There's go greater feeling than that of being in on a secret. Though, I suppose it's not so much of a secret if it's printed in the New York Times.

While I was in Tokyo, a friend and I went on the perfect Tokyo adventure. Or at least, for two mellow kids like us, it was epic.

We began the day by heading to two famous Kichijoji tea shops. After that, we went to Nakameguro, perhaps my favorite part of Tokyo besides Jimbocho. I took him to Chano-ma, a tea shop with a vista. From there we went to a place called Unveil Cafe. I said it in the review, but heck, "I'll have the beef cheeks" is really the second most important thing you can learn to say in a foreign language.

After strolling slowly down the Meguro river, we headed back to Shibuya. There's a narrow little street that looks incredibly out of keeping with the rest of sparkling Shibuya. It's labeled "nonbei street" (meaning something like "the street of drunks"). That night, my friend and I crawled into Bar Piano. Which brings me back to the Times article; Bar Piano was mentioned as one of the best of the best secret spots in Tokyo.

I have to confess, I went through many of the bars and restaurants in Tokyo thinking wistfully to myself, "gee, this would be a great place for a date." Bar Piano was exactly that kind of place.

Day in and day out, I think of Tokyo. I suppose that's natural since it features into my thesis. However, reading that Times article really twisted my heart strings. It's bitter sweet, though; even though it makes me wax nostalgic, I'm in on the secret. Give this country mouse those shady city warrens any day.

I've been writing a lot about Tokyo lately, even though I'm back in the US now. Since I'm doing my thesis on a subject related to Tokyo, I've been writing about my experiences there. It's a good way to look for ideas.

I really want to keep this journal a Japan-only journal, but I don't want it to fall into disuse, either. Sooner or later, I'm going to clean up some of what I've written and post it here.

On a personal level completely unrelated to my thesis, Tokyo had an incredible effect on me. I, being the egotistical creature that I am, think that this merits exploration. In any case, it's important to me and I plan to do it.

When I get pack to Tokyo, I want to explore all of the Shitamachi in the invaluable little guide book that I bought and used once while I was there. Shitamachi are like the downtowns of smaller cities, and they exist like islands in the urban sea. More often than not, they have lots of Japanese sweets stores. Perhaps when I go back, I can explore there, take pictures of the mochi/ anko goodness, and post them here. We can hope, right.

I am a changed woman. Never will I regard myself in the same light. I know for sure and certain I can never walk onto a farm and look at the same way again. I've done something taboo in my own culture. I've done something my family would probably condemn me for. I ate basashi; I ate raw horse.

This thought keeps drifting though my head, “I'm digesting horse right now.” This thought comes on, and horses, running wild, streaming across some misty blue gray field, drifts through my head. Every aspect of horses that I've been taught to regard as spiritual, ethereal, half other worldly keeps running though my head.

What's worse, at least in regard to my own culture, I liked it. I enjoyed it greatly. What's more, I feel freer now. Less restricted. Like Eve after the apple, I have knowledge of something I was taught never to eat.

I was with friends, and I happened to list some of the other interesting things I've eaten: raw goose, raw beef, sting ray, and the head of a tuna (don't snicker at that; a tuna's head is bigger than yours).

I guess the point is that I should break taboos more often.

Well, I went to the love shrine: Atago, near Kamiyacho station. I asked one of my coworkers that I wanted to go to that kind of place, and I thought sure that Shinto being Shinto, there must be one somewhere. He was kind enough to help me find it, and announce the fact that I wanted to go to it to the whole office in the process. It's like being caught with your nose in a romance novel.

A friend of a friend spent an hour explaining some of the less explained parts of Shinto to me last night. She explained some of the more specific beliefs. There's this wonderful concept, for instance, called "en" (縁). It's a difficult idea. You might translate it literally as "connection," or "bond," but it's subtler. For instance, I have en with a Shrine in Sapporo, because of a long winding story that goes back 50 odd years. It's kind of the force that leads you to meet other people. It's kind of the bond between you and someone else. Yet neither of those really describe it.

So, anyway then the kami at Atago is an enmusubi kami; they help you make these en ties with other people. It's probably pretty obvious by now, but the kami at Atago helps you out with the romantic ties.

On the whole, it was a really great experience. There was a cute little kitty cat wandering through the shrine. People prayed one by one, and I played for a long while. I can own up to that; I'm a big girl.

I'm from the country. The kind of country that's so rural most people probably can't imagine it. From my accent, no one in America will ever accuse me of being from anywhere other than the South. I feel sometimes that the country side of me is completely undisguised and that everyone can intrinsically sense my inelegance; my ineptitude. At the same time, I know that being from Southern Appalachia is something to be proud of. But I digress.

No one will ever accuse me of being from Tokyo, either. I've always heard city people discribe their cities as the best. I cerntainly have a soft spot for two towns in North Carolina, and well, home is home. I'm probably more comfortable walking in the woods than most people will ever be. That being said, I've been looking for "my city" for a long time.

How cliche, "I love Tokyo." "Tokyo," someone said to me, "is where foreigners go to feel international." In Asakasa, Ginza ans Shinjuku, that's probably true. But Tokyo has a thousand faces; it's idiosyncratic. If you only see the touristy faces, if you focus on the Hard Rock Cafe, of course, you only see that side.

There's so much more. Jimbocho, Daikanyama, Meguro - how can these places be part of the same city? But that a city it becomes with all those different faces!

Of course, cities reflect their creators. They reflect us. In the strangest, most indescribable way, I see myself in this mirror called Tokyo. I've found my city.

I'm beginning to revel in places with large, "no photography" signs. The time I spend there belongs to me in one particular sense: now. Of course, there's memory, but memory is to now as plastic nicknack is to Eiffel tower. I went to Gohyakurakanji temple in Meguro and looked at lacquer statues of Bodhisattvas. I couldn't take photos. I admit, my first impulse is to photograph everything for future nostalgic purposes; I like it when my hands are tied.

There's this urge I have to capture the moment just as I see it and give it to someone else. The way that scraps of gold leaf clung to their faces in liver spot like splotches, the way that defused light came through the window and fell across their shoulders, the way one statue's eyes reminded me of my father's, - these are small, magic things. Isn't it natural to want to share them? But they're intrinsically unsharable.

There was one particular statue in that display of nearly three hundred that moved me. I looked at his face, scant ten inches away, and became hyper aware of my own breathing. I realized that most likely, my breath was contributing to the gradual erosion of his lacquer form. He acknowledged it, and pointed out that my breath, secondhand of time, marked the erosion of my form as well. I noticed that his shoulders rose and fell with mind. While I marveled over his breath the other statues around us shifted with small stirrings of life: like they were shifting on their zafu.

I turned back to ask the statue how, and a woman, another visitor, came up to me to ask if I could read the plaques that identified each statue. The spell broke. We talked, she and I, and she apologized for interrupting me. I went back to that statue's inanimate face, and I knew, looking into his mahogany colored features, that I would forget its contours as soon as I looked away. I thought frantically that if I only had my sketch book, I could draw him. He smiled and told me that it was okay to forget.

I went to a somewhat famous cafe today called Combine. The idea is that they have books to look at while you digest. Obviously, it's supposed to attract an eclectic, idea oriented crowd. There were books both in English and Japanese, and most of them were about Paris, famous 20th century artists and other topics we're all supposed to cultivate an interest in.

I was disappointed. First off, the waitress, who had a Christmas tree tattooed on her thigh, was unpleasant. She was of the ilk that seem to think that Gaijin are completely and utterly incapable of speaking Japanese. During the ordering process, she interrupted my every attempt at asking questions in Japanese with one word questions in English. I had a tea with my lunch and expected it to be over 1,000 yen. When she announced the total, it was only 1,000 yen. I was surprised; “Just 1,000 yen?” I asked in Japanese. Much to my embarrassment, she croaked at the top of her lungs, “One thousand yen.”

On top of that, I didn't really jive with the crowd there. I like literature. I'll even admit to being a complete elitist about literature. Other literature snobs drive me up the wall, out the window and down the street. They're pretentious. I actually want to discuss what I've written, not just recite for you a litany of what I've read.

Maybe I've got that attitude because of where I'm from, but pretentiousness riles me. Now that I think about it, the intellectual tradition I come from is simple in its own way. Now, I have to explain that statement. No one from outside the area thinks that Appalachia has an intellectual tradition at all, which is completely wrong. We've just had a lot of bad press. If anything, I'd say that until the mid-nineties, Appalachia was the last hold out of American frontier intellectualism. I've heard people say that during the revolutionary war, no matter how far you got from the cities; no matter how far back into the mountains you strayed, you could always find a current newspaper on the frontiersman's table. For the longest time, it stayed the same in Appalachia. I've known personally old time farmers who read the encyclopedia for pleasure after haying. It's an intellectualism close to working the earth.

Anyway, in my experience, if you knew something about some topic, you came out and said it. If you didn't, you kept your mouth shut.

In any case, in front of a flock of cafe intellectuals, I feel expected to justify my existence. In other words, they're waiting for your epic list of book titles.

Why should I have to justify my existence and experiences over my peaceful cup of espresso?

Now, this started as a rant about a cafe in Nakameguro, Tokyo, Japan, and took me home to the mountains of southern Appalachia and made me think about a dieing brand of American intellectualism. People ask me why I'm so crazy about Japan, and what just happened is the answer to that question. Japan makes me think and wonder about things I wouldn't otherwise consider, though cafe snobs are a bad example since they're kind of ubiquitous. Japan takes me to new places inside myself.

The “why Japan in the first place” question has a significantly less concise answer. It's also one for another post.

I like Shibuya. It's one of my favorite parts of Tokyo: it's on the way home. More than that, Hachiko is always waiting for me. More than that, it's usually full of people; the small town girl inside me spasms every time I go. More than that, I know a handful of really good restaurants; one of them is probably just a me place. Of late, though, Loft has become one of my favorite places. It's dangerous to go in, though; I decimate my wallet when I go in. The biggest draw for me there is the Chinese tea shop. There are these delightful bench-like seats at a counter that looks out onto the street. The tea is usually good; I got one dud. I had the food for the first time today, which I also highly recommend.



They say that the Japanese are good at improving other people's innovations. I'm not sure I completely advocate this thought, but Loft is full of products that exemplify it.

That being said, I guess it doesn't really apply to post cards. The selection at Loft beats the deadbeat normal ones you see at tourist traps, and most of them are great at capturing the modern feel of Japan. Still, I picked up several that I intend to collage on my wall when I get back to the states.




I also picked up this nifty album, visible in the above picture. I've carried a portable family history around with me for years in an album. The prior one had a fatal flaw: pictures slid out of the cheep pages much too easily. This new one, stamped recollections, solves that problem.

Also in the above picture, you'll also find a small umbrella. I bought it because it was raining. I didn't want it; I didn't want to buy it. The sudden downpour outside forced my hand, and now I love it. I like the cheerful color, and it beats my last small umbrella in terms of weight.

The real find, though is the planner. It's incredibly simple, but it is exactly all that I could ever ask for from a planner. Every week at school, I tear a page of printer paper in half and draw a week long calender. I'm visual; it works for me.

Yesterday, my host family took me to a pachinko parlor. I don't like pachinko; honestly, I can think of many, many better ways to waste money on vices. They insisted that I hadn't really experienced pachinko the first time I went, because I had only bet 3000 yen. I've heard that if you bet 10,000 yen, about 100 dollars, you're bound to get a return. I remain skeptical.

My host mother's machine was hitting. She won about three little trays of balls, but my host father gambled one and I gambled one, so she only traded one tray in. I had no idea how much a tray was worth, so no idea how impressive it was if someone had fifteen trays stacked in the floor behind them. One tray is worth about 5500 yen, if you convert it illegally.

The legal prizes, surprisingly, aren't bad. There's expensive sake, cases of beer, digital cameras, wallets and so forth. As my host father pointed out, if the prizes weren't good, why would you go?

So my host mother presented me with a key holder; one of those that's little wallet shaped ones. All in all, it was a more educational experience than my last attempt, but I'm still not all that impressed.

I don't know much about Yukio Mishima, but I know how he died. Doesn't everyone know how he died? I once considered hurling one of his novels across the room because of his pompus writting style. His short stories are okay, though, and I've actually read several of them.

I know more about Dazai Osamu, but I don't know that much about him. I know how he died, though. Everyone probably doesn't know how Dazai Osamu died. He committed suicide with a lover. Women, well, I guess we like those kinds of stories.

I took this funky little class taught by a Jesuit priest. It had four people in it, and we argued like mad most of the time. The name of the class was "State Surveillance in Modern Japan." The latter part of the class might as well have been called "World War II in Japan." I get vaguely annoyed when people shift the emphasis of classes like that. Anyway, we read a book by John Dower called Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of World War Two. It's a good book. It's actually a really good book for a lot of reasons. I'm going to go off on a tangent and say, hey when people write books that include pictures, most of the time, it's prop for bad writing. In those cases the picture is there to revive your numbed mind. Dower, though, made the text and the pictures flow seamlessly, perfectly.

So anyway, it was through Dower that I first read about Sakaguchi Ango and Dazai Osamu. They were both associated with the period of literature that directly followed the war. It's often called the Katsutori culture, after this vile julep they drank called Katsutori.

From what I remember, Dazai Osamu wasn't too fond of American GIs, and he was censored several times by the occupation.

But I've never read him. I've read Sakaguchi Ango's two most famous pieces, or at least, the two pieces that get talked Japanese cultural studies: Darakuron, or In praise of Decadence and Sakura no mori no mankai no shita, or In the Forest, Under Cherries in Full Bloom, which is very weird.

So anyway, being a woman, I'm going to make this comment: Dazai Osamu was pretty handsome. If you Google image him, you won't agree. Go dig out a text book and look in it: for once, Google image fails us. From most of his pictures, he looks charming and quirky. My favorite picture of him was taken in a bar. He's sitting on one bar stool with his feet on another. That picture was in the Dower book.

All this is to say, I'm going to one of the bars where Dazai hung out before he and his lover drowned themselves. I'm very excited. Very, very excited.

Perhaps I can turn this into a pilgrimage to the bars frequented by my favorite authors.

From time to time, my ex roommate used to sagely say , "comedy happens in threes." One of my friends bypasses "comedy" and says that crazy stuff happens in threes. I say, weird stuff gathers somewhere and conspires on how best to knock you off your feet. Once they've got a good plan going, all these weird things pounce on you all at once, and revel in your bafflement. Perhaps we just remember it in threes. I assure you, weird stuff attacks in higher multiples.

All this is to say, after the earthquake the other day, which was a strange experience for me, I went to train hell this morning.

I'm not mincing words or making it sound worse than it was when I say, "train hell."

My Japanese isn't all that great. Most days I get the gist and miss the details. Sometimes, you don't need to speak the language to figure out that something is a little off. When I got to the train platform, a strange atmosphere pervaded. The express train, which is usually in, out and on with business was idling at the station. I boarded it. At first, I didn't realize that it was more crowded that normal. I was simply perplexed because it staunchly remained in the station for about ten minutes. Yet no one got off. The doors remained open. About that time, I started listening in earnest to the announcements.

The name of a station I didn't know was mentioned, there was something about broken glass in a door, and repleted pleas for our cooperation and understanding.

Finally, finally, after enough time passed for me to wonder if I was in Limbo, the doors slid shut and the train departed. We went almost exactly the length of the train and stopped again. Had they opened the doors, I at the back of the train, could have still stepped out on the platform. Again we waited. About this time, I began to entertain the idea that I might be late for work.

The woman next to me unceremoniously squatted down in the floor. Okay, I can kind of understand it. We were obviously destined to be there longer than normal. But consider how hard it is to ride, standing with no hand hold, on a packed train next to someone squatting in the floor. It's hard. Other people who similarly lack a hand hold lean on you. Or as the case may be, they slam against you when the train stops. So the squatting woman complicated my life.

At one station, more people than you see in Shibuya on a Friday afternoon crammed into our car. It was at that stop that a strange girl wound up standing next to me. She wasn't really the kind of person that you want standing next to you. She wreaked of cat food. It wasn't her breath, either; she breathed directly into my face, and that didn't seem to be the source. It was an inescapable odor. Usually, people don't stare in Tokyo. Out in the country, a random Gaijin is more likely to merit a good long stare. Since I've been in Tokyo a while, I'm not as used to being stared at. This girl fixed her eyes on me and didn't let up for a second. Where do you look when someone is staring at you? I tried to sleep. I tried to guess the readings of station names on the map above me, but that seemed to provoke more interest. I wound up staring blankly out into the black of the subway tunnel. Had that been it, this being stared at business wouldn't have been so bad. No, she rhythmically smacked her lips. Like a three year old eating gummy bears. I couldn't drown the sound out with my MP3 player either. I tried. And tried.

When I finally stumbled off the train in Nagatacho, I feared that one of my knees was permanently damaged because of the stress I put on it to avoid tumbling over the squatting woman. My nerves were in tatters. I was thirty minutes late to work.

Perhaps not the worst that the Tokyo trains can pitch, but I still think it merits being called train hell.

I finally found a fox shrine. Outside of Happoen, there's a small, tidy little shrine dedicated to the trickster. Being a believer in not much in particular, I went in to pay my respects. Everyone needs a little help from time to time in the wit and guile department.

Part of the charm of Japan is seeing the modern and the traditional skipping hand in hand down the street. Of course, I'm a jaded American, but it seems like my culture is eager to throw away everything with the least hint of vintage about it.

I know that the Japanese aren't really renowned for their overabundant spirituality, but I always feel calm and refreshed in Japan. I guess part of that is me buying into the prepackaged image of Japan that I'm used to in the United States. But I think that the largest part of it is genuine. Seeing shrines with immaculately maintained gardens tucked in between sky scrapers really gives me a breath of fresh air.

In general, I like seeing the religious. I go to Georgetown University, which is a Catholic university, so I'm used to seeing priests and nuns. But isn't there something enchanting about seeing a Buddhist monk in his saffron robes? What could be more calming than seeing a Catholic priest with his white collar sitting across the aisle in the subway? Well, in Japan, the Buddhist monks wear black robes, and when they're outside, they wear large straw hats.

Since I'm a foreigner, most people don't acknowledge me unless I bow or speak to them first. Occasionally, people stop when I'm staring perplexedly at a map some poorly labeled street corner. The Buddhist monks, though, usually stop and say, "konnichiwa." It's honestly really nice.

This monk was standing at the main intersection in Ginza, 4 cho me. If you look closely, you can see his begging bowl. I'm not quite confident enough with my Japanese to walk up and start talking to a monk in the street. It's almost like meeting a celebrity. I'm sure that on a normal day, I could think of tons of questions and things to talk about. When I'm actually standing next a monk though, meaningful thoughts evaporate from my head. That kind of happens around the priests at Georgetown, too.

I don't really feel good about taking pictures of priests: it feels like a more intrusive form of gawking. Somehow, I can't resist.


I saw this priest at Sensoji in Asakasa. He was doing anything particularly spellbinding; he was taking down a sign and closing a side gate. He seemed particularly unhappy with me and my camera. I guess that some nut was taking pictures of me doing mundane chores would grate on my nerves, too.

Do you remember those pens that had several different ink cartages that you could alternate between? As I remember they were popular in the late 80s and early 90s, though I can't clearly remember that time. My older cousins, who were my childhood models of coolness and style, used those funny pens. When I was lucky, they'd let me scribble with one. Ah, the good old days!

As for the pens, I thought they'd gone the way of the Dodo.

I realized that they were alive and well in Japan last year: my teacher had one. That made sense, I thought. In my early youth, I associated them with girls. After all, who would take the time to write with different colored inks? Girls. Much to my surprise, in Japan, both sexes uses these funny multi-inked pens.

A year after my rediscovery of them, I decided that I had to have one. For me, Japan is pen paradise. Paper and ink making have been part of Japan's culture for a long time, and to this day, pretty inks and papers are important. On top of that, since Japanese characters are very intricate, you can usually find pens with tiny nibs. Honestly, they range from tiny to microscopic. When might you find yourself in a situation that made you say to yourself, "Oh, if only I had a pen with a .18 millimeter nib?" I have small hands and a small script, so I really like .3 and .4 nibs, which are readily available. That being said, I had two prerequisites for my multi-inked pen.

First, no pastels. I hate pastels.

Second, .3 or .4 nib.

After a week of looking here and there, I concluded that the pen fitting my criteria didn't exist.

But wait! Lo and behold, I went into Ito-ya and found exactly what I was looking for. Actually, it was better than what I had in mind to begin with. The set up went like this. There was a rack of individually packaged refills and cups of empty pens. Thus, you could pick the sizes and colors that struck your fancy.

I rejoiced and bought one.

Tokyo is so hot right now! It's supposed to be the rainy season, or tsuyu, but there's been little rain. When I'm in the office, the office seems hot. Walking from the office to lunch though, is oppressive.  I like going to cento, but it doesn't really help in this kind of heat. For fifteen or twenty minutes, it's indiscribably wonderful. 

In other news, every time I turn the corner in Japan, I see exactly what I wasn't expecting. Well, that isn't strictly the case. Sometimes, I only see the work-a-day aspects of Tokyo. I've got the scenery from my commute memorized. Anyway, I walked into a bathroom today and shut the door. Hanging on the back of the door was a pot leaf shaped air freshener. The bathroom in question was in a nice restaurant. It was just not what I expecting.

I guess that's kind of in the same vein as Engrish. I've gotten so used to the small mistakes, that I don't pay much attention to them. I'm trying to learn Japanese, and there comes this understanding that learning any language is really difficult and that you're bound to make mistakes. All the same, sometimes you see Engrish that's so strange, so odd, or so off that you have to reel a little bit. Yesterday, in the middle of a park, I saw a sign for a "picnic squere." Again, somehow I just wasn't expecting this kind of sign in a park.