Heaven and Hell on Earth

Kyoto, Japan

June 28, 2009

Kinkaku-ji (Temple of the Golden Pavilion) is, by far, the loveliest spot on earth I have ever seen. My first glimpse of the imperial yellow temple, gleaming in the summer sun with its reflection shimmering on the placid pond, was a poetic vision – a scene of exquisite beauty that I could only describe as heavenly. Belinda Carlisle nailed it – heaven is a place on earth. And it is in Kyoto. But one man’s heaven is another man’s hell.

Heaven is a place on earth - and it's Kinkaku-ji

The entire complex – consisting of the Golden Pavilion, ponds with several islands, Chinese gates, Kuri (priest’s quarters), a bell tower, a stone pagoda, a tea house, and a small waterfall – is called Rokuon-ji (Deer Garden Temple). But the Golden Pavilion has become the single most iconic structure in it, even in all of Japan, that the temple complex is now commonly referred to as Kinkaku-ji.

First built in 1397, it was originally a retirement retreat for a shogun, Ashikaga Yoshimitsu. The extravagant gold-gilded structure was erected when the shogun in his late 30s bequeathed his throne to his son, wanting freedom from power to simply enjoy the finer things in life. This was probably the most luxurious early retirement of his time. After Yoshimitsu’s death, the shogun’s son eventually converted the building into a Zen temple. Yet Kinkaku-ji wasn’t always an enclave of tranquility; it burned down many times through the centuries.

Through the Trees

Architecturally, the building is three-tiered, each one representing a different style. The top floor (Firmament Top) is patterned after a traditional Chinese temple, the middle (Hall of Roaring Waves) is rendered in Samurai-house style, and the bottom floor (Chamber of Dharma Waters) follows the Heian imperial palace design known as shinden-zukuri. In my pedestrian eyes, it looked like a saffron wedding cake up close. But despite cramming three different styles in one compact temple, they all complement one another forming a harmonious whole.

Its gold leaf – micro-thin sheet of gold used for gilding – was blindingly bright in the warm late afternoon light. It is said that workers, while applying a new coating of lacquer, had to hold their breaths to avoid creasing the gold leaf with their exhalation. I belatedly noticed (as I was going over my photos) the phoenix perched on its roof. How fitting as Kinkaku-ji has risen from the ashes at least three times. The reliquary contains the original rooftop phoenix, but it was closed to the public that time.

Kinkaku-ji: Temple of the Golden Pavilion

The temple was gutted twice during a protracted civil war in the 15th century, but it somehow survived the two world wars. American bombers avoided Kyoto. In 1950, Kinkaku-ji was reduced to ashes again – this time by peacetime arson. And the perpetrator was one who was supposed to protect it – a 21-year-old Buddhist acolyte.

Based on accounts of the interviewers of the apprentice monk, he was a stammerer who developed a sense of self-loathing stemming from a perceived ugliness. It was his “antipathy against beauty” and schizophrenia that led him to burn Kinkaku-ji to the ground. As he watched the 500-year-old temple go up in flames, he knifed himself and downed sleeping pills in a vain attempt to die with the object of his obsession. Unlike the temple, he survived and was eventually sent to prison. His mother, in shame, threw herself off a running train. Five years later, he also died, allegedly from consumption. By then, restoration of the temple had already begun. The work was completed only in 2003. Thus, the temple looks more “shiny and new” than antiquated, which may not sit well with some people.

A piece of restored historic edifice may rob us of authenticity, but in Kinkaku-ji’s case, its destruction and restoration is so much a part of its history. Knowing the circumstances of its original conception to its conflagrations heightened my appreciation. A self-indulgent shogun had found freedom as a patron of traditional arts here; a mad monk had wrestled with his demons here; I thought I had died and gone to heaven here. I even had a brush with an angel – in the form of a fellow tourist. As I was taking photos of myself with several shots to achieve the perfect angle, a young Asian man took pity on me and offered to take my picture (photo below). In all my travelling, no one had offered to do that.

Thought I'd Died and Gone to Heaven

The most picturesque view of the temple is from the other end of Kyouko-chi (Mirror Pond). On the bright summer day I was there, the reflection of the temple and surrounding conifer trees – even the clouds overhead – was crystal clear.  Its design was inspired by the Seven Treasures in the Land of Bliss or Nirvana (the Buddhist heaven). It succeeds in evoking heaven. Along the path to the temple, contorted tree trunks frame the temple in some angles. This is one of those rare places that photograph well.

Islets crowned with pine trees and massive rocks dot the pond. They represent the eight oceans and nine mountains that figure in the Buddhist creation story; but for a non-Buddhist visitor, they contribute to the graceful harmony of water, sky, nature, and temple. Their mirror-like reflection on the tiny ripples lends a dreamy quality to Kinkaku-ji.

Kyouko-chi (Mirror Pond)

In another pond behind the temple, the Anmintaku (Tranquility Pond), an islet is surmounted by a miniature stone pagoda called Hakuja-no-tzuka or White Snake Mound. This may be from the Legend of White Snake, a popular traditional Chinese story of the tragic love between a young man and a white snake disguised as a beautiful woman (or a beautiful woman cursed to take the form of a white snake at certain times). I remember my Chinese best friend telling me this story when we were in Hangzhou, China – the other heaven on earth I have been to, coincidentally. It is perhaps the same legend to which this stone pagoda was dedicated, considering that Yoshimitsu had a fondness for all things Chinese. It is also a shrine to pray for rain since the pond has never dried up even during drought.

Hakuja-zuka in Anmintaku Pond

Ultimately, a place is just a place – it is our perception that colors it differently. They say Kinkaku-ji is magnificent in any season – in the variegated foliage of spring and autumn, the fluffy white of winter, and the lush greens and golden yellows of summer. Along with its fiery history, they render Kinkaku-ji in various facets of beauty: ephemeral and timeless, vulnerable and indestructible, romantic and real. Much like our concept of heaven.

Rear View of Kinkaku-ji

A Nightingale Sings in Nijo-jo

Kyoto, Japan

June 28, 2009

Enter the Edo Era

A nightingale sings in Nijo-jo (Nijo Castle) – with every step you take. Centuries before the Twitter age, the Tokugawa shogunate already used tweets. This castle, built in the 17th century in Kyoto, is famous for its wooden floors that tweet – the uguisu bari (nightingale floor). So when I got to Kyoto, it was the first place to wanted to see – and hear.

Kara Mon Embellished Ceiling

A row of ticket-spewing vending machines conceals the castle’s gabled gate – the Karamon (Chinese Gate). It was different from other such gates I had seen in Japan. I found Himeji-jo’s gates to be formidable and spartan and Tokyo’s Kaminarimon typical with its hanging chochin. Karamon is unique with its intricate carvings and ornate gilded designs on the ceiling and lintel. There was so much to merit wide-eyed wonderment for its baroque-style artistry. Images of flowing bird plumage and radial flowers were carved down to minute details. Clearly, it signified the magnificence of the Tokugawa shogun, so much so that centuries after the fall of the shogunate, the gate still inspires awe.

Ninomaru Palace

From the Karamon, a wide pebbled clearing opens up. Across it stands the castle’s secondary palace, the Ninomaru. From this distance, the palace seems diminutive despite several pitched roofs that define it. The donjons of Himeji-jo and Osaka-jo are imposing landmarks; Nijo-jo is a low-rise structure. But what it lacks in height, it makes up in area. The castle complex is sprawling and consists of a number of structures and enclosures. Expect a whole lot of walking.

Japanese cypress was used to build Ninomaru and the main palace, Honmaru (open only a few times a year). It still is the wood of choice for palaces and temples because it is highly rot-resistant. All kinds of footwear are not allowed inside. The light brown wooden floor can be quite slippery, especially with your socks on.

Nijo-jo in Blue

Walking on it confirms what it’s famous for – the nightingale tweet. Each footstep, no matter how light, makes the floorboards squeak. The chirping sound is actually a high-pitched creak produced by the friction between the suspended floor and its fixing nails when stepped on. The sound would alert the shogun and his samurai bodyguards of approaching ninja assassins, who were so stealthy that they could allegedly walk on water. During the time of the Tokugawa, the tinny squeak must have been magnified in the deep quiet of night or the muffled sounds of winter.

Now, with the throng of tourists filling its corridors, the squeak sounds more like the chatter of nightingales. On a sour note, I was completely put off by some Westerners who were stomping on the floor. A potentially meditative stroll through history was rudely interrupted by mindless, inconsiderate tourists. There really is a need for responsible tourism to be strictly enforced, especially in World Heritage Sites such as this.

Honmaru (Inner Palace)

The florid artwork in Karamon provides a striking contrast to the rather subdued paintings that cover entire walls of Ninomaru. There is a decidedly understated opulence in the artworks and lay-out of the palace. Nijo-jo is one of the extant examples of the shoin-zukuri architecture. Neither majestic nor grand, but more modest in scale, spare and conveniently functional. This Zen style features the use of sliding doors and tatami mats (made from rice straw and in uniform sizes to cover and measure floor area in Japanese homes).

There are many rooms within Ninomaru (the brochure says 33): receiving rooms for visiting lords, entertainment rooms with koto-playing women, and the living quarters of the shogun. Some halls can be made larger by pushing back the sliding doors. Life-size dioramas, seated on tatami mats, show how the feudal lords paid their respects to the shogun. Although the shogun may seem vulnerable in the sparsely-adorned and unprotected room, easy access of samurai retainers who could emerge from any of the sliding doors and false walls probably thwarted assassination attempts. It is said that this set-up was integral in the psychological manipulations of the shogun of his subjects.

Murals cover the walls. They usually depict nature scenes – bonsai and topiary trees partly concealing snow-capped mountain peaks and clouds in the distance, and tigers and eagles in hunting stances – all conveying the authority and power of the shogun. I found the designs to be quite minimalist. The backdrop is usually an expanse of carrot-orange emptiness with the foreground images relegated to the edges. These are works of artists from the Kano School of Japanese painting, founded in the mid-15th century. The influences though are obviously Chinese, especially in the use of ink-brush technique. The main artist from the school, Tanyu, is believed to have painted for Nijo-jo when he was just 25 years old. Too bad, photography is disallowed within the palace. Camera flash can fade the paintings. To avoid any issues, even no-flash photography is prohibited.

Horai-jima (Island of Eternal Happiness)

Venture out of the palaces and the scene is no less inspiring. The splendidly lovely Ninomaru Garden is also shoin-zukuri. It was originally designed by a famous artist and aristocrat named Kobori Enshu. It used to be a rock garden – no trees were planted – so as not to show the passing of the seasons, perhaps to imbue a sense of immortality to the shogun. I could only hope those floor stomping tourists did not kick the stones out of arrangement.

Eventually trees and flowering plants were added. It is said that the garden is a sight to behold in any season – the garden is in bloom all year round. It made me want to live in Kyoto for, at least, a year. Then I can see this garden in its four-season variations. I was there in the summer and the heat was punishing. Much as I wanted to enjoy the garden, the beating sun chased me off to retreat under the shade.

Stone Lantern

Still, it was enough for me to appreciate the elements of Japanese gardens. There is a big tranquil pond with three islands in the middle, one of which is called Horai-jima, the Island of Eternal Happiness. It did evoke a deep sense of joy with its topiary trees and rock arrangements. The island seemed to be a giant centerpiece bonsai arrangement. Elsewhere in the Zen surroundings, there are also tea pavilions, stone lanterns, and stepping stones – all elements of typical Japanese gardens. I belatedly learned that there is a special technique in viewing rock arrangements that would reveal its layers of mood – from intense to serene.

I’d just do that next time – when the nightingale tweet calls me back to Nijo-jo, preferably in a colder season.

Ninomaru Garden Rocks!

Found in Translation

Osaka / Tokyo, Japan

June 24 and 27, 2009

Tokyo Tower

Tokyo Towel. No, it’s not a cloth to cover your nakedness as you emerge from an onsen (a public hot bath). Just an example of the Japanese quirk of rolling the hard /r/ to a loopy /l/, as in that hilarious scene in Lost in Translation involving a befuddled Bill Murray and a demanding dominatrix. In my case, I got befuddled looks because I look Japanese but couldn’t speak Nihonggo.

Before I got to Tokyo, I had been warned that asking for directions could be a linguistic challenge. Even the Japanese who speak some English may be bashful in using the language. Given my on-the-fritz sense of direction and illiteracy in hiragana, and throw in Tokyo’s multiple metro lines – I might as well have been blindfolded. But if there’s one thing I love doing in a foreign city, it’s walking aimlessly. And that’s how you get to know a city – by getting lost.

I soon found out it was hard to get lost in the Tokyo subway. Metro station signs have romaji (Japanese writing system in Latin alphabet) translations, aside from the numerical and color codes. And it’s not rocket science, mind you. (The challenge lies in buying fare cards from vending machines and navigating the labyrinthine subway exits, but that’s another story.) To add some human interaction, I would ask people for directions anyway; all but one could speak intelligible English. Not a bad batting average for a city that gave Bill Murray a lost-puppy look.

My Tokyo GPS

Now a warning. The Japanese have zero penchant for saying “I don’t know” (which I thought would be a conveniently terse retort). They’d rather answer based on a general idea, not on geographic fact. Rule of thumb: always ask for a second opinion. Better yet, just trust the signs. It happened to me. I asked a guy on the train which stop I should get off. His answer was totally off from what I had figured out. I inched away from him in the crowded train so he wouldn’t see me get off at the right stop. A fail-safe plan is to rely on your wits and be attentive to the running digital ticker tape and audio announcements.

But there are Tokyoites who can give accurate directions, and would even lead the way. From Tokyo Station, I needed to take a bus to Tokyo Tower. The vicinity map on the bus stop also had romaji so no worries. But of course I like badgering people so I asked a Japanese lady (with me in the photo). She spoke fluent English and assured me that she was getting off at the same stop. We had a tete-a-tete while waiting for the bus. It turned out she was an English teacher! Japan could definitely catch up on English education if there were more teachers who can actually use the language like her.

Shinjuku Lights

That night, I needed to get to a bus station again, this time in Shinjuku. One of the two Tokyoites I was with had GPS in her cellphone so we were confident. We killed time at an izakaya (a Japanese pub) until it was just 15 minutes before my bus was to leave for Kusatsu City. A funny thing happened on the way to the bus station though. For some reason, the GPS was not specific enough. (What’s the juice with GPS? My Japanese host had one in her car but we were forever going around in circles! Again, that’s another story.) We couldn’t find the station! I was alone earlier that day and I managed to find my way. Finally I was with Tokyoites with their high-tech gadgets and we were in the dark. Who knew?

Shinjuku at night is not a place you’d like to lose your way in. There are chaotic crowds of mostly tanked up young people and assault-to-the-senses neon signs. Giving up on her GPS, my host decided to ask a man on the street. Bad idea. He gave directions and even walked with us. No surprise, after a few blocks it turned out he was just as clueless as we were. We were probably farther from the station than we had been originally. We had to pick up pace and weave through the crowds and narrow sidestreets. Well, I did miss my bus, but luckily another one was leaving in the next half hour.

Tokyoites, in my experience, are a helpful lot. Just don’t take their directions as Google Earth truth. Another complicating element is the nameless streets in Japan. Unless it is a major avenue. Counting blocks and committing landmarks to memory are the only way to go. You can’t use the constellations as neon lights outshine stars in this city. You’d be well advised to rely on your innate compass. But if you do need to ask for directions, Tokyoites are approachable and would go out of their way to help.

Shinsekai: Old "New World"

Osaka was a different experience entirely. I was in Shinsekai, literally “new world” though ironically it is an old district in the city. The place is known to be dangerous, allegedly an abode of the homeless, prostitutes, and assorted lowlifes. The reputation seemed uncalled for as I never got that impression. Shinsekai looks like a quaint quarter of Osaka, akin to a Chinatown with its colorful array of restaurants, shops, and pachinko parlors. Restaurant barkers here smile!

I was with my Japanese host, not Osakan. We were all tourists in Osaka – the blind leading the blind. We stopped in the middle of a busy pedestrian street, Tsutenkaku-minami Hondori Shotenkai, making sense of the tourist map when a man approached us and asked if we needed any help. He didn’t seem suspicious, but looked sincere. The fact that he offered help before we even asked was a testament to the friendliness of Osakans. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance to go around the city alone. That could’ve given me more chances of interaction with the traditionally cheery Osakans.

Tsutenkaku

The layout of Shinskai should not be too difficult to navigate. Right at the center is the landmark of Osaka, the Tsutenkaku (literally the “tower reaching heaven”). It looks like a more compact version of Eiffel Tower. Its stem is adorned by the name Hitachi in lights (the corporate sponsor, of course). The tower also has a huge clock and a weather forecasting neon turret – its color corresponds to the next day’s weather condition. The surrounding area is laid out in grids. North of the tower follows the Parisian-style radial grids while the south has square grids patterned after Manhattan. Pretty straightforward.

I had never felt lost in translation during my short stay in Japan. And it wasn’t with their Rs and Ls I had problems (plobrems?), but with their GPS.

Osaka from Tsutenkaku

The Morning After

Yokohama, Japan

June 27, 2009

I survived Tokyo. Its crowds, its convoluted metro lines, its punishing summer heat. “There’s got to be a morning after,” goes the cheesiest song ever from a disaster movie. After a full day traversing Tokyo, I found that perfect morning after in Yokohama. Not that the day, or night, before was a disaster. It was just the most gruelling city tour I had ever done.

Old World Elegance of Yokohama

Yokohama is Japan’s second largest city (and I had always thought Osaka held that place). Perhaps Yokohama is not as high-profile as Osaka because it is an incorporated city. It is now part of the Greater Tokyo Area. In fact, it is just 30 minutes away by train and seems part of Tokyo. No countryside separates them; they’re just one big urban sprawl. Its claim to fame is that it strategically fronts Tokyo Bay.

But where had all the people gone, 3.6 million of them? Emerging from the JR station, I was surprised to see – almost no one! A stark contrast to Tokyo’s hustle and bustle. Queen’s Square (a commercial and residential condo-complex) was practically deserted. The floor still had an unsullied sheen. Just outside the station, Cosmo Clock 21, the world’s erstwhile largest Ferris wheel (back in 1989), towered over what seemed to be an abandoned amusement park. It may just have been too early in the morning. This part of Yokohama has that small-town vibe. I felt relieved to have some solitude after being a drop in the surge of humanity in Tokyo and Kawasaki.

Cosmo Clock 21

Landmark Tower: Steel Pagoda

Still staggering from the previous day’s walking tour, we ambled towards the Landmark Tower, Japan’s tallest building at 70-storey high. It didn’t look particularly appealing to me – like a dull-colored Lego pagoda. Actually, it was designed to look exactly that way – tapering like a pagoda, not for its aesthetic or historical value, but for a more practical reason: pagodas usually withstand earthquakes. The building is said to be tremblor-resistant. Yokohama had been levelled in 1923 by the Great Kanto Earthquake, so the design absolutely makes sense. My friend wanted to take us to the observation deck on the 69th floor for a view of Tokyo and the bay – and on a clear day such as this one – possibly, Mount Fuji.

But sore soles, morning lethargy, and the old-world charm of New Grand Hotel derailed our plans. A bladder break became the highlight of my “morning after” in Yokohama. We simply dropped in to use the restroom, but we ended up lingering in the lobby for about an hour and decided against going to the Landmark Tower.

The hotel may not be grand by today’s standards (at least the original building, the one fronting the bay; there is a modern high-rise annex built in the 1990s), but it is a functional relic of the city’s internationally flavored past. The aforementioned earthquake was the catalyst for the establishment of this classic hotel. It spurred the idea of a hotel that would attract foreign investors to the devastated city. Thus, in 1927 the New Grand Hotel was born to house dignitaries, businessmen, and celebrities, through the years. Think Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford.

New Grand Hotel entry canopy

Yamashita Park across the street

To the Old World

A turn of the revolving door thrust me to the turn of the century – the 20th one. From the entrance, a ceramic-tiled grand staircase led to the second floor. That was its unique feature that time: the second-floor lobby. The hall was shrouded in attenuated light: lamp light by paper lampshades and natural light by heavy tie-back drapes that framed the huge cathedral windows.

New Grand Hotel Lobby

Such old-world elegance conjures sounds and images of the swinging 20s: flappers and jazz music. But more concretely, the quiet lobby is redolent of history: the door through which Western influence made its entrance – twice. The Port of Yokohama, seen from the hotel’s lobby windows, was where American commodore Matthew Perry (not the Friends star!) ended Japan’s 200-year isolation, with canons and a handshake, in the 1850s. A century later, General Douglas MacArthur would hold post in the hotel to manage post-war Japan. The hotel was one of the few structures spared by B-29 bombings, allegedly for this very purpose – to become a sort of HQ of American forces.

Antique Typewriter

That was all for the better. Otherwise, such relics as old typewriters would not be on display. I saw one with a document, a banquet prospectus, dated July 3rd, 1926 still rolled on its platen. The paper even predated the hotel!

Across from the hotel lies Yamashita Park. Again, the aforementioned earthquake provided the rubble used to build a reclamation area that the park sits on. It has become a famous date place for Tokyoites. A Japanese friend of mine takes his prospective girlfriends there for romantic evenings. This reclaimed land – including the newly developed area of Queen’s Square and the Landmark Tower –  is called Minato Mirai 21, literally “Harbor Future 21″. And the future it alludes to is laidback and intimate, which is more conducive for PDA. It’s unthinkable to swoon in urgent and frenetic Tokyo!

For all its romantic possibilities, Minato Mirai 21 seems better visited in the evening – when the park sparkles with harbor lights (which I have only seen in photos). But after that great earthquake and WW2 bombings, there’s got to be a morning after in Yokohama. And I gladly settled for my own rejuvenating morning after in it. No dazzling lights of the future, just dim pockets of the past.

Tokyo / Tokyo

Tokyo, Japan

June 26, 2009

Tokyo has two faces. Yamanote and Shitamachi: uptown and downtown, mod and trad, respectively.

The dichotomy is not as physically striking as, say, Pudong and Puxi in Shanghai, which are geographically distinct. In Tokyo, the separation is more subtle, with one side bleeding into the other. They are not districts of the city, but a subcultural distinction. Nevertheless, the two areas’ antithesis was palpable as soon as I met my friend-cum-guide, Mr. A.

High Fashion in Yamanote

Mr. A, who has lived in nearby Kawasaki on and off for some years now, planned our city tour. But I noticed that the spots he would take me and my travel bud to visit were clustered on one side of the city – the western part. It all seemed both logical and practical: it was a time-, money-, and energy-saving itinerary. However, when I suggested we go to a particular place on the other side I got a stern refusal. As human nature would have it, the forbidden fruit looked more enticingly luscious than the rest in the basket.

Lowdown Traditions of Shitamachi

National Art Center Tokyo

Mr. A, perhaps unconsciously, limited his tour to Yamanote, the face of modern Tokyo. Literally, the name means “towards the mountain” – it sits on an elevated area preferred by the feudal privilege class for its cooler climes. Now, it is the “uptown” part of the city, not only geologically but culturally. This is the face of Tokyo that it puts on to occupy its niche among world-class cities: upscale, state-of-the-art, avant garde, forward-thinking, Western.

Yamanote is best exemplified, I think, by Roppongi, a newly developed district gleaming with high-rise condos, high-end shops and entertainment, high-brow art installations, and high-class denizens of yuppie Tokyoites and expats. But all that glitters is not gold, goes the cliche; I heard some of the habitues here are arrivistes. Show-biz types, IT moneymakers, all sorts of gaijin (foreigners), and allegedly even Yakuza members comprise the Roppongi demographics.

Despite its raunchy reputation (most local Japanese I’d talked to had low regard for Roppongi), art is alive and well in the district. In fact, this is where “the art triangle” is: The National Art Center Tokyo, Mori Art Museum, and Suntory Museum of Art forming acute angles of galleries. But browsing modern art was not part of our agenda, which was too bad because most exhibitions here are free. Tsk tsk.

Just outside the 54-storey high Mori Tower stands Maman, the famous Louise Bourgeois spider sculpture, which I had previously seen in a friend’s photo taken at Guggenheim in Bilbao, Spain. I had certainly not expected to see one in Roppongi! But there she was in all her ten-meter-tall pregnant glory. I went directly under its latticed sac to check her marble eggs. All accounted for – she hadn’t lost her marbles!

Spider (Ma)Man

More of Mori Tower

Another kind of giant jumps at you – humongous video screens that camouflage entire walls. It was on one of these vidi walls that I confirmed Michael Jackson’s death (which I thought was just a morbid rumour). It was one of those “where were you when it happened” events – and I’d never forget hearing about it in Roppongi!

Showing, not Writing, on the Wall

Tucked behind skyscrapers, public art, and mod glitz is a vestigial oasis of traditional Japan in the form of Mori Garden. Located beside the TV Asahi (a national TV station) headquarters, the garden is quietly Zen with a soothing water feature. Old camphor and cherry trees in the area have been preserved here, as well as the original terrain that directed the water flow in the garden pond.

Mori Pond and the Space Medaka

Adding an “only in Japan” touch, Mori Pond contains the Space Medaka, descendants of rice fish spawned in outer space aboard the Space Shuttle Columbia in 1994. About 10,000 of them were released in the pond in 2003. They were so tiny though that it was hard to catch a glimpse of one! A sign says that the pond symbolizes the unity of Tokyo’s old and new faces. But a symbolic pond would not suffice, I wanted to see and experience both.

It was late in the afternoon and I had seen Tokyo’s new face, but I couldn’t shake off the allure of the old. Besides, I wanted to rendezvous with a local Tokyoite I know in that area. Finally, I was able to convince Mr. A to let me go by myself. I braved the Tokyo Metro alone to Shitamachi, the face of traditional Tokyo.

Literally, Shitamachi means “low city” as it is located in the marshes of Sumida River and Tokyo Bay. Historically, this was where the lower castes of Japanese society lived – the merchants, entrepreneurs, and artisans. This community was presented so vividly in a recent Japanese period film I saw: Always – San-chome no yuhi (Always – Sunset on Third Street). This is the face of Tokyo that is more akin to Kyoto: traditional, working class, collectivist, and holding on to the past.

Downtown Ueno (Chuo-dori/avenue)

I took the Ginza Metro to Ueno. This line is the oldest in Tokyo (it opened in 1927); its yellowed tiles and smaller, shaky trains gave its age away. It was like being transported to Tokyo of decades past. It actually reminded me of NYC subway back in the 80s. A unique feature, though, is the protective railing between the platform and the railway – to keep suicidal people from jumping onto the tracks of an approaching train!

I emerged from Ueno Station to the busy Chuo-dori (Chuo Avenue). At first glimpse, this downtown didn’t seem any different from, say, Ginza or Shinjuku: busy and lit up by neon lights. But its lack of sheen and a rather stale musk soon emerged faster than you can say Ueno. My Tokyoite friend and I cut through Ueno Park, known as a haven for the homeless. I did see some pushing their shopping carts on the sidewalk but mostly keeping to themselves in dark corners. The homeless here seemed more discreet than their Third World counterparts, who are more in-your-face.

Asakusa Kaminarimon Gate

Our leisurely stroll from the subway station through Asakusa, the heart of Shitamachi, was poles apart from my Roppongi experience. We entered through the Kaminarimon, a gate of the Senso Temple, which we didn’t go to anymore. The gate has this huge chochin, a hanging lantern made of paper or silk. The whole thing just screams old and quaint. Shitamachi brings you back down to traditional Japan from the extraterrestrial futuristic world over at the Yamanote side.

Shitamachi Spirit in Asakusa

I found Asakusa a charming place conducive for unhurried exploration on foot. The Nakamise Shopping Street and alleys that bisect it perpendicularly exude this Shitamachi vibe (as I’ve seen in the aforementioned movie): low wooden structures, lighted lanterns, traditional merchandise, and the occasional jinrikisha (rickshaw) zipping by (boy, those rickshaw drivers must have strong arms AND legs!). Smaller versions of the chochin adorn the pedestrian streets flanked by small souvenir shops and traditional Japanese restaurants.

But what made the whole promenade come together was the koto music wafting from unseen loudspeakers. The sparse plucking sound of the koto (a traditional Japanese stringed instrument) is an ethereal minimalist kind of music that is both unobtrusive and unyielding to other aural stimuli. It might be a tad contrived, but I realized there are tourist traps that can pleasantly detain.

Along the way I saw many Japanese traditional items on display, such as the mikoshi, a portable Shinto shrine carried by devotees on their shoulders (second photo from the top). And a lot more, unfortunately I could not post more photos here because my Tokyoite friend is in most of them.

Finally, I capped the day of pounding the pavement with a rejuvenating and wonderful dinner at Tofuro Bakufu-cho. I had tempura and wasabi-dipped delights. But the most delightful item on the menu was ganso mocchiri tofu (original creamy tofu) – a soft round tofu that melts in your mouth. I melted with it! It was wickedly delicious, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. This was probably the forbidden fruit that Mr. A didn’t want me to savor. If you find yourself in Asakusa, look for this restaurant and try their heavenly tofu ball.

Heavenly Tofu Ball from Tofuro

That was a great face off between Tokyo’s two faces. Yamanote versus Shitamachi, Roppongi versus Asakusa. Actually, I don’t think they should be pitted against each other. They’re two phases of one face, the yin and yang of Tokyo. But if I had to choose one; ultimately, it’d be a toss between a bronze arachnid sculpture and a fluffy tofu ball. It’s such a cop out, I know, but really it’s a draw. Otherworldly and heavenly – both are a delight to the senses.

A City of Superlatives

Tokyo, Japan

June 26 – 27, 2009

Super-duper. That pretty much sums up this Godzilla of a city: Tokyo, the monster metropolis.

On the Most Expensive Kilometer in the World

Cindy and I got off the bus from Kansai right at the heart of the monster – the Marunouchi district, Japan’s financial vortex. But the grind of the economy was still a faint buzz at 6AM. I caught a glimpse of the city before it stirred from slumber: its avenues still widely empty, its sidewalks lazy promenades.

We waited for my friend, who shall be anonymously referred to here as Mr. A, at the red-brick Tokyo Station (currently undergoing restoration work). He had the unenviable job of touring us around the world’s largest metropolitan area. At first, people trickled by. Not long after, people emerged from the underbelly of the station in dense droves. By the time Mr. A arrived, salarymen in dark suits were zipping past, well-heeled women in high heels dashing through the street. Godzilla had awakened – its heart engorged with a stream of movers and shakers and their minions, its lifeblood a corporate concentrate of some of the world’s largest financial institutions and manufacturing companies.

We stashed our cumbersome bags into the train station’s coin-operated locker. At Y300 for a whole day, it’s literally a load off your shoulder. Definitely a boon for quickie travellers who have no time to waste depositing luggage at their digs.

First stop would have been the Imperial Palace, which is located in the area. As it happened, it was closed. But no worries, we were pounding the pavement on “the most expensive kilometer in the world,” as Mr. A proudly declared. This patch of real estate in Marunouchi allegedly cost more than all the properties in California. For that alone, we felt like a million dollars.

The next day, I had sushi lunch at the Shin-Marunouchi Building, a slick commercial-corporate tower (the tallest in Marunouchi). Good thing I was with another friend, a local Japanese, who picked up the tab. That sushi plate was a prohibitive Y3,000 – an arm and a leg for a backpacker like me! Perhaps this is one of those reasons why Tokyo has been accused of being the most expensive city in the world (actually, it’s not!).

Ready, Get Set, Scramble!

After the steel-and-glass sheen of Marunouchi, Mr. A sashayed and showed us the way to Shibuya. First things first: I had to pay homage to my canine hero, Hachiko, whose statue (see previous entry) is just outside the station. Shibuya Station is one of the busiest in Tokyo. The scene outside is not less frenetic. The intersection of four streets is known as the “scramble crossing” – the world’s busiest street crossing. A sea of people swarm from every direction simultaneously. The trick is to just go with the flow. With long strides. Tokyoites don’t dawdle; they skedaddle.

But expect the Japanese to come up with a solution to anything. Tokyoites actually follow unwritten crowd control measures endemic to the Japanese. Case in point: order in escalators in the Tokyo Metro. The right side is for people who want to walk up or down the steps. Those who wish to stand stay on the left. Not being in the know, I did the unthinkable; I parked myself on the right side! Good thing another Japanese trait is politeness – no one shoved me out of the way. This system helps in what Mr A refers to as “Japanese precision.” Trains arrive and leave at a predetermined time, down to the nanosecond it seems. Compared to the free-for-all chaos in Manila, this is rather Stepfordesque to me. It made me go, “Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto” (to the clueless, it’s an 80s pop song).

The Tokyo Metro also clinched a host of other world records, such as being the cleanest, safest, most punctual and most comprehensive subway system in the world. Take that, Orient Express! There are 9 lines serving the Greater Tokyo area; together they are potentially confusing. But being OC in a nice way, they color-coded the lines and numbered the stops. Just remember the color and number of your stop and you’re good to go. We also got ourselves a pre-paid Suica card for convenience. Just enter any amount into the card, pay through a machine, and use it up.

No LoVe for LV

It was already mid-morning and we needed to grab some grub. We opted for McDonald’s, or as the Japanese would say, Maku-donarudo. I forget now what I had and the price (it was still breakfast fare), but it wasn’t as expensive as I had expected. We considered going to the first Starbucks in Tokyo, which overlooks Shibuya’s scramble crossing, but penny pinching brought us back down to earth, i.e. the street. More pounding the pavement followed (which actually went on for two full days!).

Mr. A is someone who spells “love” as LoVe. More often than not, he loses the o and e. Love becomes LV – as in Louis Vuitton. He is not alone. It’s said that 90 percent of women in their 20s in Tokyo own an LV bag. Genuine, not fake, mind you. Ergo, LV store-hopping was high up on the itinerary. First stop: the seven-floor LV building (the erstwhile largest LV store in the world, before the newly-opened Paris store dethroned it) on Omotesando, a trendy tree-lined avenue that is also home to Polo Ralph Lauren, Bulgari, Emporio Armani, and Chanel. Each is housed in their own architecturally distinct building. Personally, I don’t get LV and its ilk. I’m so working class; I can’t imagine spending a gazillion for a poo-colored bag.

Shining Shimmering Shinjuku

But I’m in the minority in trendy Tokyo. The Japanese is the biggest market for luxury goods. Almost half of all brand items in the world are sold in Japan. This is no more evident than in Ginza, a district in Tokyo known as the high-end shopping capital of Japan. Hermes, Prada, and Dior compete with the aforementioned brands in this fashionable strip. But it’s not all fashion with a capital F. Gismo giants such as Apple and Sony also occupy entire buildings for their stores. This is high-tech Japan, after all.

Japanese salespeople are known for impeccable customer service, even in snooty brand stores. In contrast to Hermes’ Oprah incident in Paris, Hermes Ginza had accommodating salespeople with wide sunshiny smiles. LV Ginza, however, was an exception. The store clerk was visibly annoyed that my friend tried on some scarves and didn’t buy. Her knotty frown said it all. It was the only time in my entire Japan trip that a store clerk, or any employee for that matter, had been rude. There’s just no o and e in LV in Ginza.

Tokyo Tower

When I was in Shibuya, its famous “scramble,” to be honest, didn’t throw me off at all. Perhaps I’m just a jaded commuter, but I had been squashed worse in Manila’s metro rail transit. Shibuya Station, it turned out, was NOT the busiest train station in the world. Shinjuku Station holds that distinction. It sure didn’t disappoint. The deluge of humanity was overwhelming. I read that 3 million people use the station everyday! If Godzilla had been sleeping when I first arrived, by this time the monster was alive and kicking, and spitting fireballs too – in the form of kaleidoscopic neon lights. Shinjuku is most alive at night, pulsating with loud music and heaving hordes of young Tokyoites.

And of course, this Godzilla of a city indeed has a literally monstrous landmark. The Tokyo Tower is the world’s tallest self-supporting steel structure in the world. At 333 meters tall, it is 3 meters taller than Eiffel Tower, its flagrantly obvious inspiration. Except that this one is scarlet-colored (in compliance with aviation safety regulations). The tower is basically a supporting structure to TV and radio antennae. It is touted as “the symbol of Tokyo,” but I think that there lies the problem. It is too much of an Eiffel Tower rip-off to be the symbol of Tokyo. A symbol should be unique or at least original.

Tokyo might be better off if it had a dino-size Godzilla erected in the middle of the city. Now that would really embody this megacity: Tokyo, the monster metropolis.

And the Loyalty Award Goes to…

Tokyo, Japan

June 26, 2009

The world’s most faithful dog and the last samurai. Two stories. Two statues. Two symbols of loyalty. Two sides of one city. I saw the dog statue first thing in the morning, the samurai one before I ended my first day in Tokyo. One devoted his life to loyalty, the other sacrificed his for it.

Waiting for Godot

Hachiko and Me

Hachiko was an Akita, a Japanese breed known for their thick coats and tremendous loyalty. He was born in 1923 in northern Japan and was taken by his owner, Eisaburo Ueno, a university professor, to Tokyo the following year.

Canine and human quickly formed a tight bond. Hachiko would see the professor off at Shibuya Station, and meet him again when he returned from work. Fate attempted to cut short this daily routine in 1925 when the professor fell ill at work and died. Hachiko waited at the station for his master who never came. But fate was no match to the dog’s clockwork devotion; he never wavered, waiting for the next ten years in the same spot, the same time, everyday.

Fate caught up in 1935 when Hachiko was reunited with his master, albeit not in the station where they last parted.

Shibuya Station

In that decade of waiting with dogged devotion, Hachiko became a familiar fixture at the station, recognized by commuters. After his story was published by one of the professor’s students, he became known all over Japan and was affectionately called chu-ken Hachiko (faithful dog Hachiko). In 1934, a statue was erected by the station’s entrance in his honor. Fittingly, it is now a popular rendezvous place: “See you at Hachiko, 7-ish.” I wonder if the statue inspires people to wait patiently for their tardy dates!

Hachiko Mosaic

Was Hachiko merely a creature of habit? Or perhaps he was a proverbial Pavlovian dog who came back for the treats offered by commuters. But though he was given away to relatives, he would repeatedly run back to the professor’s old house as well. Most likely, no one fed him there. The man-and-best-friend duo was only together 17 months, yet the dog’s devotion outlasted their time together tenfold – it spanned the dog’s lifetime! If that ain’t the epitome of loyalty, then I don’t know what is. It could have only been a loyalty born out of a loving relationship. And a deep faith that his master would eventually show.

No Exit

The Last Samurai

Over at the other side of Tokyo is another statue – that of a robust man walking his dog. Being illiterate in kanji, I thought the dog was Hachiko (overkill?) and the man, the professor! The local Tokyoite I was with translated the inscription for me. It turned out the man was “the last samurai” Saigo Takamori.

Saigo was born into the samurai class (the highest class in Japanese feudal caste system) in the early 1800s. But that century marked the cusp of a new sociopolitical system in Japan. Feudalism fell out of favor, and in its place was the restoration of power of the emperor (the advent of the Meiji Era). That meant a centralized government that did away with the old shogunate order with its skirmishing regional lordships and their samurai retainers, who were then shorn of employment and privileges.

Some retainers joined the new national army as conscripts; other disenfranchised ones banded together and chose Saigo as their leader. Long story short, the band of rebels was outnumbered and crushed by the army. Their last stand was in southern Japan. Left with only their samurai swords, they committed seppuku by beheading one another.

Should he have surrendered by abandoning his anachronistic cause and bowing to Japan’s modern future? After all, his loyalty had already flip-flopped when he briefly joined the Meiji Restoration years earlier. But this was what bushido (way of the warrior) dictated. A samurai’s honor and loyalty were put above his own life. The highest privilege came with the greatest price. Samurai retainers would follow their lord upon his death. Loyal service continued on to the afterlife. This is called junshi (suicide through fidelity). An old Japanese woman I know told me that bushido was Japan’s real religion.

Without a lord, Saigo died for his dying class. He committed not only seppuku but junshi for Japan’s feudal past so that the country can join the rest of the modern world onto the next century. His death may have been a sacrificial one, symbolically. The government pardoned him posthumously and honored him with a bronze statue at Ueno Park in 1898.

Two Hollywood Movies

Both Hachiko and Saigo’s stories of extraordinary loyalty became subjects of films. Hachiko Monogatari was a blockbuster hit in Japan in 1987. The story has also been Americanized by Hollywood this year as Hachiko: A Dog’s Story which stars Richard Gere. Saigo’s story got worse treatment. His story was only the inspiration to Tom Cruise’s The Last Samurai. Saigo’s character was played by Ken Watanabe (but the character’s name was changed!). And FYI, Tom Cruise’s character is purely fictional. There was no such charismatic Caucasian brandishing samurai swords on rice paddies in Saigo’s story. Hollywood would rarely make a movie about any foreign country without an American superstar. Now that’s another brand of loyalty.

Memoirs of a Genji

Otsu, Shiga Prefecture, Japan

June 25, 2009

A long long time ago…in a land far far away…there was a lady with powdery-white face, blackened teeth, and brows at the middle of her forehead. She retreated to a mountain temple and came up with an epic tale “on the night of the full moon.”

Lady Murasaki

That was a thousand years ago – August 1004 to be exact.

The land is now Shiga Prefecture, just an hour away from Kyoto but fairly remote in people’s consciousness.

The lady was Murasaki Shikibu, a courtier who may have looked as the aforementioned description, which was the standard of beauty during the Heian era.

The story is called The Tale of Genji, generally regarded as the world’s first modern novel (not to mention, soap opera!).

And the temple is the astonishingly lovely Ishiyama-dera.

It’s not hard to imagine Lady Murasaki seized by overwhelming inspiration to weave a story that will last through the ages in this place. The temple and its grounds are surrounded by foliage-canopied vistas of tranquility. To commemorate this defining moment in world literary history, a room in the temple – the Genji Room - is fitted with a life-size figure of the author, pen in hand poised to write some parts of her historic novel.

This ancient temple is set on a rocky mountain slope; hence, the name literally means “stony mountain temple.” All kinds of stone are accounted for here. There are rock gardens with pebbles raked to parallel perfection. Stone-strewn footpaths make hiking audibly crunchy with every step. Magnificent and craggy metamorphic rocks (called wollastonite) jut out, as if regurgitated from the bowels of the earth.

Magnificently Metamorphic

Bleeding Leaves

The dark grey slabs are mostly shrouded by the summery greens of cherry, maple, and cedar trees. The place must look aflame with the bright colors of momiji (maple) in autumn and sakura (cherry blossom) in spring. An obvious advantage of a summer visit, though, is the lack of crowds. I only had to share the meditative temple grounds with a handful of Japanese pilgrims.

Canopy of Cherry Trees

Raked Rocks

A koi pond greets both pilgrim and tourist just past the gate. The koi is a symbol of love. I found a woman standing by the pond, transfixed by the sinuous cylindrical love fish.

Looking for Love

Koi, Not Coy

Surprisingly, by the stony steps stands a shocking vermilion torii (Shinto gate), which I expected to see at Shinto shrines rather than Buddhist temples. But religious pluralism is the norm in Japan. Shintoism and Buddhism are not mutually exclusive. The Japanese can be both, depending on the occasion or time of year! The torii separates the mundane from the sacred; thus, passing through it marks a transcendence to a spiritual dimension.

I love the torii. It is distinctly Japanese – visually arresting in its minimalist and monochromatic design of vertical posts and double lintels painted in bright vermilion.

Torii (Japanese Shinto Gate)

A good hike up the steep steps leads to the tahoto (treasure tower or pagoda) that peeks out from the lush vegetation and huge rocks that partly conceal it. The temple has inspired artists of all persuasions – from Lady Murasaki a millennium ago to an anonymous lady presently sketching the spiry structure by the clearing.

Temple Tahoto

The Sketcher

Hondo Hall

The hondo (main hall of the temple) is the most sacred place in the temple complex; it is where the Buddha is enshrined at the far end, behind a latticed curtain. A huge Japanese lantern hangs by the entrance with its sliding doors pushed back to welcome pilgrims in. Alas, photography is not allowed within the hall. This hondo is the oldest building in Shiga at almost a thousand years old, but still sturdy. Beside the main hall is the relatively tiny Genji Room which is, unfortunately, off-limits to visitors. You can only peek through a huge window to see the Murasaki-in-action tableau.

I noticed the pilgrims to be mostly all-female groups. The Concealed Buddha, it turns out, is a bodhisattva sympathetic to women’s issues, such as marriage, childbirth, and divorce! Women through the ages have looked for love or escaped from it in this sanctuary of love. Lady Murasaki herself might have gone here for the same reasons, as her tale, although mainly a fictionalized account of courtly life, is essentially a convoluted love story. Her hero, Genji, is an incredibly handsome lothario who has a way with women.

Verdant Veranda

The architecture employs the butai zukuri (hanging style) design, which is marked by verandas overlooking the forested precipice. Doors to the veranda are flung wide open, illuminating the dimly-lit hondo with natural light and pervading it with the fragrance of cedar. Communing with nature is a delight to the senses. There is more than a dash of romance in this meditative milieu.

Shanti Shanti in Shinto

Further up the crunchy footpath are scenes of sheer natural beauty. Topiary trees and trellises, stony paths and terraces are a testament to Japanese aesthetic sensibilities based on nature.

Under the Trellis

Scene of Tranquility

Colors of Summer

Stone Terraces

Temple Flora

Towering tsukimi-tei (moon-viewing pavilions) are spread over the mountainside. These are elevated wooden structures with an open viewing deck where the aristocratic Japanese celebrated the autumn moon with poetry and food. It must have been a magical sight as the moon cast its reflection on the still waters of nearby Lake Biwa and Seta River.

And it is always said that Lady Murasaki was compelled by an unseen force to write her tale “on the night of the full moon.” The moon certainly worked its magic that night.

Between the Moon and Otsu City

This visit to Ishiyama-dera spurred my interest in The Tale of Genji, but I heard it is a difficult read. The title character seems to have much in common with his place of conception. Both are irresistibly beautiful and hopelessly romantic.

Genji Wannabe: The Love Hero

The Land of the Setting Sun

Osaka, Japan

June 24, 2009

I’ve just accorded Japan omnipresent status. The Land of the Rising Sun may well be the Land of the Setting Sun as well. Japan bookends the day!

Osaka Castle at Twilight

One of the most dramatic sunsets I’ve ever seen was in Japan. A tinge of atomic tangerine, a swathe of mauve, and splashes of crimson and scarlet set the sky aflame (primary colors fail miserably in describing heavenly hues). The cinematic combination of castles and colors feels like you are living out Akira Kurosawa’s Dreams. The sight is absolutely stunning! Osaka-jo (Osaka Castle) and its shachihoko cast a mystical silhouette against the psychedelic sky.

Sun Sets at a Turret

It was as if a vision of heaven unfurled and displayed its rarefied resplendence. Or was it just a visual display of photochemical air pollution typical of urban summers? No matter, I was so inspired I could’ve scribbled down a haiku. But I didn’t have time to type in verses in my cellphone, only a moment to capture the evanescent light show with my camera.

Natural Lamp Light

We didn’t go inside the castle. It was too late in the day; it had already closed. Also, the structure is a complete reproduction of the original – it was even refurbished with elevators inside! I had just visited Himeji Castle that morning, and I didn’t think modern interiors could hold a candle to Himeji-jo’s Edo-era splendor.

Castle on my Head

Its stone walls are magnificent, though. The inner moat is bordered by a granite stone wall that makes an interesting study of contrasts with the steel-and-glass skyscrapers surrounding the castle. The stone wall seems to obstinately resist the encroaching development – to no avail. Osaka is no Kyoto. Stone and moat are no match to advancing modernization here, hence the castle elevators.

Stone Wall and Moat

The Old and The New

Stained Stone

Just past the Sakuramon Daimon - the front gate – is an immense block of stone, the largest in Osaka-jo, called Tako-ishi or Octopus Stone. It is one of the few extant structures from the 15th century within the castle grounds. The name is derived from the ramifications of iron ore that stained the stone. Moreover, there are charcoal-black stains on the surface – scorch marks from the burning of Sakuramon Daimon during a civil war in the 1860s.

Tower at Twilight

On the other side of town, the sunset view of the urban landscape is likewise spectacular atop Tsutenkaku (Osaka Tower), but eerily so. The vivid reds and pinks looming over the concrete jungle is a scene straight out of the apocalyptic animation of Akira.

Crimson Sky

But Japan is the Land of the Setting Sun in another sense. The country has the highest percentage of elderly population in the world. And with a plummeting birth rate, this demographic is ever increasing. A stroll in Osaka Castle Park seemed to illustrate the statistic.

Newsreader at the Park

I saw scores of middle-aged men and the elderly taking in the oasis-like tranquility of the city park and the soft light of the late afternoon. The time and place was a visual haiku: Zen in its simplicity, poignant in its beauty, brief in its existence.

Profile of a Perch

A verse by Matsuo Basho, Japan’s most famous haiku writer (or I must say, haiku master!), encapsulates the scene’s emotional undercurrent perfectly, succinctly.

“Swallow in the dusk…

spare my little

buzzing friends

Among the flowers.”

The Stroller

I wanted to linger in this peaceful park in the middle of Osaka. But I had to say sayonara in the fading twilight.

Sayonara!

For the Sake of Sake

Kobe / Osaka, Japan

June 24, 2009

Kissed? Check. Touched? Check. Drunk? Not until I turned 40! I had to go all the way to Osaka to get sloshed. All for the sake of sake!

O-sake!

It all began innocently enough in Kobe. My host couldn’t decide what place to show me. So with a little help from my trusty Lonely Planet, I suggested the Hakutsuru Sake Brewery Museum. Being a culture vulture, I was elated by a museum visit. Plus, admission is free!

The brewery is quite inconspicuous, nestled among factories in Nada district, a rather heavily industrial area, but the place is known as the sake capital of Japan. It is so worth the getting-lost-and-asking-around.

Punky Brewers

The museum has life-like mannequins in dioramas showing the steps in making sake - from rice to wine – with English explanations on video screens. The process was incredibly tedious, before machines took over the job. People would go to any length for an upper!

Mix n Mash

Rice was steamed, moulded, hydrated, stirred, fermented, and pasteurized. All these took about a couple of weeks. Then, the resulting concoction was poured into barrels and the flavorful aroma reportedly drew rowdy cheers from the brewers.

Roll Out the Barrel(s)!

But of course, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Or in this case, drinking. After going through the two-level museum, a reward awaited in the form of a sake sampler. My very first sake was surprisingly sweet. It was perhaps of the nigori variety, which I found to have just the right combination of sweetness and sting. It was love at first sip!

Love at First Sip (it doesn't look it though...)

The sake shot came in handy for the last stop in the museum – the photo op. Cindy and I, at this point a bit giddy, donned the sake brewer’s blue uniform, complete with a Karate Kid headband, and made our snake karate moves (or is it the leaping crane move?).

The Karate Kids

I’ve never tippled; I can only manage a bottle or two of beer at a time, even before my bout with pancreatitis. Where’s the fun in nausea, barfing, and incoherent speech? But that sake shot made me reconsider. So off to an izakaya in Osaka we went.

An izakaya is a Japanese pub – usually an after-work refuge for “salarymen” to down their stresses with sake or beer. But I saw lots of young people of college age too. It’s clearly a place where the Japanese let their hair down – chatter, laughter, and shouts of kampai fill the dimly-lit room.

But it’s light-years different from its Filipino counterpart – the “beerhouse” – which is a lot cruder. An izakaya is more like a family restaurant: amiable ambiance, wholesome fun (as far as I’ve experienced, anyway), and good food.

A Hole in the Wall?

Our hosts brought us to Toho Kenbunroku, which I think is a chain izakaya. It looks like a hole-in-the-wall from the outside, but the interior is big and crowded. I instantly liked the atmosphere – the youthful servers were efficient yet casual enough to banter with, bamboo poles separated tables to allow some privacy, the clientele was obviously in high spirits (pun intended).

The food rocked too. I especially loved the yakitori (skewered chicken) and tsukemono (pickled eggplant). Both went down well with, of course, sake. I had one too many shots; I started to feel like I was spinning around (with all due respect to Kylie Minogue). I think I talked a lot, even more than usual. What else I did, I would not divulge here. Suffice it to say that it was all a blur. But in a nice way.

Drunken Master

The next time I’d find myself in Japan, I’d definitely make a beeline for an izakaya. All for the sake of sake. Kampai!