With that out of the way... This past Christmas Day, I decided to go into the mountains in pursuit of a stereotypically White Christmas- and found it, in abundance. The day was spent up in North Shiga, snowboarding in the mountains. No bones were broken. We shall try again, next week (starting the 5th) ... here. Niseko Resort, Hokkaido.
That, however, is in the future. To pick up where I left off, the day after Christmas I hopped in a car with the owner of my local ramen shop- who is, in fact, a great guy. Momentary tangent: This man, on Christmas Eve, cooked me roast chicken and mashed potatoes. He is, for that alone, a king among Ramen Guys. It also helps that he speaks fluent English.
So he, and the rest of his ramen shop staff, decided to take a field trip to Kobe, which is evidently the Japanese ancestral birthplace of ramen. It's about two hours by car from where I'm at in Ritto, to the south past Osaka. We left at about 9:30, and made a beeline for Kobe's famous Chinatown.
What, pray tell, do you think we ate (in a city famous for it's delicious beef)?Yeah. Ramen. Don't get me wrong- it was great ramen, and certainly didn't set us back a few hundred USD like the beef would have- but I was shocked. After we poked around the Chinatown a bit (and the Ramen Shop guy, visible as the bald man in the foreground of the picture above, shocked us all by speaking fluent Chinese in addition to his English and Japanese- this guy needs to get out of the ramen business), we decided to head for the Harbor.
On the way, we passed this cool little slice of cultural juxtaposition.
Don't know why, but this just struck me as cool-looking. Same goes for the harbor.
The temptation to commandeer a seaworthy vessel and set out for the open blue was strong, but any piratical tendencies swelling in my breast were squelched by a simple reminder from the ramen crew that they were going to go have some cake at a little restaurant by the harbor, and that a mad dash for the high seas would pretty much destroy my chances of coming along. So I put that fantasy on the backshelf, had some cake, and went home happy.
The next day was our Board of Education Bonenkai- the "forget-the-year party". This was, without question, one of the strangest experiences I've had yet in this country- and that's saying a lot. The Board met at City Hall at five-forty in the evening, and piled into a bus that carried us all of three blocks to the restaurant where the party was to be held. Just a dinner party. Not too crazy. We (about thirty people, including the Superintendent and various educational luminaries) were shown to a special room in the back of the restaurant about the size of a classroom, and seated on the floor around a series of low tables, each with a burner in the center. Having seen this sort of configuration before, I didn't really think about it. I figured we were just going to have nabe- the communally-cooked, everything-in-the-pot soup that's a winter staple around here and the preferred chow of sumo wrestlers everywhere.
Except that the dish for the party was turtle soup. By soup I mean an entire turtle, bones and all, in a pot. The shell figured largely in this design- the poor creature was cooked inside himself. They spared not a single organ in this meal- everything (save for vegetables, spices, and the everpresent side dish of rice) came from the turtle, and everything that issued forth from the beast was, at some point, consumed. Everything.
We started the night (and this should have sent out warning flags, really) with the traditional toast- except each guest was given a shot glass full of something bright red, and smelling of iron and alchohol. I had a feeling I knew what was going on, but just in case I nudged my coordinator, sitting next to me. "What is this?" She smiled, shrugged, and said simply: "Chi."
Blood. Turtle blood, in fact, mixed with sake. I wasn't going to be able to get out of this without a lengthy apology and a great deal of shame dealt to my family and ancestors, so down it went.
I can now say, safely, that blood and ricewine tastes almost exactly as you'd expect it to taste. A bit like rusty well water, and a whole lot like a thousand cultural alarms going off at once in your brain telling you that drinking blood belongs only in the realm of classic horror films. It didn't really taste that bad, but I can say I feel just a touch unclean.
After the turtle was summarily consumed, and everyone had seemingly drank their fill (some of these older Board of Ed members can really pack it away!), the ritual of exchanging sake cups began. Evidently, this is just a Shiga prefecture thing- people in other parts of Japan don't do this- so to impress your friends with your knowledge of obscure cultural folkways:
First, drain whatever's in your sake cup, and hand it to your intended victim. The victim rotates the cup (so that they're not drinking off the same spot you did) and holds the cup feebly, knowing full well what's about to happen. Then, you fill their (your) glass, and sit smiling at them until they drink it and return your cup to you- at which point you are required to drink again. Repeat ad libitum.
Shortly after the flurry of cup-passing, at roughly eight-thirty, the party came to a formal conclusion. There was another speech, more clapping, and more bowing- and then the second party started.
This is how formal company parties occur in Japan. First there is the dinner party, and then there are "floating parties"- groups of people who decide the party isn't over, so they decide it's time for karaoke. I had the good fortune (?) of being included in this "floating world", and being ferried away in a taxi (one excellent thing I can say is that they take the utmost precaution against DUI) with six or so of my coworkers to a "snack shop"- the grown-up version of a karaoke bar.
Karaoke bars are mostly little, dimly-lit rooms where your party can sit and sing uninterrupted, your only companion an occasional waitress. When a karaoke bar is no longer seedy enough for your veteran tastes, you graduate to a snack shop. A snack shop is a karaoke bar where everyone sits together in a velvet-coated room (walls, ceiling, sofas- the floor alone escapes the velvet treatment, and it's shag carpet)- about twenty of us now- and is constantly attended by Mama- an aging, kindly, matronly woman in a maroon satin pantsuit.
I could not make this up if I tried.
We were there until midnight. There is nothing more amusing than seeing your sixty-year-old Board of Education Director croon out a lovesong in front of all his comrades- and every single one of them (us) hung on his every word. All laughter, no matter how scraping and gravelly the voice, no matter whether the singer could carry a tune or if they dragged it along like a child to the dentist, and always, ALWAYS supportive. Not a soul cracked a joke at the expense of a poor musician.
The next day, everyone was back at work as usual... well, everybody but me. I went to see Mr. and Mrs. Smith with a friend (HILARIOUS IN JAPANESE- probably not so much in English) and bummed around the house.
The next day: Osaka or Bust. There wasn't much of anything going on, so I decided to go get lost in my favorite city by the sea. I was largely successful. In the course of getting lost, I found this oddity.
What could it be?
This vertical park has a path that winds up eight floors of terraces, and under (in?) the park is a shopping mall. At the top is a bandshell, and a wonderful open-air view of the city.
Later that night, I went down to Shinsaibashi to explore the crazy neon shopping district.
It goes on like this for miles and miles- people, shoulder-to-shoulder (or, in my case, elbow-to-ear) without a break. Osaka does not know solitude. What it does know, however, is how to surprise me. I ducked into a stairwell alongside this road, and dropped down into an underground city.
Under a great deal of Osaka is an interconnected labyrinth of tunnels, subway stations, and shopping districts. You can walk, underground and without surfacing, for quite a ways- so much so that you can track changes in architecture from one hub plaza to another.
This one, for example, has a fountain- and a bunch of little kids more than happy to play in the spouts. I'm intrigued by the possibility of exploring Osaka Below- next time I'm in the area, that's a mission.
Parting thoughts for the city: Osaka has, without fail, the most interesting collection of McDonald's stores I've ever seen.
Note the naugahyde.After an ultramodern day in Osaka, it was time for New Year's Eve in Kyoto. I left the house at about 2:00, with the intention of scoping out good temples to visit. On the train, I ran into a young couple from Texas in the area for the holidays, and got to play tourguide for awhile. It really is a good deal of fun showing people all these little places I've discovered, or had shown to me- and I figure it's a good way to build up interesting-place karma. If I share with them, someone else will share with me, eventually.
New Year's Eve in Japan is very much a religious holiday. There is, in Kyoto, no giant ball and no Dick Clark to ring in the new year- rather, they have bells. Lots and lots of temple bells, and starting at 12:00 midnight each temple bell is rung 108 times, to purify the body of the 108 worldly sins. The temples themselves are lit up and look like, as an Australian who I met in the subway mentioned as we stared up at this gate, things out of a fairy garden.
The mood of the city is halfway between a religious service and a carnival. There are food booths out on the street, all the temples are open, the streets are littered with monks and women in kimono. It's absolutely surreal. At each temple, I burned a stick of incense for my family, for my friends, for everyone I know who was at that very moment walking in the sunlight as I stood in the dark before large iron cauldrons, surrounded by the tolling of the bells. If you are reading this, a stick was burnt for you- best wishes for the new year. Trust me, it happened- there were a lot of temples, and a lot of incense. I ended up burning a few sticks for "anybody I forgot- ow, my fingers, that was hot- this one's for you." by the time I got around to the end of the long stretch of temples and minor altars at the end of the district. At one of the temples, I recieved a pair of cakes of what appeared to be very hard, solid mochi- rice pudding cakes- and when I broke one up and shared it with the Australian and a guy from Baltimore, we all took big bites and immediately were struck with the realization that it was, in fact, wax.I told you I was an idiot. This wax mochi is supposed to be taken home, and put in your tokonoma- your decorative altar/nook at your house. Most definitely not meant to be eaten.
It takes, for those of you interested, a very, very long time for the temple bells to toll 108 times. Hours, in fact. At some of the temples, the monks toll them alone- behind closed gates. At some, the public steps up and rings them- lines of people winding along gravel paths and around firepits, waiting to take their place for a moment at the giant swinging hammers that strike the bells. There were, at these temples, monks standing behind large casks of amazake, sake with bits of sweet mochi (this time, real) stirred in, handing out cups for free with their blessings. It was respectful, and joyful, and a little sad. Everyone- all the clumps of people I passed- was smiling and talking softly- no loud voices, and no rushing. We moved in slow, measured steps, as if dreaming, and every time one of the huge temple bells tolled I could feel the sound rumbling through me, shaking the tips of my ribs and walking up the backs of my fingers.
pax
Happy New Year.
1 comment:
Happy budle budle new years Andy. You missed a most interesting new years game. Hope life in the far east is going well!
Lauren
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