I was informed that today is the last day I will be teaching grades 1-4, at least at one of my schools. This saddened me greatly, as no one is so easily entertained or so enthusiastic to participate as a tiny Japanese child presented with a foreigner. So it goes without saying that I was determined to enjoy my time with them to the fullest, and fortunately that included eating lunch with them. They started the experience off with a bang, all showing up with hot pink mouths thanks to a plaque test they'd had earlier. And it only got better, I assure you.
I had thought I'd gotten used to the little "surprises" that sometimes show up in Japanese lunches, but it turns out I haven't earned that distinction quite yet. For dessert today we had a bowl of yogurt mixed with mandarin oranges and small, clear cubes of what looked like gelatin. I discovered it most certainly was not gelatin when I tried to chew it and was unsuccessful the first, second, and third tries. I soon realized the kids had never encountered it before either, when I noticed dozens of Barbie-pink mouths framed in grimaces as the kids tried valiantly to divide the tough cubes with their front teeth--rookie mistake--while also preventing yogurt and fruit juices from escaping their busy mouths. It looked as though their lips were all bobbing up and down to the same music--once, twice, four times, until finally! Sweet relief, and another spoonful.
It was one of the most delightfully awkward scenes I've ever witnessed, and I laughed out loud until several children turned their neon bright pouts towards me and asked, "What are you laughing at?"
What indeed.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Dating
I read somewhere that Japanese people think of single women as Christmas fruit cakes: after the 25th (birthday, that is), no one wants them. Not a perfect analogy--in my experience few people want a fruit cake in the first place—but apparently an accurate one: lately the people around me have started encouraging me to take the plunge and get myself a Japanese man before my own dreaded 25th.
It all started in a kindergarten, of all places. The principal of this kindergarten was the first brave enough to ask whether I was single, and she initiated a conversation so eerily similar to many conversations I would participate in later that I often wonder if there is some handbook for this sort of thing. The pattern is as follows:
1. Initiate discussion about age. Express surprise at Jessica's age.
2. Ask if Jessica is married, often mistaking the ring she wears on her middle finger for a wedding band. Express great shock when she answers in the negative.
3. Immediately ask, “How about….Japanese Men?” (They all say it that way: the pause, the emphasis on Japanese Men)
4. (Here I explain that I like Japanese men as well as any men, but that not being fluent in Japanese makes dating a practical impossibility)
5. Wave away concerns about language barriers.
6. Offer list of available men in surrounding area, regardless of age or lack of interest expressed by either (most often both) parties.
7. Continue urging Jessica into action until she becomes dangerously red with embarrassment or flees the scene.
This kindergarten principal, I should emphasize, is an extraordinarily kind woman. Every time I work with her she makes sure I have a hot cocoa break, and I always leave with a bag stuffed with rice crackers and chocolates of all descriptions. She is never pushy or disappointed when I refuse her offers to introduce me to her sons (one of whom is a fireman, she tells me with a wink), and she only laughs when I tell her I can’t speak Japanese very well, saying that I am pretty enough to date without the aid of conversation. Besides, let’s face it: there is a great deal of hazing I will put up with from anyone who enables my chocolate addiction.
One day as I was warming my hands around a cup of cocoa, the principal gazed contemplatively out of the window at a man working in his garden and said, “Why don’t you date him? He’s single.”
Noting her mischievous smile, I joined her at the window and watched the toiling stranger: A man who was wall-eyed, sun worn, profoundly bald…but most importantly, at least twice my age. “Ah, no…no thanks,” I blustered, trying to think of the politest refusal I was capable of.
“Why not?” the principal urged, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
Finally I was forced to mutter, “He’s too old,”—a terribly blunt, un-Japanese answer--and the entire officeful of ladies erupted in laughter as I blushed. I was quick to point at another teacher and suggest that she date him instead, but she just held up her wedding ring like a get-out-of-jail-free card and everyone laughed harder.
What I’m saying is, being single here means you’re free game, no matter your age or description. But—and I type this with one hand on a Bible and the other holding a needle to my eye (and yes that is rather difficult to manage)—Utah was still far worse. ^__~
It all started in a kindergarten, of all places. The principal of this kindergarten was the first brave enough to ask whether I was single, and she initiated a conversation so eerily similar to many conversations I would participate in later that I often wonder if there is some handbook for this sort of thing. The pattern is as follows:
1. Initiate discussion about age. Express surprise at Jessica's age.
2. Ask if Jessica is married, often mistaking the ring she wears on her middle finger for a wedding band. Express great shock when she answers in the negative.
3. Immediately ask, “How about….Japanese Men?” (They all say it that way: the pause, the emphasis on Japanese Men)
4. (Here I explain that I like Japanese men as well as any men, but that not being fluent in Japanese makes dating a practical impossibility)
5. Wave away concerns about language barriers.
6. Offer list of available men in surrounding area, regardless of age or lack of interest expressed by either (most often both) parties.
7. Continue urging Jessica into action until she becomes dangerously red with embarrassment or flees the scene.
This kindergarten principal, I should emphasize, is an extraordinarily kind woman. Every time I work with her she makes sure I have a hot cocoa break, and I always leave with a bag stuffed with rice crackers and chocolates of all descriptions. She is never pushy or disappointed when I refuse her offers to introduce me to her sons (one of whom is a fireman, she tells me with a wink), and she only laughs when I tell her I can’t speak Japanese very well, saying that I am pretty enough to date without the aid of conversation. Besides, let’s face it: there is a great deal of hazing I will put up with from anyone who enables my chocolate addiction.
One day as I was warming my hands around a cup of cocoa, the principal gazed contemplatively out of the window at a man working in his garden and said, “Why don’t you date him? He’s single.”
Noting her mischievous smile, I joined her at the window and watched the toiling stranger: A man who was wall-eyed, sun worn, profoundly bald…but most importantly, at least twice my age. “Ah, no…no thanks,” I blustered, trying to think of the politest refusal I was capable of.
“Why not?” the principal urged, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
Finally I was forced to mutter, “He’s too old,”—a terribly blunt, un-Japanese answer--and the entire officeful of ladies erupted in laughter as I blushed. I was quick to point at another teacher and suggest that she date him instead, but she just held up her wedding ring like a get-out-of-jail-free card and everyone laughed harder.
What I’m saying is, being single here means you’re free game, no matter your age or description. But—and I type this with one hand on a Bible and the other holding a needle to my eye (and yes that is rather difficult to manage)—Utah was still far worse. ^__~
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Bear Troubles
This morning dawned bright and unseasonably warmly. The work load was light and gave me ample time to cheer for my students as they ran relays, accompanied by upbeat classical songs like the overtures from William Tell and the Marriage of Figaro blasted over the outdoor speakers.
"That music is such a good idea," I commented to no one in particular while indulging in a little aimless hand waving and finger tapping.
"Yes," a teacher agreed. "It's to keep the kuma away."
"Good idea!" I enthused, by now entirely lost in my imaginary orchestra conducting. Meanwhile in my head the word "kuma" sifted lazily through my translation filters until it finally nudged the word "bear" and stuck fast. "Wait....what?"
I watched the children playing outside with somewhat more focus while the teachers filled me in. Apparently our little area has had several shaggy, clawed visitors lately. Earlier this week one surprised an elderly couple, breaking the wife's ankle and raking half of the husband's face away. Early yesterday morning another--or the same one, who knows?--broke a window and climbed into a nearby junior high school. Then today another (NOT the same one, as the last one was shot in the school) was spotted in the middle of the afternoon ambling around the middle of town. The parents have all become busy mockeries of the "green movement", with their cars constantly roaring to life only to be quieted a block or sometimes two later, where they drop off their kids and promise to pick them up any time they call, no matter how inconvenient. Then the night comes, and few people leave their houses at all.
"But," said Mogi-san, ever practical, "at least bear meat is delicious."
"That music is such a good idea," I commented to no one in particular while indulging in a little aimless hand waving and finger tapping.
"Yes," a teacher agreed. "It's to keep the kuma away."
"Good idea!" I enthused, by now entirely lost in my imaginary orchestra conducting. Meanwhile in my head the word "kuma" sifted lazily through my translation filters until it finally nudged the word "bear" and stuck fast. "Wait....what?"
I watched the children playing outside with somewhat more focus while the teachers filled me in. Apparently our little area has had several shaggy, clawed visitors lately. Earlier this week one surprised an elderly couple, breaking the wife's ankle and raking half of the husband's face away. Early yesterday morning another--or the same one, who knows?--broke a window and climbed into a nearby junior high school. Then today another (NOT the same one, as the last one was shot in the school) was spotted in the middle of the afternoon ambling around the middle of town. The parents have all become busy mockeries of the "green movement", with their cars constantly roaring to life only to be quieted a block or sometimes two later, where they drop off their kids and promise to pick them up any time they call, no matter how inconvenient. Then the night comes, and few people leave their houses at all.
"But," said Mogi-san, ever practical, "at least bear meat is delicious."
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Kendo & Kyudo
I've never been fond of spiders--are any of you surprised? But when I say I'm "not fond" of spiders, I mean that I will leap inhuman distances to avoid their paths. When the kids at school ask me what I like I respond with things like snakes, rain, and frogs; but when they ask me what I don't like I simply make a scuttling motion with my hands and shudder. Words fail me.
Unfortunately for me, Japan is full of spiders, and the only trait they all have in common is that they will not take "shoo" for an answer. There are the microscopic ones that fill my bathtub with invisible threads whenever I don't use it for a few days; the fat ones that hang just above my head when I open the apartment door; and the dark ones that lurk in the branches of the trees. But Friday I noticed a new kind as I drove home from school. Oh yes, you read that right: these spiders are big enough to be viewed from a moving vehicle. They are bright acid green and they have built correspondingly huge webs that stretch across power lines. What does a spider need with a power line?? For all I know they bide their time catching and devouring birds while they impatiently wait for someone to walk beneath so they can plunge down from above like terrible green avengers.
So you can see why my only recourse was to embrace the white-kid-in-Japan stereotype and start taking martial arts classes.
I signed up for both kendo (sword-fighting) and kyudo (archery) and went to both classes for the first time yesterday. Both my teachers are men with the patience of saints, and we quickly established a predictable pattern of me dropping something (swords, arrows, gloves--you name it, I dropped it), staring at the offending article for a bitter moment, and finally stooping to pick it up with a, "Sumimasen" ("excuse me"). Meanwhile both teachers nodded kindly and told me I was doing fine--by the end they were doing it so often they looked like bobble heads.
Both kendo and kyudo are very artistic. Everything matters; you must constantly be aware of where your eyes are, where your fingers are, which foot is in front and how far in front it is. When the teachers perform they make it all look simple and fluid and somehow still deadly. My attempts, on the other hand, are predictably labored and choppy. I imagine that if I actually had to use these skills in any sort of battle the inner monologue would run something like this:
"Alright, I've got this. K. Hold the arrow in the left hand, pause, look at target. Wait, dang, are my fingers at the right height?? NO! DANGIT! Wait..wait, okay, got it we're good. Whew. Draw right hand into position on the bowstring. Wait, is my posture correct? Make a circle with your arms, girl! Why do you always forget the circle!!! K. Look at target. Raise arms and bow above head...and....oh shoot just dropped the arrow again!! Oh no wait...there it is! Funny, I don't remember aiming at my own chest...Oh."
Luckily in kyudo all the other students are kind and sparing with their laughter. Even more luckily, in kendo I get to practice with the kids, which gives me an excuse to gallop around yelling, "Kyaaaaaaaah!" with them like an overgrown Karate Kid reject. The kids are only too willing to laugh at my mistakes, but it's impossible to take anything offensively from a 3-foot-tall stranger shrouded in formal kendo armor, nothing showing but a head of spiky hair and huge dark eyes over an impish grin. It also helps that they are exuberantly inclusive; clearly it doesn't matter to them how well I do something, as long as I just do. And that makes it very fun.
Soon I may be able to do actual bodily harm, but in the meantime I am capable of very intimidating charge and some fancy bow-holding. Look out, world!
Unfortunately for me, Japan is full of spiders, and the only trait they all have in common is that they will not take "shoo" for an answer. There are the microscopic ones that fill my bathtub with invisible threads whenever I don't use it for a few days; the fat ones that hang just above my head when I open the apartment door; and the dark ones that lurk in the branches of the trees. But Friday I noticed a new kind as I drove home from school. Oh yes, you read that right: these spiders are big enough to be viewed from a moving vehicle. They are bright acid green and they have built correspondingly huge webs that stretch across power lines. What does a spider need with a power line?? For all I know they bide their time catching and devouring birds while they impatiently wait for someone to walk beneath so they can plunge down from above like terrible green avengers.
So you can see why my only recourse was to embrace the white-kid-in-Japan stereotype and start taking martial arts classes.
I signed up for both kendo (sword-fighting) and kyudo (archery) and went to both classes for the first time yesterday. Both my teachers are men with the patience of saints, and we quickly established a predictable pattern of me dropping something (swords, arrows, gloves--you name it, I dropped it), staring at the offending article for a bitter moment, and finally stooping to pick it up with a, "Sumimasen" ("excuse me"). Meanwhile both teachers nodded kindly and told me I was doing fine--by the end they were doing it so often they looked like bobble heads.
Both kendo and kyudo are very artistic. Everything matters; you must constantly be aware of where your eyes are, where your fingers are, which foot is in front and how far in front it is. When the teachers perform they make it all look simple and fluid and somehow still deadly. My attempts, on the other hand, are predictably labored and choppy. I imagine that if I actually had to use these skills in any sort of battle the inner monologue would run something like this:
"Alright, I've got this. K. Hold the arrow in the left hand, pause, look at target. Wait, dang, are my fingers at the right height?? NO! DANGIT! Wait..wait, okay, got it we're good. Whew. Draw right hand into position on the bowstring. Wait, is my posture correct? Make a circle with your arms, girl! Why do you always forget the circle!!! K. Look at target. Raise arms and bow above head...and....oh shoot just dropped the arrow again!! Oh no wait...there it is! Funny, I don't remember aiming at my own chest...Oh."
Luckily in kyudo all the other students are kind and sparing with their laughter. Even more luckily, in kendo I get to practice with the kids, which gives me an excuse to gallop around yelling, "Kyaaaaaaaah!" with them like an overgrown Karate Kid reject. The kids are only too willing to laugh at my mistakes, but it's impossible to take anything offensively from a 3-foot-tall stranger shrouded in formal kendo armor, nothing showing but a head of spiky hair and huge dark eyes over an impish grin. It also helps that they are exuberantly inclusive; clearly it doesn't matter to them how well I do something, as long as I just do. And that makes it very fun.
Soon I may be able to do actual bodily harm, but in the meantime I am capable of very intimidating charge and some fancy bow-holding. Look out, world!
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Party Weekend
The nice thing about living in the middle of nowhere in a country where you don't speak the language is that it is ridiculously easy to fall into new experiences. For instance, you might hear your coworkers mention "dance" and "festival" in the same conversation, and all you would have to do is ask if there was a festival nearby and they would take care of the rest--meaning that they would volunteer you to dance in said festival, in front of hundreds of people, with no prior practice with the dance itself.
That's how I ended up in a tiny room, struggling into a yukata (it takes a LOT of work to wear something that is basically just a cotton robe). The problems began with my feet: they were significantly bigger than anyone else's and wouldn't fit into the required decorative slippers (zori). Luckily I'd foreseen this and brought my own geta (wooden clogs of a sort). However, this meant that while everyone else was padding along on thick pieces of foam I was clunking around in big blocks of wood tied loosely onto my toes. The yukata itself doesn't encourage much movement by binding your legs tighter than a sleeping bag, and the wide sash around the waist (obi) is reinforced with cardboard so you can forget about bending any part of your midsection. And this was my dancing uniform.
Luckily the dance was easy; I was able to get it relatively down after a few repetitions, even without any practice. It was all mostly in the hands: in one hand I held a fan, which I was supposed to move in graceful patterns while shuffling my feet forward. The fans had little numbers on them and at the end of the dance our numbers were part of a lottery; I won a box full of absolutely massive purple grapes (and yes, I do intend to eat the skins). It was incredibly fun. I love the Japanese attitude towards celebrations; that is, that everyone should participate regardless of age, status, or skill.
And that attitude was never more fully demonstrated than the next morning, when I went to a sports festival (undokai) at my smallest school. The school only has 8 students total, so the school invited the entire community to take part in the festival. Toothless grandmas and grandpas, bent nearly double from years of toiling in rice fields, ran sprightly relays around the track. Teachers, devoid of their usual suits and somber expressions, pitted their strengths against each other in huge tug-of-wars. The kids showed off their tumbling and unicycle skills. It was nice to be able just joke around and bond with the kids, and the shy ones started to open up as we cheered on their family members and talked about sundry things in a mixture of Japanese and English.
After that I visited the castle in Kaminoyama. It was like all the other castles I've seen in Japan: a single white tower. The rest of the structure is almost always destroyed, whether by paranoid shogun or the ravages of fires and earthquakes. Even the tower is typically a reconstruction. Still--and this should come as a surprise to none of you--the gardens are always superb. I sat at the edge of their pond and watched the obese fish struggle by until the sinking sun and a noisy group of teenagers finally drove me away.
A good weekend all around. :)
That's how I ended up in a tiny room, struggling into a yukata (it takes a LOT of work to wear something that is basically just a cotton robe). The problems began with my feet: they were significantly bigger than anyone else's and wouldn't fit into the required decorative slippers (zori). Luckily I'd foreseen this and brought my own geta (wooden clogs of a sort). However, this meant that while everyone else was padding along on thick pieces of foam I was clunking around in big blocks of wood tied loosely onto my toes. The yukata itself doesn't encourage much movement by binding your legs tighter than a sleeping bag, and the wide sash around the waist (obi) is reinforced with cardboard so you can forget about bending any part of your midsection. And this was my dancing uniform.
Luckily the dance was easy; I was able to get it relatively down after a few repetitions, even without any practice. It was all mostly in the hands: in one hand I held a fan, which I was supposed to move in graceful patterns while shuffling my feet forward. The fans had little numbers on them and at the end of the dance our numbers were part of a lottery; I won a box full of absolutely massive purple grapes (and yes, I do intend to eat the skins). It was incredibly fun. I love the Japanese attitude towards celebrations; that is, that everyone should participate regardless of age, status, or skill.
And that attitude was never more fully demonstrated than the next morning, when I went to a sports festival (undokai) at my smallest school. The school only has 8 students total, so the school invited the entire community to take part in the festival. Toothless grandmas and grandpas, bent nearly double from years of toiling in rice fields, ran sprightly relays around the track. Teachers, devoid of their usual suits and somber expressions, pitted their strengths against each other in huge tug-of-wars. The kids showed off their tumbling and unicycle skills. It was nice to be able just joke around and bond with the kids, and the shy ones started to open up as we cheered on their family members and talked about sundry things in a mixture of Japanese and English.
After that I visited the castle in Kaminoyama. It was like all the other castles I've seen in Japan: a single white tower. The rest of the structure is almost always destroyed, whether by paranoid shogun or the ravages of fires and earthquakes. Even the tower is typically a reconstruction. Still--and this should come as a surprise to none of you--the gardens are always superb. I sat at the edge of their pond and watched the obese fish struggle by until the sinking sun and a noisy group of teenagers finally drove me away.
A good weekend all around. :)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
And I Don't Peel My Potatoes, Either.
Today I had to give a demonstration class in one of the schools, to show myself off like a shiny appliance with all sorts of newfangled features and hope the result is that the school decides to keep me around (at least until the warranty expires). It was set up just like an normal day in class, but the teachers played the parts of the students. I played the part of the enthusiastic cheerleader, and we were off on a whirlwind adventure of classroom games and stilted English (mostly on my part. Go figure). It felt exactly like a roller coaster experience: terrifying and entirely unsettling...until the ride stops and you're suddenly flooded with a surge of exhilaration that convinces you that that was F-U-N.
As a reward, the principal gave me some muscat grapes. K, not really, everyone got them, but I wanted them most so I think that counts. I devoured them as quickly as I could with both hands because it was (yet again) brutally hot and these were FRIDGE grapes, cool enough to savor if I could just get them into my mouth before the sunlight and humid air had time to settle on them. But even in the height my grape-snatching frenzy I couldn't help but notice that the principal was not eating the whole grape: he was delicately separating fruit from skin, leaving a pile of discarded green flesh on his plate. He noticed my own indiscriminate tastes at the same time, and good-naturedly informed me that I was the odd one in this scenario. Then he called in his vice-principal and in Japanese told her, "Look, she eats the skins!" Looking amused, they proceeded to ask me if Americans also devour the shells along with our nuts. "Of course not!" I replied. But then I sort of ruined the effect by letting them know that I used to try to eat their soy beans (edamame) by gnawing through the furry outer pod.
Lasting Impression Tally:
Nifty Teacher: 0
Manic Foreigner with the Table Manners of a Squirrel: 1
As a reward, the principal gave me some muscat grapes. K, not really, everyone got them, but I wanted them most so I think that counts. I devoured them as quickly as I could with both hands because it was (yet again) brutally hot and these were FRIDGE grapes, cool enough to savor if I could just get them into my mouth before the sunlight and humid air had time to settle on them. But even in the height my grape-snatching frenzy I couldn't help but notice that the principal was not eating the whole grape: he was delicately separating fruit from skin, leaving a pile of discarded green flesh on his plate. He noticed my own indiscriminate tastes at the same time, and good-naturedly informed me that I was the odd one in this scenario. Then he called in his vice-principal and in Japanese told her, "Look, she eats the skins!" Looking amused, they proceeded to ask me if Americans also devour the shells along with our nuts. "Of course not!" I replied. But then I sort of ruined the effect by letting them know that I used to try to eat their soy beans (edamame) by gnawing through the furry outer pod.
Lasting Impression Tally:
Nifty Teacher: 0
Manic Foreigner with the Table Manners of a Squirrel: 1
Trip Recap
Kanazawa
One of the most delightful aspects of Kanazawa is its dedication to preserving historical areas in the middle of the city, so visitors can easily walk from a posh shopping district straight into narrow, walled streets of samurai houses, several of which are still lived in. A few souvenir shops sprinkle the area, selling sweets with gold in them. A few of the houses are open to the public, and it is well worth it to see the gardens. The inner rooms of Japanese buildings are all predictably similar, whether you're viewing a humble soldier's home or a lord's: tatami mats, sliding doors, displayed instruments, and a family shrine or two. The true indication of a family's status is the loving care that has been put into the garden; and boy, is it worth seeing! Meticulously landscaped streams, banks rich with green moss and old sculptures, miniature trees and blissfully over-fed koi fish that have to struggle just to edge themselves under the tiny foot bridges. Even now, the same level of care is maintained in Kanazawa's public gardens; as I learned when I visited Kenrokuen and saw the caretakers shrouded from chin to toe to ward off sunburns after spending almost an hour hunched over the same patch of moss.
I also got to walk around a geisha house, which looked just like the samurai house but with more instruments and fewer suits of armor. In the geisha district they specialize in making delicate, sculptured sweets out of a sort of gumpaste. They are glorious to behold and not so much to taste.
I also visited a temple that was full of secret passageways and 2 whole floors that were invisible from the outside of the building. The lord of the area, fearing an attack on the castle, fortified the outer temples with hidden weapons and samurai, who could watch the visitors to the temple from behind dark bamboo slats in the doors of closets that were angled to work like one-way mirrors. Even the collection box was a trap; it had no bottom, only a steep plunge into the basement awaiting anyone who was unfortunate enough to be pushed over the edge while making a charitable offering. And, if all should go wrong, it also had a suicide chamber with 4 tatami mats (4 being the number of death) and a self-locking door that would prevent cowards from changing their minds and fleeing once they were inside the room.
None of these enhancements were noticeable at first glance, and I think that goal was furthered by the enormous, attention-stealing gold altar in the center. It was very reminiscent of the displays you can find in any catholic church, and I was just musing on the similarities between religions worldwide when my eyes settled on the offering plates, stacked high with boxes of Ritz crackers and Pocky candy (biscuit sticks covered in chocolate). So alright, maybe not that similar, but I like their style! ^__^
Osaka
In Osaka, everything’s bigger. The food. The ferris wheels. The aquariums—2,000 tons of seawater bigger, to be exact, and housing several otters, porpoises, and two whale sharks whose wide, placid grins occupied me for hours. And while I wasn’t staring at ginormous fish, I was bathing in a mosque or sinking my arms deep into a stone urn full of green, medicinal mud in Bali—or at least appeared to be, thanks to the interior designers at Spa World.
I took daytrips out from the city, as well. I saw an art museum in Kobe displaying the works of the artist responsible for Gegege no Kitaro; he had to learn to re-draw everything after losing his dominant arm and it was amazing to see the intricacy of his ink illustrations. In Kyoto I saw Kinkakuji, the temple entirely plated in gold leaf, which draws so many tourists during this season that the garden overlooking the temple becomes a sea of sticky flesh. It is every bit as unappealing as it sounds--the tourist aspect, that is. The temple itself was lovely. And in Koka, a little village with only a small train station to advertise its existence, I saw one of the last remaining ninja houses. Evidently they have few problems with vandalism or theft, since I was allowed to climb through secret attics and examine self-locking windows that could only be opened with a slip of paper, revolvers hidden in short knife handles, and rotating walls. I even tried my hand at throwing the shuriken (ninja stars), and failed at hitting the target so epically that the man who trained me could only laugh.
And now, a sidenote:
Japanese sweets are, more often than not, nothing more than a trap for the Western tourist. The Japanese have perfected the aesthetic quality of their desserts and even the simplest ones are like works of art, with delicate colors, textures, and patterns. However, if you should try one of these enticing beauties, you will find the taste (and calorie content) to be akin to that of a plain sheet of paper. The Japanese have no appreciation for butter or even the crowning ingredient itself: sugar. So what happens when America gets its feisty capitalist fingers into the Osaka pie?
One of the most delightful aspects of Kanazawa is its dedication to preserving historical areas in the middle of the city, so visitors can easily walk from a posh shopping district straight into narrow, walled streets of samurai houses, several of which are still lived in. A few souvenir shops sprinkle the area, selling sweets with gold in them. A few of the houses are open to the public, and it is well worth it to see the gardens. The inner rooms of Japanese buildings are all predictably similar, whether you're viewing a humble soldier's home or a lord's: tatami mats, sliding doors, displayed instruments, and a family shrine or two. The true indication of a family's status is the loving care that has been put into the garden; and boy, is it worth seeing! Meticulously landscaped streams, banks rich with green moss and old sculptures, miniature trees and blissfully over-fed koi fish that have to struggle just to edge themselves under the tiny foot bridges. Even now, the same level of care is maintained in Kanazawa's public gardens; as I learned when I visited Kenrokuen and saw the caretakers shrouded from chin to toe to ward off sunburns after spending almost an hour hunched over the same patch of moss.
I challenge you to look at that picture and NOT be reminded of those dancing mushrooms from Disney's Fantasia.
And what were they doing? Picking up leaves and other debris from the ground so the moss could be viewed in its naked glory. Wow.
I also visited a temple that was full of secret passageways and 2 whole floors that were invisible from the outside of the building. The lord of the area, fearing an attack on the castle, fortified the outer temples with hidden weapons and samurai, who could watch the visitors to the temple from behind dark bamboo slats in the doors of closets that were angled to work like one-way mirrors. Even the collection box was a trap; it had no bottom, only a steep plunge into the basement awaiting anyone who was unfortunate enough to be pushed over the edge while making a charitable offering. And, if all should go wrong, it also had a suicide chamber with 4 tatami mats (4 being the number of death) and a self-locking door that would prevent cowards from changing their minds and fleeing once they were inside the room.
None of these enhancements were noticeable at first glance, and I think that goal was furthered by the enormous, attention-stealing gold altar in the center. It was very reminiscent of the displays you can find in any catholic church, and I was just musing on the similarities between religions worldwide when my eyes settled on the offering plates, stacked high with boxes of Ritz crackers and Pocky candy (biscuit sticks covered in chocolate). So alright, maybe not that similar, but I like their style! ^__^
Osaka
In Osaka, everything’s bigger. The food. The ferris wheels. The aquariums—2,000 tons of seawater bigger, to be exact, and housing several otters, porpoises, and two whale sharks whose wide, placid grins occupied me for hours. And while I wasn’t staring at ginormous fish, I was bathing in a mosque or sinking my arms deep into a stone urn full of green, medicinal mud in Bali—or at least appeared to be, thanks to the interior designers at Spa World.
I took daytrips out from the city, as well. I saw an art museum in Kobe displaying the works of the artist responsible for Gegege no Kitaro; he had to learn to re-draw everything after losing his dominant arm and it was amazing to see the intricacy of his ink illustrations. In Kyoto I saw Kinkakuji, the temple entirely plated in gold leaf, which draws so many tourists during this season that the garden overlooking the temple becomes a sea of sticky flesh. It is every bit as unappealing as it sounds--the tourist aspect, that is. The temple itself was lovely. And in Koka, a little village with only a small train station to advertise its existence, I saw one of the last remaining ninja houses. Evidently they have few problems with vandalism or theft, since I was allowed to climb through secret attics and examine self-locking windows that could only be opened with a slip of paper, revolvers hidden in short knife handles, and rotating walls. I even tried my hand at throwing the shuriken (ninja stars), and failed at hitting the target so epically that the man who trained me could only laugh.
The End
And now, a sidenote:
Japanese sweets are, more often than not, nothing more than a trap for the Western tourist. The Japanese have perfected the aesthetic quality of their desserts and even the simplest ones are like works of art, with delicate colors, textures, and patterns. However, if you should try one of these enticing beauties, you will find the taste (and calorie content) to be akin to that of a plain sheet of paper. The Japanese have no appreciation for butter or even the crowning ingredient itself: sugar. So what happens when America gets its feisty capitalist fingers into the Osaka pie?
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| This. This is what happens. Yes, that man is there specifically to stop the line from rioting. No, there's not a special sale or anything. I checked. And now, a bonus sidenote: Japan has some of the biggest bugs I've ever SEEN. They are both illogically huge and clearly mentally stunted, even for bugs.  I found this guy lying on the sidewalk, buzzing furiously on his back. When I nudged him with my foot, he clung to it for dear life--even after I gave him a severe poke with my reprimanding finger. Then a bicycle passed us and he fell back to the ground, once more prostrate on his back from shock at the noise. ...In case you were wondering, I left him there that time. Some things just need to be weeded out of the gene pool. |
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