Sushi War

I return, drunker by far than I should be at this hour on a Wednesday, fresh from a midweek sesh with the clerk from one of my schools, who also happens to teach in the weekly assembly of studious foreigners and native Japanese volunteers I've been frequenting since September. Apart from a mutual love of Eberhard Weber, I have learned also of the profound battle between Sushi chef and customer.

Apparently (and bear in mind that at the time of writing, I am pretty damn drunk) when entering a sushi restaurant (a real sushi restaurant, not one of those Kaiten [conveyor belt] places frequented by plebs) the first thing one orders is Japanese style omlette, a.k.a yakitamago a.k.a gyoku. This is the initial yardstick by which the merit of the establishment is measured. The pernickity, overtly sadistic or just plain savvy customer will first examine the colour and aroma of this offering, then taste it. At this point, the chef, or sushi-ya-san will be fretfully awaiting the connoisseurs judgement. As an alternative to a speedy "bill please," the customer may decide that the gykou is good enough to warrant staying, at which point they will order hot sake

Relief for the sushi-ya-san!...for now...

There then follows a battle of the wills, both chef and customer testing the others depth of knowledge in this chosen battlefield. The customer will ask the chef to recommend the days special, a challenge which will reflect on the chef, as he no doubt chose the special himself from the fish market at some ungodly hour in the morning. This is a ritual battle with one victor. The cunning customer could potentially walk away from a sushi banquet fit for a Daimyo for as little as twenty-five quid, the alternative being twice as much if the sushi-ya-san works out that his opponent is in fact blagging it.

This confrontation with the chef is apparently typical of Japanese cuisine, and now this factoid has been imparted to me, it makes perfect sense. In most of the restaurants I've been to here, there is naught separating chef from customer but a modest kitchen counter. Here, the cook is completely responsible for what is served in their restaurant, with none of this hiding behind the double-swinging kitchen doors. If a customer doesn't like what they've been served, then the chef will answer to their complaints, before the entire shop if need be.

Diving deeper into the Japanese consciousness and acknowledging a profoundly militaristic culture, this practice presumably has its roots in the tea ceremony - Samurai, preparing to go into battle would have a nice cup of tea beforehand. Perhaps they had families and children. Perhaps they would go on to win a great victory for their Lord and lands. Perhaps they would die in trying. Perhaps this would be the last cup of tea they would ever drink. Better then, to make it the best cup of tea ever, before them, to make it with all the effort one would put into fighting for their home and to be answerable to ones comrades before death and glory.

It's funny and frustrating that I feel I'm only just getting a handle on this amazing country with only four months left of being here.

Cut the clap.

DISCLAIMER: the title of this entry is not a reference to the myth that Japanese people mix up their "l's" and "r's". "L" doesn't exist in their syllabic alphabet, and the closest thing it has to an "r" only slightly resembles an "l"...anyway...

I’m on a very long holiday right now, and I love it. I have a life beyond public school education and English conversation classes – I can go exploring in Tokyo.

Nestled in between the super-hip neighbourhoods of Harajuku and Shibuya, Yoyogi Park is like the chill out space of a three-room club. It attracts creative individuals looking for a place to do their artistic thing, more often than not, varying degrees of pop group and a near residential tribe of dread-locked percussionists but it also sports jugglers and dancers wielding fans or Santa costumes (depending on the weather).

Yesterday, I discovered in a large concrete boulevard (the starting point for last weeks’ Tokyo Pride March) small pockets of break-dancers. I’ve always found something slightly ludicrous about hip-hop; I simply can't, won't and don't stop. This could be down to a combination of the absolute nonsense some rappers come out with, and bad luck – I’m assured that there is “intelligent” and “right-on” hip-hop out there, but I haven't found enough to convert me. To be fair, my own record collection hardly displays Wildean wit, but lyrical content becomes insignificant when one is witness to the astounding acrobatics on display to the tune of ripped wax.

Back in Kawasaki, itself no stranger to street performers, one such dancer had attracted a crowd of Friday evening shoppers. His backward somersaults were accompanied by a hip-hop soundtrack and the audience doing the unthinkable – there are few things I hate more in the world than rhythmic clapping. The appreciation of a good performance is dulled into shameful silence when one discovers their fellow punters have been reduced to a legion of imbecilic sycophant sea lions.

That’s a rather unkind analogy, reminding me of a trip to the dilapidated dream that is Coney Island, and my first and only attendance to a Sea World style performance. The audience was made up of an elementary school outing and a couple of squadrons of US Marines, clapping the rhythm of a turgid sub-Ibiza house drone, whilst a graceful, beautiful creature of the deep, a sea lion no less, spun round on a back flipper. Our entertainer didn’t clap once, and I was with him on that, although I would have given him a fish had I the chance. Truly, he was a seal of quality.

Ice Cream & Salt.

Sailing away from Tokyo bay at night, millions of light bulbs dimly sketch the outline of skyscrapers, whilst more prominent and famous landmarks have their own source of illumination. Having this notoriously cramped city spread before you grants a perspective of scale previously only offered by outings to towering vantage points. Even the pale imitation of the Eiffel Tower looks impressive.

This metropolitan manifestation of the ever-imminent future recedes into the black distance with each wave, and we seem to travel back in time to Hachijojima (八丈島), southernmost of the sub-tropical Izu islands.





Formerly a prison colony of the Edo period, the island boasts an extinct volcano, Hachijo Fuji, Nazumado (one of Japans' top ten scuba diving locations), consistently warm water and no less than seven varieties of mushrooms that glow in the dark. Significantly, it has two features absent from Tokyo; an abundance of space and comparatively few people.



Not ten minutes walk from Sokodo Port lies a free campsite commanding a view of a dark volcanic rock beach and the Mihara mountain range. For the past eleven years, from July to September, a typhoon shelter on the grounds has accommodated Watanabe san, a construction worker from Tokyo who visits the island every summer to go fishing. He is a deeply tanned, well built man of fifty-eight, with a disco-stud curl to his salt and pepper hair, a gold chain hanging around his neck, and a mouth of perfect teeth which appear to be false, but reside in a genuine smile. He is well known amongst the fishermen and professional chefs of the island, and draws a crowd when bearing his prizes from the ocean



There is a great supply of dry wood and fire pits. Our clothes bear the aroma of a week spent cooking by campfire. The highly suspicious Japanese sausage (related to the wiener) is rendered more than palatable with a smoky taste, whilst corn on the cob is fired with a more vigorous character than if it had been boiled, but no campfire pleasure can best baked potatoes and beans after a lengthy abstinence.

In contrast to the emptiness of the streets, the beaches and oceans are teeming with life. Amongst the rocks, coral and rippling polygons of sunlight, it's possible to see puffer fish and stingrays, but also less notorious denizens; butterfly fish sporting black and yellow stripes; long and incredibly thin flesh-coloured creatures, with large eyes and no discernible mouth; lone hunters who seem to change colour, red, blue brown and green; glittering, silvery fish like a shoal of daggers with quietly chattering beaks; graceful streaks of brilliant yellow, delicately nibbling on the nutrition-rich sea-bed; a multitude of tiny flickering wisps of light that swim together like a breathing cloud.


The Uakari is commonly known as the English monkey, as its' red face resembles those of Britons in hotter sunnier climates than they're used to. Within two hours of pitching our tent, we were sunburned to within an inch of our pallid lives and spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade and complaining about the weather.
The Japanese word for sunburn is "hiyake," a fact conveyed to us many times by passers-by. Such is the hospitality and helpfulness of these island folk that we merely had to walk into a shop in order to be directed to the suntan lotion. Aloe Vera is also a suitable balm for this bugbear of the travelling Englishman.

Time is meaningless when you're being a beach-bum for a week. There has been no urgency to our activities, no need to be anywhere or do anything. A week with nothing to do in a beautiful spot has been enlightening, especially upon returning to Tokyo bay. The air became dusty and harsh, eyes itched, previously un-sneezing noses erupted in abrupt reports and we found ourselves surrounded by millions of people, with very little time to do what they had to, crammed into a space which appears both colossal and absolutely tiny. I wonder about our chances of getting a seaside cottage on prescription.

Sushi Bar in Asakusa

For those of you viewing at work, volume isn't essential, but it adds something.

The Last Sanja Matsuri?

"Oh, you like Asakusa? There are many foreign country people there."

I've received this response from Japanese people with practically every mention of my fondness for this area of Tokyo, as if what drew me was kinship with my fellow non-Japanese, whatever country they come from.

Of course, these demographic commentators are quite right - Asakusa is crawling with tourists, hardly surprising since it's dominated by the magnificent Sensō-ji, Tokyo's oldest Buddhist Temple.


Asakusa is almost like a theme park of traditional Japan, as if Kyoto had been heavily edited and compressed into a Tokyo neighbourhood. Kaminarimon, the Thunder Gate, opens into a long market street, where shopkeepers, well versed in "trade English" provide innumerable trinkets to legion of foreign visitors. I am the slightly embarrassed owner of what I perceived (before purchase) to be a stylish sake flask. Of course, once I actually took the time to read the kanji on the side, I learned that it said 'Asakusa, Tokyo." I might as well have bought a T-shirt reading "I went to Japan and all I got was...<insert joke here>".


The more I think about that slightly ill considered purchase, the less bad I feel. It's like a moment of clarity, because it is so typical of Asakusa. When I arrived over two years ago, alone and illiterate in a strange country, the way Asakusa looked and felt was adequate balm for lingering doubts and fears I had. Now, a bit more savvy and considerably more cynical, I can see the place through two different eyes. Despite its' colossal tourist trap status, Asakusa is still a beautiful neighbourhood, and whilst there isn't an awful lot to do after seeing Sensō-ji (except for holing up in one of the countless restaurants) what I find appealing about it is, when compared to the rest of Tokyo, the relatively gentle pace. This usually doesn't apply when describing Tokyo's most boisterous O-mikoshi festival, Sanja Matsuri.


Over three days, hundreds of portable shrines are carted around the area by packs of able bodied young people, gradually getting drunker. Moving one of these things takes a great deal of effort, even if you are being supported by about twenty other people. The endorphins are palpable, the rhythmic chanting joyous and exciting, the atmosphere utterly electric. For some reason, this year was much quieter than other occasions, but no less charged with a massive sense of community, something I greatly admire about Japan. This communal sensibility isn't extended to all by all of course. Brian overheard an elderly man grumbling that the name should be changed to Gaijin Matsuri.

Perhaps feeling this kind of inclusion in a sprawling metropolitan labyrinth like Tokyo is only for people who live there. At the same time as the overwhelmingly huge Sanja Matsuri, was a smaller but no less rambunctious festival in and around our local shrine, the small and simple Hiedaijinja.





The mood here is warmer, more intimate and familiar, helped no doubt by the presence of my students from several different schools. Stall holders exercise what English they possess, undoubtedly directed at us because we are almost certainly the only non-Japanese present. Local bigwigs have directed us to the centre of activity, asking us to enjoy ourselves, and even greeted us with genuine bonhomie.



As far as our long term plans go, this will be our last Oda Matsuri (although the festival season is just starting). Maybe what we'll miss most about Japan isn't the magnificent otherly architecture, interesting culture or sense of adventure, but the fact that this quiet little nook of a huge alien industrial city has been shaped into a home.

京都へ行った

Yes indeedy, nearly a month ago, we went to Kyoto. Our thanks go to the magnificent Japan Rail Network, for the ludicrously inexpensive seishun ju hachi kippu.


Pictured is one of the myriad corridors of torii in Fushimi Inari, amongst Kyoto's most famous shrines (apparently featured in the film Memoirs of a Geisha.)


Written on the torii are names of individuals or businesses who have donated money to the shrine...our saintly landlord being one of them. A day or two before we left, he charged us with finding his torii...since there are quite literally thousands, he drew us a little map, and even wrote us a note which we were to give to a certain store owner, who would be sure to guide us...

...of course, the night before we left, we joined Brian & Kaori for their housewarming party...thusly, alcohol was consumed, bed was entered at an irresponsible time, and exited at a risky hour. We forgot both the map and the note. No matter, thought we, we can find the right torii...and we tried...

...did we find it?





No.



The rest of Kyoto was, of course, lovely, despite bursts of rain & cheap hostels (free dead cockroach with your duvet).

As mentioned earlier, we have also been graced with the prescence of my mother.

Cheers mum.

I can feel my English deteriorating exponentially to the improvement of my Japanese. Recently, I have been a man possessed when it comes to studying. This is partially why I haven't been blogging a lot of late. However, assuming after such a lengthy period of slack I still have readers left, (and to quote Dave) this blog isn't dead...not by a long shot...

Belated Birthday Blogging

There's us with that stalwart of Japanese animation, the giant robot, this character appearing in the film Laputa by Hayao Miyazaki, perhaps the most famous animator in Japan. Studio Ghibli, which he founded, was responsible for 2001's magnificent 千と千尋の神隠し, Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi (released in the West as "Spirited Away") amongst other notable releases.

We've long been admirers of his work, so for Hayley's birthday, we went to the Ghibli Art Museum, well worth the thousand yen price.

...and now we're on holiday...in fact we're going to Kyoto on monday...watch this space...

Hakone

During the Tokugawa Shogunate (1603-1868) this town was an important stop off on the old Tokaido, the route which connected Kyoto to the new capital of Edo, now Tokyo.


At the base of Kamisan (God Mountain) lies lake Ashi, pretty much the centre of our long awaited break.


However, a surprisingly constant companion was the notoriously elusive Mount Fuji.


I still find it astounding that such a prominent mountain can be so difficult to spot. Our excursion last autumn to the Five Lakes region, at the very base of Fuji, gave us only this vague glimpse.


Fuji cheered us home on the way back to Kawasaki, its' unmistakable silhouette standing out against the orange sunset like a massive mound of mashed potato.

This trip was all about relaxing, which we did in style at the Fuji-Hakone Guest House, truly worthy of the plug. After the madness of commuting on a friday night from Kawasaki, we stepped off the bus into the mountains, fresh air and utter silence. Within an hour, we were in a rotenburo, unconcerned about the rain beause of the geothermally heated water. One drawback of bathing in volcanic springs is that you will reek of sulphur for days to come.

Hakone also, surprisingly, contained a museum dedicated to the novel Le Petit Prince.



The story being a memory from childhood, it was great to find this place, but one wonders what the hell a museum devoted to one book by a Frenchman is doing in a mountain town in Japan.

Japan in one day.

In recent months, both Hayley and I have experienced a profound disillusionment with Japan. Perhaps it's a symptom of homesickness, or maybe a comedown from the initial shock and thrill of being here. We have started making (elaborate) plans for a grand exit, but neither of us wants to leave Japan with such a nasty taste in our mouths. We've concluded that in order to depart in a good mood, we have to spend the rest of our time here behaving like tourists. I present you the extravaganza of saturday...

We woke up at the masochistic time of five in the morning, in order to visit the biggest fish market in the world at Tsukiji.









Breakfast was absurdly fresh sashimi from this place. Yum.

Tsukiji is also notable for Tsukiji Hongan-ji, a remarkably Indian looking Buddhist temple, reminding one of the religions' roots.


We found this to be a friendlier temple by far than others we've encountered in more touristy spots. Signs above pamphlets, declaring "It is free" or inviting visitors to look at the "beautiful golden altar" melt all but the iciest of hearts.


Also in the vicinity is the Hama Rikyu Teien, an ornamental garden, originally used as a duck hunting ground, now home to some very fat, un-hunted ducks.




All very lovely, but I prefer my parks a bit more rugged.

Our last stop, before collapsing in an exhausted heap, was Ginza, just up the road from the Imperial Palace, and one of the first places in Tokyo to Westernise. Ginza is certainly striking, but it's not one of my favourite places, mostly because of a certain snob factor. Ginza is the place to be seen. A former private student was what I dubbed a Ginza Granny - a moderately wealthy woman who likes nothing better than to put on her finest clothes and walk through Ginza, just to be associated with the place. For the dirtier visitor, like myself, there is little to keep one occupied, unless you relish the idea of buying a box of chocolates that costs the same as a CD.

Ginza is however, home to the SONY Showroom, exhibiting the very latest in life-devouring gadgets and toys, most notable of which were video cameras of a hyper-reality-dream-like brilliance, and a demo of the upcoming (and erroneously titled) Final Fantasy 13, which would have most definitely stopped me from graduating had it been released back then...the showroom was, sadly, bereft of robot dogs.

Also present was the latest offering from Nissan...


...apparently friendlier to the environment than your average fuel guzzler...but I didn't have a clue what the accompanying placard was talking about.

...all that done, we staggered home and watched a silly film. In the face of our recent gripes with this infuriating country, behaving like tourists had us enjoying and discovering things for the first time in a long time...expect more entries like this dotted about over the coming year.