On the Other Side of the Mountain

Posted on 08/11/2014 by Luke Kinsella

Today, I am exactly halfway through my trip. To celebrate, I have decided to take a break from city life and booked a night at a Japanese inn, known as a ryokan. It is situated in the middle of the mountains in a place called Nikko, in Tochigi Prefecture. My plan for the next few days is to experience a more traditional side of Japan.

From Asakusa, I pay ¥2390 for an express train taking 140 minutes. At Shimo-imaichi Station, I have to change to a dreaded local train. On the platform, I wear a short-sleeved shirt. A Japanese man says to his friend, “Look at that guy; he must be freezing!” I admit, it is a little cooler than Tokyo, but I only have to wait two minutes at the cold station platform. I eventually get on the local train. It sounds like a roller coaster as it claws its way up the mountainous tracks. The train’s only luxury is its heated seats; they make the whole train smell like the inside of a giant hairdryer. Five minutes later, I arrive at Tobu-Nikko Station.

I head out of the station and onto an old bus; the transport on this trip is getting progressively worse. The place I am staying tonight is at Yumoto Onsen; ninety minutes from Nikko Station and some 185 kilometres north of Tokyo. It’s just gone five, but the sun is no longer visible. The bus crawls through the darkness. A warning says, ‘Hold onto the handrail as the bus will sway from side to side as it makes its ascent.’

The bus eventually arrives at my stop, the last stop. I pay ¥1700. This is also the last bus. I am trapped up here now; no coming back. Outside, it is freezing cold—the coldest I have been since leaving England. Luckily, at the bus stop, I am greeted by warm smiles. A Japanese woman with a sign is waiting for me. We head to her car, and she drives me thirty seconds to the place I will spend the night

Inside the ryokan, she takes me to my room—the biggest room I have stayed in since being in Japan, spacious and warm. It has a massive double futon laid out, and a table of equal size. The woman starts by preparing me a hot cup of green tea before leaving to prepare my dinner. I get dressed into my yukata, carefully ensuring I cross it left over right; crossing it the other way is how the dead are dressed at funerals, and I am not dead. I also make sure to tie the bow behind me; a bow at the front is how prostitutes dress.

At 7 p.m., the woman comes back into my room to serve me dinner.

My food consists of buttered trout, salmon, vegetable tempura with natural salt, radish, simmered sesame tofu, lotus root, miso gratin with cabbage, yuzu pepper salad, grilled eggplant, fried tofu, boiled tofu in a soy milk pot with mushrooms, rice, a selection of vegetables, a selection of pickles, and a couple of things I can’t identify. The entire meal is pescatarian, and all the food is of the highest standard. I don’t usually like tofu, but up here, it is made from the cleanest of mountain water and tastes phenomenal.

After a while, the woman comes back into my room to clear and clean the table before bringing me dessert. In comparison to the huge dinner, my dessert is somewhat anticlimactic.

I help myself to a couple of the complimentary bottles of Autumn edition beer before deciding to take a dip in the hot springs. I book the outdoor onsen for forty-five minutes. Outside, there is not a single sound. The stars are out. Mountains loom in the distance. The contrast of boiling hot water mixing with the cold winter air is wonderful and relaxing. After my time is up, I head indoors to onsen number two.

The indoor onsen doesn’t offer a window, so there isn’t much of a view. It is a rather lonely experience. After I get out, I take a shower. It is etiquette in Japan to shower before and after getting into a hot spring bath, so this is actually my fourth shower this evening. I notice weighing scales in the changing room; I haven’t weighed myself since before I came to Japan. After a massive meal and a not-so-massive dessert, I am surprised to discover that I am 7kg lighter than when I arrived in this country.

Back in my room and with kilogrammes to gain, I decide that the perfect way to cool off is with a delicious tub of homemade cream cheese and alcohol-flavoured ice cream. Sulphur from the onsen taints the experience slightly, the smell of rotten eggs lingering in the room.

I sip quietly on complimentary beers with the window wide open, wrapped up in my traditional Japanese clothing. The clean cold air is nothing more than a fresh distraction to the silence that engulfs me. Outside, the only thing I can see is hot smoke billowing from the many hot spring baths and the dark outline of mountains in the distance.

The Amazing Kanda Adventure

Posted on 02/11/2014 by Luke Kinsella

I exit Kanda station and walk toward the area known as Jinbocho. On the way, I stroll along a street featuring thirty-six sports shops, all lined up next to each other. There is also a small festival taking place here, the 20th Kanda Sports Festival. I continue walking until I see a sign that suggests pluralisation came as an afterthought.

Jinbocho is named after Nagaharu Jinbo, a samurai who used to live here in days gone by. Although they took his name, there is little to no information about him on the Internet. Perhaps I can find something about him in one of the many history books on sale here today.

Book Town is great. One side of the street is exclusively used book shops. Little lanterns line the length of the street, and outside the usual stores, a massive corridor of small bookcases stretches the length of the event. On a typical day of book shopping, you would be spoiled for choice, but today, at the 55th Kanda Used Book Festival, the sheer number of used books in one area surpasses that of anywhere else in the world.

There is a shop specialising in only fashion books, another selling just manga comics, and another selling rare history books; they even have one book for sale for ¥350,000. There is something I find calming about walking the aisles of a bookshop. Nobody is here trying to lure me into their shop, nobody asks me to enter when I am already inside, and nobody inside is speaking. The squeaking sound of my wet shoes is the only thing disturbing the silence.

The bookshops seem to stretch endlessly. I notice some arrows painted on the floor, so I follow them to a small charity-run street festival. Rows of stalls offer various foods. One man sits at a table, seemingly designated for people to leave their used plates and cutlery. I glance at the man, and he just shrugs his shoulders; he doesn’t know why he’s sitting there either.

At the other end of the festival, more bookshops await. I browse a little longer before heading in the direction of Ogawa Square for my fourth street festival of the day. Today’s event is the Kanda Curry Grand Prix, where twenty different shops are all selling ¥500 curry in the hopes of attaining the grand prize. A polling station with an honesty policy is in place; if I wanted, I could continuously vote for the same shop over and over.

Kanda boasts over two hundred curry restaurants, making it the perfect choice of location for this competition. Outside every stall, a tout shouts at me to go buy their food. A woman in a maid outfit gives me a smile and points in the direction of the store she is here to promote. Soaking wet mascots wander around, and there is a stage featuring live music. Three young women are signing autographs for middle-aged men. The enticing smell of curry keeps me at Ogawa Square for half an hour before it is time to go.

I walk back to Akihabara and take the Hibiya Line to Minowa. Every piece of advertising space on the train is for the same company. On Japanese trains, there are usually about thirty to forty adverts in each carriage; however, on this train, all signs exclusively advertise an urban park town. Very strange.

I grab some things from home before cycling over to Asakusa, specifically to Cafe Byron Bay for a Halloween party. At the cafe, I put on makeup in the hope of looking like a zombie. Friends come and go, some with costumes and others without. Free Halloween-themed sweets are on offer, and glowing plastic pumpkins litter the cafe.

At one point, I am asked to fetch a forgotten cake from a local bakery. While waiting at the traffic lights, I notice a little child with her mother also waiting to cross the road. They are looking at me, so I make zombie noises at the child; the child screams and hides behind her mother’s leg. All in the good spirit of Halloween.

Back at the cafe, two French chefs are here to cook for everybody, and they are excellent chefs. Canapés, crêpes, and tuna gratin are the highlights. We are then treated to some live music from a local act and enjoy some delicious cake.

As the party draws to a close, a Japanese friend of mine hands me a signed copy of his book. It is my favourite book of his, albeit the only one I have ever read; the others are written in Japanese. I find it difficult to show feelings of genuine gratitude dressed as a zombie, but I will absolutely treasure his gift.

After the party, we head out to another bar for an event known as ‘Trick or Drink!’ I try to stay in character at the bar, bumping into walls, mumbling, and dragging one leg as I walk. Homer Simpson is the disc jockey, and his music choice is better than I would have imagined. My sumo wrestler friend is here too, still taller than me but a lot less drunk than the last time we met.

After getting photographed with a sumo wrestler while dressed in zombie makeup, I decide there isn’t really much else left to do in the world, so I head home to sleep.

I Warm Duck Smoke

Posted on 01/11/2014 by Luke Kinsella

I wake to the sound of helicopters and sirens, more than one of each. I look out of my apartment window and see a pillar of billowing smoke that seems to be attracting the attention of five helicopters; they circle around the black cloud like flies. An ambulance buzzes by at speed, its sirens adding to the cacophony of early morning racket.

I head outside into the slums, making my way toward Minowa Station. Today, I have the pleasure of buying a Halloween costume, and the only place that offers any sort of choice, I am led to believe, is Tokyu Hands in Shibuya. At Minowa Station, there are seventeen fire engines.

I take the Hibiya Line. Distracted, I miss my stop at Ueno, so I stay on the train until Akihabara Station. I walk ten minutes through the crowd of young women in maid outfits trying to tempt me and head for Suehirocho Station. Here, I take the Ginza Line, Shibuya-bound.

It seems I have been drastically misled. Tokyu Hands has a Halloween range, albeit rather small. I begrudgingly spend ¥4800 on some awful ghoulish nonsense that I will only use once before heading back to the train station, Minowa-bound.

Outside Minowa Station, firefighters are still tackling the huge blaze, the smoke so thick that it chokes me. Helicopters armed with television cameras continue to drone on. Unbelievably, an advertising blimp for the insurance company ‘MetLife’ floats above the disaster, cashing in on some extra television airtime.

At home, I grab my bicycle and cycle toward Kanda. I get as far as Asakusa and run into my good friend and fellow bicycle enthusiast, Khin. He asks me if I’ve had lunch yet. Realising that I am actually quite hungry, I agree to join him, and we head to a gyoza restaurant. I finally get to eat one of my favourite foods, vegetable dumplings—the first time I have had this food since coming to Japan. Delicious.

After the meal, we head over to Senso-ji to get our fortunes. I luck out and receive ‘Good Fortune.’ Khin doesn’t do so well and gets ‘Regular Fortune,’ so he ties it up for the gods to deal with. My fortune says, “It is a good sign to dream of a young horse in spring and a dream of a swift horse will bee [sic] a much better sign.”

Next, we head over to the Edo Shitamachi Traditional Crafts Museum, an excellent little museum discreetly tucked away inside an indoor shopping arcade. Free entry seals the deal, and in we go. Inside, we find ourselves the only visitors. On display are fishing rods, fans, hand-forged cutters, paper lanterns, badminton rackets depicting kabuki characters, Buddhist statues, pottery, leather bags, and paintings. There is also a rack of very straight arrows.

Winter is coming, apparently. To celebrate, a small truck with a little stove on the back is circling around, selling hot sweet potatoes. As it passes by, it plays a little jingle in Japanese known as the baked potato song: ‘Ishiyaki imo, yaki imo, yaki imooooo,’ literally translating as ‘Baked sweet potatoes, sweet potatoes, sweet potatoooooes.’ I chase after the truck but waste time taking a photograph before it turns left and blazes off into the distance.

Khin and I head over to Cafe Byron Bay to meet some friends before heading out as a group of eight to a fish izakaya. Tonight is Dagmar’s last evening in Japan, so we are having a little leaving party for her. At the izakaya, we take off our shoes and sit at a nice table with tatami mat flooring. I am handed an English menu, and it just so happens to be the best menu I have ever seen.

The menu boasts the following delicious highlights:

Dirt Japanese bluefish drying a fish whole firing, ¥380
Wall thickness, taste are plentiful, and grease appears! ¥980
Semigrow and drag knob salad, ¥580
Tatami mat sardine, ¥280
Butter charcoal fire firing of the nettle tree, ¥380

The butter charcoal fire firing of the nettle tree turns out to be mushrooms, and the tatami mat sardine ends up on the floor. We eat plenty, drink plenty, and drink plenty, before going our separate ways, bidding our last goodbyes.

At home, I dream of horses in the spring.

Willow Trees All The Way Down

Posted on 09/10/2014 by Luke Kinsella

Today, after almost nineteen weeks of living in mixed dormitories, I’ve finally moved out of hostel accommodation and into an apartment in Minowa, still within Taito Ward. The weather is clear and warm, prompting me to embark on a little exploration. Just a three-minute walk from my new place, I spot a shiny silver plaque near a Shell petrol station and decide to investigate. In the corner of the forecourt, I’m greeted by the sight of a massive weeping willow tree.

The plaque informs me that the tree is named ‘Mikaeri Yanagi,’ translating to ‘looking-back willow tree.’ Its name stems from marking the entrance to Yoshiwara, a licensed red-light district that was relocated to this area in 1657. Legend has it that as people departed Yoshiwara, they would cast a sorrowful glance back at this tree, feeling painful reluctant to leave. Intrigued, I decide to take a little stroll.

Even under the bright daylight, numerous establishments have men in business suits, sporting earpieces, stationed outside, while the neon signs blaze at their brightest. As I stroll along, a grinning man asks, “Sex?” I politely shake my head and continue walking. The road is lined with smaller willow trees. After approximately ten minutes, I realise I’m in a familiar area—it’s the same road where my hostel used to be. It’s rather pleasing to discover that my new apartment is just a ten-minute walk from central Asakusa.

Deciding to make the most of my time, I hop on a train from Tawaramachi Station and make my way to Tokyo Big Sight. A friend has invited me to see his exhibition there today. However, upon arrival, I discover that the event operates on an ‘invite-only’ basis, with attendees exchanging forms for passes. Unfortunately, the only invite I received was verbal.

I decide to approach the information desk regardless and ask, “Can I see the exhibition, please?”
The young receptionist queries, “Do you have an invitation card?”
“Nope,” I reply.
“Well, you need an invitation card to enter,” she explains.
Pausing for a moment, I reach into my wallet and retrieve the business card of the friend who invited me, coincidentally the president of one of the exhibiting companies. Handing her the business card, I truthfully assert, “My friend invited me.”
She scrutinises the card for a while before saying, “Please fill out this form.” With a smile, I hand her the completed form, and in return, she hands me a laminated pass. I’m granted entry to the exhibition, completely free of charge. The power of business cards.

The exhibition is divided into two main sections. The first part highlights the advantages of health foods, particularly emphasising raw and organic foods, health supplements, enriched agricultural processes, health-beneficial rice cultivation methods, and natural seasonings aimed at enhancing taste.

On the other hand, the second part of the show delves into science and technology. This section showcases breakthrough technologies focused on food quality, packaging reduction methods, food safety and hygiene innovations, allergen test kits, and germ-preventive clothing.

Needless to say, everything is in Japanese, and I’m finding it quite challenging to understand what’s happening. The attendees seem to be either exhibitors or buyers, and they’re all dressed in suits. It’s evident that everyone here has a business card, except for me.

After swinging by my friend’s stand, I briefly consider checking out the other three halls at Tokyo Big Sight. There’s an exhibition on packaging material today, but I have a feeling it might be a tad dull – almost like this post! So, I opt to skip it and make my way back to the train station instead.

After a relaxing break at home, dusk falls, and I venture out again in search of some liveliness. Exploring a new neighbourhood calls for a trusty companion—a can of Suntory whisky highball. Nearby stands a renowned tempura restaurant, crafted from wood and steeped in history. Established in the late 1800s, it’s among the oldest in the area, evidenced by the crowd outside patiently queueing, all with hearty appetites for tempura.

I stroll for about five minutes to reach the nearby Minowa Station. The area exudes a certain liveliness that could potentially make it my new go-to spot, but unfortunately, it seems to lack bars entirely. Among the occasional izakaya, what stands out are the abundance of hair salons, more per capita than any other place I’ve visited. Continuing my wandering, I somehow find myself back amidst the neon-lit streets of Yoshiwara. The traffic lights, like the moon this evening, an appropriate red.

I swing by Seven Eleven for some food before heading home to eat. After eating, I’m completely at a loss about what to do with my rubbish. Hostels usually have just one bin for bottles and cans and another for everything else. However, my new place has seven different bins, all labelled in Japanese. I take some time to translate each one. One bin indicates it’s for ‘a leaf’, which is perfect timing as I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to dispose of my collection of leaves. Another bin, specifically for cans, confusingly instructs me to, ‘Crush the bottle as much as you can.’ Eventually, I divide the remains of my lunch into separate piles before throwing them into the appropriate bins.

I watch the usual array of Japanese television—a sports event, a sensational news report predicting the biggest typhoon hitting Tokyo this weekend, and even a game show involving pigeons. Eventually, feeling a bit bored with TV, I decide to order fifty personalised business cards. Before calling it a night, I capture a photograph of the red moon and then head to bed.

Last Day of Summer

Posted on 24/09/2014 by Luke Kinsella

Today is the Autumn Equinox; officially the day that summer ends and autumn begins. The weather seems to have forgotten about the shift in seasons, and has kindly gifted us with a clear sunny day and 27°C temperatures; the perfect day for say, a boat trip. Once a month, throughout summer, the people of Asakusa have a boat party. Fortunately for us, Dagmar and I have been given an invite.

The boat wasn’t cheap; we each paid ¥8640 in advance. This price includes ‘nomihodai’ and ‘tabehodai,’ which means ‘all-you-can-drink’ and ‘all-you-can-eat’. At half-past twelve, we meet up and head to Umayabashi Bridge, where our eagerly-awaited boat awaits us eagerly.

The Japanese boat is referred to as ‘Yakatabune’, a traditional wooden boat with tatami flooring, primarily used for entertaining guests. The forty of us pile in and take a seat on the floor at a huge table where a banquet is already laid out. The boat gets moving along the Sumida River in the direction of Odaiba. Shuhei, the organiser, makes a speech, we toast, then start to eat. The meal initially consists of sliced raw fish, salad, edamame, rice, pickles, and prawn tempura.

Beer is passed around in huge bottles to fill small glasses. My glass is always kept topped up by someone else when it gets low; in turn I return the favour when I see someone else with a glass running absent of alcohol. The food is delicious, the beer ever flowing; a great start to the afternoon.

We cruise along to excellent views of Tokyo, and I take photographs, eventually coining the word ‘boatographs’. As we head towards Tokyo Bay, more food is served: white fish tempura, eel tempura, sweet potato tempura, and finally, my favourite, mushroom tempura.

A few of the Japanese guys gather at the bow of the boat, cheering each other on to drink massive glasses of Japanese sake. I head over to take a photograph and am dragged into the madness. I’m handed a glass of sake, everyone cheers, and I drink. “No good, one more time,” they say. Great. After a second chant, I drink a second glass of strong sake.

After about forty minutes, people seem quite drunk. We anchor in the middle of Tokyo Bay, opposite the Fuji TV Building.

Another speech is given, an endless supply of food continues to flow from the small kitchen. The beer just about stops, and people begin to take advantage of the all-you-can-drink spirits. There is a huge selection of shochu, wine, sake, and whisky. After a while, we all head to the upper deck for a group photograph, before heading back below for more food and drink.

Karaoke begins, bringing with it a drinking game. A microphone is passed around and everyone sings one line of the song. Whoever sings the last line of the verse has to drink. When the microphone lands in my hand, I improvise something in English to the same tune. People applaud, and somehow, I escape the fate of trying to sing broken Japanese lyrics.

We sing many songs and drink many drinks. I make some new friends and talk to the people I already know. The boat tilts from side to side, the party in full swing. Shuhei goes around pouring drinks into glasses, urging everyone to down them. It seems that everyone is determined to empty every bottle on the boat, and we indeed do just that.

The boat starts up again and cruises back toward Asakusa. More speeches are delivered, followed by more karaoke. We’re treated to a black bean dessert before finally docking back at the Umayabashi Bridge. A traditional clapping ritual signals the end of the festival, and we all disembark for one last group photograph. It’s only 4 p.m., but I’m already feeling a little drunk.

A few of us share a taxi. The doors to the taxi magically open and close by themselves. Five minutes and ¥700 later, we arrive back at the hostel. One of the staff members hands me a piece of paper that says, ‘Last Summer Party.’ It turns out tonight, the hostel is hosting a Bon dance party—a traditional folk dance to commemorate the lives of loved ones who have passed away. Free food and drink are also available. Excellent.

I drink plenty of water and sober up ready for my second party of the day.

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