Northern Japan: The End?

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

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

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

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

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

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.