Journey to the Centre of the Buddha

Posted on 30/01/2015 by Luke

It has gotten very cold as of late, but today offers rare blue skies and a warm winter sun. Today might be the last day hot enough to do anything practical before spring, so I decide to make the most of it with a day trip out of Tokyo. My destination is a little over two hours away by train: the city of Kamakura.

Outside Kamakura Station, I am approached by a poorly dressed Japanese man speaking in English with an American accent. He is banging on about Buddhism, or something. When I mention that I have things to do, he looks a little disappointed before wandering off to talk to some new people just off the train.

I wander through the city, its streets lined with souvenir shops, gift shops, and stores selling various mementos. At this point, I realise I haven’t taken a single photograph in Kamakura, so I decide to walk up to the first temple I see.

Shu Genji Temple doesn’t exude much happiness. It was once the residence of Shijo Kingo, a renowned Nichiren Buddhist skilled in medicine. Following Nichiren’s death, Shijo Kingo attended the funeral but ultimately chose to end his own life to demonstrate his unwavering faith in the religion.

A little further from the temple, I spot a strange machine covered in stickers. The ‘Happy Capsule’ machine costs ¥100, and each capsule contains at least three prizes. I try to resist, but as if possessed by some demon from another world, I find that I have already inserted a coin.

My capsule contains a small glass fish statue with fried eggs randomly painted on each side, a colourful ankle bracelet with a small relic in the shape of an ice cream, and a teddy bear with the word ‘Love’ written on it. I also receive a ‘Lucky Sticker,’ which I am free to add to all the other lucky stickers that litter the machine. Noting the sign for ‘No Garbage,’ I take another look at my happy prizes and stand for a moment, enjoying the irony.

Eventually, I arrive at the place I came here to visit, Kotoku-in Temple. It is home to a giant Buddha, the same Buddha featured in Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘The Five Nations.

A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold,
The meaning of Kamakura?

I pay ¥200 to enter the grounds of the temple and stand for a while in awe. The Great Buddha of Kamakura was housed within a wooden temple three times. It was destroyed by strong winds twice but rebuilt on both occasions. Eventually, in 1498, it was destroyed for a third time by a tsunami and was never rebuilt. The Buddha survived and now sits outside in the cold of winter, patiently waiting for the seasons to change.

As I walk around the statue, I notice two windows located in its back. There is a sign in Japanese emphasising the importance of showing deep respect when walking around inside the Great Buddha. A man sits half asleep at a small booth, and a sign above displays a price of ¥20. For such a low price, I would be a fool not to enter. I squeeze my way into a small hole in Buddha’s side and take the steps up into his massive belly.

Inside the Great Buddha of Kamakura, the acoustics are fantastic. I speak softly to myself and find that my words are thrown around by the bronze interior, echoing off into infinity. However, a bit of graffiti inside slightly spoils the experience — a complete lack of reverence by some.

I exit the Buddha and leave the temple. On the way out, I spot a sign warning about a particular type of bird in the area that likes to steal food from tourists. I start heading back toward the train station, stopping off at a small food shop to enjoy a sweet potato croquette. All the while, I keep my eye out for the hungry birds. Unfortunately, the birds don’t materialise, which is a shame.

I decide to take a different route for variety, and eventually, I spot some steps that sweep up a mountain. Intrigued, I take a little detour to see where they might lead.

I find myself standing in front of Amanawa Shinmei Shrine. The place is deserted, seemingly untouched for years, presenting a stark contrast to the other places I have seen in Kamakura. This shrine, founded in 710 AD, is the oldest Shinto shrine in the city and is dedicated to Amaterasu, the goddess of the sun and the universe.

The view from the shrine is stunning, offering a different perspective of the area. In the distance, I see mountains, old houses, and multiple temples and shrines. From the top of the steps, I can also glimpse the sea. As I am about to leave, I spot a small path carved into the side of the mountain above, and with nobody else around, I decide to investigate.

As I climb, the path is relatively easy to follow, twisting around the mountain and becoming less obvious. I have to brush away cobwebs from my face as I follow the steep approach. With every step, I am careful not to lose my footing as the mud gets wetter and the path becomes steeper. After about five minutes of climbing, the overgrowth becomes too much, and I can’t continue. I stop and take a look around, taking in my surroundings, and realise that this was probably not a good idea.

I struggle to get back down, having to crawl a little to ease my way down from the path that has clearly not been used for years. I use my hands on the rocks as I work my way back to safety. I am slightly disappointed that I couldn’t find where it leads, perhaps to the sun goddess, or maybe just an escape route lost over time. There’s nothing for me to see, though, and eventually, I am back at the shrine, taking the steps back toward the main road.

I wander down deserted side streets that are full of old houses, some with massive gardens, others with disproportionately small ones.

Back at Kamakura Station, I get ready to endure another two hours sitting on trains. Day trips are fun but rather exhausting at the same time. It’s nice to escape, though, and see places that offer a difference. I think about climbing up that mountain path, feeling completely free for a short time—free from anything but my own eagerness to explore, or perhaps to escape altogether. I decide that my next day trip will be to a mountain of sorts, a place unlike those I have been discovering of late. Somewhere new and exciting, where I can rekindle my sense of adventure. A place flowing with natural beauty.

As I arrive back in Tokyo, a chill consumes the air. Above, thick clouds made of snow hover over the skyscrapers, lying in wait—almost ready to unleash their flakes of misery over the city.

Welcome to the Lunar Industries

Posted on 26/01/2015 by Luke

Another intrusive start to the day in Japan. The ground rattles like teeth on an icy morning, the skyscrapers singing a chorus of concrete scraping together, pulled apart in directions against their will. It’s another earthquake, the strongest one I’ve felt so far. Suddenly, everything stops. Just as I begin to drift away, hoping to return to whatever fleeting memory lingers in my dream-filled head, the shaking resumes. This time, it lasts only a few seconds, but it’s enough to shatter whatever it was in my imagination that I desperately sought to remember.

I head outside to grab a can of Boss Coffee before taking a seat on the steps leading up to my front door. A homeless man, who resides in a cardboard castle outside the entrance to my apartment, stirs in his sleep. He coughs and groans before looking around and noticing me, perhaps awakened by the early morning shaking of the earth. The man speaks broken English and asks me the usual stagnant questions. It turns out he was once in a famous rock band, a drummer. Aged sixty-five but looking perhaps twice that, I can’t help but feel a little sorry for him. Without knowing his circumstances, I decide it would be rude to judge him any further. I want to ask him why he keeps sleeping where I would normally park my bicycle, but I think my English words might be lost on him. He tells me something is happening on Sunday in the arcade that runs close to my house. With its worn-out shops and shutters, it might well be the first activity this area has seen for months.

After becoming fully awake, I can’t help but notice that the moon is still up. Although crescent, the moon’s light casts a shadow, revealing the clear roundness of its form, something I have never noticed before. I begin to wonder if I am still dreaming.

I cycle into Asakusa to find the streets littered with Australian tourists. It seems they have chosen to leave behind the glorious summer weather of their home country for the winter of Japan. Today is Australia Day, a celebration of the first British ships landing on Australian shores. I weave my bicycle between drunk people shouting and fighting on the street. I thought it was the English who didn’t know how to behave. Drunk before lunchtime, not even Mr. Sixty-Five-year-old homeless man can achieve that.

I head across the city for some exploring. Despite spending a lot of time in Asakusa, I’m continually surprised to discover new things every day. Today, I visit what was once a beautiful pond, now home to ghostly apparitions.

Ubagaike Pond is now enveloped in what looks like a construction site. The pond is completely dried up; only the old stone outline that makes up its shape remains. Many years ago, an old woman lived in a house close to the pond. She lived with her beautiful young daughter. The mother would send her daughter out into the streets to lure in gentlemen, hoping that they would spend the night in her daughter’s embrace. The unsuspecting gentlemen would join the daughter, and after lovemaking, when the pair were both sound asleep, the old woman would creep into the room. With a huge piece of stone, the mother would bash the man’s skull in before taking all of his possessions. This weapon was known then as a ‘stone pillow.’ One day, the old woman threw herself into the pond, an act that was out of character and has no bearing on the rest of the story. These days, at night, you can hear the quiet sobs of her daughter, or so the legend goes.

Back in the slums of Tokyo, I sit in my house, editing some writing that I have been working on, my mind rinsed clear by the haunting melody of Clint Mansell’s ‘Moon’ soundtrack. The drifting peace only lasts momentarily, though. At 5 p.m., the familiar sound of music penetrates my window. It seems that, despite the winter and occasional snowflake, ice cream is sold all year round in Japan.

“Aisukuriimu, Aisukuriimu, Aisukuriimayoou.” Typically, the song occupies the space in my head usually reserved for contemplation and creative thinking. Every evening in Japan, I sit suffering in silence, with the ice cream song playing over and over in my mind, like a broken merry-go-round.

I leave the house after an hour of silent anger toward frozen milk and cream, and cycle as usual in the direction of Asakusa. For no reason, I decide not to cycle through the red-light district (my usual route) but take a different path. It leads me to the sound of live reggae music and a smattering of distant applause seemingly from nowhere. I decide to leave my bicycle and head down a narrow side street to locate the source of the music.

Moments later, I arrive at a small outdoor festival. The grounds of the festival seem to combine a swing park and a school playground.

The festival is here to raise awareness for the area of Fukushima, devastated in 2011 by the Tohoku Earthquake and tsunami. The area continues to struggle, with people living without homes, families not receiving proper support from the government, and rice grown in the area seldom purchased. This festival is described as a ‘Nation’s rallying call for the Fukushima area,’ and in my opinion, it’s a worthy cause.

Inside the swing park, small stalls sell hot food. Inside the school playground, ice is being fashioned into a snow house. Children play within the igloo, while others pose before it for photographs. Reggae music continues to play from the stage, a song about everything being ‘fine fine fine.’ It warms my heart to see this. Something about today has contained a subtle misery — earthquakes and homeless people. A community rallying together to help those in desperate need. Certain people getting drunk without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the problems faced by others, lost to the oblivion of alcohol.

As I head back to the main road, my mind distracted by ice cream and lost in thoughts of others, I realise that I have completely forgotten where I left my bicycle.

After the Form

Posted on 24/01/2015 by Luke

Bang, bang-bang. Bang, bang-bang. Bang, bang-bang.

The repetitive yet timely sound of drumsticks hitting against stretched animal hide stirs me from peaceful dreams. Not one to miss out on an opportunity to write about whatever is parading by my house, emitting this loud but perfectly rhythmic noise, I decide that I will follow the source of the sound right after I wake up with a coffee.

I haven’t written for a while as I’ve been extremely busy researching and organising paperwork, the details of which will become apparent later in this post. But for now, drums. I head outside to find that whatever was causing the loud banging appears to move at astonishing speeds; either that, or I drink coffee a little too slowly. I jump on my bicycle and follow the distant echo of drums before eventually locating the source to a small shrine in Imado.

It seems that I have inadvertently started my day with a funeral. The five monks stand within the shrine grounds, chanting and maintaining a steady balance of drums. I head back home to pick up some paperwork before cycling over to Asakusa. Outside the train station, the same five monks pass me again. This is quite a walk from Imado, which adds confirmation to the pace of these speeding monks. I take a train over to Ueno Station. The usual random mascots are here, serving no clear purpose but to frighten me.

I change to the Yamanote Line and head to Shinagawa, a place I have only visited once before when I felt the need to stand inside the belly of a whale. This time, I am here to visit the Tokyo Immigration Information Centre. A note on their website claims that, ‘This is where all inquiries should first be made concerning immigration issues, wherever you are in Japan.’ Luckily for me, I am already in Tokyo; otherwise, this would have been quite the journey. Also, seeing as I am in need of information pertaining to immigration issues, it looks like I am heading to the right place; the so-called ‘centre of information.’

Much to my delight, as I leave the train, I find that a bus service regularly runs to the offices I am here to visit. Everything is running a little too smoothly.

I am greeted outside of the immigration office by hordes of people giving out paraphernalia advertising their respective companies or cults. A woman is spreading the joy of Christianity, a man hands me a document offering ‘Legal Support for Aliens,’ and another man is holding a sign demanding China stop the act of organ harvesting.

Inside the Immigration Centre, I head over to the Advice and Information Counter, take a ticket (147), and then find a seat. The woman at the counter is talking to a young French couple in broken English. Every few seconds, she lets out a yawn or scratches her head, illustrating her apparent boredom.

Eventually, the French couple leave. The woman at the counter presses a button, and the bright red display shows the number 145. She waits less than three seconds before pressing the button again, displaying 146. Without much delay, she presses it again, showing 147—my number. As I approach the counter, her finger hovers over the button to call the next number, her eyes filled with resentment that I might sit down before her within my three-second window. I take a seat just as she sighs. I understand that maybe I am the one hundred and forty-seventh person she has seen today, not counting the people she frantically skipped, but this is her job. To counter her obvious state of disregard, I greet her in an overly cheerful manner, smiling as I sit.

The woman I talk to speaks limited English, looks bored, and probably hates her job. I inquire about the application form that I should take in reference to the activities I want to pursue in Japan. My questions are generally ignored, and at one point, the woman randomly asks, “So you want to stay in Japan to study Judo?”
“No, I didn’t say anything about Judo.”
“Okay, but if you are studying Judo, you need to go to End Counter B, second floor.”
“Okay, I actually …” She cuts away my words with metaphorical scissors of despair.
“End Counter B,” she reiterates, “second floor.”

So much for the best place to visit for information and advice.

I head to the second floor, to End Counter B. As I approach, the woman, slightly more miserable than the last, looks me up and down and says, without any hint of emotion or benevolence, “Passport.” Just one word is all she spares me. I hand her my passport. She adds rather sternly, “What do you want?” I explain that I want to collect an application form for … Before I have a chance to finish my sentence, she says, “Application, go queue over there,” pointing to a line of about thirty people.

I join the queue, wait thirty minutes, and then find out that I am in the queue for application checking. I am not here to have applications checked; I am here to collect application forms and ask for advice. So far, neither of these two things has transpired.

My third and final stop is back on the first floor. I wander over to the desk marked simply as ‘Information.’
“What?” asks the woman behind the counter.
“Excuse me, where can I collect an application form?”
“Here,” she says, as if wanting to add the word ‘obviously,’ but she conveys it only with her tone of voice. Eventually, she begrudgingly hands me an application form.
“Thank you,” I say. No response. My politeness falls on deaf ears. The woman just flashes me a frown that contains the absence of all the hope in the universe before trudging off into a sea of misery.

Three counts of rudeness in one hour. It is no surprise that the hundreds of people here, waiting with folders or loose paperwork, look so dejected. Of all my time in Japan, a country that prides itself on politeness and good customer service, this is the rudest I have been treated and the smallest I have felt. The service here is disgraceful, not helpful, and has filled me with no confidence at all going forward. Perhaps this is the hidden agenda: make everyone feel unwelcome so they never come back to complete their applications. Regardless, I have to come back, most likely next week.

Outside, I am handed more leaflets for various different things. A woman tries to give me a newspaper. I say I am fine. She asks me where in Canada I am from. I say I am not from Canada but England. She mutters something about Elton John and then walks off. After wasting what was effectively a whole day, I leave with none of the much sought-after advice I had taken the trip here to receive. Instead, just an application form that I could have quite easily downloaded online and printed out myself.

I head over to Asakusa in need of a drink. On the main road, a protest is taking place about atrocities caused by North Korea. The people here have megaphones and sound extremely angry as they shout in Japanese.

Trying to take in their words, I can’t help but be distracted by the late January Christmas decorations that loom over the protest.

As I walk toward one of my favourite bars, an elderly woman on a bicycle drops her handbag but doesn’t realise it. “Excuse me!” I shout in Japanese before she has the chance to ride away. She stops her bicycle and looks back. I scoop up her bag and walk over to her, promptly passing her the handbag. She apologises and thanks me, nodding her head more times than I can actually count in Japanese. She is so thankful, so happy that I helped her, and at this moment, just a slight bit of the decency and politeness of this culture finally returns—the kind of decency that has made me love Japan but has almost been entirely washed away by the events and abhorrent treatment I had experienced this afternoon.

A Handful of Salt

Posted on 12/01/2015 by Luke

Sometimes in Japan (and the same can be said for life in general), I have absolutely no idea what is going on. Today, a red carpet has been placed in the middle of a busy road. Not only does this carpet obstruct many motorists who drive down here every day, but it actually stretches the entire length of Kappabashi Street – and Kappabashi Street is a very long street indeed. Is the head of state making a surprise visit? Is some type of awards ceremony about to take place, perhaps? Or is there no reason at all for this vermilion impediment? Only time can provide the answer.

For the last few months, I have been trying my hand at a little private English conversation practice with just one student—a 71-year-old Japanese man who has lived in Asakusa all his life. With a keen interest in food and Japanese history, he has provided me with an endless source of knowledge about post-war Japan and the changing attitudes amongst Japanese people. I enjoy teaching him, and our conversations often cover an array of topics, such as Bonseki, China Syndrome, and foods I’ve never heard of before in my life. Today, we are heading out to try such a food.

He drives us across Tokyo to Yotsuya. On the way, he starts a conversation with the dashboard of his Toyota, instantly reminding me of something from a science-fiction movie. In Yotsuya, we visit a shop called Ariakeya. The shop specialises in selling just one dish—a Japanese delight known as ‘tsukudani’.

If I were to ask anyone to name three foods associated with Japan, tsukudani probably wouldn’t even get a mention; and, if I’m completely honest, I had never heard of it until last week. Tsukudani most commonly involves seaweed, meat, or fish (often pond fish) that has been simmered in soy sauce and mirin. It can be eaten up to a year after it is made. Many years ago, this was a staple food in Japan, but due to its high salt content, it has become somewhat less popular, with concerns about salt being bad for health and such.

The woman in the shop is very pleasant and can speak excellent English; she has even prepared an English menu for me in anticipation of my arrival. I am offered samples of various dishes before settling on my favourite, Maguro—cubes of tuna. Soft, but surprisingly chewy at the same time, the outside is extremely salty but very sweet. The middle offers a dryness that you would expect from marinated cubes of cooked tuna. Overall, the fish is pleasantly moreish.

As we leave the shop, I notice a small tray of salt outside the entrance to a restaurant, guarded by a shisa—an Okinawan dragon. Curious about the purpose of this salt display, I ask my student. In his usual enthusiastic way, he explains to me that many years ago, the Emperor of China lived in a Palace so big that the only way he could get anywhere fast was to ride around on the back of a bull. Inside the Palace, the Emperor had three thousand women, each in separate rooms. Every night, the Emperor would tour the Palace on the back of his faithful bull and decide which woman he would spend the night with.

The women knew that the Emperor rode around on a male cow; I mean, everyone knew, it was hardly a secret. The women were all desperate to marry the Emperor, for the wealth and status they would receive if such a ceremony occurred. Finally being freed from their solitary rooms in the Palace was often considered a secondary incentive. Somehow, the women discovered that the bull liked eating salt, so every night, they would place saucers of salt outside their rooms. The bull would smell the salt, stop to eat, and hopefully, the Emperor would choose that room to spend the night. Somehow, this tradition of salt piles outside of rooms came over to Japan, and salt is now placed outside many restaurants. Bulls represent customers, or so the custom goes. The story made me wonder if the idiom ‘Like a bull in a china shop’ took any of its origin from the same story, but before I have time to ask, we are back in Asakusa, and I have a red carpet to inspect.

Back at Kappabashi Street, some women are singing in front of a man that I think is supposed to be a clown. Eventually, though, answers come, and the reason for the whole street being closed off becomes apparent.

A kappa (or at least a man dressed as one) follows the red carpet, walking the length of Kappabashi Street. The kappa stops intermittently to wave at the passing crowd, walking alongside an old woman carrying a scroll, and has a big red heart painted on its back. I have no idea why. No idea about any of this.

Back at home, I dine on my neatly wrapped packet of tuna cubes, which cost ¥432. Tsukudani is usually enjoyed with rice, but I will snack on this salty-sweet tuna as it is. Unfortunately, this type of food is not too pleasing on the eye; it might look like something you would serve to a domestic animal or a bull, but its taste suggests that this might be a bit of a waste. The tuna is, in fact, delicious and perhaps one of the best foods I have tried in months. The only problem, again, is the high salt content, but that shouldn’t put you off trying it at least once.

I seldom place links to other websites, but I genuinely enjoyed the food from Ariakeya, and they were very nice to me, so here is their shop:

http://www.ariakeya.com/

Wheel of Misfortune

Posted on 09/01/2015 by Luke

Today is the day that I finish my pilgrimage. One temple, one shrine, and the final two gods. I start off in the direction of Uguisudani. My previous attempt to find Motomishima Shrine here was marred by the fact that this area is a massive red-light district and couldn’t possibly be the location of a sacred shrine. Once again, as I stumble through alleyways of neon, I see no signs of a god; just prostitutes leaving hotels with presumably married Japanese men.

Eventually, I leave the area to find wireless Internet, stolen as always from a nearby Seven Eleven. I punch the name of the shrine into my GPS and am redirected to the same area I had previously wandered. It is an unusual location for a shrine, an area littered with over seventy love hotels, but somehow I find it sandwiched between Hotel Exe and Hotel Foxy.

Motomishima Shrine is home to Jurojin, the god of longevity. This deity is always accompanied by a wild deer, believed to symbolise long life. It is said that Jurojin shares the same body as another of the Seven Gods of Fortune, Fukurokuju, which, if you ask me, is a rather unfortunate fate.

It is fair to say that to reach this shrine, I had to jump through hoops. Inside, I walk through a hoop to reach the stone steps that lead to the god. Here, I pay my respects with a deep bow before taking my fortune for the last time this month, at a cost of ¥200. With all these fortune readings, it’s a surprise that I have any money left. Not to worry, though—I have a frog in my wallet, so all is well.

“Whoever caught this fortune, please read. Further increases the happiness if familiar, money will come to the body when you strive daily and today. We are been obtained by loss. Performing without effort for others is within the range of possibility, always! Rather than hit the thing with the one person that you are waiting for, poor is a small problem, this time. You do not have to worry only for those who carried out jointly because the immediate profit will go up with your results. If you move a large bowl, results should come out.

“Whatever you do for other people, always take action for things in the future. Make yourself aware. Concentrate at the entrance; are you aware of the limits of their fitness? Also, the energy from long illness in the future will see recovery gradually. Concentration will add enhancement, especially to enhance the energy. No effort should not be in vain. Come back to be sure of the joy of tomorrow.”

Confused as to what all this means, I leave the red-light district and head over to Hoshoji Temple.

Bishamonten stands guard here, carrying a scroll. Traditionally, he is the god of warriors and war, depicted with a spear and dressed in armour. However, the statue here deviates from the expected representation. Unfortunately, it is the only photograph I have of this temple, and I am certain I am in the right place. There are no signs of other statues of gods here, leaving me with no idea about the identity of this scroll-wielding warrior—most likely Shonin or someone else. No English signs, nothing else to guide me.

With all this good fortune flowing through my veins and having completed the pilgrimage of the Seven Gods of Fortune, one would expect that I’d actually receive some fortune. In reality, the opposite has occurred. Over the last few days, I have felt like a ghost, floating through life, completely devoid of any sense of belonging. Perhaps this is just a phase. A changing of the tides could erase all that I feel at this moment, and hopefully, that will happen. Maybe I should just move a large bowl. Right now, though, I am tired of walking around temples and shrines; it fills me with this strange empty feeling that is difficult to explain.

I wander back to Asakusa and am instantly drawn in by the flashing lights of a strange vending machine.

The machine costs just ¥100 and offers a chance to win excellent prizes. It’s called ‘Pocket Lifter,’ and presumably, it lifts money from my pocket by tricking me into thinking I can win one of the luxury prizes. Hidden behind its polished glass front are some trading cards, two Louis Vuitton purses, and tickets to Hanayashiki Amusement Park—the oldest amusement park in Japan. Despite seeing this park every day in Asakusa, I have yet to make the visit. However, Hanayashiki might have to wait a little while longer, as I am still somewhat traumatised by my recent visit to Tokyo Disneyland.

The machine says, ‘One-two-three-four-GET!’ Winning is as easy as counting. One of the Louis Vuitton purses can be won and sold for ¥8000 at a nearby shop, conveniently listed next to the prize—a gambling loophole once again exposed. Above the prizes, a wheel with bright flashing lights beckons, ‘Let’s Challenge!!’ How could I possibly resist? Keenly, I insert a ¥100 coin. ‘Thank you,’ the machine says as it swallows my money. The wheel spins and lands on the number one. The prize shelf moves up a fraction of an inch, then nothing happens. For a limited time only, I can get three tries for my money. I repeat the button-pressing process twice, and disappointment reoccurs twice more. No prizes, no amusement, no amusement park—just more bad fortune. Thanks, pilgrimage.

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Monthly Archives: January 2015