Homeward Bound

The journey home from Nara via Tokyo felt like it took a very long time and involved a hostel reminiscent of my youfff as a grubby traveller. Frenchie tried to get me to eat raw chicken and gut stew, insisting that I'd get used to the texture, and everything we tried to visit was closed.

To compensate, though, we cashed in on the perks of Frenchie's last moments as a corporate crocodile fatcat and demanded our rightful entry into the Japanese Airlines First Class Lounge at Narita Airport which, with free massage, showers, food, papers, chocolate drops, tea and a very well stocked bar, was a very nice way to finish the holiday.

Better not get used to it though as, to save me from a life of domestic expat housewife bliss, Frenchie has sold his life into a servitude of Yorkshire puddings and drizzle. Consider this exclusive breaking news: the blog might have to stop as I go back to classes of 30 and the drive for the magic C grade, but you'll have me back on hallowed UK soil as of September or October, you lucky things!

Nara

It started raining again just in time for our trip to Nara, which took just a few less trains than our trip to Koya-san, but the same amount of cable cars.  We quickly realised that there were two main attractions in Nara: temples and deer. Because of our eagerness in Kyoto and Koya-san, we were already experts in temples, and the deer - allowed to roam freely as sacred entities because a long time ago a God rode into Nara on the back of a white stag - quickly lost their charm. They were smelly, pooped everywhere and tried to steal our food. Watching small children being traumatised when they bought a packet of deer biscuits and tried to feed one friendly looking deer only to be cornered against a lamppost by a whole insistent herd was an amusing past time, though.

Fortunately, though, we found other things of divine beauty to keep us occupied during our two days in Nara, the old, old capital of Japan...

Day Nine: Festival of Lights 

Our hotel manager was very shocked to hear that we were visiting Nara with no previous knowledge of the Festival of Lights that was due to take place over the next two nights. We were lucky, he informed us.  Very lucky indeed.  Frenchie, intrepid world traveller, who is self-proclaimedly 'impossible to impress' stared at the hotel manager, dead pan.

Frenchie: (in his mind) Festival of Lights?  Are you kidding me?

Me: (tugging at Frenchie's sleeve) Ooh!  Festival of Lights!  That sounds pretty!  Doesn't it?  Doesn't it darling?  Yes, yes.  Let's go tonight!

It turned out that the Festival of Lights was very pretty and included thousands and thousands of candles set up in impressive displays all across the deer park and there were also light displays and lanterns and thousands of people and the policemen manning the crossroads had loudspeakers and helium balloons in the shape of cartoons.  I really think this is the type of thing that could work as a school fundraiser.  All you need is lots of candles, a responsible crowd, art students with VISION, buckets of water and the support of the local fire brigade who would be topless...

... Anyway, the best thing of all was the STREET FOOD, of which I shall have to add photos because it was so goooooood, so Frenchie and I grazed up and down the stalls until we felt sick and had to go and drink cocktails in a posh hotel where Einstein once played the piano to make ourselves feel better.

Here is a gallery of some of the street food.  There was more, but I was too busy stuffing my face with it to get a photo:

Recently, when asked to release an official statement about the Festival of Lights, Frenchie thought for a minute, rubbed his chin pensively, and told our sources here at Vietnam? Yes please! "... I loved the food."

A success!

Day Ten: Kimonos

Since we had vetoed visits to temples or any buildings made of wood, there really wasn't much to do in Nara once we'd taken a million blurry photos of decoratively arranged candles and street food in various stages of preparation.  No trip to Japan would be complete, however, without the purchasing of a beautiful kimono, entirely purposeless to a Western girl once outside of Japan, so we walked around all the shops until we found a kimono that I liked, we let a shop assistant dress me up in it, took photos of me pretending to be Japanese and then bought it.  I'd like to say I know how to recreate this look but in reality, it relies on the aid of the video that Frenchie took of me being dressed up in it, clear instructions from Frenchie to hold here, tuck here, turn around, tighten, and several attempts before getting it right... and even then it's not quite as good as the man did it originally.

Obviously, there are few instances in my daily life that call for a kimono so I'd be super grateful if you'd hold a fancy dress party sometime in the near future with an appropriate theme (Around the World, WW2, 'Memoirs of a Geisha', Asian), and invite me. I'm also available for International Days, Women of the World Emancipation Days and for school or amateur plays. 

The kimono culture is fascinating in Japan and made me feel sad that the UK doesn't really have a national costume. The Japanese love wearing their kimonos and the minute there is any suggestion of tradition (Sunday afternoon temple visit, waitressing, dinner with parents, meeting boyfriend's parents, Festival of Lights, visiting a historical place) they whack those kimonos and obis on and totter around in socks and wooden flip flops and they're loving it!  (All photos taken to illustrate this point are extremely stalkery and mostly show the backs of people.)  The same thing happens with the Vietnamese - national day?  Ao dai, please!  Wedding?  Ao dai!  Ceremony or big event?  You guessed it: ao dai!

I wish Britain - or should I say England since the Scots, Welsh and Irish have their kilts/dancing dresses - had a kimono culture.  Maybe I should start a campaign?

Koya-san

On Day Seven, a typhoon arrived. The lady we had made friends with by speaking a mixture of Spanish and English with in the very cute coffee shop across from the space hotel informed us that it would rain like this for at least a week, i.e. the remaining duration of our trip. Ooh, thought the Brit in me, starting to list all the fun stuff that one can do on a rainy day: museum trips, art house cinema, theatre, long lunches, pottery classes, art galleries, read a book, write a book... and then Frenchie reminded me that our next destination was in the mountains and our principle aim was to walk outside a lot, see lots of temples and experience nature. Hmm... very annoying as I had not packed my waterproof trousers and our matching honeymoon macintoshes have turned out to be nothing more than shower-proof windbreakers.

Luckily, because of the typhoon, we spent the entire day trying to get to Koya-san on a Japanese rail network that does not seem to be waterproof. There was a lot of rain, to be fair.

In total, we ended up taking one subway train, two buses, four overground trains and one cable car to get to our next little hotel, which was very cute. It was basically a little tin hut with a slanted roof and white wooden beams everywhere inside like a Swedish mountain home. Even with a host couple who entirely lacked a sense of humour or any personality warmth at all, it was very cosy. So, despite the rain, there were still some great highlights in Koya-san...

Day Seven: Buddhist Cemetery

When we woke up the following morning, it was still raining and after a very slow breakfast, we were beginning to feel like rats in a very comfortable cage. The miserable host couple advised us that we should not venture out until the afternoon or following morning, but coupled with the list of 'don'ts' that we were showed when we checked in (don't make loud noises, don't eat or drink in the rooms, don't come back after 22:30), we were inclined to smile politely at their advice whilst donning our raincoats and asking if we could borrow their umbrellas. 

We thus went on a very rainy exploration of the town, which mostly included walking through the waterlogged UNESCO site of Okunoin* where more than 20,000 Japanese people have been buried since the 9th century in an attempt to get closer to a chap named Daishi who reposes in eternal meditation in a spot at the top of the cemetery. Apparently, the closer to Daishi you're buried, the quicker you're likely to get to Nirvana, though I'm not entirely sure how this works, and, as Frenchie pointed out, we're not sure if distance from his shrine impacts the speed at which you complete your cycle of reincarnation. Is burial land, for example, more expensive the closer you are to Daishi?  Or is it reserved for really holy people?  Or is it a simple marketing, like, 'Well they were on their fifteenth life anyway, so they're likely to reach Nirvana pretty soon: bury them close to Daishi to propagate the belief.'  And how does one know which life one is on at any rate?

Anyway, the Buddhist gravestones are very atmospheric and make for great photos (coming soon) and mostly comprise of the five element pillars that incorporate symbols for water, air, earth, fire and space, and figures of Buddha dressed in bibs, poignant offerings from families who are requesting that Daishi look after children who have passed away in their next lives, or, less poignantly but still very touchingly, to protect children who are still alive. 

The whole cemetery sits in a vast cedar wood, home to some trees that are 600 years old. What with the smell of wet cedar, the impressive moss-covered tombs and the relatively abandoned site thanks to the rain, it turned out to be a very good visit after all, despite the weather!

Day Eight: Morning Prayers

After visiting Okunoin we made a halfhearted effort to visit some more temples, which mostly involved sitting around in a tea room whilst a monk delivered a speech which was both informative and amusing. We understood none of it, but we laughed when everyone else laughed and gazed, fascinated at the artwork he was gesturing to, nodding in an engaged sort of way until there was an appropriate moment to stealthily slink out without causing offence.  

In the process of our slinking, we slunk past a room where a few other monks had gathered for prayers, and in Buddhism, this means chanting yourself into a meditative state, which is really very effective because the male voices are so deep and resonating and the chants repetitive and utterly unmelodious that a wall-of-sound effect is created and it really is very difficult to think of anything else other than the words being repeated. Every now and again, they change rhythm and words just to shake it up a bit, and the conductor-monk at the front rings a bell or hits a drum or some claves together to indicate the transition and then chants the new chant, which is the repeated by the monks in a call and response fashion. It's like psalms, but without harmonies. 

I was thoroughly hypnotised and decided that maybe I should try out this Buddhism malarkey, but old habits die hard and I ruined the moment a little by automatically singing my own tune and the words of 'The Lord is my Shepherd' over the top under my breath, using the chant as a pedal note.  However, this little taster of Buddhism firmed my resolve to get up at 5:30am the following morning to go to Daishi's eternal resting place shrine and attend morning prayers. So excited was I by this plan that I woke both Frenchie and I up at 4:15am, like a small child waiting for Christmas, just so that we wouldn't miss it. 

Walking through Okunoin at 5:45am was a great way to set the tone for my potential conversion to Buddhist mysticism: all misty and quiet and lit by that morning dawn light which is a bit thinner and milkier than normal daytime light. Everything was made all the more floaty by the rubbing of the palms with what I hoped was ceremonial purifying incense and not the still-hot ashes of those waiting to be buried, and the taking off of shoes and the quiet padding into the shrine. The first five minutes, too, of the monks getting all their offering bits and pieces ready and starting their first chant, was very exciting and spiritual and you I congratulated myself for being all respectful and open-minded and y'know, like I'd cut all bonds with capitalism and MacDonalds. 

After ten minutes though, I realised that this was an hour long ceremony and it really did begin to feel like Sunday morning term time psalms: numb bum, constant need to change position, drooping eyelids, attempt to count the number of ceiling tiles or candles to pass the time, or calculate the number of Buddhists per year that fall asleep during meditation and achieve enlightenment by dreaming about their husbands being mugged and revellers being water-cannoned in Brazil as I later did according to the estimated number of Buddhists per country that I had just made up. 

Slightly less spiritually and open-mindedly, I nudged Frenchie (who had definitely fallen asleep but thankfully was not being mugged or water cannoned) about forty five minutes in and suggested that leaving now might be more respectful than dribbling on the tatami mats, so we snuck out and went back to bed, passing McDonalds for a bacon on and egg mcmuffin on the way back to the hotel. 

Day Eight: Pilgrimage  

With all these temples and tea rooms, chanting, incense and prayers, zen gardens, rock gardens and shrines, we felt we had almost completed our Buddhist discovery experience in this sacred place of Koya-san but we were still missing one essential spiritual element: the pilgrimage.  

Way, way back in the 9th century, pilgrims walked all the way up Mount Koya with long wooden sticks, got to the top and normally became monks, or at least stayed for a little bit to do some meditation (or "spiritual sleep" as Frenchie likes to think of it). This means men, obviously, as women weren't allowed past a certain point as they were distracting and probably impure until 1906 when something must have happened.  There are thus lots of hiking trails through the woods surrounding Koya village helpfully colour coded by the Koya-san tourist office that were mostly carved out by the mothers, daughters and wives who were either desperate to pass gifts or news on to their husbands, fathers and sons (not allowed) or were interested in achieving their own enlightenment on Koya-san (also not allowed). 

We decided to do the red one in the morning, picnic, and join the blue one in the afternoon. By midday, however, we found ourselves stumbling upon a quarry-type building site where a few men in a construction trailer and some dirty vans smiled at us, as bemused as we were. Once again, we adopted Frenchie's No-Social-Shame-Ask-Without-Fearing-Embarrassment technique, which involves me assuming the Pose of Uselessness a little way behind him as he either does Flirting-With-Beautiful-Foreign-Women or Being-Masculine-And-Having-Banter-With-Foreign Men, as was the case in this scenario, in order to get us out of whatever pickle we have found ourselves in.  After three or four conversations, embarrassed laughter and admonitions that either the map was rubbish or all the men were as rubbish at reading the map as we were or not from around here, the boss told his mate to take us to where we clearly wanted to go in his grubby Toyota. We were very grateful for such an offer - cue much bowing and arigato-ing - but where we clearly wanted to go was actually back to where we had just been, which was not where we actually wanted to go, but the offer of a lift was kind of the Japanese guy so we enjoyed the scenery and made a big display when we got out of the car that went something along the lines of 'Ah, here we go!  Yes, exactly!  This is the place we were looking for!  Daimon. Dai-mon. Yes, very good!  Domo arigato!'

After that, we gave up on the red line and ate ice cream for a bit before we figured out how to get to the blue line without having to ask anybody for directions. The blue line turned out to be far more successful and sweaty, with lots of ups and downs, prompting Frenchie to reason that, as a pilgrimage, it was supposed to be difficult because it helped you to think of God, or something. Good Christian girl that I am, I did spend some time musing on the great celestial being and Frenchie probably reflected on that in which he strongly believes: fish. 

There was also amazing food in Koya-san, in a tiny restaurant run by one man that cooked everything and a lady who served everything very quickly. 

Kyoto

Urgh. I woke up on Tuesday morning with the overwhelming urge to see temples. LOTS of temples. No.  ALL the temples. "Frenchie!" I cried, "Why have we not yet seen ALL the temples?!" and Frenchie, because he is good, took me to a very fast train, destination All Temples.  Very good.

Three hours later we arrived in Kyoto, city of UNESCO World Heritage temples*, Japanese gardens and geishas (ambiguous - what is their role, exactly?  What should I think of them?  Why am I not allowed in the bars that they work in?). As in Tokyo, there were many, many things that were seen and done, but I'll choose the highlights because even these ended up in a pretty lengthy blog last time.  Some other (more romantic) activities, if you are very interested, are detailed in the wedding gift thank you blog, to be found here: www.emandnicosweddinglist.blogspot.com but I will be ignoring them for this blog and focusing on the Li Hi and intellectual stuff. Romance?  Pah!

Day Four: Capsule Hotel

Japan: famous for small-space living, simplicity and clever storage solutions.  For Frenchie, who introduced me to the life-changing beauty of the Muji packing pocket and the 'proper' folding of clothes, and whose current Christmas present wish list includes a thin leather wires organiser, Japan is a land of cultural and lifestyle resonance. I think he truly feels like he belongs here. 

I'm more of a mess-maker and cosy-chaos appreciator, but was very excited by the concept of spending three nights pretending that I live in a space shuttle (and avoiding insanely expensive Kyoto hotels) in this quintessentially Japanese hotel alternative:

Wow.  Now, to stay in such hotels, you really have to master the art of logistics and following a domestic routine because if you don't follow a set of exact steps, you find yourself without underwear or shoes at a moment where underwear and shoes are very necessary. 

Firstly, you take off your shoes and put them in a very small locker and put on a pair of hotel-issued slippers. Then, you take out and reorganise your Muji packing pockets so that you have your shower stuff, underwear and an outfit for the following day. Then you take the correct gender lift (boys and girls on different floors and the girls' lift does not stop on the boys' floor) and go up to the shower and locker room. You place your Muji pocket and shower stuff in the big locker and remove the hotel-issued flannel pyjamas. Then you take the lift to the sleeping capsules and you remove your slippers, climb into the capsule and change into your flannel pyjamas. Then sleep. 

In the morning, you put on slippers, take the gender lift down to the shower and locker room, open your locker, remove your hotel-issued towel and change of clothes, shower and change, dispose of hotel-issued towel and pyjamas in allocated wash bins, but retain slippers, do your hair and make up opposite a little mirror, collect all your affairs, take the gender lift downstairs, repack the Muji pocket, check out, return slippers and reclaim shoes from the very small locker. 

Safe to say, I only figured out this routine on my last day at the hotel and found myself on numerous occasions caught in the awkward abyss somewhere between locker, flannel pyjamas, underwear and lift. 

Day Four: Murin-an

According to my research, the word 'Kyoto' in old Japanese means 'land of the exhaustive temples and Japanese rock gardens'**. Thus it was only natural for us to plan to visit EVERY temple on offer.  Once we got to about seven, though, we'd figured out the deal and were ready to fill our camera with photos of mountain cemeteries instead (later - be patient). However, on day four, we set out on foot to search for a secluded garden away from the tourist crowds that Frenchie had found in a mystical book of zen known as the Insight Guide.  This garden promised isolation, calm and enlightenment after a very long, sweaty walk of Vinegar Bra proportions from one temple to another. 

The little garden did not disappoint. Down a little road surrounded by residential houses and the zoo (of course) we found a lady sitting in an air conditioned wooden ticket booth waiting with an information leaflet and a small sign that said 'Murin-an'.  Because of the previous walk, I did a lot of sitting and contemplating the big questions of the universe, inspired by the garden: What was for lunch?  Was I satisfied with my new Muji flip flops?  Was there a laundrette nearby to revive my quickly depleting holiday wardrobe?  Should I have applied but spray before leaving the hotel?

Hmm... I'm not convinced I fully understand the Buddhist principles of the Japanese garden and the questions I should be moved to ask myself whilst reposing in one.  From what I've heard, it takes one many lifetimes to reach this enlightened state of understanding - maybe me a few more lifetimes than most - but what I do currently understand is that it's all about Buddhist aesthetics, which in Emma language translates as pretty lines and curves, rocks with deep symbolic meaning, trees with delicate leaves of varying colours through which the light shines in a soothing fashion and carp. Also bridges and tea houses.  I shall read more about it so as to recreate it with the authenticity of deep cultural understanding in my next abode so if you're ever stuck for a housewarming present, a rock, or a goldfish will do just nicely. 

What was also cool about this garden was that it was the historical site for an important discussion between Japanese ministers regarding something to do with the Russo-Japanese War in the early twentieth century (I have heard that this was a war. I was unaware of it before this trip and feel there should be a film).  There was a little house next to the tea room all set out in exactly the way it would have looked in 1903 for this meeting which, admittedly was a fairly simple set up, but it was still cool and sort of re-enacty. 

Day Five: a The Philosopher's Path

Over breakfast on Day Four, Frenchie confidently informed me that today we would be visiting Murin-an, the above garden of calm repose, and also walking along the Philosopher's Path, a small and pretty canal track made famous by a clever man and his wife, who planted 300 cherry trees along it, who walked this path doing lots of thinking, philosophising and meditating. Along said path were many quiet and hidden temples, unmolested by the tourist masses. Cool. 

After we had visited Murin-an, we definitely found the beginning of the path, concealed by a temple and an attractive aqueduct. Satisfied at having found his day's site seeing goal, Frenchie pranced along by the canal eagerly anticipating the emergence of the first hidden temple. 

We saw a disused railway and a hydroelectric works and a small bridge that lead to a hill.  Frenchie, in a sad and lost voice asked me where the temples were. I replied, horrified at having to be the bearer of disappointment, that I did not think that this was the right path, even though it was very pretty and I was having a lovely time.  Unconsoled, Frenchie walked back to the aqueduct, head hanging, potentially hiding tears of deep sadness. He comforted himself later with okonomiake and after a bit if research, we found the real entrance to the path the next day, rented bikes and tried again. 

This time, the legend of the path did not fail us and we had a beautiful walk along the canal ducking in and out of deserted mouse temples and shaded gardens and tea houses and planning our retirement in Japan in a small house overlooking the canal. A nice lady gave us a wooden prayer token for free, upon which we did not write prayers, but instead added to the ever growing stash of souvenirs-we-don't-know-what-to-do-with and we even had a picnic on a bridge and a green tea cappuccino (disgusting) and got to pose for this brilliantly terrible couples photograph where I learnt that in France, they don't sit cross-legged for assemblies in primary school, so such a sitting position is excruciatingly painful to an untrained adult. Who knew?

I prefer this one, where our faces are completely obliterated and you can appreciate the full extension of my freakishly long neck, silhouetted against a pretty Japanese garden.  Can you spot Frenchie's determination to master cross-leggedness?

Days Four - Six: Temples

 There were lots of them and now I have mostly forgotten their names, but they were all very pretty. My favourite might have been the GOLD temple as it offered so many opportunities for honeymoon photo posing and because I got told off by a Spanish man for taking a rubbish photo of him and his wife and he wouldn't let me carry on my visit until I had taken the exact photo he wanted.  Or the RED one, because I arrived, having ridden in a head-down-show-no-weakness sort of mindset, nodding doggedly every time Frenchie turned, with the happy smile of those who have grown up riding bikes in the country, to joyfully cry, "Iz zis not fun?  You can feel ze sense of freedom, no?  'Ow I love ze bicycle!", and promptly achieved zen by falling asleep in the doorway. Frenchie took photos with my camera so that I could always claim that I had visited the RED temple properly, which was very considerate and clever of him, I feel,but I'm happy with accepting that we all achieve tourist enlightenment in different ways.  When we get back, I shall add a very amusing photo of me achieving said enlightenment which I think you will all want to see, so make sure to check the blog again in 7-10 working days!

As promised: completely zen-like state.

* For an amusing story of how UNESCO has previously featured in my life, click here: , http://emmadoessouthamerica.blogspot.jp/2009/09/jesuit-ruins.html

** this is a lie

Tokyo

So.  Officially, the next adventure worthy of a blog post is a honeymoon trip, but all that mushy crap is not particularly Li Hi so for the sake of the blog I'll only passingly refer to the suave European man, the champagne and the sprinkling of rose petals when absolutely necessary.  The destination of choice was Japan, not Rome as we promised our wedding guests because we are fickle as people and also have spent a lot of our early summer on flights to and from Europe because we're just so international and the jetlag is a killer. 

Our first stop was Tokyo, and whilst there was a lot of prep and build up that mostly involved purchasing the entire stock of Muji and convincing Frenchie that matching honeymoon lightweight raincoats from Uni Qlo was a GREAT idea, I'll skip that bit so that we get to the highlights a little quicker just in case you are reading this on your coffee break. This photo probably best sums up the journey from Singapore:

We did many, many things in Tokyo and, determined to make like a Japanese and snap, I took photos of all and everything on my big grown up camera, not on my casual iPad (it just doesn't set the right tourist tone). We shall sit through all six million and four of them when I next see you and I will give you a detailed commentary about each one, including what I was trying to do with the different light settings and manual zoom but for now, let's focus on the highlights, accompanied by scant visual media...

Day One: Awesome Japanese Food (No English)

One really exciting thing about Japan is that, like the French, they consider themselves above the English language. I can't blame them: just the toilet seats are a simple symbol of how advanced this country is, everything is clean and well maintained, the citizens are enviably fashionable (in all senses of the word fashion) and I write this from my space capsule hotel room. Clearly, they are better than the Brits.  Sorry. Japan is really cool. Even more than this, they already have three forms of written language, so let's give them a break from bothering with another one, hey?

Of course, there are designated people at designated tourist spots like train stations and museums who speak beautiful English but unlike Vietnam where anyone under the age of 30 can have a pretty basic conversation with you on the street and wants to practice their English, the Japanese look at you with a kind, pitying look and continue to speak a lovely, trickling waterfall language and gesture very clearly. Then they nod, smile and bow and talk a bit more. Very effective communication because most things rely on tone and gesture anyway - that's mostly how Frenchie and I get by!

ANYWAY, on our first night, we decided to Be Cool and get away from the crowds in a district called Ningyong where there were lots of little dark streets illuminated by the occasional red lantern. We found the biggest red lantern and stepped confidently inside to find we had hit the jackpot: cool Japanese couples smoking and having intellectual conversations in the corner, a thick sakitori mist hanging in the old wooden beams, tiny tables and chairs, chefs on display with ninja headscarves, really loud, drunk Japanese men yelling at each other on the table next to us, vintage Sapporo adverts plastered on the walls, not another whitey in sight.  Yeeeaaahh.  That's the local eating we're talking about.

As we were feeling all smug and down with the Japanese locals, the nice waitress sat us down and handed us the menu. Ahaha. We smiled and asked for the menu in English. After a few more goes, once the waitress had figured out what we wanted, she laughed and shook her head.  No, no menu in English and no English on her side either. Why would she bother?  All we had managed to learn before the trip was konichiwa and arigato.  Silly tourists.  Luckily, the word 'beer' is universal and this bought us some thinking time whereupon Frenchie hit on the idea of disturbing the romantic couple next to us to politely request their help. They were under 30, thus they probably wanted to practice their English. This is good expat thinking. However, all this lead to was yet another fun exchange and a very embarrassed looking Japanese boyfriend who definitely did not want to practice his English.  Eventually, the aloof Japanese girlfriend blew smoke into the air, looking cool, and ordered us some pork teriyaki and they both finished their cigarettes and left, their hip evening probably ruined by lamo tourists. 

So.  Abandoned by our only friends, but very much enjoying the success of Frenchie's quick expat thinking, it became clear that we would have to adopt his approach of No-Social-Shame-Ask-Without-Fearing-Embarrassment over my preferred, and more British, Avoid-Drawing-Attention-Attempt-To-Depart-Through-Toilet-Window method.  Thus, every dish that came out of the kitchen that we liked the look of, whether we knew exactly what is was or not, we pulled the waitress to the side and pointed encouragingly, repeating 'one' with a very enthusiastic index finger and the smiles or idiots.  Other than the fact that it bothers other customers and the staff, this is a very effective way of getting fed and I highly recommend leaving your dignity at the door and employing it when in Japan.  We used it again at a grill place in Tokyo and a barbeque place in Kyoto except that in the first place, the chicken turned out to be offal and in the second, Frenchie ended up ordering tongue, which I then had to spit out into a napkin and hand back to the patiently unimpressed chef. 

Day Two: Tsukuji Tuna Auction

Everyone knows that Frenchie loves fish, right?  Like, really likes fish.  They're his favourite.  Every time he comes food shopping with me, it takes twice as long because we have to stop at the fish counter, name every type of fish at the fish counter, confirm the names of the fish by engaging the nice Singaporean fishmonger in friendly fish banter, comment on the freshness of the fish according to the clarity of their eyes and something telling about their gills, bet on whether they are wild or farmed, double check with the fishmonger to see if we are right, nod knowingly and discuss the reasons that farmed fish are more expensive or why wild fishing is unsustainable... yadah yadah yadah and that's before I even ask him which fish he wants to buy for dinner and how he was thinking of cooking it (this then begins the 'how to fillet a fish' conversation).  We do the same thing when we go to aquariums or art galleries where there are fish in the paintings.  Frenchie's love for fish is probably only rivalled by Matt Watson's, a man who took it a step too far and actually joined the Fish Police (or founded them, I don't know). 

Understandably, then, Frenchie was SUPER excited about the Tsukuji Fish Market, the biggest fish market in - who knows? - the WORLD, and in JAPAN of all places, THE place for the fish industry and super high quality fish and octopus and shellfish. I'll admit, even I was perversely excited.  I mean, how many fish can you actually cram into one space?  What does it smell like?  How many varieties are there?  Are they alive?  Is there special equipment?  I needed to know.

So, Frenchie did his research and we set off at stupid o' clock to see the tuna auction, which started at 5am and lasted for an unknown period. We figured that rocking up at around 5:30am would be cool - don't want to look too keen, y'know, about fish (losers) - so we stalked a couple off the subway who were holding fish baskets (this is a thing) and were clearly destined for the fish market.  By this time, Frenchie was so excited that he was doing his fast, anticipating stride and ended up about twenty metres in front of me without even noticing I had lagged behind, struggling with decaffeination. 

Imagine my empathetic disappointment therefore when I caught up with Frenchie, who had stopped to talk to a friendly fish guard, and discovered that the tuna auction started at 5am, was now over, and the queue to be one of the lucky 120 people chosen on a first come, first serve basis as public members of the audience, started at 3am most mornings. I was genuinely sad. Poor Frenchie.  He put on a brave face and bought souvenirs with the fish market logo on them to console himself, and we ate sashimi for breakfast in a VERY cool alley restaurant, which did make things better. 

Three hours later when the market reopened for tourists, we were feeling a little more awake, so we dried our tears and took lots of photos of fish and fishmongers and I let Frenchie tell me all their names (the fish, not the mongers) to help distract him. There were some ENORMOUS lumps of tuna, and we stood and looked at them with a sort of subdued attitude of mourning, but then we saw the ice machine, which was AWESOME and looked like it had been invented in the 1860s for a Jules Verne novel and then we bought mugs with fish on them and by that time we'd forgotten all about the tuna. Phew. 

Day Two: The Dark Road to Sociopathy

Now, this counts as a highlight simply because it was culturally so far away from anything that Frenchie and I are comfortable with.  I am too old now to be polite about things that I see as clearly, inarguably, capital W Wrong (FGM, stoning, crack cocaine, polygamy etc.) so apologies if the following feels at all culturally intolerant: if you are a die hard Call of Duty fan, this is not the section for you, so fast forward to the Edo-Tokyo Museum. 

Japan is obviously famous for it's technology, computer games and manga. I don't have an issue with any of these things, really, but I feel pretty strongly about computer games that involve shooting things that are presented as alive.  I wasn't allowed to play computer games as a kid, and after being vaguely fascinated by Zelda at a friend's house, returned to books when I realised I didn't understand how the controls worked. Frenchie, on the other hand, had a healthy teenage boy and early twenties fixation with video games and knows what the x and the o button do, and at which point to hit the red and the green buttons. He was therefore very excited to visit a real life video arcade in Tokyo, the Mecca of gaming. 

The description of the video game district in the guide book sent chills down my child protection spine but, reminding myself that one should always be open to adventure and that not every man is out to destroy innocent children, I enthusiastically agreed to go to Akhibara and try out these arcades. There might be a dance machine, I reasoned, and I know how to use these and they make me feel like I can actually dance for real. 

When we arrived in Akihabara, I suppose it was really the 'living dolls' shop outside the station that started the alarm bells ringing again, but the bright lights were rather distracting and Frenchie was really excited by the thought of space age video game technology. The enormous posters of unrealistically proportioned manga girls in vadge-skimming school uniforms and the Japanese girls dressed as maids and made up to look like twelve year olds handing out leaflets was difficult to ignore, though. Marking this all up as 'cultural difference' and humming in a sort of passive aggressive way over the yelling feminist in my mind, Frenchie and I started hunting out our envisioned arcade and after a few false starts we found it!  There was a dance machine and a taiko machine. There were claw games, a whole floor of driving games, retro machines and touch screen football pitches, shooty games and - very cool indeed - space pods in which you could immerse yourself to shoot at aliens. I quite liked this one so we had a go and I was very bad at it. 

Next, we tried a shooty game because I was feeling all liberal and open minded but I got upset when I realised that all the male avatars were rugged and cool and made aggressive yelling noises and all the female avatars were in school uniform with their breasts hanging out (which stay completely still when they run and jump which is offensively unrealistic to anyone who has ever had to spend £30+ on a sports bra), have sparkly guns with star stickers on them, enormous eyes, and make sex noises when they get shot and fall in suggestive positions, normally face down. 

After this game, Frenchie too, was beginning to get creeped out, so we made a hasty exit past the long lines of middle aged men and teenage boys, the miniature porn dolls in the glass grabbing-crane case and the sad-looking, but very talented young man on the taiko machine, and stumbled out into the street to be faced with a thirteen year old girl (or what looked like) dressed as a nurse and a sex shop. 

Now, really, I'll agree that this is probably the most extreme version of video games and sex fetishes in the (possibly) world but the link between teenage boys playing violent video games in impossibly loud arcades, interacting for hours with nobody but the characters in shooty games at the detriment of real people friends, the creepy middle aged men staring at child-women avatars, the sex worker industry and, well, very unhealthy people and serial killers is very clear to me. No matter how much a guidebook tries to insist that it's all 'innocent enough', there is something inherently upsetting about this whole subculture that is a little bit unexplainable until you're standing in a dark, loud and smoky arcade wondering what had happened to Sonic the Hedghog and Lemmings and waiting for the mass murder and gang rape to begin. 

So, in summary, video arcades produce sociopaths. It's a fact.  If you have children, ask them (calmly - you don't know what effect the games have already had) to step away from these emotionally and socially damaging things, have a conversation with them about the great outdoors and their perceptions of the opposite gender and themselves whilst setting light to the console and then sign them up for some form of team sports.

Day Three: The Edo-Tokyo Museum of Miniature Realities

Following this dark and seedy atmosphere (I mean, the space pod game was really quite cool, to it's credit), we realigned ourselves as healthy adults by visiting the famed Edo-Tokyo Museum, a massive concrete edifice in a district called Ryogoku, the sumo district.  It's not very pretty - few post war buildings are - but it really is quite impressive because it's just so colossal. A huge, open concrete courtyard is shadowed by an overhanging floor, the two joined together by a bright red, long, plastic elevator tube and nothing else. Who knows what this space was designed for? Maybe the queues for the sumo tournaments?

Anyway, in comparison to this, once you get inside the museum, you are greated with two floors worth of impossibly intricate miniature worlds of Edo Japan (1100s-1867 when the Shoguns were about). Even though we couldn't understand many of the plaques in Japanese, the detail and painstaking effort that clearly went into these models was simply fascinating and kept us amused for a very long time, especially when we discovered the binoculars provided by the museum to get a closer look at the expression on the little models' faces and to peek in through the geishas' windows, and then outlined the exact rules of the 'take-a-picture-that-makes-the-model-look-real' game. The final deadline for this competition isn't until September, so I know you'll be waiting in anticipation for that news. There were also some interactive displays.  You know I sat in the geisha carrying vehicle and had my photo taken. Ooh yeah. 

What was really interesting about the museum was that, in comparison to a lot of Asian civilisation museums that I have seen (six in total, so a totally valid evaluation), at absolutely no point was there a big section about the
Brits/French/Dutch coming over and stampeding on native culture and generally being the stimulus for struggle. In fact, I later learned that when Christian missionaries (historical Good Guys when compared with Colonialists) came to Japan, the Shogunate laughed at them and said something along the lines of 'where missionaries come, colonialism follows', kicked them out and promptly banned Christianity. Now, I'm a nice Christian girl, but you can't say the Shogunate were wrong on that one, can you?

What the Japanese did do was get screwed over for a time by some American called Matthew C. Perry who was responsible for some sort of trade deal (historians?) but in the process of doing so, had a look at Western culture and, like Frenchie in a museum shop, pranced around excitedly saying, 'Ooh, we'll have this!  And this!  Oh, and two of those!  And this will go sooo nicely with my kimono, don't you think?' so basically, by the middle to end of the 19th century, Japan was totally, culturally awesome because they'd had nothing imposed on them, but chosen freely which parts of their own and other cultures to adopt. Amazing.  A bit sad that the histories of other countries' experience of Westeners didn't run so smoothly. 

What was also cool was the sheer pragmatism with which the WW2 Tokyo Air Raids were handled. Firstly, this section of the museum was proportionately sized in comparison with the 900 years that the exhibition aimed to cover and mostly focused on cool reconstructions of the methods used to bomb proof a Japanese home (made entirely of wood). One plaque, which made me smile (in a sort of respecting, not amused-at-destruction kind of way) explained why the death toll in Tokyo had been so high during the raids, listing 'effective US bombing techniques' as just one factor in a fairly frank list of 'wooden houses that lead to the quick spreading of fires after the raids, the rule that citizens were not permitted to leave until an official evacuation order had been passed, insufficient bomb shelters and population density'. I just think that's fair, don't you?  Far more fair than some other museums I have seen in my time and walked out of to puke because of the stench of the horrific bias.  Thanks, Japan. 

So, that's all for Tokyo. We then took a REALLY fast train to Kyoto, which is up next...