Let’s Go to Space, Brother!

Posted on 31/07/2014 by Luke

In 1994, Rokuon-ji Temple was designated as a World Cultural Heritage Site. The Golden Pavilion is adorned with gold foil on lacquer, making it a spectacular and breathtaking structure. Gleaming brightly in gold, it peacefully rests on an island in the middle of a lake, encircled by stunning Zen gardens. Even the vending machines here offer disposable cameras, beckoning visitors to capture the Golden Pavilion’s magnificence.

The entry fee is just ¥400, and the ticket, crafted from beautiful paper and adorned with expert calligraphy, adds to the experience. The path meanders through the belfry, past the abbot’s chamber, the pond, the Golden Pavilion, Galaxy Spring, and the Sekka-tei Tea House, all while being enveloped by the mysterious mountains in the background. It’s a wonderful route that takes me about twenty minutes at an unhurried pace. Along the way, small wooden shacks selling souvenirs entice tourists.

After visiting Rokuon-ji Temple, I catch a bus to Kyoto Station. From there, I walk back to Kawaramachi Station, passing by Kyoto Tower on the way, although I opt not to go inside. I’ve had my fill of 360-degree panoramic views this month; it’s enough to last me a lifetime.

As I walk away from Kyoto Tower, I notice some signs. One warns that bicycles parked on Kyoto’s streets will be removed, with a ¥2300 fine upon retrieval. Another indicates that Kyoto is a ‘no smoking’ city, imposing a ¥1000 fine on anyone caught smoking on the streets. A third sign highlights a ¥30,000 fine for littering. I appreciate Kyoto for these regulations, although the frequency of enforcing these fines remains uncertain. At times, it feels as if Japan exists within a vast panopticon.

I see a sign saying, ‘Now, Life is Living You.’ Beyond the sign lies the entrance to yet another temple: Higashi Honganji Temple. I cross over a moat of water filled with lily pads and approach this marvel. The temple also features a cleansing basin adorned with a water-breathing dragon—seems to be a common sight in Kyoto.

The Goeido Hall stands as the second-largest wooden structure in Kyoto and ranks amongst the world’s largest wooden buildings. Its garden is recognised as a site of National Scenic Beauty. The temple follows the Shinran sect of Buddhism. In 1532, a Nichiren Buddhism sect felt that the Shinran sect was gaining too much influence, leading to the burning down of the temple.

As I continue my walk toward Downtown Kyoto, I recall seeing a sign on the train yesterday, advertising an art exhibition at the Museum of Kyoto. Conveniently, the museum is just a ten-minute walk from my hostel. On the way, I pass by a shop called ‘Eggs and Things,’ where a queue of at least thirty women stands outside, enduring the 33°C Kyoto heat, boiling, much like the eggs. I walk up four seemingly random steps, cross a road, and then descend another set of four random steps. Amidst this confusion, a perplexing sign catches my eye.

At the Museum of Kyoto, I attend the opening of the ‘Space Brothers’ exhibition, which will run from today until September 23rd. Men from the Koyama Astronomical Observatory are currently giving a one-off presentation. The presentation is entirely in Japanese, with a man talking and pointing at a projector with a red laser pen. Television crews are also present, with five large cameras and two microphones on sticks, capturing every image and every word.

Space Brothers is a Japanese manga narrating the tale of two brothers aspiring to become astronauts. This exhibition marks the first large-scale showcase of the author Chuya Koyama’s work. It features over two hundred pieces of original illustrations. Alongside the artwork, there’s a collection of replicas of space uniforms and models of rockets, all loaned from the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency (JAXA).

There’s an audio guide in Japanese narrated by two voice actors from the anime series. Spread across two floors, the exhibition showcases videos of the moon landing, real satellites displayed in glass boxes, model rockets, a dedicated section about Apo the dog, and genuine meteorites. All this is available for the ticket price of ¥1000. Even the museum restaurant offers a space-themed menu. Additionally, Pocari Sweat has a stand here where you can write a message to be sent to the moon during their upcoming interstellar flight next year.

As I make my way through the gift shop, I find myself tempted to purchase something. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but this is space stuff. At a price of ¥1296, I buy ‘Space Bread’ and ‘Space Ice Cream’—foods that astronauts actually consume during missions to space or while floating about on the International Space Station. ‘In space, no one can hear you ice scream.’

I take my space snacks back to the hostel. The ice cream feels as light as polystyrene but surprisingly tastes delightful. It’s akin to chomping on soft vanilla ice cream-flavoured chalk that turns to powder with each bite. The texture is peculiar, yet it somehow retains the taste of ice cream. On the other hand, the bread tastes rather plain, like ordinary bread. Surprisingly, it still manages to maintain a fresh taste.

I sit on the roof terrace with my book for a while until suddenly, sirens begin wailing all around—loads of them. Three fire engines, a police car, and an ambulance rush to a building on the same block as the hostel. The 20-storey building appears to have a fire on the twentieth floor. Firefighters swiftly ascend to the roof, and one courageous fireman descends from a rope, abseiling onto the balcony below.

Twenty minutes later, the fire is extinguished, the sirens cease, and the vehicles depart. I linger on the roof a little while longer, engrossed in my book, ‘Dance Dance Dance.’ In the distance, the sky echoes with the rumbling of thunder, seemingly serving as an early warning for the impending rain. The precise moment the thunder halts, raindrops begin to fall. Deciding to set aside my book as I’m getting soaked, I grab a hostel umbrella and make my way for some food. Taking refuge in the arcade, I escape from the rain’s downpour. Through the speakers, a saxophone cover of ‘Yesterday’ by the Beatles fills the space.

I opt for Earth food: Kyoto-style Okonomiyaki. Often likened to a pancake or referred to as a Japanese-style pizza, Okonomiyaki is distinct from both. It’s made of batter, cabbage, Okonomiyaki sauce, and shavings of smoked bonito. To complete the dish, small flakes of aonori, a dried seaweed, are sprinkled over the top.

My table features a section in the middle with an iron griddle where the cooked ‘pizza’ is promptly placed. Due to the heat, the fish shavings seem to come alive, moving around on the dish. I squeeze some mayonnaise over the top. While the food tastes good, I’m not particularly fond of the sauce. Nonetheless, the rest of the meal is fantastic. I decide to add a sprinkle of chili powder to give it an extra kick.

Some places serve Okonomiyaki with raw ingredients, allowing you to cook it yourself. It’s a ‘what you like’ dish, where you can request any topping or filling you desire. Not wanting to navigate the ordering process in Japanese, I simply pointed at the word ‘vegetarian’ on the menu. The meal, along with a glass of whisky, totals ¥1010.

I head back to the hostel and, as usual, wrap up the night at the bar.

Prelude to a Quiche

Posted on 30/07/2014 by Luke

The Kaleidoscope Museum is a unique establishment with a fascinating twist. It proudly exhibits fifty distinct kaleidoscopes, chosen from an expanding collection of approximately 150 pieces. Among these are exceptionally valuable kaleidoscopes crafted by renowned artists from various corners of the world. I discovered that the term ‘kaleidoscope’ originates from Greek roots: ‘kalos‘ meaning ‘beautiful’, ‘eidos‘ meaning ‘form’, and ‘scopes‘ meaning ‘to look at’—a beautiful amalgamation that translates to ‘to look at beautiful forms’.

At the museum, visitors can freely pick up and use kaleidoscopes, ranging from finely crafted ones to those ingeniously made from plastic drink bottles. Among the assortment, my favourite piece doubles as a music box, serenading me with a tune while the images twirl before my eyes. Additionally, there’s a quaint shop within the premises offering kaleidoscopes, kits, and keychains. It’s a fantastic way to kick-start the day. Unfortunately, photography isn’t permitted, and I find myself constantly shadowed by a staff member. However, I manage to sneak a photograph of the inside of a kaleidoscope when she isn’t looking.

After leaving the museum, I walk for fifteen minutes, crossing the river to reach Yoboji Temple. I feel it’s only fair that my first temple is a Nichiren Buddhist one—the school of Buddhism I am familiar with. The Temple was built in 1548. It’s actually a rebuilding of two temples that previously occupied the area but had been burnt to the ground two years before.

In 1536, the warrior-monks of Mount Hiei attacked the city, burning down all 21 of the Nichiren Buddhist head temples in Kyoto, along with the entire southern half of the city and a substantial portion of the northern half. This event is known as the Tenmon Persecution. The temple itself is rather quaint.

Not far from Yoboji Temple, I stumble upon a Paper and Printing Item Shop. The gallery is tiny, and a woman sits at the desk, watching my every move. I’m tempted to pull out my camera and capture a photograph of one of the ornamental fans or origami animals, but to avoid any hassle, I decide against it.

I choose to visit a shrine next. The road I stroll along is lined with various temples, shrines, plenty of walking routes, maps, and bus stops. You can literally shrine-hop by taking the bus if you’re feeling lazy. However, I prefer to walk, and I’m not inclined to see more than one temple and shrine a day. It can be a bit overwhelming to take in too much at once. I ascend about fifty concrete steps to reach Awata-jinga Shrine. Before entering, I participate in the purification ritual.

This tradition of cleansing is observed before entering a sacred space. The basin here features a water-breathing dragon, which also serves as the source of water for the ritual. I must admit, this is one of the most exquisite purification basins I’ve encountered at a Shinto shrine. I start by washing my left hand, then my right hand, and finally, my mouth.

Awata-jinga Shrine dates back to 794 AD and specialises in preventing illness. However, inside the shrine, someone is noisily using an electric saw, which disrupts the serenity of the moment for me. Nevertheless, the shrine itself is visually stunning. I descend the fifty or so steps and continue along a road lined with traditional Japanese-style houses.

Downtown Kyoto bustles with tourists, drawn here to explore the shrines, temples, museums, galleries, restaurants, and the renowned souvenir shops the city offers. I spot three cat cafes and a lone dog cafe among the bustling streets. Purchasing a can of cold coffee from a vending machine, I encounter one of those machines that promises a prize if it lands on triple sevens. Miraculously, it does! I win any drink of my choice, and naturally, I opt for a second can of Coffee Boss Rainbow Blend.

It’s mid-afternoon, and feeling a bit peckish, I opt for a light bite to eat. Given the scorching 35°C temperature, I choose to stay in the cool shade of the shopping arcade. A sign catches my eye, indicating a vegan and organic cafe nearby. As I step inside, I’m greeted with a chorus of “Hello” from the other patrons. Taking a seat, I order a set meal featuring a vegan quiche.

My food promptly arrives—a serving of vegan quiche, accompanied by a delightful salad dressed in a delicious vinaigrette, a ramekin of squash, chickpeas, and peppers. Alongside it comes a bowl of leek, cabbage, and mushroom soup, complemented by glasses of cold water and cold green tea. The entire meal comes to ¥918. If I weren’t already full, I’d happily indulge in another slice of quiche—it was that delicious.

Outside the cafe, a guy on a bicycle whizzes past, blaring an air horn from the spot where a bell would typically be. The shopping arcade strictly prohibits vehicles, including bicycles. A bit further along, I encounter a television crew filming people and asking them why they enjoy eating crêpes. While tempted to participate, I realise I’m not particularly fond of eating crêpes.

Back at the hostel, I settle on the roof with a can of Suntory whisky highball, delving into my fifth Haruki Murakami novel since arriving here sixty-two days ago. The air has cooled, and the refreshing breeze is a welcome relief. Japan has been grappling with a severe heatwave for the past week, and it seems it will persist right through until the weekend.

I read until 8 p.m. before heading to a nearby music shop for a free gig. A stage has been set up next to the ukuleles. The band performing is a two-piece folk band. Their sound is somewhat average. Nonetheless, it’s pleasant to experience some live music, even though the venue is rather unusual.

“My night winds down at the hostel bar, talking to random people with their random ideas.

Cicadas of the Lost Park

Posted on 29/07/2014 by Luke

Today, I wake up at 8 a.m. I go outside and take a short wander. It seems that Kyoto is still sleeping. I return to the hostel to steal a few more hours for myself. By 11 a.m., Kyoto still seems to be asleep; shops are closed, and nothing much is happening. I decide to do some sightseeing. I am fortunate to be staying in Downtown Kyoto; many places are within walking distance, which is very convenient as I am tired of trains. I walk from the hostel in a straight line along the same road for ten minutes, eventually arriving at Kyoto Imperial Palace Park.

The gardens here are quite impressive, featuring Omiya Palace, Sento Palace, multiple shrines, a peach grove, and, of course, the Kyoto Imperial Palace. The peach grove is odd; the peaches are within arm’s reach, so I could steal a few if I wanted to, but I don’t. The most appealing shrine is the Isukushima Shrine; it sits quietly over a lake.

There are signs in some areas of Kyoto Imperial Palace Park that say, “Not to be visited by tourists.” There are little to no other tourists here anyway; perhaps the signs have driven them all away. However, there are hordes of homeless people. Some paths are overgrown, others forgotten many years ago. I see one gardener delicately pollarding the branches of a tree. Just one gardener tending to a park 1.3 kilometres in length.

As for the Kyoto Imperial Palace, it lies behind a moat and a tall wall. The water in the moat has dried up, and the wall is too high to see the Palace beyond. Even if the wall weren’t there, it would be completely shrouded by trees anyway. I quite literally can’t see the Palace for the trees.

There is one thing I do like, and that’s the sound made by the cicadas. These little insects just love to sing, and the trees here are full of them. And there are a lot of trees; ten thousand trees in the Palace Park alone. The noise these insects make sounds alien to me, perhaps robotic, but calming. I spend a full hour wandering the park.

It is another hot day. Well over 30°C, as usual. A woman outside sprays water from a hosepipe around the path leading into her shop. I believe this is to keep the dust down. I cross the Kamo River; much like the Palace moat, it is dried up from the heat, the fish left behind for the birds. As I walk through the shopping arcade, I realise that there are loads of crêperies here; at least eight or nine shops selling pancakes. A sign in one of the pancake shops attempts to forecast the weather:

Back at the hostel, I sit opposite a guy as he flips through a Lonely Planet guidebook. “Where are you going today?” he asks, half for the sake of conversation, half for ideas of places to visit. He waits for me to list off all of the same places as everyone else, but I don’t.
“I’m going to a Kaleidoscope Museum,” I tell him proudly, and his expression fills with puzzlement. He desperately flicks through his guidebook, presumably the ‘Kyoto’ section, but to no avail.
“Hmmph,” he utters, suggesting that if it isn’t in his guidebook, then it doesn’t exist.

I walk halfway across the city, only to find that the Kaleidoscope Museum of Kyoto is closed on a Monday. “I’ll be back,” I say to the locked door with a shake of my head.

One thing I like about Kyoto is that on street corners, there are nice little plaques in English offering insightful history about the area—a nice touch. Feeling a little hungry, I decide to swing by a local cafe at the organic market. I pay ¥940 for a soybean croquette, a cheese croquette, and a beer. The food and drink aren’t particularly photogenic, so I skip taking a photograph.

While I’m here at Nishiki Market, I decide to sample some of the local foods. With over a hundred shops and restaurants, they sell seasonal foods and Kyoto specialties like Japanese sweets, pickles, dried seafood, and sushi. I buy three different traditional Japanese snacks and take them back to the hostel.

On the left, I have Gobo Tamari Zuke, or pickled burdock root; marinated in sugar and soy sauce. I wish I had bought this in Okayama to go with the dandelion. In the middle, there’s some sort of matcha snack. It’s basically Turkish Delight coated in a fine green tea-flavoured powder, instead of the usual icing sugar. On the right, there’s a Japanese traditional cake with soybeans, said to have been made for approximately 150 years using the same traditional manufacturing method. According to the packaging, ‘One piece of one piece is the cracker which I baked carefully.’ The cake costs ¥400 and is my favourite of the three.

After trying my snacks and finishing my book, I head out for dinner.

I spot a gyoza restaurant, a food I am yet to try in Japan. Gyoza is a type of Japanese dumpling, usually filled with meat. This restaurant has an English menu outside, stating that one of the fillings they offer is shrimp. I order the shrimp gyoza along with a beer and a side of spiced cucumber. The cucumber dish arrives whilst I wait for my dumplings; the spices provide a good balance to what would normally be a dull snack. Three pieces of shrimp gyoza show up, although I was expecting at least five. After I finish my first three, a plate of ten fried dumplings is placed in front of me.

As I bite into the first of ten, I realise it is pork. The staff doesn’t speak English, but I manage to convey the message. My plate of pork gyoza is taken away, and I’m told it will take eight minutes for the shrimp. While I wait, I order a second beer. Eventually, I am handed a set of shrimp gyoza, albeit only five pieces instead of ten. Apparently, shrimp is twice as expensive as pork.

As I eat, I mishandle my chopsticks. One of the dumplings falls and lands in the saucer of soy sauce; the sauce splashes up and hits me in my left eye. It stings, and I spend the rest of my meal with tears rolling down one side of my face. After finishing my meal, I offer to pay for the wasted pork gyoza, unsure if it was my mistake or theirs. Admittedly, the restaurant is rather cheap. We compromise, and I pay a total of ¥1570 for eight pieces of shrimp gyoza and two pints of Asahi Beer.

I head back to the hostel’s bar and notice a guy reading ‘Women’ by Charles Bukowski. I share that I’m not a fan of Bukowski, only to find out that the guy is from Surrey. I end up spending the rest of the evening in the bar, discussing literature and politics.

Grandiose Encounters of the Third Class

Posted on 28/07/2014 by Luke

I went without any Internet connection for a few days, so I couldn’t post anything. Here’s a summary of the last three days:

Friday – Fukuoka

Today, I met a German guy named Klaus. It’s his first day in Japan after spending a month in South Korea. He wants to stay here tomorrow night as well, but there are no available rooms in the hostel. I cancel my reservation for tomorrow night, and he takes my room. I wanted to start traveling early tomorrow anyway, as I have a fourteen-hour train journey to endure.

Klaus and I take a stroll around Hakata Station. I show him the sights, starting with the roof terrace. We then wander through the enormous indoor shopping complex, exploring various random gifts. I spot some excellent souvenir ideas. Later, we head for food—a classic dish of mixed vegetable and prawn tempura on rice, accompanied by a pint of Kirin Beer. Kirin isn’t my first choice for Japanese beer, but I don’t complain.

Afterward, we head over to Tenjin Station because Klaus is really keen on seeing the giant cardboard train. I don’t mind showing him around as I have nothing else planned in Fukuoka. Klaus is quite funny, and his English is good, so I don’t have to speak slowly or anything. We enter the building where I thought the cardboard train was, but we can’t seem to find it. Unfortunately, I deleted the photograph, so I can’t prove to him that it was real. He starts doubting its existence altogether, and I begin to question it myself, still feeling a bit off-kilter from yesterday. We hesitate to ask anyone else about the train because it might sound absurd. “Excuse me, miss, could you point us in the direction of the giant cardboard stream locomotive, please?”

After an hour of searching, we eventually find it in a completely different building from the one I had sworn it was in.

Next, we head to an izakaya by the river. It’s the first time I’ve visited an outdoor izakaya of this style. We choose the most welcoming one. “Please, you are welcome,” the owner says with an honest smile. This place serves skewers of meat and noodle soup. Klaus and I do what Germans and Britons do best: drink.

We meet a couple of Japanese people: two guys, one of whom had visited Berlin last year, so he and Klaus engage in conversation. Two girls, one of whom had spent six months studying English in Leeds, so she and I chat. As the night progresses, Klaus teaches me about South Korea, and I share my knowledge about Japan with him. We drink, joke, and before we know it, the night disappears.

Saturday – Okayama

I board my third and final train for the day at Shimionoseki Station, taking the JR Sanyo Line. The train is old, with uncomfortable seats, no toilet, and no vending machine. I wish I had more than one bottle of water. The train announcements are exclusively in Japanese. Am I even on the right train? How would I even know?

This ‘local’ train makes an astonishing 83 stops, taking a total of eight hours. Finally, at 9 p.m., I arrive in Okayama. I decided to break up my travel to Kyoto with a nice stopover in a pleasant-looking business hotel. I enjoy staying in a hotel once a month; it offers a refreshing change from the noise of a dormitory room. By using my Seishun 18 ticket, I save myself the ¥16,060 that the bullet train would have cost me. In exchange, I sacrifice 569 minutes of my life.

As I step off the train, the speakers are bellowing out the tune, ‘I’ve Been Working on the Railroad’. In fact, they play the tune every time a train pulls up here. You might go insane if you were a member of the station staff. Leaving the station, I realise just how exhausted I am from doing absolutely nothing but sitting on trains. It wears me out.

There is a really lovely fountain just outside the entrance. I believe it’s shaped to look like a dandelion.

One thing I notice immediately about Okayama is the maps—they are everywhere, massive, and in English. My hotel is on the same road as the station, about halfway between here and Okayama Castle. I grab a well-deserved can of Suntory whisky highball for the walk.

The main road through Okayama is wide, with trams drifting through the middle of the lanes. Neatly pollarded trees, lit up by lamps, line both sides of the pavement, adding to the city’s charm. Finding my hotel, I notice it’s slightly more upmarket than I’m used to. The room is of average size, with a laid-out yukata on the bed and all the usual hotel amenities. Unfortunately, my view isn’t of the castle but of the train station. Oddly, the hotel exists in a time before the World Wide Web and does not offer Internet access.

After settling into the hotel, I decide to take a walk. I head into the park, passing a group of people exercising to music from a stereo in the street. The park is pitch black, but I can vaguely make out a lake in the middle. In the distance, I see the castle, illuminated by bright green lights.

Similar to the park, the castle exterior is pitch black, earning it the nickname ‘Crow Castle’. After visiting the castle, I step out of the park and into the light. Following the neon signs, I navigate interlocking side streets filled with restaurants. People stand outside, attempting to usher customers into their establishments. As I walk around with an empty can of highball, a trick I discovered, I notice that nobody wants someone with an open can of drink in their restaurant. Consequently, I am almost completely ignored by the touts.

I decide to dine at a small family-run restaurant. Surprisingly, they have Basashi (raw horse meat) curry on the menu, alongside natto curry. Opting for a fish curry, I’m asked by the owner, ‘Medium heat, medium curry, okay?’ I request it to be hot. He brings out the familiar chart with the five chili symbols. His chart looks like this:

One: For children.
Two: Mild curry.
Three: Extremely hot!
Four: Daredevil!
Five:

Five is left blank, presumably because no one orders a five. I ask for a three. ‘Three!!!’ he exclaims. His response makes me start laughing. When my curry arrives, the smell is enticing, and the heat level is just right. It costs ¥1019, including a small can of Kirin Beer. It’s a good meal, albeit with a substandard beer.

Sunday – Kyoto

After traveling for four hours on trains, I finally arrive in Kyoto. I switch to the subway line headed to Kawaramachi Station, and surprisingly, the subway train happens to be the nicest I’ve ridden all week. Remembering my station name won’t be an issue either. During my month in Tokyo, my local station was Tawaramachi Station—here, just a letter’s difference. Leaving the station, I walk directly into a massive shopping arcade that sprawls out in every direction.

I pass by a huge market where everything is produced and sourced locally. There are numerous vegan and organic restaurants here as well—my kind of place. Additionally, within the arcade, there are random temples dotted about. Seishinin Temple is sandwiched between a small shop selling calligraphy on wooden blocks and a shop selling human caricatures.

It is only 2 p.m. and I have one hour before I can officially check-in. I find the hostel and fill out all the necessary paperwork and pay. The hostel offers to look after my bags for an hour. As I hand over my one bag, the staff member gives me a bewildered look. “That’s it?!” He asks me with surprise in his voice.
“Yep, that’s it,” I tell him.
“Not very heavy,” he says, struggling to grasp the concept of my luggage.
“I like to travel light,” I offer as an explanation. His expression retains a sense of disbelief.

I have an hour to kill, so I decide to find some lunch. I head to a small restaurant across the road that offers natural organic food. Like most restaurants here, it has an English menu, probably due to the sheer volume of tourists. They offer free wireless Internet, and Björk’s music is coming out of the speakers. I order a salmon, mushroom, and cheese omelette over rice, served with a big salad, along with a green tea latte. Although the food doesn’t look too pretty, it tastes and smells amazing. The meal costs ¥1944. No complaints here—good food, good music, free Internet.

Kyoto was formerly the imperial capital of Japan for over a thousand years. Now, it serves as the capital of Kyoto Prefecture. It’s often referred to as the ‘City of Ten Thousand Shrines.’ I’m not certain if it actually has ten thousand shrines, but it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if it did. I’ve counted eleven already today, and they were all within the indoor shopping arcade.

I return to the hostel to retrieve my room key. The hostel is modern, featuring five floors and a roof terrace. I decide to explore the public areas. The lounge is adorned with small wooden boxes housing growing plants, adding a touch of nature. A huge glass bay window floods the dining area with natural light. The outdoor roof terrace is neatly arranged, complete with beer and cup noodle vending machines. It seems someone in the hostel has organised a weekly late-night running group, with a clear emphasis on ‘going for a beer afterwards.’ I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy my one-week stay here.

The hostel also features a library, and unlike Fukuoka and Beppu, it has a lift. While I’m writing up my weekend, a Japanese guy who works here comes over and introduces himself. He seems quite a character and turns out to be one of the barmen at the hostel’s bar, which is located in the basement and stays open until midnight every evening. They also offer ¥400 beer on tap. Tonight, the hostel is hosting a monthly party, which is fantastic—another stroke of lucky timing. At the party, I discover that the other barman is my friend Shonosuke. I had no idea he was here. Brilliant!

Towering Above the Rest

Posted on 25/07/2014 by Luke

The day began with a ¥1000 haircut, which is actually quite cheap for a haircut. I was a little worried about communicating in Japanese, but the barber understood what I wanted and did a very good job. After finishing the haircut, he surprised me by vacuuming my head. I wasn’t expecting that!

With my nice new haircut, I decide to check out some boat racing. At the Kyotei Boat Racing Stadium, security is very tight. The entire perimeter of the 1,397-capacity atrium is littered with security guards. Today happens to be the 28th Ladies Championship Boat Race. I pay my ¥100 entry fee and take a seat on the steps outside that overlook the racecourse.

This is one of 24 boat racing stadiums in Japan, a sport that is unique to the country. As the race starts, I pull out my camera. Instantly, one of the security guards taps me on the shoulder. “No photography is allowed here,” he says. The above photograph of no race happening was the only one I could manage to steal.

The six boats complete three laps of the 1,800-metre-long course. The red boat, numbered five, gets bumped by another racer and ends up stalling. It reminds me a lot of greyhound racing. Strangely, there’s betting involved here too. Boat number one emerges as the winner. A 1-4-2 tricast yields ¥1590 from a ¥100 bet.

After the boat racing I swing by Fukuoka Yafuoku! Dome.

The dome serves as the official baseball stadium for the Fukuoka SoftBank Hawks. It holds the distinction of being Japan’s first stadium equipped with a retractable roof. With a capacity of 38,561 spectators, seat prices range from ¥1000 to ¥14,000. Baseball enjoys immense popularity in Japan, and based on the games I’ve caught on TV in bars, it seems the Hawks are a pretty good team.

Beyond the dome in the distance is Fukuoka Tower. I park my bicycle near the tower and take a closer look.

Fukuoka Tower kicks Beppu Tower to the dirt. Upon entering, I’m pleasantly surprised to learn that as a foreigner, I receive a twenty percent discount; I pay ¥640 in total. Stepping into the tower’s main area, I’m instructed to look up. Following the instruction, I gaze upward to see a 108-metre shaft above me.

“The lift takes seventy seconds. The tower is 234 metres tall. The viewing platform stands at 123 metres,” the attendant states mechanically. “The tower has been built to withstand magnitude 7 earthquakes.”

On the fifth floor of Fukuoka Tower, the view of Fukuoka City is wonderful. In the distance I can see Hakata Bay, in the opposite direction I can see the Sefuri Mountains.

I take the stairs down to the third floor, then ride the lift down. At night, the tower will be illuminated in ‘Milky Way’ colours—whatever that’s supposed to mean. The illuminations change for each season.

My next stop is in the building opposite the tower. On the second floor, I visit Robosquare. This is absolutely the place to be in Fukuoka if you like robots, want to learn about robots, or take part in robot workshops.

It is free to enter. Inside, there’s a robot museum and a little shop selling robots and other kits. Some robots are for playing, while others are for interacting through conversation. Sadly, I arrived twenty minutes late for the 2 p.m. performance. Me and my bad timing.

After Robosquare, I head five minutes to the Fukuoka Disaster Prevention Centre. It’s a facility that realistically simulates various disasters for visitors, serving as an excellent way to promote citizen safety in case of emergencies. Additionally, it houses a museum dedicated to firefighting and earthquakes.

Entry is again free, and so is the one-hour tour. During the tour, you can watch a video about safety before learning how to react in a number of simulations: handling strong winds, extinguishing fires, navigating through rooms filled with smoke, and escaping safely. There are doors simulating water pressure: a car door submerged underwater that visitors can try to push to test their ability to escape. Photographs depicting earthquake disasters adorn the walls. It all feels rather macabre.

Finally, there’s an earthquake simulator where you have the chance to hide under a table with a pillow on your head and experience the impact of a magnitude 7 earthquake on the Richter scale. Unfortunately, I arrive late for the tour and miss out on the simulations. I contemplate waiting for the next tour, but it won’t start for almost an hour.

I return to my bicycle, only to discover it’s about to be clamped. The security guard has already fastened seat clamps to other bicycles nearby and is currently inspecting the bicycle two from mine. Casually, I walk toward my bicycle, adrenaline pumping through my body, and swiftly unlock it as fast as I can.

I shoot off in the direction of Ohori Park. Me and my impeccable timing.

Ohori Park is lovely, offering cycling, jogging, and walking paths—all flat concrete, my favourite surface. Distances are marked along each path, making it an ideal spot for athletes to train. The route circles a vast lake at the park’s centre. I cycle the route several times before deciding to head back to the hostel for some food.

Down a random side street near Tenjin Station, something incredible happens—I spot the YouTube personality Micaela Braithwaite pleasantly strolling along. As we pass, I greet her with a rather coy “Hello.” She replies with a slightly hesitant “Hi.” I glance back for a second look, but she’s already gone.

The very reason these two weeks in Fukuoka even made it onto my itinerary is because of her. Before returning to Japan, I spent a fair amount of free time scouring through YouTube videos about the country. Micaela’s videos always towered above the rest. Based in Fukuoka, her captivating videos about the area were the reason I felt compelled to visit. Without her videos, Fukuoka would never have crossed my mind.

As I continue cycling, somewhat starstruck, I find myself unable to stop thinking about the day’s events. My mind conjures endless possibilities. If I had stayed for the disaster tour, I would have undoubtedly ended up with my bicycle clamped. The remainder of the day would’ve been miserable—I’d have had to explain it all to the hostel staff, pay a fine, waste the entire day sorting it out. It’s astonishing how two minutes made such a significant difference. Lost in these thoughts, I realise I’ve been cycling instinctively for ten minutes without noticing. I have no idea where I am or how I got here.

…

Back at the hostel, Ged shows up—an Englishman I met back in Beppu. He’s staying here tonight but leaving Japan tomorrow. He hands me his Seishun 18 Ticket, having used three of the five days on it. I offer to pay for the ticket, but he refuses my money. This ticket grants me unlimited travel for any two days on any Japan Rail local line. It’s amazing—I can essentially travel from Kyoto to Tokyo for free with this ticket. Thank you, Ged.

I head out for some food and a couple of Suntory whisky highballs at my favourite bar. Attempting to read my book, I feel a little troubled. I can’t shake off thoughts of the alternate version of me—standing there, trying to explain myself to the bicycle traffic warden. Nothing has felt real to me since that moment.

I leave the bar after only two drinks. Gazing at the sky, I see a star, for the first time in eight weeks.

Ainoshima Cat Island

Posted on 24/07/2014 by Luke

With muscles loosened after a wonderful massage, I decide to truly test my body. My destination today is Shima Ferry Port. “You’re cycling to Shima?” asks a confused staff member. “Please make sure the bike is back before 9 p.m., okay? It has to be back before nine.” The time is now 11 a.m., and I have no intention of taking ten hours on this excursion. Little do I know.

I cycle for an hour in the direction Google suggested before realising I have no idea where I am. I spend a good half-hour navigating around an industrial estate, reaching a dead end, then turning around to eventually get back on track. None of the road signs are in my language, and there’s nobody around to ask for directions.

Ninety minutes into my journey and I arrive at a beach.

The beach offers a welcome rest, prompting me to park my bicycle and go for a short stroll. I stumble upon the only map in Fukuoka Prefecture and compare it to my photographed route; everything matches up. There’s still a long way to go, but at least now I know where I am. Thank you, ‘Mishima Water Area Circumference Route Map’.

At the end of the beach is what appears to be a closed amusement park called ‘Motown’

I continue cycling until the beach ends and the houses begin. I start uphill, hoping it’s the right direction toward Shima. Eventually, I find myself atop a mountain. It doesn’t seem right. Up here, I discover a stunning, random shrine and some very old houses, but not much else.

I eventually reach the downhill part of this frustrating journey, only to encounter a dead end overlooking the ocean. I have to push my bicycle back up the incredibly steep mountain roads, and it’s exhausting. Today is scorching at 35°C, and I’ve already used up a full bottle of Sun Aqua by now.

At the top of the mountain, I spot a human being. I ask him in Japanese for directions to Shima. He responds in Japanese, and though I’m not entirely certain, I follow his directions. To my relief, I discover a small train station where one of the stops on the route is Shima.

I opt to follow the railway tracks, at times finding them disappear or being forced to detour due to a lack of pavement or road. After a challenging navigation, I finally spot a sign for Shima. I adhere to the instructions on the sign, and miraculously, after two hours and forty-five minutes of cycling, I arrive at Shingu Port.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not in Fukuoka anymore.” I pay ¥460 to a vending machine for a one-way ticket. After a forty-minute wait, the ferry finally arrives.

On the ferry, a television airs footage of a dirty factory in Shanghai. Staff members, their faces blurred out, are seen relabelling one-year-old rotten meat with new expiry dates. The screen shows a pile of processed meat spilling onto the floor while rats crawl below. The gloop is scooped up and pressed into another machine, which churns it into the shape of nuggets. I have no idea what this advertisement is for.

Ainoshima Island is just off the coast, a twenty-minute journey away. It boasts more cats than human inhabitants. In Japanese, the word for cat is ‘neko’, and its pronunciation rhymes with ‘echo’.

I arrive on the island to find a cluster of traditional old Japanese houses against a backdrop of mountainous terrain covered in deep forests. Despite its small size, the island takes a considerable amount of time to traverse completely. In the shade between each house, cats are scattered, peacefully asleep.

I wander around the island where the small Japanese houses provide little shade from the scorching summer sun. Today marks the hottest day of the year. I spot numerous cats, more than I care to photograph. Here are a few more:

There’s one cat that takes a shine to me. He follows me around the island as I walk, meowing or crying—I’m not sure which. I offer him some of my water, but he responds with ‘Nyaa nyaa’ (the typical cat noise here). Perhaps he’s just hungry. I assume tourists visit this island to come and feed the cats, but it’s merely a presumption.

I take the 4 p.m. ferry off the island. There are only three other people on the ferry and thirty-two empty seats. It seems like somewhat a waste of fuel, in my opinion. Sumo Wrestling is playing on the television.

There’s one last thing about Ainoshima Island not mentioned in any guidebooks: giant wasps that chase you. I managed to take a photograph of one that was idling, smaller in comparison to others. I’ll admit, though, most of my time on the island was spent either admiring the cats or running away from the wasps like a frightened rabbit.

As the ferry pulls away, Ainoshima Island becomes nothing more than a blur.

I leave Shima at twenty past four, sticking to main roads and following the signs for Fukuoka. As I depart, a bus marked Tenjin Station mocks me as it cruises by.

Canal City, a Wedding, a Japanese Massage

Posted on 23/07/2014 by Luke

Today is Marine Day, but nobody let me know. The purpose of this public holiday is to thank the ocean for all the fish. Stock markets are closed, as are some shops. The weather is nice, and everyone has taken a day off for a trip to the beach.

I spend two hours of my Marine Day celebrations cycling between closed post offices. I wonder why they are all closed? After finding the fourth post office open, I conclude my business and leave with great dissatisfaction. These three police officers on one-speed bicycles soon cheer me up as they chase after a fugitive.

My legs are starting to ache after days of excessive exercise. I’ve established an eight-kilometre cycling routine that I follow every morning and evening for the past four days. I’ve managed to trim it down to about forty minutes, which is good by my standards, considering I’m on a one-speed bike and often encounter crowds of pedestrians that slow me down.

I head to Hakata on foot. Outside Hakata Station a stage has been erected and god knows what is going on. People on stage finish up singing, “We are the Bridge.” The theme song for the Asian Pacific Children’s Convention; a non-profit organisation that ‘connects dreams around the world’. I recognise the song, but I am not sure how or where from.

I head to a place called Canal City. This place is huge. 234,460 metres squaredof shops, restaurants, a theatre, a Taito Station video game arcade, a cinema, two hotels, and an indoor canal running through the middle. The nickname for Canal City is, ‘the city within the city’, and it certainly lives up to its name.

There is also a water jet show. The water sprays up into the air from the fountains below. There is a mat of synthetic grass where children can get absolutely soaked as they dodge the water as it falls toward them. A woman stands with a huge water pistol, shooting at the children, a grin on her face.

If you look closely, in the window beyond the water, a bride and groom are getting married.

Back at the hostel, the manager asks me if I ever eat. I was asked this question yesterday by another member of staff. It turns out none of the staff here have ever seen me eating. I try to explain to them that ten years of working nights have reduced me to just eating one meal a day, but they don’t seem to understand.

I head to the Nakagawa River. On the way, I stop and talk to Alan, the busker. He is taking a break, sipping on his Royal Milk Tea. He is from England and became homeless eight years ago. Singing with a banjo, he managed to earn enough money for a one-way ticket to Australia. For the past eight years, he has spent six months at a time in various countries. The money he makes busking every day covers the costs of his accommodation and meals.

As I walk across the river, my calf muscles are hurting. I decide to have my first Japanese massage, a type called Shiatsu, which focuses on finger pressure. I opt for a 50-minute full-body massage, emphasising my neck, back, legs, and Achilles. Afterward, I indulge in a ten-minute head and eye massage. The massage, performed fully clothed, is amazing. It costs me ¥4470.

I don’t have any photographs from the massage, as I didn’t have my camera with me. Instead, lazily, here’s a photograph I took of televisions earlier today:

I leave the massage feeling great, but darkness has fallen on Fukuoka, and I don’t know where I am. I buy a bottle of green tea and walk for a while in the vague direction of Hakata Station before giving up and asking a young Japanese man which direction it is.

He says to me, ‘I am going to Hakata, come with me.’ I follow him until Japan turns into a Monty Python sketch. ‘Come along, come along,’ he tells me, ‘over here.’ I follow him for ten minutes; at each intersection, he checks to see that I am still following him. ‘This way, come on,’ he says, ‘nearly there now.’ We do indeed arrive at Hakata Station. I thank him, and we go our separate ways.

I haven’t eaten anything today, just water and green tea, and it’s 9 p.m. It’s been thirty hours without food, but I don’t feel hungry. I force down a Family Mart dinner before heading out to do my laundry.

As I open the dryer door, a voice inside greets me with, ‘Irasshaimase!’ I sit in the Coin Laundry, reading, and every now and then, I glance up to watch my clothes spinning. I’m only writing about my laundry experience because I found the orange sign above the dryer amusing. ‘Help!’ shouts the shirt, as if about to be gobbled up. After the drying cycle is finished, the machine cleverly switches to ‘Cool Down Mode.’ Five minutes later, my laundry is at room temperature—fascinating. The dryer door thanks me as it opens, ‘Arigatou gozaimasu.’

Back at the hostel, I strike up a conversation with an Italian girl. She left Italy without money or a job and used whatever she had to fly to South Korea. Swiftly, she found a job and established a new life for herself. As we talk, I mention Alan, the busker; his story seems to have some parallels. Surprisingly, she knows Alan—around four months ago, she met him in Seoul. ‘An Englishman with a banjo, right!’ she exclaims.

Many of the people I’ve met at this hostel are residing in South Korea and are currently here on a visa run. Their visas expire, prompting them to fly to Japan, stay for a day, then fly back out, earning another three-month tourist visa. Interestingly, as tourists, they legally trade work in hostels for free accommodation without exchanging money. This way, they can keep traveling indefinitely, and some have been doing just that.

A guy from Canada has a big carrier bag full of jet black volcanic ash. “A souvenir from Kagoshima,” he proudly tells me. It weighs a tonne.

Udon in (three-hundred and) Sixty Seconds

Posted on 22/07/2014 by Luke

With the sun directly above me, there’s nowhere to hide from the heat. I anticipated the scorching conditions; the seat on my bright yellow bicycle was already burning when I first set off. I had to pour a bottle of water over it to cool it down; the water began to boil on the pavement. The tarmac here blisters and broils.

As I head toward Tenjin, I realise I’ve inadvertently chosen to wear a bright yellow shirt. I must look rather peculiar: a foreigner on a yellow bike, clad in yellow. Fortunately, I find a nice cycle path with newly laid tarmac, and my destination seems to have chosen itself.

Inconsiderate pedestrians often walk on the cycle path, obstructing me without a care. I make a stop to let a taxi pass, as I usually do, and the driver nods in acknowledgement, as they typically do. Interestingly, here, even when the crossing light is on a pedestrian green, motorists can still turn left, but they must yield to pedestrians first. I’ve made it a habit to let taxis turn before me, especially when they have a passenger. I like to think I’m doing everyone a favour.

I cycle for what feels like an eternity until I reach a place called Ohahsi. Not much happening in Ohashi, so I spot a sign for Hakata Station and decide to head back. On my way, I come across a woman holding a sign that says, ‘Time Sale.’ I humorously decide to ‘buy’ five minutes. Additionally, I encounter an army of crossing guards—three people directing one vehicle. Absolutely insane.

Attempting to find some eccentric Japanese electronics to write about, I discover that everything seems rather ordinary. Instead, I end up in a music shop on the seventh floor of Hakata Station. I spend about ten minutes practicing the piano, drifting away as I try to recall how to play the only song I can fully remember: ‘To Zanarkand’ by Nobuo Uematsu. It eventually comes back to me, but it was mentally challenging. The thought crosses my mind that I might have forgotten how to play the guitar by now.

I spend a while restaurant window shopping, stopping to admire the models of plastic food. A sign outside a Chinese restaurant catches my eye.

Instead of dining in Hakata, I opt for Tenjin, thinking it would be a better choice. With tired legs, I decide to hop on a subway train for the first time in nearly a month. I’m surprised by how soft and springy the seats on the train are, probably because the bicycle seat is hard and uncomfortable.

I disembark at the last stop, Fukuoka Airport, realising I’ve taken the wrong train. Not to worry, it was just a two-stop ride, and I won’t be charged for my mistake. As everyone exits the train, I wait a moment while it’s cleaned, and then I board the same train heading back to Tenjin. Surprisingly, many others do the same, presumably having made the same mistake as me. One of the things I enjoy about subway trains here is that since the tracks are separate from the ticket gates, you can effectively ride the train all day, getting on and off as many times as you like. There’s not much purpose in doing so except to rectify errors.

Ultimately, I spend a full thirty minutes on the train, the same amount of time it would have taken me to walk. The fare for this brief trip amounts to ¥200.

In Tenjin Station, there is a train made out of cardboard. The detail incredible. The photograph doesn’t do the quality of this cardboard art justice though:

I explore the thirteen floors of the train station, the overwhelming feeling I experienced on my first day in Fukuoka now just a fleeting thought.

I leave the train station and make my way to an indoor shopping arcade near the much-loved Reisen Park. There, I spot an udon restaurant—a Japanese dish I’ve yet to try. I opt for a mix of healthy and slightly indulgent choices by ordering a big set meal of udon served with vegetable and seafood tempura, on rice.

After placing my order, I notice I’m not offered a towel, something I’ve grown accustomed to in Japan. Typically, when dining at a restaurant, you’re almost always handed an ‘o-shibori,’ a wet hand towel to clean your hands before eating. Surprisingly, I’m also not given any water, and I sit waiting, feeling quite thirsty.

The drink I order takes five minutes to arrive, the food takes six.

The food turns out to be a bit of a puzzle; I have to assemble it myself. I pour the jug of sauce onto the tempura and then crack the egg on top, just for good measure. As I start sprinkling sesame seeds over the lightly battered vegetables and seafood, a Japanese man eating nearby tells me to stop.

He lifts the tray of sesame and wasabi to reveal a dip hidden underneath. ‘This,’ he points out, ‘is for udon.’ I express my gratitude for his guidance. Hopefully, I managed the tempura correctly. Once I finish my cold tempura served on warm rice, I move on to the ice-cold udon. Interestingly, the dip meant for the udon is warm, making everything seem quite backwards.

I find these thick wheat flour noodles a bit dull. I dip them, slurping and chewing at the seemingly endless strands. As I eat, my reflection stares back at me from the sauce. Hoping for a change, I mix some wasabi into the dipping sauce for a kick, but it doesn’t seem to make much difference to the dullness.

The food didn’t quite meet the usual standards I’ve come to expect in Japan. Perhaps my expectations were too high. The total cost of ¥1060, including a drink, offers good value for what was an average meal.

As I step outside the shopping arcade, the evening has settled in, casting a dark, starless sky. Walking along the river, I’m surrounded by crowds and vibrant bars. I pause to admire the numerous izakayas lining the riverbanks, each offering its own specialty food. It seems like an ideal place to unwind after a hectic workday or a leisurely Sunday afternoon spent in the sun.

Returning to Hakata Station to retrieve my bicycle, I encounter the same busker for the third consecutive day, stationed along my familiar path. Today, we exchange pleasantries. Judging by his accent, he’s a fellow Englishman. Our interaction has been evolving: yesterday, we greeted each other with a ‘hello,’ and the day before, it was a mere nod.

Back at the hostel, I make new friends. An Australian guy tells me that he went for a walk on the beach today and the sand was so hot that it burnt the soles of his feet. Blisters and broils.

Bike to the Fuchsia

Posted on 19/07/2014 by Luke

A cloudy yet hot day, with a cool breeze—a perfect setting for cycling. Today, I’m filled with motivation. My first stop is a small park along the way to yesterday’s failed destination, Dazaifu.

Inside this lovely park, three old ladies play bowls on a synthetic lawn while beautiful fuchsias wave in the wind near a natural stream. Japan currently recognises almost 110 species of fuchsia. These particular flowers boast the classic blend of purple and red hues.

As I arrive at Dazaifu around 3 p.m., the first thing catching my eye is a hill crowned with ruins. Parking my bicycle, I decide to climb it. From the hilltop, I’m greeted with a view of traditional Japanese houses in the distance. At the bottom of the hill lies Gakugyouin Temple.

I cycle around, admiring the greenery and scenery. In Tokyo, the greenery was often overshadowed by the buildings, but here, the mountains seem adorned with temples. A swarm of dragonflies gracefully drifts above an open allotment. This place exudes tranquillity, likely absent from any guidebooks. This is precisely the Japan I’ve yearned for since my arrival—a serene experience I hadn’t yet encountered.

Kanzeon-ji is a seventh-century temple, once the chief Buddhist temple in Kyushu. It houses a multitude of historical, artistic, and religious treasures. Beside it lies the ruins of the once-marvellous seven-story high pagoda.

Dazaifu is starting to remind me a lot of Kyoto. In eight days, I’ll be heading to Kyoto for one week. Then, I have two weeks without plans before I head back to Tokyo. The thought has crossed my mind to cycle back to Tokyo from Kyoto, stopping off at interesting places along the way. The two cities are only 367 kilometres apart.

The sign next to the temple mentions that the pagoda was restored in 741 A.D. at a scale of 1/10. Conveniently, that’s available to see outside the Dazaifu City Fureai Cultural Hall. That’s my next stop.

I enter the cultural hall, and the woman at the desk seems startled by my presence. Politely, I ask if I can look around, and she agrees—it’s also free. Inside, there are various objects encased in glass, mostly old roof tiles. After a brief tour of the building, I take my leave.

Next, I cycle to Komyoten-ji Garden to see the Government Ruins—the remnants of the medieval Dazaifu Administrative Buildings. They rest within a vast public park at the foot of Mount Ono. As I arrive, I notice some boys playing football, using jumpers for goalposts. The goalkeeper rushes forward, expertly dribbling the ball past six players before scoring an excellent goal. Applause erupts from everyone watching.

All the children in Dazaifu say ‘Hello’ to me. Surprisingly, there’s a distinct lack of tourists for such a historic place. Maybe I’m the first Westerner they’ve ever seen. With a wry smile, I reply to them, ‘Konnichiwa.’

As I cycle by, insects chirp loudly near one of the men employed to direct traffic. However, there’s no traffic on this road; I don’t sense a car has come this way for hours. He smiles warmly at me, signalling with a wave of his hand and a deep nod for me to continue.

As I pass Kaidan-in Temple, I see a sign for an Exhibition Hall. Carnival Cutouts wait for me outside. Inside, there’s no one present—no tourists, no staff members, no one to take my money. It’s just more objects enclosed in glass. A sign prohibits photography, but I snap a cheeky shot; no one will ever know.

My final stop in Dazaifu is the Kyushu National Museum, seemingly tucked away in the woods. I leave my bike; I really should lock it up, but I don’t bother. There are more temples around here too.

A sign simply saying ‘Museum’ points up a mountain path. I follow the path for a good ten minutes before encountering a new sign, indicating that the museum is 2.1 kilometres away. Quite odd. I retrace my steps to my bicycle and head off in the new direction.

I cycle up into the mountain and reach the museum car park; a sign indicates ‘last entry 4:30 p.m., exhibitions open until five.’ Glancing at my watch, it reads 4:28 p.m. Swiftly, I park my bicycle in one of the bays intended for cars and start running up the many steps to the museum.

A man with a red lightsaber appears out of nowhere. He insists that I must cycle all the way to the top and park my bike in the designated parking area. I protest, saying, “But the museum closes in two minutes, and I came all the way from Hakata!”

He makes a phone call and speaks in Japanese for a few minutes. Afterward, he tells me they can still let me in. Lucky me. As I make the final approach to the Kyushu National Museum, its sheer size almost knocks me off my bike.

Opened in 2005, it stands as the first new National Museum to open in Japan in over 108 years. It’s also the first to emphasise history over art and boasts an on-site conservation centre, the largest in Kyushu. The museum primarily focuses on prehistory to the Meiji era.

Once inside, I ride the escalator to the 4th floor and pay a ¥420 entry fee. The rooms are impeccably clean; the glass seems polished on the hour. The museum is enormous. Separate rooms display various collections of historic artwork or fossilised ruins. Photography isn’t allowed here—not even an opportunity for a quick shot; two staff members stand guard in every section. With just twenty-five minutes to look around, I leave dead on closing time.

After the museum, I cycle 18.2 kilometres back to the hostel. It takes me an hour, stopping once for a bottle of Pocari Sweat, and a second time to photograph this building:

At the hostel, I realise that I’m starving. I decide to keep my stomach empty and write up some of the day’s events. At 8 p.m., I head back outside and run on my empty stomach, finding the red lights of traffic intersections providing nice little rest stops from time to time.

I run for almost fifty minutes, passing packed restaurants offering any choice of cuisine imaginable. Even though it’s been twenty-three hours since I had any food, nothing really draws me in; my appetite is oddly missing.

I see a random square:

As I run, I notice some red lights in the sky that resemble a tower. Intrigued, I head in that direction. As I get closer, I spot planes floating by in the distance. A sinking feeling hits me; I might have circled back to Fukuoka Airport, recognising the tower used for Air Traffic Control. Oddly, I didn’t see any signs indicating the airport, though.

To my relief, my assumptions were false. I arrive at Hakata Pier, realising that the tower I saw was Hakata Port Tower. Calculating the distance, I note I ran for 5.7 kilometres to get here. Earlier today, I cycled at least forty kilometres. It’s surprising—I’ve never had so much energy.

Fishermen line up along the pier, and finally, my appetite for food returns, specifically for fish. However, the only fish I find here are sandwiched between glass in another small, free aquarium. I scout out the area and stumble upon another temple—I seem to have come across quite a few of these today.

The pier looks picturesque at night, adorned with its myriad of lights. Entering the food court, I find that the only place with any appeal is a French restaurant. However, as I approach, the lights suddenly go out. Closed at nine o’clock sharp.

I head back to Hakata and unexpectedly stumble upon the all too familiar Reisen Park. Spotting other runners doing laps around the park, I decide to join them for a while. When I finally locate the camera shop, I get my bearings.

The area around the park is bustling at night, with outdoor izakayas lining the streets. The enticing aroma of barbecued meats fills the air. I’m rather fond of the monument in the park, so I try to take a photograph, but unfortunately, it doesn’t turn out so well. Quickly, I make my way back to Hakata Station.

I undo all the hard work of the day and opt for McDonald’s. It feels like I’m a death-row inmate having his last meal, as I’ve decided this will be my final indulgence in junk food for a while. It costs me ¥986, effectively for fish and chips.

As I walk back from the station to the hostel, it unexpectedly starts to rain—for a grand total of exactly five seconds. Umbrellas shoot up, and just as quickly, they come down. Since I don’t usually carry an umbrella on hot days, I get ever so slightly wet.

Back at the hostel, I find I still have an abundance of energy. It’s been a remarkably productive day. I spend a few more hours writing, followed by some reading. Then, I head to bed—stone cold sober.

Rice and Shime

Posted on 18/07/2014 by Luke

I wake up at 11 am. Today, I’m heading to a place called Dazaifu, roughly fifteen kilometres away. Cycling on my one-speed bike in a straight line towards it, it should take me about an hour. Last night, the girl I met suggested I visit there—a kind suggestion.

As I set out, I discover a Domino’s Pizza just five minutes away from the hostel on the same road. I haven’t had one since arriving here—fifty days in Japan, only four pizzas so far. Tomorrow, it’ll probably become five.

A bit further along the road, near the Mikasagawa River, the skyscrapers start to disappear, and the sight of rice growing underwater becomes commonplace. Paddy fields full of semi-aquatic rice—it’s a picturesque sight, deserving a photograph.

Amidst the distraction of the rice fields, I suddenly realise that I am completely lost. In typical Fukuoka fashion, I see no maps, and signs pointing to Dazaifu have ceased to appear. Eventually, after cycling for about an hour, I find myself somehow at the base of a mountain.

For about ten minutes, I cycle without seeing another pedestrian. Eventually, a sign for a place called Shime catches my eye. My brain pauses for a second before a pun crashes into my consciousness. I decide to head there if only to make use of the pun: Rice and Shime.

It turns out Shime is up a hill—likely the same mountain I spotted earlier. I haven’t done much uphill cycling since Beppu, so my knees aren’t quite prepared for it. The footpath leading into Shime is in a state of disarray. Eventually, the incline transforms into a decline, and I find myself in a free fall into Shime. The wind is refreshingly cool on what is otherwise an alarmingly hot day.

If you thought my post about Nishioita Station was exciting, wait until you hear about what Shime has to offer. Low-flying planes drift over and hang gracefully in the sky. At least I can follow the planes and track back to Fukuoka Airport; I know this isn’t far from Hakata, where I am staying.

I cycle around Shime, searching for anything of interest, but find nothing. Wikipedia confirmed it: ‘Although the town still has a railway station, the line is no longer used.’ Seems there’s no escaping Shime. Just as I decide to leave, I finally spot something noteworthy: a chicken wandering around in some mud.

“Koke-kokko,” says the chicken in Japanese.
“Cluck-cluck,” I correct in English.

As I leave Shime, I find myself on the urban expressway, where all of the signs point to unfamiliar place names. I give in and revert to my plan of following the planes, soon arriving at the not very well-signed Fukuoka Airport.

I see the same Chinook I saw yesterday, just landed. How very odd—I haven’t seen a Chinook in over fifteen years, and yet this week, I’ve seen the same one twice.

After cycling for a total of three hours, I arrive back at the hostel and indulge in a Seven Eleven lunch: a bottle of Pocari Sweat, a fruit salad, and, as usual, egg sandwiches.

After lunch, I do my laundry. In the Coin Laundry waiting area, there’s a rather odd set of photographs. I have no idea what they are showing. Alongside the images are some Japanese notices.

I translate the notices back at the hostel. They read, ‘To prevent theft: if you notice any suspicious individuals, please contact the barnyard alternating Hakata police station if it was a robbery.’ There are also references to a theft in February, and still images captured by the 24-hour CCTV camera showing the criminal’s face. Named and shamed in a Coin Laundry.

After doing laundry and spending some time on Skype, I head to Hakata Station. Instead of taking the lift, I monotonously explore each of the ten floors. Hakata Station is a massive shopping centre with all sorts of shops, including the biggest bookstore I have ever seen.

There’s a record shop selling rare Japanese versions of classic albums. Perhaps there’s a profit to be made in reselling, but I don’t have the patience for that. I check for ‘Com Lag,’ but it’s the only Radiohead album they don’t have. The record shop also dedicates three entire aisles to the music of everyone’s favourite J-pop idols, AKB48. Crazy.

On the roof of the train station, I sit for a few hours, finishing off 159 pages of a Murakami novel. Night quietly sweeps in. The view at night is okay, but devoid of any stars. I ponder for a moment, questioning reality.

The Murakami book somewhat inspires me to make some changes in my life, specifically to start running more often.

On the tenth floor of Hakata Station, a Spanish restaurant.

Paella and Rioja happen.

I jog back to the hostel, finding the late hours have already wrapped the city in silence, a stark contrast to the bustling streets earlier. Passing by the second Christmas tree I’ve seen since arriving in Japan, I can’t help but wonder why it’s there; it does seem a little early for such decorations.

The reflection of Lawson blue bounces off the glass beyond.

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Monthly Archives: July 2014