The road from Xi'an to Yangzhou is fraught with bandits and dragons. The route is dreary, rainy and otherwise unpleasant. Alright, only some of that is true. It went like this: we left our lovely hotel room in Xi'an with our packs strapped on and walked fifteen minutes to the airport bus. The bus trip was over an hour long and the seats were cramped being that Chinese people are generally shorter than Ken. We sat at our gate for two hours then on the plane for another hour as we were forty minutes late for our scheduled take-off time, par for the course in China. We touched down in Guilin after a harrowing two hour flight during which the plane was nearly struck by lightning. Another bus awaited us at the Guilin airport to take us to the train station because naturally there is no train to the train station. There we were meant to catch the bus to Yangzhuo, a ninety minute ride. However, when we discovered that the Yangzhou bus bus would not depart until eight o'clock the following morning, we were crestfallen... and wet since it had been raining all evening.
We stood in front of a hotel in downtown Guilin and weighed our options. A cab would be three hundred yuan, around forty seven USD. A hotel room would be around the same amount and we were already booked in Yangzhou for the night. Not wanting to deal with more road time in the morning, we bit the bullet and grabbed a taxi. It was worth it. Darkness and wet roads lay before us. We had no idea where we were going and no orientation as to where we were. Over an hour later we pulled up to the Riverview hotel, a quaint residence on the banks of the Li river. Our room was spartan but spacious, and the balcony overlooking the river was worth the cheap upgrade.
It was late by this point, but the rain had abated. We thought about wandering the streets of Yangzhou to get a feel for our new town, but the ten or so hours it took to go door to door, the closed shop fronts and the chill mountain air made us take refuge under the three large comforters in the room. We called it a night and hoped the beauty of the Karst mountains would reveal itself in the morning.
-Ken and Davida
Friday, December 28, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
Xmas in Xi'an
We awoke early Christmas morning to sunlight streaming into our warm four star hotel room. As it had been quite some time since we'd seen the old boy, we laid abed for a spell soaking up his ultraviolet goodness. Our gift to ourselves this year was a trip to the see the Terracotta Army of Xi'an, a spectacular collection of life sized soldiers buried as funerary art for the emperor Qin over two thousand years ago. The idea was that he would need an army to protect and fight for him in the afterlife.
We layered up to combat the subzero temperature outside and walked fifteen minutes to the railway station to catch the 306 bus to the museum. It took an hour, cost just over a dollar each and was warm and comfortable enough. As we had been quoted a 150USD car service at the airport for the same excursion, we high-fived as the bus meandered its way to our destination.
The walk from the bus depot to the museum is a somewhat lengthy affair, lined with touristy restaurants as well as all manner of stands selling all manner of crap, from miniature figures of the clay soldiers to ceramic German shepherds to small battery powered seals that bark and balance balls on their noses. Ladies cajoled us with broken English to purchase their wares or eat their noodles as we hurried past, eager to get out of the cold.
The museum itself is essentially an enormous airplane hanger built over the excavation sight. It sits a few meters down from present day street level and is comprised of now roofless corridors full of ranks of the terracotta soldiers eerily poised as though ready to defend at any moment. Officers and infantry, horses and the remains of chariots stand guard facing east, the direction from which Qin's enemies would likely attack. Each statue's face is unique, each a very distinct personality. Among the legions are the remains of the fallen, fragments of once beautiful figures broken by the passage of millennia and the collapse of rotted wooden roof beams.
Our heads were spinning as we left. The work and care it must have taken to create such an amazing collection only to bury it forever was astounding to us. In fact, we were so blown away that we wandered into a restaurant for lunch that served us the most disappointing and one of the priciest meals we've eaten in China. Small plates of over cooked noodles, not the dishes we ordered, were presented to us and our attempts to contest the exorbitant bill were met with little more than indifference. You can't win 'em all.
We took the bus back to the city, warmed up at the hotel, found a small soup stand on a cold street and ate our Christmas dinner sitting at a low table on the sidewalk. It may not have been a Dickensian goose, but I couldn't have imagined a more satisfying and warming moment. Happy holidays, dear friends.
-Ken
We layered up to combat the subzero temperature outside and walked fifteen minutes to the railway station to catch the 306 bus to the museum. It took an hour, cost just over a dollar each and was warm and comfortable enough. As we had been quoted a 150USD car service at the airport for the same excursion, we high-fived as the bus meandered its way to our destination.
The walk from the bus depot to the museum is a somewhat lengthy affair, lined with touristy restaurants as well as all manner of stands selling all manner of crap, from miniature figures of the clay soldiers to ceramic German shepherds to small battery powered seals that bark and balance balls on their noses. Ladies cajoled us with broken English to purchase their wares or eat their noodles as we hurried past, eager to get out of the cold.
The museum itself is essentially an enormous airplane hanger built over the excavation sight. It sits a few meters down from present day street level and is comprised of now roofless corridors full of ranks of the terracotta soldiers eerily poised as though ready to defend at any moment. Officers and infantry, horses and the remains of chariots stand guard facing east, the direction from which Qin's enemies would likely attack. Each statue's face is unique, each a very distinct personality. Among the legions are the remains of the fallen, fragments of once beautiful figures broken by the passage of millennia and the collapse of rotted wooden roof beams.
Our heads were spinning as we left. The work and care it must have taken to create such an amazing collection only to bury it forever was astounding to us. In fact, we were so blown away that we wandered into a restaurant for lunch that served us the most disappointing and one of the priciest meals we've eaten in China. Small plates of over cooked noodles, not the dishes we ordered, were presented to us and our attempts to contest the exorbitant bill were met with little more than indifference. You can't win 'em all.
We took the bus back to the city, warmed up at the hotel, found a small soup stand on a cold street and ate our Christmas dinner sitting at a low table on the sidewalk. It may not have been a Dickensian goose, but I couldn't have imagined a more satisfying and warming moment. Happy holidays, dear friends.
-Ken
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Suzhou, The Venice of China
Take a thirty minute bullet train west from Sanghai for under 6USD and you will find yourself in a small, historic canal town called Suzhou... The cab ride was short and the driver friendly. Possibly the only personable cabbie in the country. However, when he wanted to drop us off in the middle of a six lane highway bridge, I thought we might be getting screwed. I asked him "are we here?" but he of course could not understand me. It must have been my Philly accent. He started rambling and pointing, first left, then right, then straight ahead, his gestures even more confusing than his dialect. Davida said, "Forget it. We'll find it." We alighted and scurried to the side of the highway where we discovered a stone stairwell leading down to the banks of the canal over which the bridge crossed and were instantaneously teleported to the China of three hundred years ago...
The stone streets were lines with red orb lanterns and quaint shop fronts. The canal was adorned with wooden barges which carried dozens of Chinese tourists along the waterways. Walking the narrow throughway, we heard the sonorous melodies of an oriental orchestra, and before long, came upon the source of the haunting tones. A lofted opera stage sheltered by a pagoda rooftop housed a three piece chamber ensemble opposite a pavilion from which we have since taken to spending the twilight hours.
After a painless check-in at our hotel, fortunately a stone's throw across the canal from that very pavilion, we entered our room and found it a darling first floor sanctuary whose windows opened right onto the sidewalk on the waterway, revealing this exquisite place from the most intimate of vantage points. Passersby gaped at us through our window as though we were the attraction, amused by the white people hanging out of it. Skippers stared as their barely seaworthy vessels chugged by.
Our first order of business was to find lunch. It was cold and rainy, as it seems to be every travel day for us, and it was this that prompted a minor lapse in judgement. Intent on finding a warm place to take refuge, our options slimmed as we passed one open-air restaurant after another, each with nothing but Chinese characters on the menu, until we finally came to a place with pictures and an actual door. But upon entering, we immediately realized that its differences were greater than just these. We managed to find what is probably the only Muslim Pakistani restaurant in town. And they weren't too keen on us, either. We ordered greens, some meat on a stick, and a chicken dish that turned out to be mostly tendon. And not the tasty, well seasoned sheep tendon we enjoyed in Beijing, but a chewy, crunchy affair that had the texture of nostril cartilage. It took 30 minutes for our food to arrive. And for the price we paid, we could have eaten street food from any of the dozens of stalls we passed five times over, in a quarter of the time. Oh well.
That evening we took a walkabout, and as the red lanterns were lit, the charm of Suzhou was further revealed to us. This is the Venice of China.
Today, we hit the streets like Bourdain, on a mission to eat everything strange. We were rewarded with unknown fishes, pork products, dumplings and fruits. Basted, fried, candied, and otherwise prepared, our awe and enthusiasm for it soon became quite a spectacle, and again we somehow felt that we were the attraction as tourists and vendors gathered to watch us eat. It is worth mentioning that we washed our meal down with baijiu, a unique Chinese liquor that tastes like moonshine, costs 1 dollar American, and is consumed exclusively by men over the age of 60. What a sight this white guy is with his thick beard and his baijiu eating fish on a stick in the middle of the sidewalk on a cold Suzhou evening.
Now we are back in our room listening to the catlike voice of a crooning karaoke singer drifting down the canal from a nearby bar. We might just put our names on the list.
Ken and Davida
The stone streets were lines with red orb lanterns and quaint shop fronts. The canal was adorned with wooden barges which carried dozens of Chinese tourists along the waterways. Walking the narrow throughway, we heard the sonorous melodies of an oriental orchestra, and before long, came upon the source of the haunting tones. A lofted opera stage sheltered by a pagoda rooftop housed a three piece chamber ensemble opposite a pavilion from which we have since taken to spending the twilight hours.
After a painless check-in at our hotel, fortunately a stone's throw across the canal from that very pavilion, we entered our room and found it a darling first floor sanctuary whose windows opened right onto the sidewalk on the waterway, revealing this exquisite place from the most intimate of vantage points. Passersby gaped at us through our window as though we were the attraction, amused by the white people hanging out of it. Skippers stared as their barely seaworthy vessels chugged by.
Our first order of business was to find lunch. It was cold and rainy, as it seems to be every travel day for us, and it was this that prompted a minor lapse in judgement. Intent on finding a warm place to take refuge, our options slimmed as we passed one open-air restaurant after another, each with nothing but Chinese characters on the menu, until we finally came to a place with pictures and an actual door. But upon entering, we immediately realized that its differences were greater than just these. We managed to find what is probably the only Muslim Pakistani restaurant in town. And they weren't too keen on us, either. We ordered greens, some meat on a stick, and a chicken dish that turned out to be mostly tendon. And not the tasty, well seasoned sheep tendon we enjoyed in Beijing, but a chewy, crunchy affair that had the texture of nostril cartilage. It took 30 minutes for our food to arrive. And for the price we paid, we could have eaten street food from any of the dozens of stalls we passed five times over, in a quarter of the time. Oh well.
That evening we took a walkabout, and as the red lanterns were lit, the charm of Suzhou was further revealed to us. This is the Venice of China.
Today, we hit the streets like Bourdain, on a mission to eat everything strange. We were rewarded with unknown fishes, pork products, dumplings and fruits. Basted, fried, candied, and otherwise prepared, our awe and enthusiasm for it soon became quite a spectacle, and again we somehow felt that we were the attraction as tourists and vendors gathered to watch us eat. It is worth mentioning that we washed our meal down with baijiu, a unique Chinese liquor that tastes like moonshine, costs 1 dollar American, and is consumed exclusively by men over the age of 60. What a sight this white guy is with his thick beard and his baijiu eating fish on a stick in the middle of the sidewalk on a cold Suzhou evening.
Now we are back in our room listening to the catlike voice of a crooning karaoke singer drifting down the canal from a nearby bar. We might just put our names on the list.
Ken and Davida
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Thus Far
It's been a month and a half on the road and I'm feeling pretty damned good about things. I'm navigating subway lines, remembering street names and orientations and communicating well in Chinese and Japanese which, of course, means I can say 'please', 'thank you' and 'beer'. It's not bad. I can walk into any Chinese establishment and say in Mandarin, "Hello, beer please." When the beverage arrives and I politely say, "Thank you", you'd think I've been speaking Chinese my whole life.
These days it's Shanghai, a modern metropolis teeming with westernized city folk enjoying the rising standard of living in Chinese cities. It's clean, efficient and freakin' boring. It's like Vancouver... though I've never been there. Vancouver could be a blast, I don't know. In truth, we haven't yet made our way to the riverfront. That's tonight. It's supposed to be geared toward Chinese tourists from the more rural parts of the country, so that sounds kind of fun. Then there's Pudong on the east side of the river. That's the skyscraper part of town you saw in one of the new Bond movies or Batmans or whatever. It looks cool. There's like a 120 story observation deck in one of the buildings. Crazy, no? We're also thinking maybe a river cruise. Apparently, that's one of the best ways to view of the city. I like boats, so...
We did find a beautiful old working class neighborhood the other day consisting of dirty, narrow streets and nonexistent sidewalks. It's a short walk southeast from the North Sichwan Street stop on the 10 line. It was around dinner time and there were loads of pop up tents sheltering grill after grill of smoking meat on a stick type deals. That and the many small restaurants made the area my favorite so far. We wandered into a place and ate sweet and sour bear. It was tasty.
Later...
Ok, the riverfront was awesome. It was a dizzying mix of old alleys and blinking lights on a modern promenade. The view of the cityscape from the boardwalk was like living in 'Blade Runner'. The damnable cold compelled us to curtail our outing sooner than I would have hoped, however, but I can't be terribly upset about that as we will living in a beach hut on a Malaysian island in two weeks. Aloha, suckers!
-Ken
These days it's Shanghai, a modern metropolis teeming with westernized city folk enjoying the rising standard of living in Chinese cities. It's clean, efficient and freakin' boring. It's like Vancouver... though I've never been there. Vancouver could be a blast, I don't know. In truth, we haven't yet made our way to the riverfront. That's tonight. It's supposed to be geared toward Chinese tourists from the more rural parts of the country, so that sounds kind of fun. Then there's Pudong on the east side of the river. That's the skyscraper part of town you saw in one of the new Bond movies or Batmans or whatever. It looks cool. There's like a 120 story observation deck in one of the buildings. Crazy, no? We're also thinking maybe a river cruise. Apparently, that's one of the best ways to view of the city. I like boats, so...
We did find a beautiful old working class neighborhood the other day consisting of dirty, narrow streets and nonexistent sidewalks. It's a short walk southeast from the North Sichwan Street stop on the 10 line. It was around dinner time and there were loads of pop up tents sheltering grill after grill of smoking meat on a stick type deals. That and the many small restaurants made the area my favorite so far. We wandered into a place and ate sweet and sour bear. It was tasty.
Later...
Ok, the riverfront was awesome. It was a dizzying mix of old alleys and blinking lights on a modern promenade. The view of the cityscape from the boardwalk was like living in 'Blade Runner'. The damnable cold compelled us to curtail our outing sooner than I would have hoped, however, but I can't be terribly upset about that as we will living in a beach hut on a Malaysian island in two weeks. Aloha, suckers!
-Ken
Saturday, December 15, 2012
An Introduction to Beijing
***IMPORTANT NOTE*** For those of you seeking visual aids, our photos can be found on Instagram under the names kenhfinn and exittotheleft. Both are public, so you do not need an Instagram account to view them. We welcome your feedback on this decision.
Beijing. Where to begin. We are a mere six hours from flying out, and still tongue tied and speechless as to how to convey the weight and significance of our experience here. What a beautiful city. It is so many things at once, complex strands of ancient culture, modernity, poverty and wealth, all woven together and fraying at the ends. Cheesy as it sounds, being in Beijing has felt like the coming of spring on account of the warmth of its community even in spite of the frigid air. On our second night here we wandered into a restaurant at the mouth of a hutong (see below) and met two guys that have deeply shaped our impression of this place- the Chinese call it yuanfen, we call it destiny. Kris and Zack, from Chicago and Colorado, joined us at our table, ordered their favorite things on the menu in perfect Mandarin, and showed their genuine delight at having met two travelers at the start of what can be a lonely winter in Beijing.
We learned on the walk home that they live in the same compound where we were staying, and so the following night they took us out for hot pot in the neighborhood with their landlord, girlfriends and friends. Dinner was a raucous affair. By the time the check arrived, the entire table was covered in sauce, food scraps, and an impressive collection of empty bottles. Man, the Chinese can drink. Luckily, their beers run a very sessionable 3% ABV.
This is Hot Pot. Built into the table is a one burner stovetop onto which a server places a giant pot, with a divider in the middle separating two distinct broths: one spicy and one mild. Then an endless parade of raw meats and vegetables is brought to the table and the diners cook the food themselves. Think the singing plate scene from Beauty and the Beast. Even with an entourage of guests coming and going throughout the meal several plates went unfinished.
After dinner we wandered the hutong, an endangered infrastructure of labyrinthine streets where people live with a true and honest understanding of hardship. These neighborhoods are gritty, loud and fast becoming extinct. There is a Chinese saying that a man will leave his shop, go for a walkabout, and upon turning toward home will get lost because the city has changed so quickly.
We awoke in the morning to a thin blanket of snow on the ground, a rarity for Beijing. It was Kris' birthday, and again, as yuanfen goes, he wanted to spend it hiking a remote and completely unrestored portion of the Great Wall on the same day that we had designated for our trip there. The catch is that were it not for meeting him two days before, we would have ended up at Badaling, a touristy section completely restored in the last 30 years. As it was, we were in Gubeikou, a ghostly beautiful expanse of snow covered hills and virgin hiking trails. We passed through a tiny village of people truly living off the land. Chickens, goats and huge stacks of firewood flanked the dirt road. Halfway up the trail, a frozen silence hovered around us, interrupted only by the occasional sound of a distant train whistle. From the top we had an unbelievable foreshortened view of three decrepit guard towers between large crumbling sections of the wall. It was stunning.
After a quiet drive back to the city, we went to a restaurant famed for its eggplant. Those of you who know Ken are aware that it's one of his least favorite foods, however, all were in agreement that it was the best dish on the table. After more food than we should have eaten including vinegar dressed greens and sheep tendon kebabs, it was time to bring to a close our happiest day in China thus far.
Beijing. Where to begin. We are a mere six hours from flying out, and still tongue tied and speechless as to how to convey the weight and significance of our experience here. What a beautiful city. It is so many things at once, complex strands of ancient culture, modernity, poverty and wealth, all woven together and fraying at the ends. Cheesy as it sounds, being in Beijing has felt like the coming of spring on account of the warmth of its community even in spite of the frigid air. On our second night here we wandered into a restaurant at the mouth of a hutong (see below) and met two guys that have deeply shaped our impression of this place- the Chinese call it yuanfen, we call it destiny. Kris and Zack, from Chicago and Colorado, joined us at our table, ordered their favorite things on the menu in perfect Mandarin, and showed their genuine delight at having met two travelers at the start of what can be a lonely winter in Beijing.
We learned on the walk home that they live in the same compound where we were staying, and so the following night they took us out for hot pot in the neighborhood with their landlord, girlfriends and friends. Dinner was a raucous affair. By the time the check arrived, the entire table was covered in sauce, food scraps, and an impressive collection of empty bottles. Man, the Chinese can drink. Luckily, their beers run a very sessionable 3% ABV.
This is Hot Pot. Built into the table is a one burner stovetop onto which a server places a giant pot, with a divider in the middle separating two distinct broths: one spicy and one mild. Then an endless parade of raw meats and vegetables is brought to the table and the diners cook the food themselves. Think the singing plate scene from Beauty and the Beast. Even with an entourage of guests coming and going throughout the meal several plates went unfinished.
After dinner we wandered the hutong, an endangered infrastructure of labyrinthine streets where people live with a true and honest understanding of hardship. These neighborhoods are gritty, loud and fast becoming extinct. There is a Chinese saying that a man will leave his shop, go for a walkabout, and upon turning toward home will get lost because the city has changed so quickly.
We awoke in the morning to a thin blanket of snow on the ground, a rarity for Beijing. It was Kris' birthday, and again, as yuanfen goes, he wanted to spend it hiking a remote and completely unrestored portion of the Great Wall on the same day that we had designated for our trip there. The catch is that were it not for meeting him two days before, we would have ended up at Badaling, a touristy section completely restored in the last 30 years. As it was, we were in Gubeikou, a ghostly beautiful expanse of snow covered hills and virgin hiking trails. We passed through a tiny village of people truly living off the land. Chickens, goats and huge stacks of firewood flanked the dirt road. Halfway up the trail, a frozen silence hovered around us, interrupted only by the occasional sound of a distant train whistle. From the top we had an unbelievable foreshortened view of three decrepit guard towers between large crumbling sections of the wall. It was stunning.
After a quiet drive back to the city, we went to a restaurant famed for its eggplant. Those of you who know Ken are aware that it's one of his least favorite foods, however, all were in agreement that it was the best dish on the table. After more food than we should have eaten including vinegar dressed greens and sheep tendon kebabs, it was time to bring to a close our happiest day in China thus far.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Tearing Down the Great Firewall of China
BOOOOYAAA!! Ah-Boo-Ya. I have done it. Aside from the multitude of events I have to report about our first day in China, the most recent victory is the setup of a VPN that will allow us to recount to you, dear readers, the many tales there are to tell. A VPN, as it serves our purpose, is a Virtual Private Network, allowing us to circumvent the staunch prohibition of free broadcast imposed by the People's Republic of China. In laymen's terms, China has disabled Facebook, blog sites, and even google searches mentioning the words facebook, blog, and blocked. I was determined to find an out. Thank you UK VPN.
Indeed, the abundance of blockades, scams, con artists and charlatans we have encountered since we arrived has done little but galvanize our resolve. The moment we deplaned, we were met by a bombardment of taxi drivers offering us their services for no less than six times the appropriate cost. Successfully averting these men and navigating our way to the legitimate taxi stand, we arrived safely at our host's compound, albeit in spite of a disgruntled driver who was sour at having waited at the airport for two hours only to be awarded with passengers going the distance of 5 miles, for a mere ten dollars. Today we visited the famed silk market with designs of buying thick socks and long underwear, and again had to muster uncharacteristic severity in order to escape with our bankroll and dignity intact. Ken, having a natural predilection for haggling, scored a wonderfully warm pair of fleece long underwear for less than 7USD, after being quoted $28. I, on the other hand, decided if this is the way business was conducted, I needed none of it. I was consoled by a bowl of noodles across the street, and Ken brilliantly suggested a leek cake, which looked like a pastie, and was bloated with onion and garlic. And probably MSG. And it was amazing. Plus, our lunch was less than the cost of the long underwear. Like I said, ah-boo-ya.
There's more to report about this day, but it's dinnertime, and although we were offline for such a short time that I am quite sure we were not heartily missed, I am happy to say that we will be reporting our exploits from here to Hong Kong.
For now, fight the good fight and keep reading.
Davida
Indeed, the abundance of blockades, scams, con artists and charlatans we have encountered since we arrived has done little but galvanize our resolve. The moment we deplaned, we were met by a bombardment of taxi drivers offering us their services for no less than six times the appropriate cost. Successfully averting these men and navigating our way to the legitimate taxi stand, we arrived safely at our host's compound, albeit in spite of a disgruntled driver who was sour at having waited at the airport for two hours only to be awarded with passengers going the distance of 5 miles, for a mere ten dollars. Today we visited the famed silk market with designs of buying thick socks and long underwear, and again had to muster uncharacteristic severity in order to escape with our bankroll and dignity intact. Ken, having a natural predilection for haggling, scored a wonderfully warm pair of fleece long underwear for less than 7USD, after being quoted $28. I, on the other hand, decided if this is the way business was conducted, I needed none of it. I was consoled by a bowl of noodles across the street, and Ken brilliantly suggested a leek cake, which looked like a pastie, and was bloated with onion and garlic. And probably MSG. And it was amazing. Plus, our lunch was less than the cost of the long underwear. Like I said, ah-boo-ya.
There's more to report about this day, but it's dinnertime, and although we were offline for such a short time that I am quite sure we were not heartily missed, I am happy to say that we will be reporting our exploits from here to Hong Kong.
For now, fight the good fight and keep reading.
Davida
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Heading for China
Last morning in Japan. Davida had the foresight to book last night at a hotel near Narita airport. It's relatively cheap and the two hour trip from Tokyo to the airport is yesterday's problem. We're in the middle of nowhere, but I like being away from the nonstop movement of the city if only for a night and a short early morning. It's 8a now and we have a 10:55a flight to Beijing where the cost of living is a fraction of what it is here. Phew... I don't know how people can afford to live in this country. Seriously. A subway ride can be more than $12. Granted it's a long ride, but c'mon, twelve bucks? It's a subway! I'm standin' here!
Anyhoo, enough of that business. From the Torii Gates in Kyoto to the majesty of Mt. Fuji, from indecipherable Japanese television to endless varieties of noodle bowls, there's a ton about this country that I'm sure I'll miss someday, but there's no time for that now. We're headed for places with even more alien languages, more people and less patience for my dumbass. Let's do this.
-Ken
Anyhoo, enough of that business. From the Torii Gates in Kyoto to the majesty of Mt. Fuji, from indecipherable Japanese television to endless varieties of noodle bowls, there's a ton about this country that I'm sure I'll miss someday, but there's no time for that now. We're headed for places with even more alien languages, more people and less patience for my dumbass. Let's do this.
-Ken
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Japricey and a Japain in my Butt
So we just spent three lovely nights back in Nagoya, we have been in Japan for over three weeks now, and with this portion of our trip coming to a close, what better way to spend our last few nights outside of Tokyo than in a quaint little hotel at the foot of Mt. Fuji with idealic views of the mountain from our hotel window, right? WRONG. We are now sitting in Mishima, and having just gotten off the fastest train in the world, we should be right where we need to be, yes? NO. We are a whooping two hour bus ride away on two separate local buses that only run once an hour. But being the clever couple that we are, we bought the 21-day unlimited JR pass that will at least make this arduous journey free, right? WRONG AGAIN. This little detour is going to run us 8520 Japanobucks, over 100USD. The mountain is sneering at us from our crappy little bus window, and all I can think right now as we sit in a seemingly eternal line of cars in local Mishima traffic is that maybe all the people on the Shinkansen bullet train taking perfectly representative photos of Fuji-san from the comfort of their overpriced seats had the right idea.
-Davida
She's right. We're sitting on what's basically a septa bus. Traffic sucks, the ride is bumpy and the seats are cramped. It's running us $100. Bummer. But as we wind our way up the narrow streets on the way to Gotemba to catch another bus, through small towns no one has ever heard of, Fuji starts to grow close and rise above the cloud line. It stands alone, not part of any discernible range, and the hills around it are green while its white peak dominates an otherwise low lying landscape. The memory of a thousand Hiroshige and Hokusai watercolors fills my head. Ancient, unknowable Japan creeps into my soul and before we've even made it to the base, Fuji- san, sacred and ghostly, has put her mark on me.
-Ken
-Davida
She's right. We're sitting on what's basically a septa bus. Traffic sucks, the ride is bumpy and the seats are cramped. It's running us $100. Bummer. But as we wind our way up the narrow streets on the way to Gotemba to catch another bus, through small towns no one has ever heard of, Fuji starts to grow close and rise above the cloud line. It stands alone, not part of any discernible range, and the hills around it are green while its white peak dominates an otherwise low lying landscape. The memory of a thousand Hiroshige and Hokusai watercolors fills my head. Ancient, unknowable Japan creeps into my soul and before we've even made it to the base, Fuji- san, sacred and ghostly, has put her mark on me.
-Ken
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Okayama With Our New Favorite Jersey Girl
Shelly is a peach. She's a mother of three, an English teacher, a daughter of the Garden State and an all around hoot. We were treated to an apartment with a kitchen in the same block as her place. She normally uses the space to teach her classes, but she had few during our time there so we pretty much had it all to ourselves. It was lovely. I made breakfast every morning, drank strong black coffee and chilled.
On our first night there, Shelly invited us up to her home for dinner with her family. Her husband Akira, a Japanese native, was still at work but her kids, Masuru, Meg and Nozomi were in attendance as well as her neighbor, Yoko. The warmth of family mixed with the sounds and smells from her kitchen felt like home and the caprese salad and pasta with which she plied us brought us closer to Philly than we'd been since landing in Japan.
Next day, onsen! Unlike our Gero experience which was rather a bucolic affair, the baths we found in Okayama were more akin to a health club with large sprawling tiled spaces, mineral baths of every kind, many jacuzzis whose jets focused on different body parts, one hot and one really hot sauna, an outdoor area and a restaurant to fill your post soak nutritional needs. As Shelly had invited us to dine with her family once again and join in her son Mas's birthday eve celebration, we opted to forgo the bathhouse food that day.
Mexican food, a rare treat for a Japanese family, was the fare that night. We set up shop in our apartment being that our kitchen and dining areas were more conducive to accommodating 10 or so guests than her own. While Davida and I prepared pineapple salsa and guacamole, following an hours long search on bikes for the somewhat specialty ingredients, Shelly made tacos, bean salad and prepped all the toppings needed to complete our exotic repast. We ate with gusto late into the night and made loose plans to sing karaoke the next evening. It should not be omitted that Davida's guacamole was among the best Shelly had ever tasted.
We woke up the next morning groggy from the previous evening's south of the border fiesta. In spite of this, I managed to produce an adequate breakfast comprised of the leftovers. After several pots of coffee and an afternoon spent deciding our next destination, it was time to accompany Shelly and Mas to the music store downtown, but not before another delicious bowl of spicy ramen. The order of business was to restring one of his two beater guitars, creating my first available southpaw sixstring since leaving Philadelphia. And boy, was I in for a treat. Not two feet into the store, I spotted four left handed guitars on display. The proprietor, a Japanese Ron Wood, happily set me up on a stool in the back and let me play to my heart's content, interrupting a talented middle-aged ukulele player who graciously gave up his spot to listen to me play. As I strummed away thoughtlessly, he enthusiastically espoused my prowess as Guitar Sensei, imploring me to play Billy Joel, Harry Connick Jr. or the Beatles. And damn, that man could carry a tune. I banged out 'Only the Good Die Young', but the chords were nearly inaudible as the man's Freddy Mercuryesque vocal assault rattled the nearby snare drums. Long story short, I got my strings, and as a bonus, was treated by the shop owner to a demonstration of a sanshin, best described as a three-stringed Okinawan dulcimer.
Evening came, onsen! Seriously, it quickly becomes an addiction. This time some of the family came along. It was helpful to have Masuru as a buddy to translate signs for me, and the fact that we were in our birthday suits on his birthday seemed somehow appropriate. I soaked, steamed and enjoyed the ritual bathing with a greater appreciation for the manifold styles of water, their differing chemical components and the relative benefits of each.
Then the karaoke. Shelly chaperoned me and Davida to one of her favorite haunts, The Pinball. This establishment featured a drink named after our host which was suspiciously pink and composed of I don't know what besides sugar. After a few of those, we made our way to her karaoke spot where we heard a litany of American and Japanese pop numbers sung by heavily intoxicated Japanese men wearing expensive shoes and donning interesting and poofy hairstyles. I sang 'All Night Long' again but was met with a somewhat cooler reception than in Osaka. Everyone's a critic.
We zipped up the night, crashed and made our way to the train station the next day where, after exchanging hugs with our new friend and social director amid the deafening tones of a Japanese political nationalist bellowing his views from a loudspeaker, we boarded a train eastbound to Nagoya. Sayonara, Jersey Girl.
-Ken
On our first night there, Shelly invited us up to her home for dinner with her family. Her husband Akira, a Japanese native, was still at work but her kids, Masuru, Meg and Nozomi were in attendance as well as her neighbor, Yoko. The warmth of family mixed with the sounds and smells from her kitchen felt like home and the caprese salad and pasta with which she plied us brought us closer to Philly than we'd been since landing in Japan.
Next day, onsen! Unlike our Gero experience which was rather a bucolic affair, the baths we found in Okayama were more akin to a health club with large sprawling tiled spaces, mineral baths of every kind, many jacuzzis whose jets focused on different body parts, one hot and one really hot sauna, an outdoor area and a restaurant to fill your post soak nutritional needs. As Shelly had invited us to dine with her family once again and join in her son Mas's birthday eve celebration, we opted to forgo the bathhouse food that day.
Mexican food, a rare treat for a Japanese family, was the fare that night. We set up shop in our apartment being that our kitchen and dining areas were more conducive to accommodating 10 or so guests than her own. While Davida and I prepared pineapple salsa and guacamole, following an hours long search on bikes for the somewhat specialty ingredients, Shelly made tacos, bean salad and prepped all the toppings needed to complete our exotic repast. We ate with gusto late into the night and made loose plans to sing karaoke the next evening. It should not be omitted that Davida's guacamole was among the best Shelly had ever tasted.
We woke up the next morning groggy from the previous evening's south of the border fiesta. In spite of this, I managed to produce an adequate breakfast comprised of the leftovers. After several pots of coffee and an afternoon spent deciding our next destination, it was time to accompany Shelly and Mas to the music store downtown, but not before another delicious bowl of spicy ramen. The order of business was to restring one of his two beater guitars, creating my first available southpaw sixstring since leaving Philadelphia. And boy, was I in for a treat. Not two feet into the store, I spotted four left handed guitars on display. The proprietor, a Japanese Ron Wood, happily set me up on a stool in the back and let me play to my heart's content, interrupting a talented middle-aged ukulele player who graciously gave up his spot to listen to me play. As I strummed away thoughtlessly, he enthusiastically espoused my prowess as Guitar Sensei, imploring me to play Billy Joel, Harry Connick Jr. or the Beatles. And damn, that man could carry a tune. I banged out 'Only the Good Die Young', but the chords were nearly inaudible as the man's Freddy Mercuryesque vocal assault rattled the nearby snare drums. Long story short, I got my strings, and as a bonus, was treated by the shop owner to a demonstration of a sanshin, best described as a three-stringed Okinawan dulcimer.
Evening came, onsen! Seriously, it quickly becomes an addiction. This time some of the family came along. It was helpful to have Masuru as a buddy to translate signs for me, and the fact that we were in our birthday suits on his birthday seemed somehow appropriate. I soaked, steamed and enjoyed the ritual bathing with a greater appreciation for the manifold styles of water, their differing chemical components and the relative benefits of each.
Then the karaoke. Shelly chaperoned me and Davida to one of her favorite haunts, The Pinball. This establishment featured a drink named after our host which was suspiciously pink and composed of I don't know what besides sugar. After a few of those, we made our way to her karaoke spot where we heard a litany of American and Japanese pop numbers sung by heavily intoxicated Japanese men wearing expensive shoes and donning interesting and poofy hairstyles. I sang 'All Night Long' again but was met with a somewhat cooler reception than in Osaka. Everyone's a critic.
We zipped up the night, crashed and made our way to the train station the next day where, after exchanging hugs with our new friend and social director amid the deafening tones of a Japanese political nationalist bellowing his views from a loudspeaker, we boarded a train eastbound to Nagoya. Sayonara, Jersey Girl.
-Ken
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Late Night in Kyoto
I'm in our tiny room. Back from 'A Bar', Lonely Planet's favorite Kyoto hangout. Long story short, it sucked. Lousy food, too many white people and overall underwhelming. I just drank from a beer can that I ashed a cigarette in a second ago. Didn't care for it. Davida's passed out and I've got half a mind to venture out again, but I'm too damned tired.
Today, we saw some temples, ate some very spicy noodles in a private booth kinda place that made me feel like a stripper was gonna show up at any second, and napped for a spell. Total success in my book.
Japan is starting to confuse me somewhat. The worldview here is very structured, very polite. The restaurants all close in the afternoons at the same time and everybody works way too much. I'm from Philly, dammit! I'm used to nasty, insensitive and lazy. I apologize alot for being an ignorant gaijin. I suspect China will be more my speed... if I can decipher the place in any way at all. I've heard they're rude, pushy and unconcerned with my problems. Sounds perfect.
-Ken
Today, we saw some temples, ate some very spicy noodles in a private booth kinda place that made me feel like a stripper was gonna show up at any second, and napped for a spell. Total success in my book.
Japan is starting to confuse me somewhat. The worldview here is very structured, very polite. The restaurants all close in the afternoons at the same time and everybody works way too much. I'm from Philly, dammit! I'm used to nasty, insensitive and lazy. I apologize alot for being an ignorant gaijin. I suspect China will be more my speed... if I can decipher the place in any way at all. I've heard they're rude, pushy and unconcerned with my problems. Sounds perfect.
-Ken
Monday, November 26, 2012
Bob and Lily
We rolled into Bob and Lily's place in Nara last Friday. We found them on airbnb and they boasted a western style house complete with all the trimmings. We were not disappointed. With the softest bed, the swankiest kitchen and biggest shower we'd seen since landing in Japan, we knew we were in for a few days of relaxation. Our room had a veranda with a view of the quiet neighborhood, and the scented nightlight made everything seem like home, wherever that might be. But the most comforting amenities were Bob and Lily themselves. The moment we crossed their threshold, they seemed less like hosts and more like the long lost cousins we remembered from childhood.
Bob is from Colorado, Lily grew up about an hour outside Shanghai. She dances salsa, he makes bagels. I'm not kidding. We're talking handmade dough, boiled on the stovetop and baked. I cried when the hot circles of joy came out of the oven.
They are knowledgeable about the area and extremely helpful. They print maps, give detailed directions, stock the fridge with your favorite breakfast foods and will happily dine with you at any one of their favorite haunts. If you ever happen to find yourself in Nara and need to kick back with members of the family you never knew you had, stay with Bob and Lily.
-Ken
Bob is from Colorado, Lily grew up about an hour outside Shanghai. She dances salsa, he makes bagels. I'm not kidding. We're talking handmade dough, boiled on the stovetop and baked. I cried when the hot circles of joy came out of the oven.
They are knowledgeable about the area and extremely helpful. They print maps, give detailed directions, stock the fridge with your favorite breakfast foods and will happily dine with you at any one of their favorite haunts. If you ever happen to find yourself in Nara and need to kick back with members of the family you never knew you had, stay with Bob and Lily.
-Ken
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Osaka Day 1
We spent Thanksgiving, also Davida's birthday, in Osaka. Cool town. Kind of dingy, rather unrefined, we learned that we were staying in the day laborer/ghetto part of town- if there is such a thing as a ghetto in Japan. Our place was part hostel part frat house. It was filled with Swedes and other uptight European types, many of whom had been living in that spot for months or longer, studying Japanese or working in IT. Every white person in Japan seems to be an IT guy.
On the first night, Wednesday I think, we went out for a drink with Simon from Leeds, the superintendent of the property, Mike the Canadian and some cat from San Diego. After quite a tour of the touristy area full of electronic shops and shoe stores, we wound at The Hub, an English pub style joint which apparently had no beer... or it just wasn't on the happy hour list... or they didn't like us. Who can say? We split as soon as we sat down and kept walking. Still without a drink, mind you we'd been on and off trains all day from Takayama, I called an audible and directed us toward the nearest eating/drinking establishment. As it turns out, it was a yakatori-ya. We were seated in a small room with rice paper screen doors. Very Japanese, very cool. The main problem, however, was that though we had a server, we also had a big touch-screen iPad looking thing from which we were told to order. Of course, everything is in Japanese so none of us could make heads or tails of the menu and the waitress won't let us order directly from her.
Then things went a bit sideways. We got beers, sort of figured out our computer ordering machine, selected some food on a stick and waited... and waited... and waited. Totally being ignored by our girl, Mike the Canadian started looking through his Japanese phrase book and began to make a scene, shouting "sumimasen" whenever the server came anywhere near our table. When she did show up, he didn't know what to say next. San Diego went south with low blood sugar and started cursing and threatening. "This is bull$&!/!. Let's get the f@*{ outta here! I'm gonna walk out on this muth€?£&;%¥ check right now! Thinking our food was forgotten, we asked for the check. As soon as our girl dropped it, the food arrived. Coincidence? We thought not.
The food looked like it might have been tasty when it came off the grill. As it had been forgotten under a heat lamp, however, it was Alpo. We were bummed. We tried to explain to the girl that this was unacceptable, but all attempts to communicate our dismay were met with polite nodding and smiling. At the register, Mike the C tried one more time for a comp. The girl there gave us 20% off the exorbitant bill and we left considering that the one small victory in an otherwise unmitigated culinary defeat.
We split up and Davida and I found a small stand offering takoyaki manned by an old Osakan guy. This stuff is delicious. It's basically a fried ball of dough stuffed with a chunk of octopus. They jam ten of these golfball sized suckers into a small styrofoam takeout container, cover it with mayo, barbecue sauce and spices and hand it over. It cost ¥250; $3. Boom! Take that, overpriced yakitori bi!?€es..!!
-Ken
On the first night, Wednesday I think, we went out for a drink with Simon from Leeds, the superintendent of the property, Mike the Canadian and some cat from San Diego. After quite a tour of the touristy area full of electronic shops and shoe stores, we wound at The Hub, an English pub style joint which apparently had no beer... or it just wasn't on the happy hour list... or they didn't like us. Who can say? We split as soon as we sat down and kept walking. Still without a drink, mind you we'd been on and off trains all day from Takayama, I called an audible and directed us toward the nearest eating/drinking establishment. As it turns out, it was a yakatori-ya. We were seated in a small room with rice paper screen doors. Very Japanese, very cool. The main problem, however, was that though we had a server, we also had a big touch-screen iPad looking thing from which we were told to order. Of course, everything is in Japanese so none of us could make heads or tails of the menu and the waitress won't let us order directly from her.
Then things went a bit sideways. We got beers, sort of figured out our computer ordering machine, selected some food on a stick and waited... and waited... and waited. Totally being ignored by our girl, Mike the Canadian started looking through his Japanese phrase book and began to make a scene, shouting "sumimasen" whenever the server came anywhere near our table. When she did show up, he didn't know what to say next. San Diego went south with low blood sugar and started cursing and threatening. "This is bull$&!/!. Let's get the f@*{ outta here! I'm gonna walk out on this muth€?£&;%¥ check right now! Thinking our food was forgotten, we asked for the check. As soon as our girl dropped it, the food arrived. Coincidence? We thought not.
The food looked like it might have been tasty when it came off the grill. As it had been forgotten under a heat lamp, however, it was Alpo. We were bummed. We tried to explain to the girl that this was unacceptable, but all attempts to communicate our dismay were met with polite nodding and smiling. At the register, Mike the C tried one more time for a comp. The girl there gave us 20% off the exorbitant bill and we left considering that the one small victory in an otherwise unmitigated culinary defeat.
We split up and Davida and I found a small stand offering takoyaki manned by an old Osakan guy. This stuff is delicious. It's basically a fried ball of dough stuffed with a chunk of octopus. They jam ten of these golfball sized suckers into a small styrofoam takeout container, cover it with mayo, barbecue sauce and spices and hand it over. It cost ¥250; $3. Boom! Take that, overpriced yakitori bi!?€es..!!
-Ken
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Osaka and the Best Meal Yet
Our time in the foothills of the Japanese Alps was spent mostly in Takayama, with a fun side trip to the Gifu Prefecture onsen town of Gero, which Ken wrote about a few days ago. Takayama was peaceful, with crisp mountain air and lots of snuggle time, on account of the fact that there's very little to do in a sleepy small town like that. One thing we did enjoy while there was riding Japanese style bikes for the first time. They have built-in locks and large rear-wheel kickstands and nearly every bike we've seen has a basket, another subtle indication of Japanese efficiency, and a stark contrast to all the flashy break-less fixed gear bikes that are everywhere in American cities. Our hosts Amber and Joe, a young couple from Chicago, were super laid back and fun.
We left on Tuesday, and were excited about our first long train ride, a combined length of 4.5 hours on two trains. Again the Japanese rail system impressed- it's simply the most lovely and relaxed way to travel. Food and beer on board, outlets, wifi, super reclining seats, silenced phone policies,.. We have half a mind to leave our last week unbooked (still hammering out the seven days between Okayama in the west and our last weekend in Tokyo starting November 7 when our passes expire) and ride the train whenever we need a nap!
Getting to Osaka was really exciting- it's the city I'd been most looking forward to, and our airbnb stay boasted a rooftop hot tub and sauna. Plus it was my birthday eve! We arrived with minimal trouble, though we took the wrong subway once or twice, and walked the two minutes to the hostel style building where we were greeted by our host, the building manager. Simon showed us around and invited us out for a beer with two other guys who were from San Diego. Our original plan to get settled, do laundry, and have a quiet night was derailed and we joined them. My initial impression, taken from the short walk between the the train and our residence, had been that Osaka, or at least the neighborhood we were in, was full of internationals and younger Japanese people. I was right. We saw more white people in the first five minutes of our walk than I had seen our entire time in Japan thus far. We also saw the first gay Japanese couples walking arm in arm, and tons of mixed race couples, something I probably wouldn't think to comment on had it not been such a rare sight.
After a fairly underwhelming dinner (see Osaka Day 1) we headed back to our spot, only to discover that the hot tub was overflowing with lukewarm water. Foiled by our attempts to enjoy food and amenities, we ventured out again and found a little hole in the wall where no more than five people were sitting at a recessed bar singing karaoke. And imagine our surprise upon discovering that patrons and barmaids alike were all Korean! With more than a modest buzz on, Ken grabbed the mic and belted out "All Night Long" by Lionel Richie, while old drunken men robotically filled in the back up "all night, all night" in quite the monotone. And I'm sure you folks will be as unsurprised as I was to find myself sporting a painful headache on the morning of my birthday.
I tried to shake my nausea all day, bathing in the now piping hot rooftop tub, sweating it out in the sauna, napping in the room, but all to no avail. Perhaps it was this that caused me to have such a strong distaste for the idea of another Japanese dinner, and therein lay the impetus for my brilliant thought. Walking out of a Lawson with a can of hangover cure (most people call it "beer") around 7pm, I saw a beacon of light emanating from a little shop just up the block. Drawing near to it, we saw, like an inscription from the gods, the words "Nepali Indian Restaurant". We went in and our senses were exalted by the smell of curry, the smattering of bright greens, purples and glittering pinks adorning the walls, and our favorite 1960s Bollywood tunes screeching and thumping from a pair of old beat-up speakers. For the tiny price of 1200 yen, 14.60 USD, we ate like kings. Naan the size of a cat, two curries, tandoori, rice and salad, with a mango lassi to wash it all down. It may seem like sacrilege to eat Nepali food in a country so rich and diverse with food options, but it was the best damned Indian food I've ever had, and I'm not sorry!
We left on Tuesday, and were excited about our first long train ride, a combined length of 4.5 hours on two trains. Again the Japanese rail system impressed- it's simply the most lovely and relaxed way to travel. Food and beer on board, outlets, wifi, super reclining seats, silenced phone policies,.. We have half a mind to leave our last week unbooked (still hammering out the seven days between Okayama in the west and our last weekend in Tokyo starting November 7 when our passes expire) and ride the train whenever we need a nap!
Getting to Osaka was really exciting- it's the city I'd been most looking forward to, and our airbnb stay boasted a rooftop hot tub and sauna. Plus it was my birthday eve! We arrived with minimal trouble, though we took the wrong subway once or twice, and walked the two minutes to the hostel style building where we were greeted by our host, the building manager. Simon showed us around and invited us out for a beer with two other guys who were from San Diego. Our original plan to get settled, do laundry, and have a quiet night was derailed and we joined them. My initial impression, taken from the short walk between the the train and our residence, had been that Osaka, or at least the neighborhood we were in, was full of internationals and younger Japanese people. I was right. We saw more white people in the first five minutes of our walk than I had seen our entire time in Japan thus far. We also saw the first gay Japanese couples walking arm in arm, and tons of mixed race couples, something I probably wouldn't think to comment on had it not been such a rare sight.
After a fairly underwhelming dinner (see Osaka Day 1) we headed back to our spot, only to discover that the hot tub was overflowing with lukewarm water. Foiled by our attempts to enjoy food and amenities, we ventured out again and found a little hole in the wall where no more than five people were sitting at a recessed bar singing karaoke. And imagine our surprise upon discovering that patrons and barmaids alike were all Korean! With more than a modest buzz on, Ken grabbed the mic and belted out "All Night Long" by Lionel Richie, while old drunken men robotically filled in the back up "all night, all night" in quite the monotone. And I'm sure you folks will be as unsurprised as I was to find myself sporting a painful headache on the morning of my birthday.
I tried to shake my nausea all day, bathing in the now piping hot rooftop tub, sweating it out in the sauna, napping in the room, but all to no avail. Perhaps it was this that caused me to have such a strong distaste for the idea of another Japanese dinner, and therein lay the impetus for my brilliant thought. Walking out of a Lawson with a can of hangover cure (most people call it "beer") around 7pm, I saw a beacon of light emanating from a little shop just up the block. Drawing near to it, we saw, like an inscription from the gods, the words "Nepali Indian Restaurant". We went in and our senses were exalted by the smell of curry, the smattering of bright greens, purples and glittering pinks adorning the walls, and our favorite 1960s Bollywood tunes screeching and thumping from a pair of old beat-up speakers. For the tiny price of 1200 yen, 14.60 USD, we ate like kings. Naan the size of a cat, two curries, tandoori, rice and salad, with a mango lassi to wash it all down. It may seem like sacrilege to eat Nepali food in a country so rich and diverse with food options, but it was the best damned Indian food I've ever had, and I'm not sorry!
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Ken at the Onsen
Tuesday November 20th. We took a late morning train from Takayama to Gero, a small village in the Japanese Alps known for its many onsen which, in case you're not familiar, are spas with natural mineral hot springs, cold pools and jacuzzi type baths. They can be indoors or out. Unisex or segregated. This is important to note as it is proper to go nekkid during your stay. The protocol is to carry with you a "humility towel", basically a hand towel that you hold in front of your junk as you move from pool to pool. The ritualistic process is as follows: first, you strip down to your birthday suit in the locker room. Then, you proceed to the onsen itself. Ours was outdoors, segregated and nearly empty being early afternoon on a weekday. Once in the hot springs area, you'll find a low row of moveable shower heads, each with a small plastic stool in front. Take a seat, hose yourself down, shampoo and soap up thoroughly, rinse and repeat. You are now ready to bathe.
The order is a matter of personal choice. I went with the medium-hot big pool with bubbly jets first, then a plunge into the icy cold pool, in this case a small cement cistern just big enough for one. It was bracing to say the least. From there, I hit the super hot, super bubbly tub, leaned my head back on a large smooth stone and looked up at an overhanging red and gold leafed Japanese maple in front of a crystal clear blue mountain sky. Bliss.
Back and forth I went, hot to cold, bubbly to still and occasionally hitting the shower stools for a fresh soap and shampooing. After a bit of time in the sauna, a cedar chest into which you close yourself sitting upright with your head poking out, I showered up one more time, crawled rubbery and relaxed out of the joint and called it a day... all for under 7USD.
The order is a matter of personal choice. I went with the medium-hot big pool with bubbly jets first, then a plunge into the icy cold pool, in this case a small cement cistern just big enough for one. It was bracing to say the least. From there, I hit the super hot, super bubbly tub, leaned my head back on a large smooth stone and looked up at an overhanging red and gold leafed Japanese maple in front of a crystal clear blue mountain sky. Bliss.
Back and forth I went, hot to cold, bubbly to still and occasionally hitting the shower stools for a fresh soap and shampooing. After a bit of time in the sauna, a cedar chest into which you close yourself sitting upright with your head poking out, I showered up one more time, crawled rubbery and relaxed out of the joint and called it a day... all for under 7USD.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Japanic
It started out so well. We were fully adjusted to the time change and (gasp!) enjoying getting up at 7 am to greet the day and people watch in the breakfast room. Being that it was Saturday, there was a much more relaxed group of diners chatting and chewing that morning. We stayed the full two hours, taking advantage of our one free meal of the day, and the internet that only worked downstairs. Finally we rolled ourselves, all full of eggs and sausage patties, labeled "hamburg", into the elevator and back to our room to pack. Pained though I am to think of how my family reading along might react to such honesty, I must report that our exodus was not without the urge to imbibe, and weighing the almost empty bottle in my bag, we gave way.
We checked out promptly at 10:59 and were feeling simply stellar. High fives abounding, we made our way to the Tokyo Railway Station to activate our 21-day unlimited rail passes.
At the JR information area we coordinated the transfer of our order forms into real passes and reserved our seats for the Shinkansen bullet train to Nagoya. Nagoya, home to 2 million people, is the fourth largest city in Japan. It was then that the rain started to pick up, but no sweat, surely it would subside by the time we got off in 2 hours.
The Shinkansen was the most thrilling and unfamiliar way I have ever traveled. In addition to the wild, wheel-less magnetic technology used to propel this train at 200mph, the seats are spaced farther apart than a business class flight with more reclining ability and steadier tray tables. Indeed, when the train began to move, I was sure we were preparing for take off. Soon after, lovely uniformed ladies appeared carting beer, tea, and ornate lunch boxes wrapped in delicate cloth and rice paper, priced as opulently as they looked. The comely vendors turned, bowed and smiled each time they left our car. Again we high-fived at being clever enough to get these rail passes, as this train would have cost well over 200 dollars without them.
In no time at all we arrived in Nagoya, and though we had 3 hours to wait before meeting up with our hosts, we were excited to get out of the station and explore the city we fancied would be the Philadelphia of Japan. Again we congratulated ourselves on being so awesome as we hopped between the Sakura-dori and Meijo subway lines and got of at Kurokawa, exactly where we needed to be!
Unfortunately, this was our first moment of disappointment. Not only was it pouring down much harder when we emerged from the station, but it turns out that Japan is a bit like Israel in that entire cities seem to shut down on Saturday. I mean NOTHING was open, save for a takoyaki place that was more of a stall than anything else- an overhanging awning that spilled rain everywhere and had no seats. In case you don't know what takoyaki is, we'll get to that. But not to fear! Behold, yonder, a Mister Donut! We scurried across the busy street between cars sloshing water with their tires and wipers and entered the corner doughnut shop. Now, on any other day we might have been heartily disappointed to have ended up in the Dunkin' Donuts equivalent of shops our first ten minutes out of Tokyo, but we were so cold and soaked at this point that this place looked like Vetri to us. With nothing but time to kill, we broke out the Suntory whiskey and sipped it with a bowl of spicy noodles (because apparently you can get them everywhere, even at a doughnut shop) while playing No-limit Texas Hold'em.
The time came for one of us to step out and make a phone call to our hosts, right around 4:30, and I was the first to go. Note: first. We had two cell phone numbers, and I was lucky enough to find a pay phone just 100 or so meters away. After finally figuring out how to use damned the thing, I made four attempts at each number with no success. Okay, no big deal. Our hosts said they'd be home around 5, so I guess I'm a little early- they're probably on the train home right now!
At 5:30 Ken stepped out to try again, and again no luck. We'd now been at this Mister Donut for going on three hours, and it was time to make a move- maybe we could email them, or call them on Skype. The adjacent restaurants all opened at five, so we went into the one with a WiFi sign in the window. But after ordering a beer, we learned, naturally, that they don't know how to use their own wireless. The box had 8 different bar codes and sets of numbers and after several combinations I finally gave up.
At this point, one of the cooks, Katsu, handed me his phone. Okay, one last time, PLEASE pick up! "Hello?" "Maya! Is that you? This is Davida! We are here! Right near the Mister Donut!" A tiny voice on the other end said that she would pick us up there. Phew! Thank you Chef Katsu! We paid and left to wait out front.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Forty-five. She said half an hour, but it's not like a Japanese host to be late. Back to the pay phone. "Hello?" "Yes, Davida, where were you? I already go and come back. I go again, but please to wait." I guess it should have occurred to me at this point that perhaps there was more than one Mister Donut. But no. Another twenty-five minutes went by with no sign of Maya. With an ultimate resolve to get there or go broke trying, we hailed a cab and fervently expressed our desire to go to herokodori. Heerukudory. HE-I-RU-KU-DORI. If our cab driver had spoken English and we Japanese, I'm sure he would have been repeatedly asking us for a cross street, but alas, hindsight is always 20-20. After taking us on a 1400 yen ride ten minutes away to what we thought was their home, but ended up being just another phone booth where we received even more confusing and cryptic information, Ken called an audible and directed the driver back to Kurokawa, where we had been only too excited to arrive six hours prior. The only redemptive part of that stressful and completely unnecessary ride was the driver's refusal to take the fare. "Ser-vi-su".
At this moment, in great desperation, the two years of my Japanese study finally clicked for a brief moment. Kurokawa station's information booth was attended by a man whose English was equivalent to that of a mute person, being conveyed only through signs and gestures. Despite this I was able to extract one thing from all the accompanying gibberish; Hachi-ju San-ju-ni desu. The next bus is at 8:32. And with that, we rushed back to a pay phone, informed Maya of our arrival time, got back in time to board the bus, and got off just in time to see her riding toward us sporting a huge and apologetic smile.
Our time in Nagoya with Koji and Maya was precious, but especially so since it was punctuated by a momentary panic that somehow seems to be the sort of thing we'd do well to get used to.
We checked out promptly at 10:59 and were feeling simply stellar. High fives abounding, we made our way to the Tokyo Railway Station to activate our 21-day unlimited rail passes.
At the JR information area we coordinated the transfer of our order forms into real passes and reserved our seats for the Shinkansen bullet train to Nagoya. Nagoya, home to 2 million people, is the fourth largest city in Japan. It was then that the rain started to pick up, but no sweat, surely it would subside by the time we got off in 2 hours.
The Shinkansen was the most thrilling and unfamiliar way I have ever traveled. In addition to the wild, wheel-less magnetic technology used to propel this train at 200mph, the seats are spaced farther apart than a business class flight with more reclining ability and steadier tray tables. Indeed, when the train began to move, I was sure we were preparing for take off. Soon after, lovely uniformed ladies appeared carting beer, tea, and ornate lunch boxes wrapped in delicate cloth and rice paper, priced as opulently as they looked. The comely vendors turned, bowed and smiled each time they left our car. Again we high-fived at being clever enough to get these rail passes, as this train would have cost well over 200 dollars without them.
In no time at all we arrived in Nagoya, and though we had 3 hours to wait before meeting up with our hosts, we were excited to get out of the station and explore the city we fancied would be the Philadelphia of Japan. Again we congratulated ourselves on being so awesome as we hopped between the Sakura-dori and Meijo subway lines and got of at Kurokawa, exactly where we needed to be!
Unfortunately, this was our first moment of disappointment. Not only was it pouring down much harder when we emerged from the station, but it turns out that Japan is a bit like Israel in that entire cities seem to shut down on Saturday. I mean NOTHING was open, save for a takoyaki place that was more of a stall than anything else- an overhanging awning that spilled rain everywhere and had no seats. In case you don't know what takoyaki is, we'll get to that. But not to fear! Behold, yonder, a Mister Donut! We scurried across the busy street between cars sloshing water with their tires and wipers and entered the corner doughnut shop. Now, on any other day we might have been heartily disappointed to have ended up in the Dunkin' Donuts equivalent of shops our first ten minutes out of Tokyo, but we were so cold and soaked at this point that this place looked like Vetri to us. With nothing but time to kill, we broke out the Suntory whiskey and sipped it with a bowl of spicy noodles (because apparently you can get them everywhere, even at a doughnut shop) while playing No-limit Texas Hold'em.
The time came for one of us to step out and make a phone call to our hosts, right around 4:30, and I was the first to go. Note: first. We had two cell phone numbers, and I was lucky enough to find a pay phone just 100 or so meters away. After finally figuring out how to use damned the thing, I made four attempts at each number with no success. Okay, no big deal. Our hosts said they'd be home around 5, so I guess I'm a little early- they're probably on the train home right now!
At 5:30 Ken stepped out to try again, and again no luck. We'd now been at this Mister Donut for going on three hours, and it was time to make a move- maybe we could email them, or call them on Skype. The adjacent restaurants all opened at five, so we went into the one with a WiFi sign in the window. But after ordering a beer, we learned, naturally, that they don't know how to use their own wireless. The box had 8 different bar codes and sets of numbers and after several combinations I finally gave up.
At this point, one of the cooks, Katsu, handed me his phone. Okay, one last time, PLEASE pick up! "Hello?" "Maya! Is that you? This is Davida! We are here! Right near the Mister Donut!" A tiny voice on the other end said that she would pick us up there. Phew! Thank you Chef Katsu! We paid and left to wait out front.
Ten minutes. Twenty. Forty-five. She said half an hour, but it's not like a Japanese host to be late. Back to the pay phone. "Hello?" "Yes, Davida, where were you? I already go and come back. I go again, but please to wait." I guess it should have occurred to me at this point that perhaps there was more than one Mister Donut. But no. Another twenty-five minutes went by with no sign of Maya. With an ultimate resolve to get there or go broke trying, we hailed a cab and fervently expressed our desire to go to herokodori. Heerukudory. HE-I-RU-KU-DORI. If our cab driver had spoken English and we Japanese, I'm sure he would have been repeatedly asking us for a cross street, but alas, hindsight is always 20-20. After taking us on a 1400 yen ride ten minutes away to what we thought was their home, but ended up being just another phone booth where we received even more confusing and cryptic information, Ken called an audible and directed the driver back to Kurokawa, where we had been only too excited to arrive six hours prior. The only redemptive part of that stressful and completely unnecessary ride was the driver's refusal to take the fare. "Ser-vi-su".
At this moment, in great desperation, the two years of my Japanese study finally clicked for a brief moment. Kurokawa station's information booth was attended by a man whose English was equivalent to that of a mute person, being conveyed only through signs and gestures. Despite this I was able to extract one thing from all the accompanying gibberish; Hachi-ju San-ju-ni desu. The next bus is at 8:32. And with that, we rushed back to a pay phone, informed Maya of our arrival time, got back in time to board the bus, and got off just in time to see her riding toward us sporting a huge and apologetic smile.
Our time in Nagoya with Koji and Maya was precious, but especially so since it was punctuated by a momentary panic that somehow seems to be the sort of thing we'd do well to get used to.
Flashback To Friday and Before
In 2008, I spent a few days in Tokyo on my way to Thailand. Alone and lonely on my first night there, I braved the chill November mist and happened upon a tiny corner bar in Roppongi. The exterior was so plain and unassuming, I wasn't sure it was open. I poked my head in and saw a man behind the bar and a lovely young woman sitting on a stool opposite him. I asked, "sumimasen, are you open?" The bartender looked at me blankly. The woman said, "yes".
I took a seat at the bar and spent that evening getting to know the bartender/owner/chef Yuta and his college buddy and best customer Aiko. Yuta spoke no English, but Aiko was fluent so she translated for us and before long, we were all communicating clearly.
Several carafes of sake and a bit of shochu later, Aiko broke out some paper, handed me a sheet, started folding and instructed me to do the same. It took me a bit, but I soon realized she was trying to teach me how to make an origami crane. It didn't go very well. My crane looked like an ashtray.
I had so much fun that I returned the next night. This time Yuta prepared some of his mother's specialties courtesy of the house. First, he presented me and Aiko each with a small, smoked fish. It's head was intact, and it's glassy eye regarded me with disdain, "no gaijin would have the stones to eat me." Thinking this was a joke, I hesitated and looked at my friends for some sign as to how I should proceed. Aiko promptly picked up her fish and bit off its head. Yuta did the same. I was afraid this was how it was going to go down. They looked at me and smiled in a way that said, "mmmm, yummy!" Not wanting to offend, I followed suit. The smoky, fishy flavor, along with the texture of crunchy fish skull and squishy eyeballs made my eyes water. I forced a sickly smile as I choked down the mouthful and drained my sake glass in a desperate attempt to eradicate the taste from my palate. Subsequent dishes included pan fried rice balls with fish parts and other fish part based recipes, all from Yuta's childhood.
As the sake flowed, the cuisine seemed to get more palatable until, at long last, it was time to say goodnight...
This past Friday, as we wandered around Roppongi, I tried my best to retrace the route to Yuta's bar. We got turned around once or twice, but ultimately found the small corner address that was home to my warmest memories of Tokyo. It was mid-afternoon and the place looked understandably deserted as most bars don't open until evening. Davida tried the door anyway, and was shocked when it opened easily. Inside, the place was dark, the bar and flooring had been pulled up and all telltale signs of an operating watering hole removed. No artwork, no collectibles, no money taped to the wall indicating that celebratory first sale. Even the small watercolor rendering of the place I had painted which Yuta proudly displayed on the wall behind the bar was gone, an article even the least discerning collector would surely have left behind.
When the door opened and a construction worker stepped in, momentarily scared to death by the white people milling around in the dark gutted space, we were able to learn from him that the place had been closed six months and Yuta's whereabouts were unknown.
In Tokyo, things move quickly and are ever changing. Businesses open and close, buildings are torn down and new ones erected in their place all in the time it takes to order and eat a simple rice bowl. I guess you can't go back.
-Ken
I took a seat at the bar and spent that evening getting to know the bartender/owner/chef Yuta and his college buddy and best customer Aiko. Yuta spoke no English, but Aiko was fluent so she translated for us and before long, we were all communicating clearly.
Several carafes of sake and a bit of shochu later, Aiko broke out some paper, handed me a sheet, started folding and instructed me to do the same. It took me a bit, but I soon realized she was trying to teach me how to make an origami crane. It didn't go very well. My crane looked like an ashtray.
I had so much fun that I returned the next night. This time Yuta prepared some of his mother's specialties courtesy of the house. First, he presented me and Aiko each with a small, smoked fish. It's head was intact, and it's glassy eye regarded me with disdain, "no gaijin would have the stones to eat me." Thinking this was a joke, I hesitated and looked at my friends for some sign as to how I should proceed. Aiko promptly picked up her fish and bit off its head. Yuta did the same. I was afraid this was how it was going to go down. They looked at me and smiled in a way that said, "mmmm, yummy!" Not wanting to offend, I followed suit. The smoky, fishy flavor, along with the texture of crunchy fish skull and squishy eyeballs made my eyes water. I forced a sickly smile as I choked down the mouthful and drained my sake glass in a desperate attempt to eradicate the taste from my palate. Subsequent dishes included pan fried rice balls with fish parts and other fish part based recipes, all from Yuta's childhood.
As the sake flowed, the cuisine seemed to get more palatable until, at long last, it was time to say goodnight...
This past Friday, as we wandered around Roppongi, I tried my best to retrace the route to Yuta's bar. We got turned around once or twice, but ultimately found the small corner address that was home to my warmest memories of Tokyo. It was mid-afternoon and the place looked understandably deserted as most bars don't open until evening. Davida tried the door anyway, and was shocked when it opened easily. Inside, the place was dark, the bar and flooring had been pulled up and all telltale signs of an operating watering hole removed. No artwork, no collectibles, no money taped to the wall indicating that celebratory first sale. Even the small watercolor rendering of the place I had painted which Yuta proudly displayed on the wall behind the bar was gone, an article even the least discerning collector would surely have left behind.
When the door opened and a construction worker stepped in, momentarily scared to death by the white people milling around in the dark gutted space, we were able to learn from him that the place had been closed six months and Yuta's whereabouts were unknown.
In Tokyo, things move quickly and are ever changing. Businesses open and close, buildings are torn down and new ones erected in their place all in the time it takes to order and eat a simple rice bowl. I guess you can't go back.
-Ken
Monday, November 19, 2012
Recalling The Last Three Days
It's Monday night in Takayama, a small historic mountain town north of Nagoya in a part of Japan I've never heard of. The air is brisk and dry, the distant snow capped mountains kissed by the orange light of an autumn afternoon.
Last time I wrote, we were in Tokyo on Friday. Much has happened since then. That night we hit Shinjuku, a brightly lit, noisy part of town where young professionals go to blow off steam after an interminably long week. We sat at a counter and ate spicy noodles, of course, and talked to Toshi, our new friend and surprisingly learned phillies fan.
We proceeded to get lost in the subway, but were bailed out by a charming, scarf wearing Tokyoite named Akio, who walked us through the labyrinthine station to our platform asking no more than an opportunity to practice his English. From there, it was early to bed so we could catch a morning train to Nagoya. I'll let Davida spin that yarn.
-Ken
Last time I wrote, we were in Tokyo on Friday. Much has happened since then. That night we hit Shinjuku, a brightly lit, noisy part of town where young professionals go to blow off steam after an interminably long week. We sat at a counter and ate spicy noodles, of course, and talked to Toshi, our new friend and surprisingly learned phillies fan.
We proceeded to get lost in the subway, but were bailed out by a charming, scarf wearing Tokyoite named Akio, who walked us through the labyrinthine station to our platform asking no more than an opportunity to practice his English. From there, it was early to bed so we could catch a morning train to Nagoya. I'll let Davida spin that yarn.
-Ken
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Tsujiki Fish Market
We woke up at 4:15a to go the Tsujiki fish market on Friday. Having wandered into the wholesale vendors' area, we were accosted by the salty scent of salty fishmongers and the entrails of their wares. We saw everything from cleanly extracted sacks of salmon roe to decapitated six hundred pound tuna. Weaving through the stalls of rubber-clad oyster shuckers for half an hour, we were finally discovered by a bewildered, toothless fish cop. "This section is off limits!"
Free breakfast back at the hotel around 7a and already thinking about going back to bed. No way. We rallied and found ourselves in a stunning park near Roppongi on the sunniest day so far.
Aside from its beautiful cherry blossom trees and peaceful winding paths, this park was host to the first shrines and temples we'd seen thus far. We sat in a cavernous room adorned by golden chandeliers and reflected on the contrast of the setting only hours before. We passed by monks in sandals smoking cigarettes, admired rows and rows of stone cherubs in knit wool hats, and stood solemnly in graveyards flanked by forests of bamboo. Sigh.
Free breakfast back at the hotel around 7a and already thinking about going back to bed. No way. We rallied and found ourselves in a stunning park near Roppongi on the sunniest day so far.
Aside from its beautiful cherry blossom trees and peaceful winding paths, this park was host to the first shrines and temples we'd seen thus far. We sat in a cavernous room adorned by golden chandeliers and reflected on the contrast of the setting only hours before. We passed by monks in sandals smoking cigarettes, admired rows and rows of stone cherubs in knit wool hats, and stood solemnly in graveyards flanked by forests of bamboo. Sigh.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Our Breakfast
I don't know what they feed the chickens to make the yolks of their eggs so beautiful and orange but it's definitely not growth hormones. 
Tokyo Day 1
First mistake: don't sit down at a restaurant where the prices are only printed in Japanese. You may end up paying $50 for a tempura lunch. Not that it wasn't delicious; the sake was warming, the deep fried goodness hot and delectable, but the check left us feeling cold... s-s-so c-c-c-cold... Lesson learned.
The search for our bank in Shiodome yielded little at first until we wandered into the Ginza and found a branch among the giant multicolored signs and brilliantly shiny shop fronts. Yay! We have cash!! It's amazing how far some people will go to avoid ATM fees.
Evening. Okachimachi station. A seemingly endless maze of stalls hawking everything from carharrts to vans to gyros to girls. We skipped the houses of ill repute and opted for noodles and beer. Excellent choice.
-Ken
The search for our bank in Shiodome yielded little at first until we wandered into the Ginza and found a branch among the giant multicolored signs and brilliantly shiny shop fronts. Yay! We have cash!! It's amazing how far some people will go to avoid ATM fees.
Evening. Okachimachi station. A seemingly endless maze of stalls hawking everything from carharrts to vans to gyros to girls. We skipped the houses of ill repute and opted for noodles and beer. Excellent choice.
-Ken
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
First night / Morning in Tokyo
Hello everyone!
We have safely arrived in Tokyo, and are sitting in the "lobby" of our hotel watching dozens of well dressed business men scarf down the free breakfast made available by the hotel between 7 and 9am. Being very proud of ourselves for even being up early enough to catch the breakfast considering our 23 hour day yesterday, I figured I would wear the complimentary slippers that I was provided with. People are sniggering at Me. Today we will go to the Vietnamese Embassy to take care of our visas before we head out of Tokyo, and search for the best ramen in our neighborhood of Minato. Love to all, more soon.
D.
We have safely arrived in Tokyo, and are sitting in the "lobby" of our hotel watching dozens of well dressed business men scarf down the free breakfast made available by the hotel between 7 and 9am. Being very proud of ourselves for even being up early enough to catch the breakfast considering our 23 hour day yesterday, I figured I would wear the complimentary slippers that I was provided with. People are sniggering at Me. Today we will go to the Vietnamese Embassy to take care of our visas before we head out of Tokyo, and search for the best ramen in our neighborhood of Minato. Love to all, more soon.
D.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
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