Earth Day and cetera

About a month ago, I participated in the Earth Day bike ride here in Tokyo. I'm only now posting something about it because I got pretty sick the next day, and was sick for awhile. Earlier today I found a video of the event, and I thought I'd share it.

The ride was actually not much fun--the route chosen was through main areas of the city, in a well-behaved and rather somber procession alongside cars and their exhaust. It lacked any feeling of camaraderie, something I think is essential for these kind of community events.

But it gave me a good view of the city, and encouraged me to ride home once it was over. I took the train to get there because I live far away from the city center, but the slow 20k ride had me itching to go for a longer, more strenuous ride. I found a fair route home from Shinjuku, something I have been meaning to do since I got here, and ended up riding about 50k for the day, I think. Unfortunately, the weather changed during the day and I got sick. But it was worth it.

Anyway, here is the video. I appear about half-way through, at about 4:55. The video is pretty blocky and it is probably hard to make me out, but I'm the tallest guy in the bunch, high up on my silly folding bike's saddle. They cut out the part where I waved, though!

I also found this video of a ride somewhere in Japan (not sure where, I sure would like to find out!). It gives you an idea of what dedicated cycling roads are like here. This is what I like to do whenever I get a chance!

Cherry blossom season is just about over, and I guess it is now time for the beginning of the spring rains.

I've been riding my bike around the area a bit, with a couple of lengthy trips punctuated by more frequent but shorter trips around my neighborhood. A couple of times I have been caught in cold rains that don't manage to dampen my enjoyment of the surprisingly rich variety of paths and sights to be taken in in Tokyo and Saitama. I am easily frustrated by the constant need to stop for "scooter barriers," on the one hand, and by being constantly threatened by the earth-destroying machines I have to share the road with (by that I mean the automobiles) on the other, but it is worth the aggravation when I find that tiny nook in the corner of this ridiculous city that convinces me this place is magical, somehow, though it doesn't know it.

On the way to Mizumoto park there is a random dirt path next to a river, lined with cherry trees and tall--tall some other kind of tree. There are outlets along the path, into places, usually playgrounds or small parks like the one below.


It feels almost secluded, though it is quite solidly in the Saitama-Chiba-Tokyo-Yokohama megalopolis.

This is the entrance to Mizumoto Park from the west. The cherry blossoms are gone now, but it felt as if a welcoming party had been thrown for me when I arrived. I'm always afraid I will find a return trip to Mizumoto leaves me jaded and unfulfilled, but every time the park takes my breath away.

The jewel of Tokyo rivers (for cyclists) is the Arakawa. Though it is punctuated by the futile yet determinedly constant "scooter barriers" you can see to the right in the picture below, it is remarkably long and goes through a number of varied environments.





Yes, there are two cows on the side of the bike path. At first I didn't even notice--perhaps a throw-back from travels around Lawrence. Once you get out of the city limits of Lawrence cows are pretty common, though of course they aren't grazing next to the road but are behind barbed-wire fences. But this is Saitama city, and cows are quite uncommon anywhere but Hokkaido--there just isn't room for them to roam. But these two seem to be quite famous--they are pictured on the cartoony map of the Arakawa bike path that appears in a sign along the path.


Another bit of scenery along the Arakawa. This is the price we pay--though the bike path is for pedestrians and bicyclists only, it is because the land around the Arakawa is surrounded by industrial plants and warehouses. This occasionally (particularly along the beginning of the Iruma river bike path that connects to the Arakawa) means some disturbingly unsavory smells.

But then you look at the other side of the path, and see that, well, there is some green left in the world. For the moment.

These later pictures are from a trip up to Kawagoe, one of the cities in Saitama. It keeps up some traditional architecture, and is usually called the "Little Edo" (again, Edo is the old name for Tokyo).


It was a 50 km (~30mi) bike trip, and I left rather late, so I made it there just before dark, thus the dark picture.

Today was Earth Day, and I went on a bike trip around Tokyo with a group called Urban Ecology. I hope to write a short article on that as well, but I have been meaning to post these images for some time and will stop here for the moment.

Just a quick request--take it easy on your car, at least for the day. Ride a bike, take a walk, breathe the air. It's fantastic, freeing. Or maybe you'll find it boring--but at least you didn't contribute to the crap in the air for a day!

Spring and a New Beginning

It never really was winter here (though the past week has been the coldest I've experienced in Japan), the flowers are beginning to bloom in Tokyo.

Spring is officially far more important here than in the US--the first day of spring is a national holiday, school begins and ends in spring, and students graduating from college enter the job they were accepted for the year before (this is, of course, the most common scenario and there are exceptions). The first major "sign" of spring is the blooming of plum trees, which have been in bloom for some time now.


The flowers in the two pictures here are of the peak blooming period for plums in Saitama, north of Tokyo. I just got a book on bike trips around Tokyo, Chiba, and Saitama, and went for a 50 km (~30 miles) trip north along the Shibakawa and Arakawa, two major bike courses in Tokyo which I am lucky enough to live next to.

This clock is at the intersection of the two rivers.

I plan to start training this week for a longer trip over the Golden Week holiday in May.

I can start training because I am just now finally wrapping up my move to Nishi arai and away from a jerk of a roommate. It has taken a lot of energy over the last month or so, but I am finally almost done and can focus on other things.


I moved to a beautiful apartment in a slightly more developed neighborhood. For less than what I paid at my old apartment, I have more space and less (meaning no) roommates. I use one room for a "day room", where I keep my computer and table, and the other for a bedroom, though this will probably change.


The room is on the top floor of a three story building, and while the view isn't fantastic, at least there is a view. My old apartment faced an elementary school, and there wasn't much light.


The apartment has a few details that really add to the atmosphere of the place, such as this wood paneling that lines the tatami in the bedroom.

There is also tiling on the walls and floors of the bathroom (ie, where the bath is), and tiling in the toilet room.

There's also an enormous amount of storage space sectioned off by nice looking but flimsy sliding doors.

Perhaps the best part is the bath--going into my bathroom feels like going into some special hot springs bath. It has a control panel that allows you to turn it on, go do something else, and return about 30 minutes later to a perfectly warmed bath. A heater continues to heat the water while you are in it as well.

The one thing that is a bit of a shock to foreigners moving to a new apartment in Japan is that nothing is included, usually--no refrigerator, no heater, and no oven. I got an oven, refrigerator, and washing machine, though, in one day from a "recycle shop", and had it delivered, all for about $300. I'm very pleased, so far, with the appliances.

There are some complaints about the new place, though--most importantly, I am still woken up early in the morning, though not as early as before. My neighbor wakes up fairly early, and around 8 or so starts making noise. Her balcony seems to be next to my bedroom, and the sound of the sliding door is frighteningly loud. In addition, the heater for the bath/shower is quite loud, and wakes me as well. If I got home before 11 pm, and got to sleep before 1 most nights, that wouldn't be a problem, but as it is it is a little frustrating. But at least it is a more reasonable time to be woken up.

The one thing that didn't happen at the old apartment but that is very annoying about the new one has to do with cars. I live fairly near a large street, which is not such a terrible thing. However, whenever a large truck drives by the house shakes like it is an earthquake. Not a pleasant feeling, and I worry about what will happen in the event of a real earthquake.

I'm happy, though, to be away from my old place, and hope that I'll get used to the new place fairly quickly.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Yes, that's right, I've rediscovered David Bowie. Certainly a genius, particularly with his Ziggy Stardust, but I won't go into that.

The truth is, a lot of things are changing/have changed.

I got a haircut...

My (shopping) bike was stolen...

I got a new one. I'm pretty happy with the new one, though I liked the style of the old one better. I got a deal, though, on the new one--for less than the price of the old one, I got six gears (the old one had only one), as well as a new-fangled light that is powered by magnets in the front hub that rotate as I ride. The old one had a light that operated on energy from a motor put in contact with the wheel, which would eventually wear down the wall of the tire. The new magnet technology is more self-contained, and even turns itself on automatically when it is dark!



I've been without a shopping bike for a couple of months, and while I like riding my folding bike, the shopping bike is much more fun for just cruising aimlessly.

The biggest change, however, is that I will soon be moving. I've been dealing with a roommate for nearly six months who comes home drunk at 4 - 6 in the morning, slamming doors and often bringing friends in. I wouldn't care much, but through the wall between my room and his I can make out every word of their conversation. More recently, he has found a Japanese girlfriend, and two times this week, when they came home at two in the morning, she yelled at him for an hour before wearing herself out.

So I'm moving. For weeks I have been saying to myself "six more weeks," "five more weeks," and now it is finally down to days... four days! In four days I'll be moving into a beautiful new apartment in not-particularly-fashionable-but-cheap Nishiarai, home to one of three special temples in Tokyo (I don't know why they are special...). It's near my place now, but there seems to be a bit more going on.

One odd thing about the new place is that all of the gas stuff uses propane--that's right, propane. The same stuff that's used for barbeques and that you see in huge tanks in rural Kansas. But this is Tokyo, in a decidedly non-rural area (I think the population of Adachi, the ward I live in, is somewhere around 700, 000, just a bit less than San Francisco)
Apparently, though, not only are houses equipped with tanks of propane in areas of Tokyo, all of the taxis in the entire city of Tokyo run on propane. That was a shock, and unfortunately I can't remember my source...

But what surprises me most is that in such an earthquake-prone area they have such obviously unsafe storage as the tanks below:


That is an explosion waiting to happen; but now that I've been made aware of it, I've noticed these tanks are everywhere. I guess maybe that tiny chain strung across the two tanks will be enough to stabilize them in case of a localized earthquake. Let's hope so.

Shirakawa and Takayama

It's been a long time since I've written. Not exactly sure why—I suppose I've just settled in, and lately my experience has been only of the dull day to day.

For my birthday, though, I decided it was time to do something special. I've managed to save a surprising amount of money, so I decided to do it up in style while visiting a part of Japan I've long dreamt about seeing: Shirakawago.


I have a real attraction to the minka, or traditional homes, of Japan. There are many varieties of minka, each fitting the climate of their location and the social status of the residents, but generally share a refined elegance that prefers untreated or lightly treated wood, an open central hearth, and a careful division of space. The minka in Shirakawago are important examples of the minka tradition because their like does not exist elsewhere in the world.


They were built by wealthy silk cultivators who developed the tall gables to allow both a large area for the silkworms as well as provide a steep grade that could shake off snow that used to collect meters deep. They often have three, sometimes four floors, only the lowest floor devoted to human living quarters—the rest were reserved for the silkworms and associated labor.


They have a rough beauty and pleasant heaviness that matches the surrounding mountains. The eaves are thickly thatched, about two feet deep. Inside, the posts can be several feet thick, and large, white ropes lash them together, so that the houses are built entirely from thatch, fiber, and wood without the need for metal nails or bolts. Smoke from the fire in the hearth was allowed to float up through the several floors and coat the wood and ropes, protecting them from insects.

They are a world treasure, and were recognized as such by the United Nations in 1995. The houses, collected in Ogimachi (where I stayed) and the five villages of Gokayama, were declared important World Cultural Heritage Sites.

I spent 24 hours in Shirakawa, and though that is a short time, the area is small enough that I felt a familiarity with the buildings by the time I left. In fact, I even stayed the night in one of them, called "Yokichi". I had hoped it would be like living in one of the old farmhouses, but because it had been sectioned off into rooms for guests, the effect was lost, and it ended up feeling like any other ryokan. Not a bad experience at all; however, I had hoped for more.


Still, the area is impressive, and I am glad I spent time there. I recommend, in particular, the open air museum that puts some of the houses on display along with farm implements and tools for silk cultivation. It is beautiful, and did the most to stimulate my imagination. Another part I enjoyed that I almost missed was a northern part of the village with only a few houses are separated by large fields. The other areas of Ogimachi are more concentrated, and though it isn't unpleasant, the wider fields feel more open.

Shirakawa is as spectacular as I thought—to be more precise, as moving and thought-provoking as I expected. Some part of me really longs for the solitary life of a farmer, cut off from the rest of the world for months at a time. Of course I would go nuts and do something along the lines of The Shining were I to actually experience it, but I just said it was thought-provoking.

But the real surprise of my trip was Takayama, a nearby city where I stayed the first and third nights of my trip. It's called "little Kyoto," and that name really is appropriate. It is a comfortable size, with beautiful lacquered merchants' houses lining three long streets and a translucent blue river flowing through new and old. My ryokan was built right on the edge of this river (the Miyakawa), and I sat looking at it as much as I could stand (it was really cold in my room, and sitting under the kotatsu was more pleasant).

It was my birthday weekend, and I received a gift I have been hoping for all winter: snow. There was snow on the ground in Shirakawa, but I didn't see any fall until my last day, when I woke up early and opened the room-width curtains to find snow, not only fallen, but falling.


Honestly, it almost brings tears to my eyes to remember that snow—I have craved snow all winter, and there it was, covering the cherry trees outside my window and falling in clumps of flakes I could almost hear from my room. This is mono no aware: the exquisite consciousness of shortness of life and unfeigned attention to the passing beauty of natural phenomena. It is a melancholy feeling that so suits my nature, a state I wish I could enjoy every moment. But by its very nature it cannot be grasped, or even last very long.


I walked through the magnificent streets and up a short hill to where a castle once stood, now long gone. I thought how difficult it must have been for the merchants and peasants in the city below to run up and down that hill every day; now there is nothing but a flat-topped hill and a temple left. It was utterly silent, except for the rustling of tree limbs and the wind blowing still heavy snow; then someone rang a bell in the temple below, and I thought that was one of the most beautiful sounds I had ever heard. Though I so often feel out of place in Japan and at home, I felt for a second that, for the first time in my life, I was meant to be there, at that moment, on top of that hill, listening to that bell.


I walked further to the top of the hill, then down. As if it truly was meant to happen just for that moment, the sky cleared when I reached a parking lot halfway down the hill, and by the time I left for the bus station the trees outside my room were once again brown, no longer touched heavy with white. I felt only a tiny bit of regret—I couldn't deny I was very lucky to experience what I had, even for a short while.

I have about 500 pictures, so I may post more later; here are a couple that didn't fit into the narrative above.


The wonderful dinner at the rough-around-the-edges but fantastic Sumiyoshi ryokan I stayed in in Takayama.


A weird frog-like gatekeeper I took a fancy to.

Kotatsu

After a month of waiting, I finally assembled a kotatsu today. A kotatsu, these days, is usually a table with a small heater built into the top of a frame, covered with a blanket and then topped with a tabletop. A couple of pictures might help you sort that all out:



(NB: my legs are supposed to be under the blanket)

It's a very elegant way of saving energy while increasing the pleasure of warmth in cold weather. I'm excited, not only about the kotatsu, but also about getting rid of the stupid desk I had before—it seemed very out of place in my Japanese-style room. Now, for perhaps the first time in my life, I really love my room. It's comfortable, and it just seems to fit somehow.

There's no real need now for the heater, though I've been using it today just to try it out. But I don't think even global warming can completely destroy the notoriously cold winters here, and I imagine I'll have a chance to use it as more than just a curiosity piece.

I was able to get a particularly good deal on this setup, something that just adds to my enjoyment. A reasonable kotatsu—not cheap but presentable as a table in winter and summer—usually costs 15,000-20,000, an amount I just can't afford at the moment. I frequent the thrift stores around here—and Adachi appears to really be one of the best places in Tokyo for them—but I wasn't able to find one that fit my plans, a rectangular affair that would still fit well in my room. I'd found many square ones, and a couple rectangular ones that just seemed too big, but in the end I managed to find a kotatsu table, a frame with space for the heater and the table-top, for 1000 yen. I think it was new, though I scratched it a bit carrying it home (an hour long ordeal). It fits perfectly in my room. I did some measurements and found I could easily put in a heater, and today I headed over to Akihabara (the electronics district; I could have easily gone somewhere here in Adachi, but decided to head there since I hadn't been for a while), picked one up for 4000 yen, and now I'm set. I got exactly what I wanted for a third the cost of a new one, and for a price comparable to the cheaper, older setups I had seen at the thrift stores. Very happy.

Updates

I've been off the air for some time now: a roommate moved out and we changed the internet over to my name, so we were without for a few weeks.

During that time, a few things have happened: I climbed Mt. Takao, the closest significant mountain to Tokyo; I got a new bike; and, last week, we had an okonomiyaki party at my closest school.

Mt. Takao is nice enough, but they were doing construction at the time I was there, I assume in order to prepare for the crowds that will head up the mountain to view the autumn changing of the leaves. Cars passed me on the paved road to the top, reminding me everytime as they whined and smoked by how much I hate the things, how they are so integral to our current world, and how many people have died in order to perpetuate their existence. But I gritted my teeth, imagined the rants I'd write here, and turned my head to look at the small streams and giant trees that lined the crappy paved road.

Overall, it is a nice mountain, though I can't say I'd recommend it as such. It is more like an amusement park for viewing the changing leaves, and I'd say take the train to Mt. Mitake instead. But I got some good pictures of the tengu (bird-gods from Buddhist mythology) that apparently aren't doing a very good job of protecting the mountain.





I got paid a week ago, and after saving for three months now, I was happily able to buy a new bike: this one with gears! It's not the bike I'd hoped to get, one about 40,000 yen more with 21 gears and more suited to touring, but I didn't want to wait until it got colder before I began to exercise again. This way I was able to get a some nice accessories as well.


Yes, it's a folding bike. For a long time I really looked down upon the things: very often they have those tiny 20" wheels, and I just thought they were toys. But there are some very serious bikes made this size, and one bike craftsman, Alex Moulton, builds his bikes with the belief that the smaller size is superior to the regular bike configuration we see on Tour de France and most other races. In any case, it makes the most sense for me: I can take it in a suitcase when I go back to the US, and I can easily carry it on trains here and easily increase my touring range.



It is a good bike--it only has 8 gears and squeaks and makes other odd sounds, but the gear changes are crisp and it is fairly light. It will get me through the winter, and I hope to save enough money to get a more substantial bike for touring next spring or summer.

Then, last Saturday we had a party in Kita Senju, with many of the teachers and students of the school. It was a lot of fun--I see many of these people quite often, so have a pretty good relationship with them.


We had okonomiyaki--they give you the ingredients and you make it yourself on the grill at the middle of the table. It was delicious.

Sea change

I was once very disappointed to hear that Keith Olbermann had left ESPN for MSNBC. Sounded like he would go from entertaining one-liners about the rookie goalkeepers in the NHL to tired obscurity on a wannabe news network. I am heartened to find that he is now one of the more eloquent voices of dissent against the criminal in the White House.

Lost and found

This is why I love Japan:

Four days ago, on a holiday, I went to watch the Sumo matches with friends. The sumo "stadium"　is in Ryogoku, near where I stayed last year for a couple of months. It was a sort of homecoming, one I'd put off for too long.

Needless to say, we had a great time, and Asashoryu, the current champion, was even more amazing in person than on TV, even if I was seeing him from the upper seats. I will go into sumo a bit at a later date if I get a chance.

But far more important was what happened later. Some time during that day I lost a very valuable item--my palm pilot, a pda I've used for a long time as my ipod as well as a Japanese-English dictionary. It's the best dictionary I've found because I can write kanji in directly, something usually not available with the dedicated electronic dictionaries. I had it by my side everytime I sat down with Murakami's Kafka by the Shore, a book I've been working on for well over two years now. Whenever I heard or saw a word in Japanese I didn't understand (all too often), I used my beautiful Palm.

But on that day, I lost that Palm. I don't know where. When I realized my misfortune, I really thought fate was against me.

But, instead of despairing, as I might have in the US, I remembered that Japanese people actually leave things alone; when a wallet is left lying on a train station seat, very often that wallet will sit there until the station-keepers clean up after the last train has passed.

So I called as many stations on my line as I could. Again, I'm trained by experience in the US, and though I hoped for the best, my heart told me there was no chance it had been left behind. I wanted to believe, but I couldn't. After 4 stations and two train lines, I thought it was over. But I still didn't give up.

Today, I thought of one last option: visit the Ryogoku local koban: the "police box" where police sit and watch over the neighborhood, giving directions and, well, sitting. They were extremely polite, of course, and though they didn't have much hope, they told me that after a month all items go to a collecting point in Iidabashi. I despaired again, though I still hoped that in a month I might try again. But then I told them it had only been a few days, and they tried the local police station, and, somewhat excited, told me there might be something there. They mentioned "hanko", or a handstamp that is used where Americans would use a signature. That threw me for a loop, and I thought I'd reached another dead-end. But they convinced me to head to the other station, even though I was running late for work (I would end up late for work, though some unknown person's kindness saved me from docked pay).

Can you guess the ending? I imagine you can, but please, read on.

I hope you understand that this Palm was quite meaningful to me: it was indispensible to my studies at SFSU and has been a constant companion here in Japan. Especially because now I am trying to save my money, it would be really difficult to replace. I know it's not very Buddhist to be so attached to material possessions; but I'm attached to a lot of things, and I'm not Buddhist.

So I was absolutely overjoyed when I saw the black case that held my prized possession in the hands of the policewoman at the lost and found desk: something so familiar, something that had not disappeared even despite my mistakes. I felt a rush of joy that is rare for me, and I wanted to kiss everyone there (also rare).

Over the years I've become quite pessimistic: though it maybe be hard to believe, I am still very much an optimist, though more long term. But I quickly become discouraged about the short term, and I really never expected to get my Palm Pilot back. Who can blame me? Would there really be much chance that I would ever see it again if I were in San Francisco? I'd go so far as to say that even in Lawrence I wouldn't have ever seen it again. But here, in Tokyo, in a metropolis of more than 20 million people, my $200 Palm reappeared, despite my pessimism. Lost near the Sumida River, it was transported (along with a couple of hanko that were somehow found in the same spot) four or five blocks to the station, and the finder requested no reward (the policewoman told me this, though I didn't really understand the full impact until I thought about it later). I won't go into what this says about Japanese and Western society; all I will say for the moment is that I have had my faith restored in the possiblities for human society.

Dancing and earthquakes

I've settled in at school for the most part, so I have a bit more time to do some things I want. I do mean for the most part; every day is something new, and I certainly have my troubles and disappointments. But I have my victories too—particularly with the kids. My favorite story so far is of the young girl who cried uncontrollably the first two times I taught her, but now appears to be genuinely excited to see me, and races to get her shoes off before class. It makes me feel that, while I may not be the most polished or effective teacher, at least I have something in me that she finds safe and, well, fun. It's not a trait I thought I had, and it makes me happy in a way I haven't known before.


Got an email from my friend Maya from San Francisco State, who is living in Tokyo with her boyfriend Eric, also a classmate at SFSU. We met up at Ben's Cafe in Takadanobaba (where they serve some fine coffee, a rarity in Tokyo, as anywhere else), then met Eric later and went to a Hawaiian burger restaurant in Harajuku.


The real highlight lately, though, was last week's Awa odori festival in Kouenji, west of Shinjuku. It's a festival that originated on the island of Shikoku, and the biggest celebration is still held there, in Tokushima (once called Awa). But it is popular all over Japan, and there were several processions in Tokyo itself.















According to the Japan National Tourism Organisation, the "Dance of Fools" started in Tokushima in 1587 when the townspeople danced like fools because they were drunk from the sake given to them by their feudal lord. Over the years it has been tamed and reduced to representative steps, but all the same it is a pleasure to witness and, even more I'm sure, a joy to participate in.


The instruments play an important part in all Japanese festivals, and are the real backbone of the entertainment in the Awa odori.



The kids joined in on the fun, of course.



Finally, yesterday we had quite a shock: while I was waiting for students to show up in the Shinjuku school, the building suddenly started shaking; though I've been in several earthquakes in San Francisco and Tokyo, this was sudden and more frightening. If it had lasted for any length of time I imagine it would have caused some damage.

The next day, yesterday, was the anniversary of the last huge earthquake in Tokyo, the great Kanto earthquake of 1923. I'm sure there's no relationship.