forest.

“Okay,” Jenny said, “it is starting to get a little creepy.”

Hedy wanted to go to the top of the mountain, and so we climbed. Up the stairs, through the tunnel, with the light growing dimmer all the time. When we gained altitude, we could see Kyoto lit up at night. It was beautiful. And still the stairs kept coming.

We reached the top and rang the bell. But now it was dark.

“I don’t want to go back the way we came,” I told my friends. “If we go left instead of right, I think we’ll come to a place where the torii are thicker than these ones. I really want you to see it. Or, I know a path that goes through the cemetery.”

“No cemetery,” Jenny said.

We turned off the familiar path and went through the torii. Lanterns came on, giving us dim light. We met a few people coming up. “For once I’m glad this is a major tourist attraction,” Jenny said. “For once, I’m glad there are people here.”

But people grew scarcer. We were going down the mountain. I knew where we were going, I knew, and yet I began to doubt. What if I got us lost? What if this was the work of the foxes? They have confused the landscape and however much we walk, we’ll never make it down the mountain.

The steps down were steep. “I’m going down slowly,” I said, “because I don’t want to slip.” What if I slip and twist my ankle? What if the foxes cause me to slip? Suddenly I can’t get down the mountain. My friends try to help me, but we’re moving slowly. Easy prey.

“What’s that ahead?” Jenny said.

There was a ball of light in the forest.

“It's a flashlight. Someone’s coming up.”

We found the place where the torii grew thick. Behind us, the lamps were still dimly glowing. But there was no light up ahead. The tunnel was dark.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Jenny said.

And suddenly the lamps go out. It’s pitch black and we’re all alone. And then we hear cackling. Not the crows. This is high-pitched, wild, evil laughter. And then we see yellow eyes. The foxes crawl out from the tunnel of torii, and we are in their power now.

“People are coming.”

They came out of the tunnel with a construction worker, who brought a flashlight. When he saw us standing there, he led us down the tunnel. As we came to the end, we knew where we were. We were at the main shrine, where we had started. The train station was only a few minutes walk away. We were safe.

At the inn, I wanted to tell ghost stories, but Jenny, for some reason, didn’t want to hear them.

Anecdote #8: Uji and the Tale of the Cute Guy

2010-03-09T22:22:00.002+09:00

April 25, 2008

Day 5: Monday, March 24th
near Kyoto

And now I come to an important point I’ve thus far neglected to mention: Hedy thinks Asian guys are cute. It was one of the reasons she wanted to come to Japan. While Jenny and I were fussing over maps and temples and directions, Hedy would calmly admire the “scenery.” Occasionally, she would point it out to us.

“Look over there,” Hedy would say. “That guy.”

“Eh, he’s not that cute,” Jenny would say.

“Yes. He’s cute,” Hedy would insist.

“Where?” I would say, turning my head back and forth.

Hedy had a simple goal: she wanted to take a picture of a cute guy. Sometimes she would point out a guy and take out the camera. (Incidentally, it was usually my camera since Hedy didn’t have a camera of her own.) But then she’d hesitate. Sometimes she’d get embarrassed. Other times she’d try to get a good angle. Whatever the reason, she would wait too long and the guy would turn his head or pass by or something would happen. And so she never got a good picture.

Jenny and I were becoming impatient.

“You’re too slow,” I told Hedy on the train to Uji. She had thought the conductor was cute, but after three minutes of angling all she had gotten was a blurred photo. “Just take out the camera and take the picture.”

“But I’m afraid they’ll see me. They’ll get mad at me and tell me to delete the picture,” Hedy said.

“They won’t get mad at you,” I said. “If anything, they’ll be flattered.”

“Besides, it’s not like you’ll see them again,” Jenny said. “We’re in a foreign country. You have to be bold.”

We got off at Uji City, a fifteen-minute train ride from Kyoto. We had gone there that afternoon to see Byodoin, the famous Phoenix Temple. But the city itself was very pleasant.

Uji described itself as “The City of the Tale of Genji.” As if to offer proof, it had erected small stone statues of Lady Murasaki, the author, and Genji and his love. It was also famous for its bridges—there were three and at least one was the site of a famous battle. It had a shrine that was a World Heritage Site, although our Lonely Planet guidebook decried it as boring. Still, what probably caught our attention more than anything was the fact that it was a small town. The streets weren’t crowded with people. There were grocery shops instead of souvenir stands.

We came to the bridge first and enjoyed the wind and the sight of water rushing by. We walked to the temple. It was a nice temple, large and wooden. The beams underneath it made it seem like it was floating and there were a couple of rooster-looking phoenixes on the top. We strolled around the building and went to the museum.

Once, Hedy tried to take a picture of a cute guy in a gray shirt, but it failed and she was disappointed.

We sat down to rest. I was taking pictures, when Hedy suddenly said, “Look, there he is again.”

“Who?”

“The cute guy in the gray shirt.”

I saw him standing near the temple. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll take a picture of him.”

I looked at him through my camera, trying to get him in my shot. But just as the picture clicked, he looked at me. I stood absolutely still and took more pictures, feigning that I was taking pictures of the scenery. Behind me Hedy and Jenny were giggling.

“There,” I said. “I took it. Let’s go.”

But they were still giggling and it made me embarrassed.

“He looked right at you,” Jenny said. “He knew you were taking a picture of him.”

“It didn’t help that you two were laughing,” I said, grumpy.

Afterwards, we looked at the picture. “It’s actually a good shot,” Jenny said. “I like the temple in the background. It’s like a contrast between old and new. It’s almost like an ad.”

That made me proud. “Are you happy with it Hedy?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, eyes shining.

We talked of my heroic deed as we walked to the shrine. Hedy gave me the full account of what was going on while I was taking the picture, how Jenny had noticed my camera turning and kept saying, “Oh my gosh, he knows, he knows.” Jenny was proud of her role, saying if she hadn’t been talking, he wouldn’t have looked straight into the camera like that and we wouldn’t have gotten such a good shot.

Uji Shrine was a small, old shrine, with a thatch roof that was growing moldy. To wash your hands, you had to go into a small building with an open door. There was a stone plank to stand on, but the rest of the floor was dark water. The shrine was small and quiet and ancient. It was mysterious. It was interesting.

But before we came into the shrine, Hedy took Jenny’s camera and took pictures of her being silly. Jenny said she wanted a group shot of us in front of the shrine and she asked some guys. The guys were cute. We took a group shot.

Later, looking through the pictures, the shots of Jenny being silly were only half focused on her. In the background were cute guys—the same guys that had taken our picture.

“I’m glad you got a picture of them,” I said. “Those guys were cute. And nice. Good job, Hedy.”

Anecdotes #7: Biking

2010-03-09T22:21:00.002+09:00

April 25, 2008

Day 4: Easter Sunday, March 23rd
Kyoto

The bicycle shop had a strange odor. There was no one inside. “Ano, sumimasen,” I said. Um, excuse me.

The man came out. I told him, in Japanese, that we wanted to rent bikes. As he took out the bikes, I noticed there was a dog in the corner. That accounted for the smell. Partially.

If it were up to me, we wouldn’t be riding bikes, but Jenny really wanted to. If we were going to go bicycling, today was the day. It was the last day in our hostel in downtown Kyoto. I had wanted to show Jenny and Hedy Heian-jingu and Nanzen-ji. They were close to our hostel. We could easily ride bikes.

“It will be 1000 yen per bike,” the man said, in Japanese. “Have them back by 7 PM.”

We paid the man, but Hedy was a little wobbly on her bike. She had to trade her’s in for a bike similar to my bike at home: with u-shaped handlebars and a lock in the back. Jenny and I had different bikes. I preferred the style of Hedy’s bike.

For Hedy’s sake, we rode slowly. I was the navigator, as usual. We turned right at the corner and rode along the river. It was nice scenery.

Our first stop was Heian-jingu. I had been to it before, as an exchange student. That first time, I was the first one into the garden. This time, we were a little later and it was a little more crowded.

I had been so excited about showing my friends, but when the moment came it was a little disappointing. I had been to Heian-jingu in mid-May, when everything was green and irises were packed along the edges of the pond. Coming in March, the garden seemed a little bare.

Still, Heian-jingu had one major selling point. At one part of the pond there were several large round stones leading up to an island. It had been featured in Lost in Translation, just for a few seconds. But Jenny, who loved that movie, remembered that scene.

There was a bridge at the end. I had seen a turtle there once. Hedy liked turtles. We sat down, but I saw nothing more exciting than ducks. I remembered that before I saw the turtle, I had seen girls feeding fish. I bought 50 yen (50 cents) worth of bread. We fed the fish.

Sure enough the turtle came. He came from underneath the bridge, swimming in the water. Hedy tried to save him some bread, but the fish were too fast. The turtle lurked back beneath the bridge.

We went to a souvenir shop and had lunch. When we returned to our bikes, we rode to Nanzen-ji.

We were riding the same path I had walked last time I was in Kyoto. I knew the area well. I wanted to point out the things that had fascinated me the first time: the water fountain, that strange golden statue. But they didn’t seem interested.

Nanzen-ji was one of my favorite temples last time. I had gone there when the day was still early and few people were there. I had explored the aqueduct, admired the beautiful paintings, climbed up to the top of the gate. It was serene and, without frills, it was beautiful. But as we came up this time, there were already many people walking toward the temple. And as we went inside, my friends were silent.

I stewed. My friends didn’t say anything bad, and I took this to mean they didn’t like it. That I had disappointed them. This made me resentful. Well, maybe they didn’t like it, but I did. I dragged behind them, silent myself.

I should clarify that these may not have been my friend’s true feelings; I didn’t ask them, so I don’t know. It was rather what I felt at the time.

I suppose it wasn’t just Nanzen-ji. On many levels, my friends and I were experiencing Japan differently. They saw everything as new, whereas I already knew most things. It didn’t just mean that they got excited while I didn’t. It just meant that different things excited us. My friends went crazy over ramen. I could have ramen anytime I felt like it. But I was raving about MosBurger, a Japanese hamburger chain that I’ve only been to three times in my life. To them, I suppose, it was just hamburgers. But these little things were irritating, because it kept us from having a shared experience.

And there was something else, too. I was getting sick of playing tour guide. Before the trip, I was looking forward to showing my friends around and impressing them with my Japanese. But now that it was happening, I was tired of my friends relying on me. I hated having to ask for directions all the time. I hated feeling like my friends were dependent on my expertise for their happiness.

To surmise, I was in a bad mood. I was in a bad mood, but I kept it to myself.

We rode back. It was three or four, and Jenny was disappointed with having to return our bike so early. She had enjoyed riding around the city.

There was a spot by the river we had discovered on our way to Heian-jingu. There was seating made of brick and stone, and just across the river was a statue. We rested here.

I took pictures. Slowly, my bad mood was seeping away.

Anecdotes #6: A Bad TV Movie

2010-03-09T22:20:00.000+09:00

April 25, 2008

Night 3: Saturday, March 22nd
Kyoto

We were flipping through channels, bored, when we stumbled upon a weird little show. The first image I clearly remember is a bunch of cute, furry puppets, vaguely resembling hamsters, running along. Suddenly some demon machine thing comes out and snatches them up in its jaws. One hamster gets away. But a woman wearing a white dominatrix outfit with a white beehive hairdo whips it.

Jenny, Hedy, and I looked at each other. What the heck…?

It turned out the white lady and her boss, a strict-looking man in a suit, were melding Japanese spirit-creatures with machines, to make demon transformers. In the meantime, the little boy befriends the lone hamster-thing. At some point he wanders into the woods and meets all these creatures from Japanese mythology. Their meeting is not happy and pleasant. He sees a woman without a face and a woman whose head falls to the floor and whose neck stretches like a boa constrictor. Jenny was actually frightened during this part, despite the bad special effects.

The boy eventually finds out these are the good people who are fighting the white lady and her boss. They take the boy to meet a powerful spirit. The spirit gives the boy a sword, but the white lady abducts the spirit and the hamster as well.

The hamster almost escapes. It escapes in a hilarious way. The machine-monster thing squeezes it and the hamster is so frighten that it pees. The pee short-circuits the machine. Unfortunately, the white lady recaptures it and tosses it into the furnace, where Machine-monsters are made.

“Oh no,” Jenny said. “What will happen to it?”

At this point we had to see the rest of the show.

The boy gets a change of clothes. He rallies the spirits to attack the bad guy’s fort. He uses his magical sword to kill the transformer demons.

“I bet they’ve turned his hamster into a monster and he’s going to have to fight it.”

“No,” Jenny said.

But I was right.

It cut to the bad guys. It was obvious to me the white girl was in love with her boss.

“He’s going to kill her,” I said.

“Why would he do that?” Jenny said.

But I was right again. Do I know Japanese drama or what?

The big evil boss, after running the white-haired girl through with a sword, stands on the brink of the crucible, preparing to meld himself with a machine. He jumps in. But then a comic relief character bumps into a guy collecting beans (???) and instead of a machine, the guy gets melded with a bean.

“What kind of stupid way to die is that?” I said. “I mean, at least the white-haired girl died with dignity. But that was just…laughable.”

At the very end, the hamster-thing was shown alive. But then, the big bad guy reappeared and he had red beans where his pupils should be.

“That’s the end?” Jenny said. “We watched it for that?”

It was a bad, bad movie. We couldn’t even be sure if it was comedy, horror, or a children’s action movie. But somehow it entranced us. That night we stayed up until 11:30. That was, by far, the latest we would ever stay up in Kyoto.

Anecdotes # 5: Imperial Palace Park, Two Temples, and the Castle in Kyoto

2010-03-09T22:18:00.002+09:00

Day 3: Saturday, March 22nd
Kyoto

For some reason, I got stuck planning the first few days of Kyoto. Hedy hadn’t researched the area and was happy with wherever we took her. Jenny had done research, but she was rather jet lagged and only nodded along as I laid out my plans. For our first full day in Kyoto, we would start at the Imperial palace park, in the center of the city. We’d go northwest to Ryoanji, then come back a few stops to Kinkakuji. From Kinkakuji, we could easily go to Nijo-jo, the castle, if we had extra time.

“So, this was my idea,” I said. “Or would you rather go somewhere else or….”

“Nope. Sounds good,” Jenny said.

That morning Jenny wore boots. They were brown boots going up to her thighs, and they had holes in the soles. She asked if they would be all right to wear. I said I guessed so. But tennis shoes would be better. I had never been to these places and didn’t know what to expect.

We took the bus to Imperial Palace Park. There’s nothing so pleasant as a stroll through the park in the morning. It was nice weather and the park wasn’t crowded. A few people walked dogs and a few people rode bikes.

“I want to ride a bike,” Jenny said.

We walked to the wall of a minor palace. I had my friends pose so I could take a picture, and Jenny casually rested her hand on the gate. A few minutes later we heard an alarm sound. “Jenny, stop touching the gate!” I said. We walked away from that area very quickly.

After that we admired the flowers. I recognized sakura, cherry blossoms, and ume, plum, but I didn’t know what the bright red flowers were. Perhaps peach or apricot? We were so happy to see the sakura though. I had so badly wanted my friends to see the famous cherry bloom. If I knew how much we’d see of the flower later on, I wouldn’t have been so excited.

As we got toward the main part of the imperial palace, Jenny complained that her feet hurt. The roads along the park were made of loose gravel, which poked though the thin, holey soles of boots. The path along the front of the Imperial Palace was long; Jenny demanded a piggyback ride.

Somehow I ended up carrying her. She was heavy.

We couldn’t go into the imperial palace. We just saw the roof poking past the gate. It was a pretty roof.

After we passed the palace, we ended up in a wooded area. The path was dirt, much softer on Jenny’s feet. At one point, I saw a man (a foreigner) take out a flute and play a lovely tune. It was so nice, walking in the park, enjoying the good weather, and listening to music.

Suddenly Jenny cried out, “I lost my earring.”

The big dangling heart on her right ear was gone. We all looked through the grass, but it was nowhere in sight. After some discussion, we retraced our steps. Fortunately, Hedy was smart enough to think to check our digital cameras, so we didn’t have to search the whole park. By magnifying group shots, we discovered that Jenny had her earring on at the gate (where we set off the alarm), but it was gone by the time we got to the flowers.

We searched the area, but to no avail. We couldn’t find it.

After that, we went to Ryoanji, a temple famous for its rock garden. There are 15 rocks in the garden, but, no matter which angle you sit at, you can only see 14. Actually, the rock garden was smaller than I thought, and so it was a little disappointing. But we had a pleasant walk around the garden.

For lunch we had ramen (again!). It was good ramen, but when Hedy and Jenny said they could eat ramen for dinner tonight too, I put my foot down. I get sick of ramen very easily.

We went to Kinkakuji, or the Temple of the Golden Pavilion. It is perhaps the most photographed temple in Kyoto. The outside is covered with gold foil and it sits on a pond, which gives it a splendid look. A more impressive feat, however, is its ability to look relatively empty. There were hordes of people surrounding us, but when you look at the pictures, you’d swear we were the only ones there.

From Kinkakuji, we took the bus to Nijo-jo, the castle in Kyoto. It was called a castle, but to me it looked more like a palace. All castles I’ve seen in Japan are several stories high and heavily fortified. Nijo-jo appeared to be one story high, maybe two stories at the most. And I didn’t see any holes in the wall for firing guns and arrows. Still, it was beautiful.

Nestled inside the roof were carvings of phoenixes and the edges were gilded gold. We walked along the “nightingale floors,” a device a suspicious warlord had installed to warn him of spies. With so many people, the floors squeaked and whistled and sang. The insides of the palace were filled with beautiful paintings. Jenny and Hedy went ahead, but I walked slowly, savoring the art.

We walked along the garden. At the very end were benches for visitors to sit. Jenny didn’t sit. She ran through the grass in her knee-high brown boots and lay down, stomach-up, hands tucked underneath head, on the bench. Hedy and I followed suit. Lying down, we could see black branches spread along the sky.

Hard to believe then, with open space around us and the blue sky above, but not thirty minutes later we’d be pressed against a mass of humanity, squirming just to move as people pushed us from behind. Because once we got out of Nijo-jo, we had to take the bus back to our hostel.

It was about 5:00 PM and we had somehow landed in the middle of rush hour. I watched a bus heading towards Kyoto station. It was jammed packed when the bus opened its doors. The people were like a wall. But the people kept pushing their way in. One, two, three, four. The wall wriggled as more people kept squeezing in. A full dozen or more had somehow crammed themselves in before the bus’ doors closed. It was fascinating and disturbing to watch.

A few minutes later that was us.

I couldn’t see Jenny and Hedy. I could barely see through the heads in front of me to see what the next stop was. I couldn’t move, but somehow I kept inching my way forward. Whenever people got off, the rest of us moved forward. Every little bit of space was precious. And more people were coming abroad.

Jenny told me later that an old lady had pushed her rudely. This same old lady thanked her excessively when Jenny offered a free seat to her. I got separated from Jenny and Hedy, but I managed to get to the front of the bus, where I could see the stops. About two stops before ours, in the middle of downtown, the bus suddenly emptied. We could breathe again. Literally.

Anecdotes # 4: Hostel and Downtown

2010-03-09T22:03:00.004+09:00

April 25, 2008

Night 2: Friday, March 21st
Kyoto

In the lobby of the BaKpaK Hostel (or perhaps I should call it the common room?) had two sofas, a coffee table, and a huge TV. There was a computer in the corner with free Internet access. Near the sofa were pictures of famous sites in Kyoto. Near the TV was a collage of Japanese anime video covers.

In the days that would come, we would take over that lobby. In the morning, we’d put our instant coffee or chamomile tea on the coffee table and eat our bread on the couch. We’d flip through the morning news programs to see the weather—but inevitably, Jenny or Hedy would just go online to check. In the evening, we’d drop everything and crash. Jenny would lay across Hedy’s lap like a housecat. Once, Jenny threw a fit in the lobby. Once, we tried on kimonos and took pictures in the lobby. Once, I spoke for an hour to a girl who lived in Germany in the lobby. Other people might pass through, but for the next three days we owned the lobby.

For now, however, we sat in the lobby and tried to figure out our next move. We were hungry. We hadn’t eaten lunch. (“We’ll eat when we get there.”) It was now 4:30 and we were thinking dinner.

“There’s an Indian restaurant on the map. How about Indian food?”

“You’re in Japan and you want Indian food?” I said.

“We’ll have lots of time to eat Japanese food.”

I shrugged. “It’s fine with me. I mean, I eat Japanese food all the time.”

We set out. It was beautiful weather and now that we weren’t lost and our luggage had been deposited, we could enjoy it. A river ran through the city downtown. We walked along it as the afternoon cast long shadows.

We never did find that Indian restaurant. We got lost somewhere around the bridge and ended up in the wrong direction. But I spied a ramen shop and we ate there. The shop was small and utilitarian—that is to say, it didn’t have much atmosphere. The ramen was decent, but my friends loved it.

Afterwards I wanted ice cream, but there are few ice cream shops in Japan. We wandered. It was getting dark. We found a street lit with restaurants and wandered down, looking at the people. We found a park with low swings and a seesaw. At some point, we forgot the ice cream and became obsessed with our wandering. We wandered into Gion, home of the geisha, but we didn’t know it at the time.

Once—and I remember this clearly—we saw a woman in a red kimono and white face makeup pass us along the street. I think she was a maiko—a geisha’s apprentice.

I’ve seen ordinary women in kimonos, but they never paint their faces white. I’ve seen girls dressed up as geishas posing near famous temples. But those girls are followed by a photographer. This woman was out at night, walking quickly as if she had somewhere to be. And we were near Gion. In hindsight, I think she was a geisha.

“Quick, take a picture,” Jenny said.

But I froze. I didn’t.

Anecdotes #3: The Perils of Too Much Luggage

2010-03-09T22:02:00.004+09:00

April 25, 2008

Day 2: Friday, March 21st
Tokyo and Kyoto

I had told them to pack light.

Jenny pulled out a Cosco-sized tub of coffee and a jumbo can of jalapeños from her suitcase. She pulled out two large creamers, two sudoku books, and a fat tub of markers. She pulled out hot chocolate mixes, four kinds of tea, a couple cans of coconut milk, taco seasonings, pencils, candy, and a few magazines. This was all for me.

I brought one backpack and one small luggage.

I was touched that my friends back home had thought of me and gotten me so much stuff. At the same time, we were traveling, and when you travel in Japan, you want to try and pack light.

Jenny had to put everything back in her suitcase. We were going to Kyoto.

But first we had to get to Tokyo. We lugged the luggage up the overpass, pant, wheeze, to the station. We had to transfer lines. We dragged the luggage, thunk, thunk, down the stairs. We had to find out where to get tickets for the shinkansen (the bullet train). We pulled our suitcases, grumble, gripe, through the heavy crowds. And then we were on the shinkansen.

We could relax for a couple hours.

But our hostel in Kyoto was downtown. We had to transfer again. The problem was that we didn’t know which line to take. We knew the name of the station: Shijo. Unfortunately, both the subway and the train line had a station called Shijo—in different areas. We had to choose.

Of course we chose wrong.

We ended up in the middle of a crowded shopping area, with nothing that looked like a hostel in sight. Now we were dragging our suitcases, looking for our hostel and asking for directions. A kindly pedestrian told us we were in the wrong part of Kyoto and had to get on a bus. Jenny, grumpy from having to lug all the luggage around, preferred to take a cab.

The cab driver took us to the other Shijo station, but he didn’t know the right exit. We went down the stairs. We found our exit. We went up the stairs. We got to our hostel. It turned out we were on the third floor, and—guess what—no elevator.

This time I carried the luggage up the narrow stairs. It felt like my arm would fall off.

“I learned my lesson,” Jenny said to me later. “No more care packages for you.”

Anecdotes #2: At the Comfort Inn

2010-03-09T22:01:00.003+09:00

April 25, 2008

Night 1: Thursday, March 20th
Tokyo

The first night we stayed in the Comfort Inn, in Narita City, a five-minute train ride from the airport. By the time we emerged from the train station, the weather had turned nasty. It was still raining, but now a howling wind was blowing. To get to the inn, we had to go over a pedestrian overpass. So there we were, dragging our heavy suitcases up the stairs, as the wind pushed icy cold water on us and threatened to blow apart our umbrellas.

But we made it. The Comfort Inn was a typical business hotel. It had Western beds and our own private shower and bath. We got TV and a desk, instant coffee and a set of pajamas and a small toiletry set containing a razor, a brush, and a toothbrush. What fascinated Jenny most of all was a chemical put on the bathroom mirror; when the shower fogged up the room, one patch of glass remained clear.

Hedy had the single non-smoking room and Jenny and I shared a twin smoking room, which was the only option available at the time of the booking. Our room still smelled of smoke. Jenny told me to open the window. The wind made a rushing sound, like the ocean, and I looked down to see the sidewalk, nine stories below. It was an unobstructed fall. The sight made my palms sweat and my stomach a bit fluttery.

“That window is scary,” I said. “It feels like the wind will just suck you out.”

We hit the combini—the convenience store—after that. Once we had our (non-alcoholic) drinks, we all hung out in our room, the sound of the wind in the background. Jenny and I had brought snacks. I had brought souvenirs from Kanoya: “Black pork” chips, sweet potato cakes, and rose-flavored castella cakes. Jenny brought guava cookies, pumpkin cupcakes, and banana chips. For about an hour, we ate, drank, and were merry. Then jet lag began to set in. It had been a long day.

Jenny went to bed at about 9:30. I went to bed later—about 10:30 or so.

Anecdotes #1: Airport

2010-03-09T22:00:00.001+09:00

April 25, 2008

Day 1: Thursday, March 20th
Tokyo

It was a beautiful morning. The sky was blue without a wisp of wind. Perfect weather for traveling. It was so warm, it was almost a shame to shrug my heavy coat over my T-shirt—but I figured I’d better bring that coat just in case.

I rode the bus to Kagoshima airport, listening to my ipod and watching the scenery. As we got into the mountain, there was nothing but yellow trees and leafy bamboo—a few houses here and there. I got to the airport early and wandered around until I became accustomed to my surroundings. It didn't take long.

When at last the plane came, I took a seat near the window. I could see the bay as we rose and I could see Sakurajima, our volcano, a wisp of smoke at its top. There were houses and square patches of rice paddy land.

This was not my first plane ride alone, but it was the first plane ride I had planned so completely by myself. I had bought the ticket online. I had gotten to the airport. I had made my way through check-ins, baggage checks, and gate numbers. It was a small accomplishment and caused me no particular trouble, but I was proud. Another form of transportation mastered.

When I came to Tokyo, it was raining.

But that wasn’t my first concern. Haneda airport was large and confusing. There were so many gates and people crisscrossing my path, that I immediately felt disorientated. I got my bags and checked the clock. I was running late.

It was already 2:30. Hedy’s flight came in at 4:40. And I still had to get to Narita.

There are two airports in Tokyo. Haneda is closer to the city and is used mostly for domestic flights. Narita, however, is far on the outskirts, possibly in another city. This is the airport used for international flights.

I bought a bus ticket to Narita airport. Then I stared blankly as the man loading baggage asked which colorful band I’d like attached to my suitcase. Apparently, there were three different locations at Narita that the bus stopped at: Terminal 1a, Terminal 1b, and Terminal B. I had no idea which terminal my friends would be arriving at. The man at last tied a blue band around my suitcase.

By sheer luck, he’d picked the terminal Hedy was arriving at, Terminal 2. (Inside the bus, there was a chart, which rather belatedly told me which flights went with which terminal.) Once there I had trouble finding the Arrivals gate. I asked someone and she told me the floor. Then I had trouble finding escalators. They were all over the place.

I found the floor. I found Hedy’s flight and her gate. I waited.

I should tell you now that Hedy and Jenny were not coming on the same flight. Jenny’s plane was 20 minutes later than Hedy’s and she arrived in a different terminal. The plan, hastily conceived, was that I would meet Hedy at the baggage claim, and then we’d meet Jenny at the gate. This was before we knew that Jenny and Hedy were in different terminal buildings. This was also before I rode my flight to Haneda and remembered one crucial fact: in Japan, you pick up your bags before you go out the gate. In other words, you can’t meet your party at the baggage claim.

I was monitoring Hedy’s flight and I noticed she was taking forever in customs. An hour past, but still I waited. Then suddenly, I heard my name on the speakers. I was being paged. What had happened? Had I missed Hedy?

“Do you know someone named Jenny Wong?” the woman at the desk asked me.

“Yes,” I said while thinking, How did she get in so soon?

The woman made some phone calls. “Jenny will be coming. Wait here.”

I waited, but I was impatient. Hedy should be coming out any minute. I had waited for her for so long, and I didn’t want to miss her now. I conveyed my anxiety to the woman and she paged Hedy.

At that very minute, I saw Hedy walking toward me.

It turned out she had come out of the gate late because she was taking her time at the baggage claim. It took her a few minutes to realize it was not a meeting spot, and she wasn’t sure what to do next. She must have come out the gate just as I was making my way to the information desk, because she didn’t see anyone. She was about to step out of the building and hunt Jenny down—which would have been a disaster since Jenny was on her way here. But she decided to ask information first and then she saw me.

When Jenny finally arrived, we all hugged. I was so relieved. Meeting my friends in Tokyo was the thing I had worried about the most. Now that we were together, the worst was over.