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
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