Dec. 7th, 1941: I was curious about some of the details of the Japanese surprise attack of December 7th 1941, so I did a google search. I misspelled it. Even so, I got all the information I wanted, and more. Ah, the wonder of infinity, and monkeys on typewriters (keyboards); without them the internet wouldn’t be quite as useful.
Job Interview: Went on a job interview today, and decided to wear a tie. I can’t say what company it is, and I’m far from certain to get the job, but it looks like a good opportunity to do something new. Like marketing. Which, by the way, is something I ordinarily despise. But I wonder if I could be good at it? The tough part I guess is maintaining a proper and ironic distance from it.
“I’m Home” on NHK: this is yet another manga-turned-drama, and it’s airing on NHK now. I first noticed the manga back in 2000, when it won a prize at the annual Tokyo New Media Awards. It’s got a creepy visual tool of portraying an amnesiac man’s family as faceless, by having them wear blank plastic masks. The idea is, I suppose, that he can’t remember them. But behind this visual gimmick is a story of a man forgetting and and thus able to refashion himself in order to do some things over again, and possibly do them right.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Monday, December 06, 2004
Comparison Shopping
Stopping in Shibuya to drop off a forgotten cellphone, I stopped by Sakuraya to pick up some blank CDs and other consumer electronics related goods. I noticed one thing: though most things are slightly higher in price than in America, those are mostly the big ticket items. Lenses and filters for digital cameras were a reasonable 1200 yen, while I spent more than $30 back at B&H Camera in NYC for the same thing. There’s always a question about the comparative quality of the items, but hey, I was looking for the cheapest, most basic filter to replace my lens cap. I also picked up a mini tripod, which was also about 1100 yen. It’s pretty sturdy, so I’m happy with it despite the fact that I could have bought an even cheaper one for 600 yen. Damn it looked flimsy though.
Tokyo University also has several small stores on its campus, including a coop where they happen to be selling Sharp electronic dictionaries for an amazing 8000 yen. I think they're slightly outdated, but probably better than the one I currently rely on. Anybody need one? Seriously, they're worth more than 20,000 yen ordinarily.
Tokyo University also has several small stores on its campus, including a coop where they happen to be selling Sharp electronic dictionaries for an amazing 8000 yen. I think they're slightly outdated, but probably better than the one I currently rely on. Anybody need one? Seriously, they're worth more than 20,000 yen ordinarily.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Great Big Fruit
I’m forgetting why I liked Japan in the first place. That’s a big big problem, but it’s not new. I’ve been losing track of many many things in the past few years. I don’t remember what it was that attracted me to anime, or even Murakami’s novels. At least, my excitement is not as immediate, and is in fact tinged by a nostalgia, which suggests that perhaps I love the memory of loving those things. . . But that’s something endemic to our present form of modernity; we are overly nostalgic about our own modernity, and that impulse seems to inform most of our consumer media.
Appleseed. So, let’s take it back to ’79. Or at least ’89, when I remember being vaguely happy.
Appleseed, by Masamune Shirow was a epochal comic book for me. There just wasn’t anything like it on the American market, and it predated my obsession with Nausicaa, though that’s a separate story. It read like a technical manual with obscure references and details hidden in tiny footnotes; it was ‘hard’ sci-fi full of all the big questions and implications that can make sci-fi so vital. It was about mechanical as well as social engineering, and a society trying to escape a war-like past. In its most powerful and moving segment (oddly occurring early in volume 1) the protagonists face down a rogue group of their own cohorts who, fed up with the illusions and cage-like existence of a robotic but peaceful society and “taking arms against a sea of troubles,” aim to destroy the computer at the center of it all. The bloodshed that ensues was one of the most tragic, and simultaneously, philosophically engaging episodes I have ever encountered in a comic book.
Well, they finally gave Appleseed the movie treatment and while I had a difficult time with the language (does anyone know what “makasareta” in the final lines of dialogue actually means?), there were moments of cinematic violence that I have never seen the likes of before. It was that amazing. Especially at the end, when the city-destroyers march on the central computer, I have never seen such a breath-taking action sequence. But there are also problems with the full-CG approach. While it lets you take camera angles that traditional animation would find impossible (and uneconomical) to reproduce, the character animation was at times jerky and a bit too puppet-like. At times, it looked like a bad computer game (where the boundary is between games, movies, tv-news, etc is constantly being redrawn though). The people kind of shambled around like zombies about to be smacked down by Jill Valentine.
So, to summarize, ’89 was back, but it wasn’t. It was like Murakami once wrote, like the tracing paper had slipped off the original ever so slightly.
Big Fruit. So let’s get back to great big fruit. 3 days ago, this box arrives with an Okayama stamp on it. When my roommate opens it, we discover it’s filled with mikan, nashi, ringo, and kaki. All autumn fruit from Okayama. And all the while the room is filled with that faintly fermented odor of ripe ripe fruit. I couldn’t believe the size of that nashi. It was supposed to be a pear, but it was larger than a grapefruit; it was world-class. And I think, back to ’96, or ’99 at the latest, Okayama was a wonderful place. Peaches in the summer, mikan (mandarin oranges) in the fall, kaki (persimmons) in the winter. Giant cherry blossoms in the spring, and that summer festival at Ako Jinja. Tai and I cut apart that giant pear, and start eating. It’s too much for one day, so we have to keep it in the fridge for a second. Here’s to Okayama and her prize-winning fruit.
Keeping it Real Yakitori. OK, so the real name of this place is something else, but I’ll just record it as ‘Keeping it Real” or KIR. There were rubber boots out front, where the construction workers had left them. The drink of choice was ‘hoppii’, a quickly and cheaply intoxicating mix of beer of shochuu. And finally, the crowd were all regulars, popping in for drinks after a hard days work. I know I stick out, but I still dig hanging out at places like this, and keeping it real.
Japanese Letters. Writing Japanese letters requires a thick how-to book. For Japanese. For people like me, it takes a thick book, lots of practice, and just plain luck. There’s no easy way to do it, though there is some consolation in the fact that nobody expects me to be able to write a perfect letter by hand. However, and this is crucial, hand-written letters get the job done. One day after I sent the letter, I got a reply by email. I’m meeting the professor on December 17th. I guess it was worth it to spend a full day writing that letter . . .
Sangenjaya. I’ve never really heard of Sangenjaya before I arrived here this time, but now I think it’s the funkiest place on earth. I went there with two new friends, Goro and Fujii-san. Pretty funky people as well. Anyway, we spent about 20 minutes wandering around trying to find this one izakaya, among about a hundred others in these narrow lanes full of drinking establishments. We passed by the “pink monster” club several times. Each time, I think, we made some stupid comment about what the pink monster might be. Anyway, the place we ended up in was great: unlimited refills of this cabbage salad, good shochuu, and good yakitori. Funky wait-staff too. Anyway, it is real in Sangenjaya. There are more than three tea-houses there too, so don’t be put off by the name.
Long Nights, the Slow Boat. It gets dark by about 4:30-5:00pm here. Seriously, the nights are really long, and it seems like midnight by the time you get to 9:00pm. The yakitori place had run out of chicken by 7:00pm when I got there, and the streets were emptying out. Did I also mention that it’s getting cold out now? I’m facing down a long, cold winter night, with brief moments of sunshine at 24 hour intervals.
That may be bad, but the slow boat is even slower. It took 46 days for my surface-mail packages to arrive. I’m not sure if that’s normal or not. Maybe I should take a survey to see what the average is.
Appleseed. So, let’s take it back to ’79. Or at least ’89, when I remember being vaguely happy.
Appleseed, by Masamune Shirow was a epochal comic book for me. There just wasn’t anything like it on the American market, and it predated my obsession with Nausicaa, though that’s a separate story. It read like a technical manual with obscure references and details hidden in tiny footnotes; it was ‘hard’ sci-fi full of all the big questions and implications that can make sci-fi so vital. It was about mechanical as well as social engineering, and a society trying to escape a war-like past. In its most powerful and moving segment (oddly occurring early in volume 1) the protagonists face down a rogue group of their own cohorts who, fed up with the illusions and cage-like existence of a robotic but peaceful society and “taking arms against a sea of troubles,” aim to destroy the computer at the center of it all. The bloodshed that ensues was one of the most tragic, and simultaneously, philosophically engaging episodes I have ever encountered in a comic book.
Well, they finally gave Appleseed the movie treatment and while I had a difficult time with the language (does anyone know what “makasareta” in the final lines of dialogue actually means?), there were moments of cinematic violence that I have never seen the likes of before. It was that amazing. Especially at the end, when the city-destroyers march on the central computer, I have never seen such a breath-taking action sequence. But there are also problems with the full-CG approach. While it lets you take camera angles that traditional animation would find impossible (and uneconomical) to reproduce, the character animation was at times jerky and a bit too puppet-like. At times, it looked like a bad computer game (where the boundary is between games, movies, tv-news, etc is constantly being redrawn though). The people kind of shambled around like zombies about to be smacked down by Jill Valentine.
So, to summarize, ’89 was back, but it wasn’t. It was like Murakami once wrote, like the tracing paper had slipped off the original ever so slightly.
Big Fruit. So let’s get back to great big fruit. 3 days ago, this box arrives with an Okayama stamp on it. When my roommate opens it, we discover it’s filled with mikan, nashi, ringo, and kaki. All autumn fruit from Okayama. And all the while the room is filled with that faintly fermented odor of ripe ripe fruit. I couldn’t believe the size of that nashi. It was supposed to be a pear, but it was larger than a grapefruit; it was world-class. And I think, back to ’96, or ’99 at the latest, Okayama was a wonderful place. Peaches in the summer, mikan (mandarin oranges) in the fall, kaki (persimmons) in the winter. Giant cherry blossoms in the spring, and that summer festival at Ako Jinja. Tai and I cut apart that giant pear, and start eating. It’s too much for one day, so we have to keep it in the fridge for a second. Here’s to Okayama and her prize-winning fruit.
Keeping it Real Yakitori. OK, so the real name of this place is something else, but I’ll just record it as ‘Keeping it Real” or KIR. There were rubber boots out front, where the construction workers had left them. The drink of choice was ‘hoppii’, a quickly and cheaply intoxicating mix of beer of shochuu. And finally, the crowd were all regulars, popping in for drinks after a hard days work. I know I stick out, but I still dig hanging out at places like this, and keeping it real.
Japanese Letters. Writing Japanese letters requires a thick how-to book. For Japanese. For people like me, it takes a thick book, lots of practice, and just plain luck. There’s no easy way to do it, though there is some consolation in the fact that nobody expects me to be able to write a perfect letter by hand. However, and this is crucial, hand-written letters get the job done. One day after I sent the letter, I got a reply by email. I’m meeting the professor on December 17th. I guess it was worth it to spend a full day writing that letter . . .
Sangenjaya. I’ve never really heard of Sangenjaya before I arrived here this time, but now I think it’s the funkiest place on earth. I went there with two new friends, Goro and Fujii-san. Pretty funky people as well. Anyway, we spent about 20 minutes wandering around trying to find this one izakaya, among about a hundred others in these narrow lanes full of drinking establishments. We passed by the “pink monster” club several times. Each time, I think, we made some stupid comment about what the pink monster might be. Anyway, the place we ended up in was great: unlimited refills of this cabbage salad, good shochuu, and good yakitori. Funky wait-staff too. Anyway, it is real in Sangenjaya. There are more than three tea-houses there too, so don’t be put off by the name.
Long Nights, the Slow Boat. It gets dark by about 4:30-5:00pm here. Seriously, the nights are really long, and it seems like midnight by the time you get to 9:00pm. The yakitori place had run out of chicken by 7:00pm when I got there, and the streets were emptying out. Did I also mention that it’s getting cold out now? I’m facing down a long, cold winter night, with brief moments of sunshine at 24 hour intervals.
That may be bad, but the slow boat is even slower. It took 46 days for my surface-mail packages to arrive. I’m not sure if that’s normal or not. Maybe I should take a survey to see what the average is.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Craigslist, in Tokyo?
Well, looks like it just launched because there are few posts on it, but Craigslist now has a Tokyo branch. But, things don't exactly look promising, because it's already starting to fill up with mildly threatening job offers (for 'escorts' and 'modeling' for 'asian ladies'). And there's only one couch for sale. But hey, maybe in the future it'll be a good outlet for getting rid of all my furniture. . .
My days are starting to fill up, though I'm nowhere near productive yet. I went to a conference yesterday at Hosei Daigaku on the Overseas Chinese studies. It was expensive. They charged me 4000 yen for their in-house journal (the first issue! might be worth something someday). The previous day, I went to an informal coffee session with the other new fulbright grantees. Well, that was pretty perfunctory, but not that useful. I still don't feel like I have much direction.
Simply recounting the days events doesn't seem to be that meaningful. I guess I'm trying to figure out why nothing that happens here means that much to me. I wish I were young again, and living as irresponsibly as I was back in 1996. That was a different age, and a different me of course. But why is it so little fun to stay up all night now?
My days are starting to fill up, though I'm nowhere near productive yet. I went to a conference yesterday at Hosei Daigaku on the Overseas Chinese studies. It was expensive. They charged me 4000 yen for their in-house journal (the first issue! might be worth something someday). The previous day, I went to an informal coffee session with the other new fulbright grantees. Well, that was pretty perfunctory, but not that useful. I still don't feel like I have much direction.
Simply recounting the days events doesn't seem to be that meaningful. I guess I'm trying to figure out why nothing that happens here means that much to me. I wish I were young again, and living as irresponsibly as I was back in 1996. That was a different age, and a different me of course. But why is it so little fun to stay up all night now?
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
I'm tired of love. I need a pet.
So I'm sitting in Manbo, a cramped internet cafe with kind of grimey cubicles, at the tail end of another wasted day. I had to come in here, you see, because I needed to print some documents. Well, it costs 500 yen an hour, so I'm making use of that, but ultimately, you know, wasting even more of my day.
I picked up the first issue of 'kimi wa petto', and frankly it's pretty bizarre. I caught some episodes of the drama on TV, but didn't realize that it was based on a manga. Perhaps I should have known. It's about a career woman caring for a younger, pretty-boy type like he's her pet dog. It's not really as kinky as that (and quite different from that Stooges song 'I wanna be your dog'), but actually a weirdly touching commentary on our urban lifestyles, and the fact that we no longer have time for love anymore. Or something like that. I think though, that I still wanna be your/her dog.
Bleh. So I spent most of the day looking for an internet cafe to print my file, but I also got a haircut. It cost all of 800 yen. No, I didn't misplace a zero. It was quick too. Next time, when I actually have an idea of what hairstyle I want, maybe I'll pay more for my stylist. This time it was fine.
Oh, and the landlord stopped by. Apparently he's back from Paris for a week or two. Nice guy. Dropped off some wafers and some Italian coffee. Whoohoo. But other than that, I wasted my day.
I picked up the first issue of 'kimi wa petto', and frankly it's pretty bizarre. I caught some episodes of the drama on TV, but didn't realize that it was based on a manga. Perhaps I should have known. It's about a career woman caring for a younger, pretty-boy type like he's her pet dog. It's not really as kinky as that (and quite different from that Stooges song 'I wanna be your dog'), but actually a weirdly touching commentary on our urban lifestyles, and the fact that we no longer have time for love anymore. Or something like that. I think though, that I still wanna be your/her dog.
Bleh. So I spent most of the day looking for an internet cafe to print my file, but I also got a haircut. It cost all of 800 yen. No, I didn't misplace a zero. It was quick too. Next time, when I actually have an idea of what hairstyle I want, maybe I'll pay more for my stylist. This time it was fine.
Oh, and the landlord stopped by. Apparently he's back from Paris for a week or two. Nice guy. Dropped off some wafers and some Italian coffee. Whoohoo. But other than that, I wasted my day.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Nov. 21 2004 Jiyugaoka
The jury (MY jury) is still out about this town. The old-fashioned shopping street near my home is quite nice, with some mom-and-pop grocery stores and bakeries, but the main cluster of stores and restaurants around Jiyugaoka station is a mess. I mean, it seems to be fashionable enough to be well-known around Tokyo, but doesn’t have the polish and gleam of the shopping arcades of Kobe, or even Okayama. The fact is, you can hardly walk on the streets of Jiyugaoka, because they’re filled with pedestrians, bicycles (going either direction, on either side of the street), parked cars, and moving cars. It’s really impossible to walk without constantly looking over your shoulder for passing cars, because you have to step into the middle of the street every few feet to avoid people, signs, bikes, cars, etc. It’s really kind of a zoo. I’m actually kind of amazed that people try to drive their cars through it all the time (including taxis, who must do it on a daily basis) without learning their lesson. I’m also surprised that people don’t get hit on every street corner. But maybe that’s because I lack spider-sense.
Nov. 16th 2004
Finally got a bank account here, which wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. I guess I was holding back because of the perceived trouble it would entail. The folks at Tokyo Mitsubishi were ultra friendly, but in a way that absolutely prevents any form of personal interaction. I mean, ‘robotic and professional’ when I say ‘friendly’ perhaps. But they made it easy to get my bank book in a matter of 5 minutes.
Dinner today, since I’m watching my budget was fried eggs and tomatoes, a starving student standby. But considering that fruits and vegetables are much more expensive now in Japan than I have ever seen. With tomatoes costing about $1 each, this dish wasn’t really that cheap after all.
On TV, I somehow found myself watching some new anime called ‘Yakitate! Ja-PAN’
A fitting translation might be: “Freshly baked! Japanese BREAD!” But that neatly avoids a very bad pun: ‘pan’ means ‘bread’ in Japanese (it’s a loan word from Dutch). I guess it sticks to the genre of battle food anime.
Another show just taught me the right way to eat nigiri sushi. V6 were the guests on “Manner Cats” and they all failed in the eyes of three very severe looking judges. The most egregious infraction? Dipping the rice into soy sauce. (C’mon, I knew that already.)
Dinner today, since I’m watching my budget was fried eggs and tomatoes, a starving student standby. But considering that fruits and vegetables are much more expensive now in Japan than I have ever seen. With tomatoes costing about $1 each, this dish wasn’t really that cheap after all.
On TV, I somehow found myself watching some new anime called ‘Yakitate! Ja-PAN’
A fitting translation might be: “Freshly baked! Japanese BREAD!” But that neatly avoids a very bad pun: ‘pan’ means ‘bread’ in Japanese (it’s a loan word from Dutch). I guess it sticks to the genre of battle food anime.
Another show just taught me the right way to eat nigiri sushi. V6 were the guests on “Manner Cats” and they all failed in the eyes of three very severe looking judges. The most egregious infraction? Dipping the rice into soy sauce. (C’mon, I knew that already.)
Saturday, November 13, 2004
'Self-inflicted gun-shot wound'
I am dedicating this column today to the late Iris Chang, who was found dead in her car on the 11th of November, off of a California freeway. The CNN obit is here. Most of your may know her from her controversial book 'The Rape of Nanking'.
Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I believe I can safely say that I've reached the point in my life when I'm starting to see the endings. I met Iris in the fall of 1998 when a couple of undergrads and grad students at the University of Illinois were organizing a conference on Japanese war atrocities in WWII. Iris was to be the guest of honor, garnering a sizeable honorarium for a lecture at UIUC's Foellinger Auditorium. The lecture itself was well-attended, and enthusiastically applauded. Iris was full of fire and conviction, freely quoting facts from her book, and denouncing a historical coverup of massive proportions. In the end, she received a standing ovation.
The actual conference was a bit more contentious. A few professors were on hand to offer their own appraisal of her book, and the situation clearly did not favor Iris. The problems with Iris's book were significant, if not critical. Iris had relied on others' translations and interpretations for the most part, and her treatment of the Japanese people as a whole was scandalously close to demonization. Nevertheless, there was a whiff of academic jealousy behind the attacks, since her work had garnered far more media attention than any of those of her critics. History was defending its turf, so to speak, and Iris left feeling betrayed. I distinctly recall her complaining to Mark, the undergrad who headed the organizing body why they had invited her there if they were just going to criticize her.
My own feelings about her and her work were and still are ambivalent. She represented all that I thought was wrong with academics: she was a media darling, confident to a fault, and beautiful. To me, she seemed to be flash over substance, and that's why I appreciated her message, but worried over the way she conveyed it. If her arguments were too clumsy, wouldn't they just give ammunition to the war atrocity deniers on the other side?
I considered the 'story' of my encounter with Iris provisionally closed a few weeks later, when I received a card from the Chang family thanking me for my time and effort.
But now she's gone, and I strangely feel a sense of responsibility, at least for misjudging her demeanor, her air of stubbornness and invincibility. My conflicted feelings toward your work notwithstanding, Iris, but I will never forget you.
Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I believe I can safely say that I've reached the point in my life when I'm starting to see the endings. I met Iris in the fall of 1998 when a couple of undergrads and grad students at the University of Illinois were organizing a conference on Japanese war atrocities in WWII. Iris was to be the guest of honor, garnering a sizeable honorarium for a lecture at UIUC's Foellinger Auditorium. The lecture itself was well-attended, and enthusiastically applauded. Iris was full of fire and conviction, freely quoting facts from her book, and denouncing a historical coverup of massive proportions. In the end, she received a standing ovation.
The actual conference was a bit more contentious. A few professors were on hand to offer their own appraisal of her book, and the situation clearly did not favor Iris. The problems with Iris's book were significant, if not critical. Iris had relied on others' translations and interpretations for the most part, and her treatment of the Japanese people as a whole was scandalously close to demonization. Nevertheless, there was a whiff of academic jealousy behind the attacks, since her work had garnered far more media attention than any of those of her critics. History was defending its turf, so to speak, and Iris left feeling betrayed. I distinctly recall her complaining to Mark, the undergrad who headed the organizing body why they had invited her there if they were just going to criticize her.
My own feelings about her and her work were and still are ambivalent. She represented all that I thought was wrong with academics: she was a media darling, confident to a fault, and beautiful. To me, she seemed to be flash over substance, and that's why I appreciated her message, but worried over the way she conveyed it. If her arguments were too clumsy, wouldn't they just give ammunition to the war atrocity deniers on the other side?
I considered the 'story' of my encounter with Iris provisionally closed a few weeks later, when I received a card from the Chang family thanking me for my time and effort.
But now she's gone, and I strangely feel a sense of responsibility, at least for misjudging her demeanor, her air of stubbornness and invincibility. My conflicted feelings toward your work notwithstanding, Iris, but I will never forget you.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Sick. sic.
Ok. National health insurance is a good thing. I just went over to the neighborhood doc (Dr. Kawasaki), and got a consultation and 5 meds for Y1543. That's about $15.00. I think the co-pay on Columbia's insurance for every prescription is about $20. Think about that. Dr. Kawasaki also speaks pretty good English, and we reminisced a bit about Kurashiki.
But happy as I feel about the clinic, I am still sick. Even writing this is making me kind of dizzy. And that's a shame since it's friday, and the rest of the world is going out tonight to celebrate the end of another cycle of capitalist exploitation, and here I am, my own body's machinery being exploited by tiny viruses . . .
In other news, I now have a table, a small couch, and a bike. All of which are kind of diminuitive by American standards. But hey, living small ain't so bad, even when you're used to living large.
Tomorrow: an anthropology conference at Waseda. Not sure if I can attend yet. It all depends on my body.
But happy as I feel about the clinic, I am still sick. Even writing this is making me kind of dizzy. And that's a shame since it's friday, and the rest of the world is going out tonight to celebrate the end of another cycle of capitalist exploitation, and here I am, my own body's machinery being exploited by tiny viruses . . .
In other news, I now have a table, a small couch, and a bike. All of which are kind of diminuitive by American standards. But hey, living small ain't so bad, even when you're used to living large.
Tomorrow: an anthropology conference at Waseda. Not sure if I can attend yet. It all depends on my body.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Nov. 5th – 6th – 7th, 2004
There are plenty of reasons to be discouraged and disappointed. It doesn’t seem like Tokyo University will allow me to connect to their network with my computer. The paperwork looks prohibitively annoying. The sofabed didn’t fit up our narrow staircase, so we’re out the shipping fee and had to cancel it. I still don’t have a bike, and Yahoo BB ADSL won’t be here for another ten days. And I’m still not speaking much Japanese.
Focus on the positive:
Maguro Ichiba – this restaurant chain is now my favorite form of fastfood in the world. It’s laid out like a Yoshinoya, with a U-shaped counter over which the staff hands your food. But that’s where the similarities end. Their specialty is not beef or pork over rice, but fish. Their version of ‘oyakodon’: salmon roe (ikura) and grilled salmon over seaweed and rice. With miso, Y750.
Tokyo Univ. cafeteria – Despite the fact that it’s underground and looks like a nuclear bomb shelter, this is a seriously good place to save money. I had a HUGE dinner set for Y600, including soup, grilled fish, and a bowl of chirashi-zushi. Free tea, and being surrounded by nerdy Todai students (almost all male at this cafeteria?) a definite plus.
Borrowing privileges at Tokyo University library – Whoot! I can take out 3 books! I was told that getting borrowing privileges would be difficult, so this is a pleasant surprise. Besides, the library has a room for watching CNN and CCTV (keeping an eye on the enemy I guess?).
Muji coffee maker, and Kinokuniya coffee – I have a picture of the coffee maker. No further comment needed.
Kinokuniya cranberry bread! A loaf for only 300 yen. (no picture, cuz I ate it) – Kinokuniya is a way-up-scale grocery store around the corner. I had to jostle for room in the aisles with elderly women dressed in fine kimonos.
Komazawa Kôen (park) – This was one of the sites for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, and is still a cool place to go to work out. I especially like the 2.2 km running course, and the fact that it’s only 2min 30secs from my house (jogging) makes me quite happy.
Don Quixote – Ok, so Tai says that this chain is being sued for unfair business practices, but ever since I visited the Shinjuku location, I have to admit that other stores have a reason to be scared. They sell just about everything, from the downright weird (cosplay outfits?) to the practical (I got a nice 2.1 speaker system for under Y4000.) Love my new subwoofer, but the neighbors probably hate it. Love this store cuz’ it’s open 24 hours and is CHEAP, but its competitors probably hate it.
Finally, on the 8th, my phone line is here - So give me a call whenever you feel like it.
As for my pictures, I put some under the jiyugaoka folder at:
http://photos.yahoo.com/gd1303
Focus on the positive:
Maguro Ichiba – this restaurant chain is now my favorite form of fastfood in the world. It’s laid out like a Yoshinoya, with a U-shaped counter over which the staff hands your food. But that’s where the similarities end. Their specialty is not beef or pork over rice, but fish. Their version of ‘oyakodon’: salmon roe (ikura) and grilled salmon over seaweed and rice. With miso, Y750.
Tokyo Univ. cafeteria – Despite the fact that it’s underground and looks like a nuclear bomb shelter, this is a seriously good place to save money. I had a HUGE dinner set for Y600, including soup, grilled fish, and a bowl of chirashi-zushi. Free tea, and being surrounded by nerdy Todai students (almost all male at this cafeteria?) a definite plus.
Borrowing privileges at Tokyo University library – Whoot! I can take out 3 books! I was told that getting borrowing privileges would be difficult, so this is a pleasant surprise. Besides, the library has a room for watching CNN and CCTV (keeping an eye on the enemy I guess?).
Muji coffee maker, and Kinokuniya coffee – I have a picture of the coffee maker. No further comment needed.
Kinokuniya cranberry bread! A loaf for only 300 yen. (no picture, cuz I ate it) – Kinokuniya is a way-up-scale grocery store around the corner. I had to jostle for room in the aisles with elderly women dressed in fine kimonos.
Komazawa Kôen (park) – This was one of the sites for the 1964 Tokyo Olympics, and is still a cool place to go to work out. I especially like the 2.2 km running course, and the fact that it’s only 2min 30secs from my house (jogging) makes me quite happy.
Don Quixote – Ok, so Tai says that this chain is being sued for unfair business practices, but ever since I visited the Shinjuku location, I have to admit that other stores have a reason to be scared. They sell just about everything, from the downright weird (cosplay outfits?) to the practical (I got a nice 2.1 speaker system for under Y4000.) Love my new subwoofer, but the neighbors probably hate it. Love this store cuz’ it’s open 24 hours and is CHEAP, but its competitors probably hate it.
Finally, on the 8th, my phone line is here - So give me a call whenever you feel like it.
As for my pictures, I put some under the jiyugaoka folder at:
http://photos.yahoo.com/gd1303
Nov. 4th, 2004 Tokyo, Japan
. . .Home. . .
It’s day four in Japan.
Liberty Hill is how the more fashionable stores in the area translate Jiyûgaoka, and that’s where I live now. A place where modish couples browse for $1000 dinner tables, and pet shops seem to outnumber restaurants. Around the corner, I see a porsche parked in a garage every time I walk to the train station. Speaking of the train, I’m close to 20 minutes away on foot. Not a perfect situation, but out here, you almost never hear any traffic (just the squabbling of cats and dogs *not a metaphor*).
Must be a record somehow. In four days, I now have a cellphone, national insurance, an apartment, library card, student ID. . . and I’ve applied for my foreign resident card, DSL, a land line. . . and ordered a bicycle, a bed, washing machine, desk, chair, sofa bed. . . I’m productive at last, busy trying to build something, if only a workable life here. But I ran into a wall today, when I no longer had anything to special order, apply for, or office to hurry to. On the way back from Tokyo University, having just checked out the library, I realized how little I had thought out my day after all the errands were done.
I sat down on the Hanzomon subway line, and just let myself miss my stop. Past Shibuya, to some place called Sangenjaya. Just got off to see what there was to see. A busy street, and lots of cafes and bars. Ok. Bought a can coffee, and hit the subway again, back to Shibuya, transfer to Toritsudaigaku. Off the train, and wandering the streets. Found a yakitori restaurant, a cool internet cafe (not sleazy at all), and then happened upon the Yagumo Chuo library and community center. It has a gym, which costs 200 yen per visit, but works out to be much cheaper than a private gym if I only go about twice a week. The library was amazing though; a vast glass and reinforced concrete structure, it must have been built during the bubble years, because it’s hard to imagine this town having the funds to construct it now. Compared to the Fukasawa library, the district where I live now, it was at least much better lit . . . Anyway, I can see myself jogging out to this place several times a week.
It’s day four in Japan.
Liberty Hill is how the more fashionable stores in the area translate Jiyûgaoka, and that’s where I live now. A place where modish couples browse for $1000 dinner tables, and pet shops seem to outnumber restaurants. Around the corner, I see a porsche parked in a garage every time I walk to the train station. Speaking of the train, I’m close to 20 minutes away on foot. Not a perfect situation, but out here, you almost never hear any traffic (just the squabbling of cats and dogs *not a metaphor*).
Must be a record somehow. In four days, I now have a cellphone, national insurance, an apartment, library card, student ID. . . and I’ve applied for my foreign resident card, DSL, a land line. . . and ordered a bicycle, a bed, washing machine, desk, chair, sofa bed. . . I’m productive at last, busy trying to build something, if only a workable life here. But I ran into a wall today, when I no longer had anything to special order, apply for, or office to hurry to. On the way back from Tokyo University, having just checked out the library, I realized how little I had thought out my day after all the errands were done.
I sat down on the Hanzomon subway line, and just let myself miss my stop. Past Shibuya, to some place called Sangenjaya. Just got off to see what there was to see. A busy street, and lots of cafes and bars. Ok. Bought a can coffee, and hit the subway again, back to Shibuya, transfer to Toritsudaigaku. Off the train, and wandering the streets. Found a yakitori restaurant, a cool internet cafe (not sleazy at all), and then happened upon the Yagumo Chuo library and community center. It has a gym, which costs 200 yen per visit, but works out to be much cheaper than a private gym if I only go about twice a week. The library was amazing though; a vast glass and reinforced concrete structure, it must have been built during the bubble years, because it’s hard to imagine this town having the funds to construct it now. Compared to the Fukasawa library, the district where I live now, it was at least much better lit . . . Anyway, I can see myself jogging out to this place several times a week.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Carmel, Stromness, Sapporo
It’s now the final weeks before my departure, so I made a brief trip to the East Asian Studies department building. Among the concise kernels of advice offered by my professor, “make sure you go out drinking in Tokyo.” In the bathroom, on the floor and stamped with grime in the jagged pattern of a shoe sole, the following business card: “Dolphin Inn, Carmel CA.” I wonder sometimes if everything is somehow connected, and whether something is calling to me, and whether I need to respond.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
Inadvertent Irony
Spraypainted onto the track at a nearby highschool: "School SUCK!!!" (sic)
So ironic, and yet so demonstrably TRUE.
--
It's yet another early morning, and I can't seem to sleep past 5:30AM anymore. But as long as there's lost sleep, there's brit-pop to keep me company. A friend recently lent me some Travis, and I have to admit, Travis > Muse > Starsailor. Hmm.
--
I was browsing the web for references to my future home in Japan: Jiyugaoka (自由が丘). At the Jiyugaoka 'official guide web' site, I found just what I was looking for: REVOLUTION! Apparently, on 10/10 - 10/11, they're holding their megami matsuri or Goddess Festival. "New everytime, always fun: JIYUGAOKGA REVOLUTION." Cool. I'll be there. With red flags.
So ironic, and yet so demonstrably TRUE.
--
It's yet another early morning, and I can't seem to sleep past 5:30AM anymore. But as long as there's lost sleep, there's brit-pop to keep me company. A friend recently lent me some Travis, and I have to admit, Travis > Muse > Starsailor. Hmm.
--
I was browsing the web for references to my future home in Japan: Jiyugaoka (自由が丘). At the Jiyugaoka 'official guide web' site, I found just what I was looking for: REVOLUTION! Apparently, on 10/10 - 10/11, they're holding their megami matsuri or Goddess Festival. "New everytime, always fun: JIYUGAOKGA REVOLUTION." Cool. I'll be there. With red flags.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
China, 2004
Just got back from a grueling trip to China. Grueling that is, for a vacation, and one in which we stayed at 4 star hotels. But the main part of the vacation was treking by bus through Xinjiang and western China, where the roads are so bad that by the time the bus hit 60kph I felt like I was being constantly bludgeoned in the head by my seat cushion.
By the way, blogspot was not accessible behind the great firewall of china. Nevertheless, there were internet cafes every stop of the way, full of Chinese gamers smoking, h@ck1ng, and 0wning.
By the way, blogspot was not accessible behind the great firewall of china. Nevertheless, there were internet cafes every stop of the way, full of Chinese gamers smoking, h@ck1ng, and 0wning.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Guess who's thirty years old?
Dungeons and Dragons. No lie, I share the same year of birth as D&D, somewhat prophetically perhaps. More D&D reminiscing from a more famous person than I here . Save versus death ray, or lose one point of intelligence. Or charisma, your choice (you superficial creep).
Monday, August 09, 2004
Thursday, July 15, 2004
jet-lagged
Hey there. I'm really jetlagged; it's not like I ordinarily get up at 5:30AM to start typing on my computer. Then again, there were those times in college, but I kind of wish I had those hours back now. Nothing like some sober reflection on one's own past. I mean, if we had no capacity for self-criticism, we would be no better than animals.
A few small comments on my last few days in Japan.
1. I witnessed a fight in Shinjuku's "notorious" kabuki-cho. The district really isn't that dangerous to me, and I've been there several times. Sitting down on a metal fence (ha, sitting on a fence is a good metaphor for that night), I spent about 20 minutes or so with Fisch watching the people stroll by. Lots of young couples. Giggling college girls. Young guys on dates. Then a tangled snarl of fighting Japanese from my left. About 15 feet away, two large guys were face to face muttering, mumbling. There was some punching. There was some out and out bullying as the guy in blue tried to back down. It was brutal, and so stupid I felt angry about it. After the guy in blue went down, the other chunky guy in black, joined by a shorter fellow in the exact same outfit, strolled down the street. He played possum, and his wife was screaming into her cellphone for an ambulance. What followed was a melodramatic farce as police started asking questions, and the guy kept playing hurt, groaning and holding his left side. He was evenntually helped onto a stretcher and taken off by paramedics. I don't think he was hurt. He just needed to appear hurt to protect his pride. Who would want everyone to know they took a fall on purpose? Like I said, I was angry at the stupidness and viciousness of the world, but who knows what really happened? I'm glad Fisch was there in fact, because that immediately set me apart as a foreigner (or at least, in the company of a foreigner). Better that then being drawn into the situation, or being asked questions by the police.
2. Dubliner's Pub in Shinjuku is the worst irish pub in the world. Too crowded (amazingly), and they water down their drinks. I spent about an hour at an FOJ and NBK mixer there, and met some nice, earnest people about to begin their studies at Columbia. Some, that is. Others were kind of obnoxious in that know-it-all sort of way. Petpeeve: people who live 1-3 years overseas, know something of the language (and get praised on it all the time), and therefore think it's their duty to teach you about the place (foreigners in Japan and China are especially like this). Yuck. Anyway, it makes you think how naive they are, but then again the world doesn't necessarily reward those who are right; being wrong but persuasive seems to be a formula for success for a lot of people . . .
3. Saw the Roppongi Hills mega-complex. Disorientingly constructed, but magnificent at night when it's all lit up. It features a 24-hour movie theater for the Roppongi crowds who miss the last train, and it's buoyed up flagging land prices in the area (damaged of course by gaijin of ill-repute around the bars in the district).
--
I'm tired, but not tired enough to whine at www.tired.com.
A few small comments on my last few days in Japan.
1. I witnessed a fight in Shinjuku's "notorious" kabuki-cho. The district really isn't that dangerous to me, and I've been there several times. Sitting down on a metal fence (ha, sitting on a fence is a good metaphor for that night), I spent about 20 minutes or so with Fisch watching the people stroll by. Lots of young couples. Giggling college girls. Young guys on dates. Then a tangled snarl of fighting Japanese from my left. About 15 feet away, two large guys were face to face muttering, mumbling. There was some punching. There was some out and out bullying as the guy in blue tried to back down. It was brutal, and so stupid I felt angry about it. After the guy in blue went down, the other chunky guy in black, joined by a shorter fellow in the exact same outfit, strolled down the street. He played possum, and his wife was screaming into her cellphone for an ambulance. What followed was a melodramatic farce as police started asking questions, and the guy kept playing hurt, groaning and holding his left side. He was evenntually helped onto a stretcher and taken off by paramedics. I don't think he was hurt. He just needed to appear hurt to protect his pride. Who would want everyone to know they took a fall on purpose? Like I said, I was angry at the stupidness and viciousness of the world, but who knows what really happened? I'm glad Fisch was there in fact, because that immediately set me apart as a foreigner (or at least, in the company of a foreigner). Better that then being drawn into the situation, or being asked questions by the police.
2. Dubliner's Pub in Shinjuku is the worst irish pub in the world. Too crowded (amazingly), and they water down their drinks. I spent about an hour at an FOJ and NBK mixer there, and met some nice, earnest people about to begin their studies at Columbia. Some, that is. Others were kind of obnoxious in that know-it-all sort of way. Petpeeve: people who live 1-3 years overseas, know something of the language (and get praised on it all the time), and therefore think it's their duty to teach you about the place (foreigners in Japan and China are especially like this). Yuck. Anyway, it makes you think how naive they are, but then again the world doesn't necessarily reward those who are right; being wrong but persuasive seems to be a formula for success for a lot of people . . .
3. Saw the Roppongi Hills mega-complex. Disorientingly constructed, but magnificent at night when it's all lit up. It features a 24-hour movie theater for the Roppongi crowds who miss the last train, and it's buoyed up flagging land prices in the area (damaged of course by gaijin of ill-repute around the bars in the district).
--
I'm tired, but not tired enough to whine at www.tired.com.
Friday, July 09, 2004
the road home
I'm at narita airport now, waiting for my virgin atlantic flight back home. It'll be rather circuitous, as it stops in heathrow for a few hours before continuing on to jfk. I'm pretty exhausted, but happy to be going "home". It's kind of an illusion that anywhere will feel like home ever again though. . .
Japan was still the same mix of excitement and disappointment that it has been for me these past few years. I've been talking to more people, and meeting up with old friends for the past few weeks, so my blog posts have dropped off somewhat. Anyway, I'll see if I can muster up the necessary motivation to continue the blog once I'm back in new jersey ("home").
Japan was still the same mix of excitement and disappointment that it has been for me these past few years. I've been talking to more people, and meeting up with old friends for the past few weeks, so my blog posts have dropped off somewhat. Anyway, I'll see if I can muster up the necessary motivation to continue the blog once I'm back in new jersey ("home").
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
back on the net. sort of.
So I'm staying with fisch for the time being, and he finally got yahoo broadband installed here in japan. Specifically, he's near a small train station called Higashi Koganei, about 30 minutes from downtown tokyo. Not a bad place to be, and the internet makes it even better.
I'm not feeling well, so I'm glad my trip is almost over. On the whole, it was a bit too long in fact. But well, the odd coincidences keep occurring.
I was at the internet (and manga) cafe Bagus in Kichijoji (that's 'Joji' to you), just minding my own biz and uploading some pictures when I couldn't help overhearing a heated argument in the cubicle next door. An american was fuming about how the staff there wasn't helping him recover an email from an apparently frozen internet explorer. I sat there for about 5 minutes listening to it before getting up and asking what the hell was the problem. Well, there wasn't really much of problem, except that the Japanese staff wasn't making clear what they were doing. A quick explanation in english (copy-paste, then saving to a floppy, and opening it on another computer), and the situation was more or less defused. What was really odd was that the elderly gent said that he's a columbia grad from many decades ago, and that he studied international affairs. His name is Cliff, and he didn't recognize the acronym SIPA, but it was clear that he was in that same building.
Some mediated apologies later, all seemed to be well. At the end of my visit, in fact, the staff there offered to nix my bill. I'd like to go on record that JUST THIS ONCE a good deed actually went rewarded.
The heat here was terrible, but I ended the evening having dinner and coffee with a former student, Fukutake Miwa. It's amazing how people can grow up, and she's doing quite well as a teacher herself now.
I'm not feeling well, so I'm glad my trip is almost over. On the whole, it was a bit too long in fact. But well, the odd coincidences keep occurring.
I was at the internet (and manga) cafe Bagus in Kichijoji (that's 'Joji' to you), just minding my own biz and uploading some pictures when I couldn't help overhearing a heated argument in the cubicle next door. An american was fuming about how the staff there wasn't helping him recover an email from an apparently frozen internet explorer. I sat there for about 5 minutes listening to it before getting up and asking what the hell was the problem. Well, there wasn't really much of problem, except that the Japanese staff wasn't making clear what they were doing. A quick explanation in english (copy-paste, then saving to a floppy, and opening it on another computer), and the situation was more or less defused. What was really odd was that the elderly gent said that he's a columbia grad from many decades ago, and that he studied international affairs. His name is Cliff, and he didn't recognize the acronym SIPA, but it was clear that he was in that same building.
Some mediated apologies later, all seemed to be well. At the end of my visit, in fact, the staff there offered to nix my bill. I'd like to go on record that JUST THIS ONCE a good deed actually went rewarded.
The heat here was terrible, but I ended the evening having dinner and coffee with a former student, Fukutake Miwa. It's amazing how people can grow up, and she's doing quite well as a teacher herself now.
7/5/2004 8:50PM, at a starbucks near the Nagasaki ferry terminal. Nagasaki has overall been a disappointment, but from the ashes of that disappointment a pleasant surprise as well. With the sun bearing down on my head at 11am, the 32 degree heat felt incredibly oppressive. I don’t think I enjoyed any of the traditional tourist sites under those conditions, the Tojin yashiki (original Chinese settlement) included. But after a recuperative nap at the minshuku (and the aircon set to 23 degrees) I discovered that at twilight the sea breezes bring a marvelous coolness to the city. The harbor walk along fishing boats, cargo ships, tugs, and ferries was well maintained and pleasantly lit. Families were fishing, kids were launching fireworks, and I followed the bay until I reached a convenience store. 700 yen bought me a salad, a small bento, and Calpis Water®. If I were staying here longer, I would run the harbor walk every evening.
--
Did a strenuous walking loop today that hit Suwa Jinja, Kofukuji, Sofukuji, Megane bashi (eyeglass bridge), the remains of the tojin yashiki, a lovely Kyushu style ramen restaurant, and the partially reconstructed Dutch trading “factory” of Dejima. I have to say, most of Nagasaki is not really ready to go primetime. Construction obstructs proper views of meganebashi, many of the shrines and temples, especially in the tojinyashiki, are unkempt and deserted, and the streets are too narrow for sightseers and taxis to comfortably share. There were some historical signs that would require considerable time for even Japanese to read, but were placed right on a busy thoroughfare where there weren’t even any sidewalks. Between passing cars, I tried to take a picture of them so I could analyze them later. Like I said earlier, very disappointing.
--
Two chance encounters today: a snake at Sofukuji, and a self-proclaimed “opinionated” American named Tom who teaches at Ryukyu University. (oh wait, one more! I walked into kofukuji and they were in the middle of inducting a new abbot. quite a fortuitous window into the workings of a zen temple.)
Chinatown is rather small here, and is not actually situated on the site of the old tojinyashiki. Instead, it’s located on the “shinchi” (new district) warehouse zone that was built some time in the 18th century, and some 50 years after the original tojinyashiki was built. Likewise, the so-called “dutch slope” (oranda zaka) is rather far from the original trading settlement of dejima. The dutch slope in fact was the site of the later, post-1859 trading community, but was probably confused in the minds of local residents. It’s all rather confusing to me, but perhaps that’s one of the particular characteristics of Nagasaki. I’m drawn to the hypothesis that the local people were never that clear about the specifics of their foreign visitors, just like Japanese tourists today pay little attention to the specifics of Nagasaki’s cosmopolitan past. The “international” aspects of Nagasaki’s past draw tourists in, but not as specific historical consciousness, but rather as a vague exoticism.
--
Kyushu express trains are fabulous. I arrived from Hakata/Fukuoka on the “kamome” limited express, which was about as wide and spacious as a shinkansen, had polished wood floorboards, and plush black leather (synthetic perhaps?) seats. I’ll be leaving on it tomorrow morning as well, at 9:50AM. The other trains heading for different destinations were all unique in color and shape. I’ll try to get some pictures of them tomorrow. Reminds me of the rather cute purple “super yakumo” express that departs from Okayama bound for the sea of Japan.
--
what’s the speed record for doing one lap of Honshu by shinkansen?
--
Did a strenuous walking loop today that hit Suwa Jinja, Kofukuji, Sofukuji, Megane bashi (eyeglass bridge), the remains of the tojin yashiki, a lovely Kyushu style ramen restaurant, and the partially reconstructed Dutch trading “factory” of Dejima. I have to say, most of Nagasaki is not really ready to go primetime. Construction obstructs proper views of meganebashi, many of the shrines and temples, especially in the tojinyashiki, are unkempt and deserted, and the streets are too narrow for sightseers and taxis to comfortably share. There were some historical signs that would require considerable time for even Japanese to read, but were placed right on a busy thoroughfare where there weren’t even any sidewalks. Between passing cars, I tried to take a picture of them so I could analyze them later. Like I said earlier, very disappointing.
--
Two chance encounters today: a snake at Sofukuji, and a self-proclaimed “opinionated” American named Tom who teaches at Ryukyu University. (oh wait, one more! I walked into kofukuji and they were in the middle of inducting a new abbot. quite a fortuitous window into the workings of a zen temple.)
Chinatown is rather small here, and is not actually situated on the site of the old tojinyashiki. Instead, it’s located on the “shinchi” (new district) warehouse zone that was built some time in the 18th century, and some 50 years after the original tojinyashiki was built. Likewise, the so-called “dutch slope” (oranda zaka) is rather far from the original trading settlement of dejima. The dutch slope in fact was the site of the later, post-1859 trading community, but was probably confused in the minds of local residents. It’s all rather confusing to me, but perhaps that’s one of the particular characteristics of Nagasaki. I’m drawn to the hypothesis that the local people were never that clear about the specifics of their foreign visitors, just like Japanese tourists today pay little attention to the specifics of Nagasaki’s cosmopolitan past. The “international” aspects of Nagasaki’s past draw tourists in, but not as specific historical consciousness, but rather as a vague exoticism.
--
Kyushu express trains are fabulous. I arrived from Hakata/Fukuoka on the “kamome” limited express, which was about as wide and spacious as a shinkansen, had polished wood floorboards, and plush black leather (synthetic perhaps?) seats. I’ll be leaving on it tomorrow morning as well, at 9:50AM. The other trains heading for different destinations were all unique in color and shape. I’ll try to get some pictures of them tomorrow. Reminds me of the rather cute purple “super yakumo” express that departs from Okayama bound for the sea of Japan.
--
what’s the speed record for doing one lap of Honshu by shinkansen?
7/4/2004 First time in Kyushu, first time in Nagasaki. I’m getting in the bath pretty soon at the Minshuku Fumi. It kind of reminds me of staying with my friend Hide; a 6-tatami room, with the bathroom next door. Not a bad deal at 3500 yen a night, especially since its about 2 minutes from the JR station. I was hoping to go down to Kagoshima as well, since there were signs proclaiming a “kyushu shinkansen” that links Nagasaki with Kagoshima in around 2 hours. Not so apparently. Such a rail line is at least two years away it seems.
A typhoon just passed through here, and the air is thick with drizzle, but surprisingly mild compared with Kyoto. I took a stroll as the sky was growing dark, and promptly got lost. I don’t consider that a particularly tragic occurrence, since for the most part I’m here to lose myself anyway.
A typhoon just passed through here, and the air is thick with drizzle, but surprisingly mild compared with Kyoto. I took a stroll as the sky was growing dark, and promptly got lost. I don’t consider that a particularly tragic occurrence, since for the most part I’m here to lose myself anyway.
Saturday, July 03, 2004
assorted thoughts from the past few days
6/27/2004 kaminari - the distant sound of thunder. today’s outlook: kumori, tokidoki ame.
Okayama is still here, but almost everyone I knew has gone. I passed by my old apartment (Nakasho Haitsu 103) but the light was off. My mind’s eye still sees it as it was, only now with a thin layer of dust over it all. But time marches on, and leaves nothing in its wake. Enough cliches. I know now that this is probably the last time that I’ll be able to do the backpacker circuit. It’s tiring, and I’m too old for this nonsense. It’s time to show your cards and commit to one thing or other, career or something else. The next time I come here, I’ll be a visiting scholar, and things will be different. Obvious though it is, I don’t have a lot of tourism to do in Japan. I’ve seen a lot of it already. What’s left is pure business.
Had dinner at “taiyo no jidai” a monja restaurant. Monja is a strange thing. You cook it yourself at a griddle, and it’s a mass of vegetables and meat, with some sort of sauce. It never really hardens into a pancake (like okonomiyaki) but stays kind of liquid. Like I said, rather mysterious food. The owner, Ohashi Yasutami came over and had a beer with us (Yoshimoto-sensi, Youko, and I). It seems he knows a jazz saxophonist in NYC (harlem, in fact) named Masa. A woman in her forties. When I go back, I’ll ask around. Okayama is like this I guess. The only thing that brings me back are the people I know, and every year it seems they get fewer and fewer.
--
6/30/2004 7:15PM Kyoto, at K’s Hostel. I’m like an old-timer now. The first time I came to this town was 1996, eight years ago. I no longer feel like a tourist, which feels like a loss of innocence, both good and bad.
lunch with an Irish couple at Sukiya – serves PORK bowl now, not beef bowl after the outbreak of BSE in the states shut them down in february. The same fate for Yoshinoya?
jogging along the gurgling Kamo River in the midday sun. turtles ducking of the way as I approach. long necked cranes followed me with their eyes. an odd sight: an abandoned wheelchair by the river’s edge.
Some aesthetic observations about Japan, the ambiguous, and myself:
1. Entering the bath after Satoko’s sister; the water spilling over the edge and running down the drain is the difference in the size of our bodies. (edit: there was a lot of water down the drain, she's not a very big girl.)
2. I love the rice patties of early summer because they reflect the sky and mountains, between a green grid of precisely laid sprouts.
Later that night, an evening of ‘Japanese’ experiences: participated (fortuitously) in the Minazuki shinto ritual at Ichihime jinja. Saw a group of maiko (geisha) strolling along Shijo dori carrying shopping bags. One yawned as they waited for the pedestrian signal to change. A rare display of humanity from so ghostly a figure.
--
7/1/2004 Minazuki (“the month without water”) is over and now it’s Fumizuki. In poetry, it has autumn resonances, but it’s still extremely muggy here.
Okayama is still here, but almost everyone I knew has gone. I passed by my old apartment (Nakasho Haitsu 103) but the light was off. My mind’s eye still sees it as it was, only now with a thin layer of dust over it all. But time marches on, and leaves nothing in its wake. Enough cliches. I know now that this is probably the last time that I’ll be able to do the backpacker circuit. It’s tiring, and I’m too old for this nonsense. It’s time to show your cards and commit to one thing or other, career or something else. The next time I come here, I’ll be a visiting scholar, and things will be different. Obvious though it is, I don’t have a lot of tourism to do in Japan. I’ve seen a lot of it already. What’s left is pure business.
Had dinner at “taiyo no jidai” a monja restaurant. Monja is a strange thing. You cook it yourself at a griddle, and it’s a mass of vegetables and meat, with some sort of sauce. It never really hardens into a pancake (like okonomiyaki) but stays kind of liquid. Like I said, rather mysterious food. The owner, Ohashi Yasutami came over and had a beer with us (Yoshimoto-sensi, Youko, and I). It seems he knows a jazz saxophonist in NYC (harlem, in fact) named Masa. A woman in her forties. When I go back, I’ll ask around. Okayama is like this I guess. The only thing that brings me back are the people I know, and every year it seems they get fewer and fewer.
--
6/30/2004 7:15PM Kyoto, at K’s Hostel. I’m like an old-timer now. The first time I came to this town was 1996, eight years ago. I no longer feel like a tourist, which feels like a loss of innocence, both good and bad.
lunch with an Irish couple at Sukiya – serves PORK bowl now, not beef bowl after the outbreak of BSE in the states shut them down in february. The same fate for Yoshinoya?
jogging along the gurgling Kamo River in the midday sun. turtles ducking of the way as I approach. long necked cranes followed me with their eyes. an odd sight: an abandoned wheelchair by the river’s edge.
Some aesthetic observations about Japan, the ambiguous, and myself:
1. Entering the bath after Satoko’s sister; the water spilling over the edge and running down the drain is the difference in the size of our bodies. (edit: there was a lot of water down the drain, she's not a very big girl.)
2. I love the rice patties of early summer because they reflect the sky and mountains, between a green grid of precisely laid sprouts.
Later that night, an evening of ‘Japanese’ experiences: participated (fortuitously) in the Minazuki shinto ritual at Ichihime jinja. Saw a group of maiko (geisha) strolling along Shijo dori carrying shopping bags. One yawned as they waited for the pedestrian signal to change. A rare display of humanity from so ghostly a figure.
--
7/1/2004 Minazuki (“the month without water”) is over and now it’s Fumizuki. In poetry, it has autumn resonances, but it’s still extremely muggy here.
Saturday, June 26, 2004
brief, live update
5:51PM OST (Okayama Standard Time)
So, here I am chilling at an internet cafe in Okayama's omotecho shopping arcade. It's new. It certainly wasn't here while I was a teacher.
Today's project is kind of along those lines though: cataloging those things that are the same, and those things that are gone.
Hunters: gone
Desperado: Still there (not sure if it's in business though)
Belgian waffle place: gone
Maruzen bookstore: still the same
Bukkake Udon (um. seriously, it's food): gone
Radio Momo: can't seem to find it. will look around again
The shopping arcade itself is now prodigiously decorated in preparation for 7/7 day (Tanabata).
cloth banners are hanging from the ceiling, and paper strip 'wishes' are knotted on tree branches.
For some reason, I don't remember Tanabata being such a big deal while I was here.
But the most important difference I guess is the fact that most of the people I knew here are gone.
Hide is in India I hear, and his mom doesn't have his address. Most other people have made their way up to Osaka or Tokyo to live out their natural lives. . .
And Okayama feels. . . quiet.
--
But my last night in Sanya was quite interesting. During the day I popped into Tokyo (not difficult since Sanya-Minami Senju is on the hibiya line, and goes direct to ebisu and roppongi)
and met some former students: Naoko and Hiroko. Pretty funny girls. We spent some time calling up other former students, but no one picked up. Oh well. I may run into some more if I keep wandering the streets.
Then met up with a former colleague now working in Tokyo for food and drinks in Ebisu. Shibuya is starting to feel a bit young for me . . . Later ended up at a 'gaijin bar' where the brits were still angry at their euro2004 loss.
Back at Sanya, I closed out the local bar talking with the manager Nakamura Yuji about Murakami Haruki and Takahashi Gen'ichiro. Pretty cool chap. I think I learned a few things.
One of which was that 'Bison brand vodka' actually exists (freely drunk in the Chinese film 'Suzhou River'). Yuji claims its quite popular.
--
update updated
Hunters is still there. I was just on the wrong block, but that old sign needs a good wipe-down with a damp cloth
Radio Momo is definitely gone. Or at least not where it used to be located. The overpowering Okayama FM (located in the imposing NTT CREDO building) must have sent them to the ropes.
Free wireless internet in the lobby of the Okayama International Center rules, though I'm not sure how much longer they'll let me sit here. Looks about closing time (OST 7:48PM now)
So, here I am chilling at an internet cafe in Okayama's omotecho shopping arcade. It's new. It certainly wasn't here while I was a teacher.
Today's project is kind of along those lines though: cataloging those things that are the same, and those things that are gone.
Hunters: gone
Desperado: Still there (not sure if it's in business though)
Belgian waffle place: gone
Maruzen bookstore: still the same
Bukkake Udon (um. seriously, it's food): gone
Radio Momo: can't seem to find it. will look around again
The shopping arcade itself is now prodigiously decorated in preparation for 7/7 day (Tanabata).
cloth banners are hanging from the ceiling, and paper strip 'wishes' are knotted on tree branches.
For some reason, I don't remember Tanabata being such a big deal while I was here.
But the most important difference I guess is the fact that most of the people I knew here are gone.
Hide is in India I hear, and his mom doesn't have his address. Most other people have made their way up to Osaka or Tokyo to live out their natural lives. . .
And Okayama feels. . . quiet.
--
But my last night in Sanya was quite interesting. During the day I popped into Tokyo (not difficult since Sanya-Minami Senju is on the hibiya line, and goes direct to ebisu and roppongi)
and met some former students: Naoko and Hiroko. Pretty funny girls. We spent some time calling up other former students, but no one picked up. Oh well. I may run into some more if I keep wandering the streets.
Then met up with a former colleague now working in Tokyo for food and drinks in Ebisu. Shibuya is starting to feel a bit young for me . . . Later ended up at a 'gaijin bar' where the brits were still angry at their euro2004 loss.
Back at Sanya, I closed out the local bar talking with the manager Nakamura Yuji about Murakami Haruki and Takahashi Gen'ichiro. Pretty cool chap. I think I learned a few things.
One of which was that 'Bison brand vodka' actually exists (freely drunk in the Chinese film 'Suzhou River'). Yuji claims its quite popular.
--
update updated
Hunters is still there. I was just on the wrong block, but that old sign needs a good wipe-down with a damp cloth
Radio Momo is definitely gone. Or at least not where it used to be located. The overpowering Okayama FM (located in the imposing NTT CREDO building) must have sent them to the ropes.
Free wireless internet in the lobby of the Okayama International Center rules, though I'm not sure how much longer they'll let me sit here. Looks about closing time (OST 7:48PM now)
Thursday, June 24, 2004
searching for a home
6/24/2004 Hongo, in central Tokyo. I’m now sitting in another starbucks. In fact, I’ve already been here once in the morning when I was sorting out my thoughts before meeting with Prof. Yoshimi. Ok, it’s kind of excessive, and I’ll have to find some coffee houses with more character. But later. Now it’s good enough to escape the heat and humidity. I’m soaked, just like I was in Scotland, when I had to march around in the rain. But this time, it’s sweat, and think I’m getting dehydrated. Tokyo University is cool. Most of the students there are intimidatingly sharp, and I feel kind of autistic. You know? I can barely speak, but then come out with some crazy shit about nationalism, or cultural studies. Out of the blue. Like stutter, stutter, mumble, mumble, then zap, a moment of intelligence. Idiot Savant.
Prof. Yoshimi is pretty cool, and his seminars are quite unlike what I expected. He really tries to draw his students into a discussion, then gives his take on the material. The latter is in fact quite refreshing since most of the profs back in the states are kind of reticent about their own opinions. Today’s topic was ‘Bakhtin on Marxism and linguistics.” No, I didn’t get most of it.
Some random thoughts on Yoshimi and academics. I think there are two very important trends in the world of thought today: reducing the world to language, and reducing it to the operation of power. Bakhtin seems to combine these two by linking language and marxism. . . What I’m trying to figure out is a place for ethics. Tai and I had a long conversation about human rights and law, which made me realize how amoral history is as a discipline. We can say that it happened. We can even guess at why. But there’s also a strangely balanced view that nothing is ever unique. For example, Yoshimi has argued that American hegemony (economic, military) over East Asia is equivalent to Japanese hegemony over the same area before WWII. In terms of power, and the efforts of those in control to maintain their power, perhaps he’s right. The tendency is to ignore the justifications used by America and Japan, in particular, the differences between those justifications. The pervasive, and blasé attitude is that people will say anything to accomplish their aims, that for example, we should perceive the acceptance of the 1960s civil rights movement in terms of its propaganda benefits for the U.S. in the third world. The argument goes that the USSR and China were gaining too much propaganda mileage out of US segregation, and that US interests in Africa were being harmed by it. Disturbing thought isn’t it? Think also of democracy in Taiwan. If the PRC were not across the border, and if the PRC were not (ostensibly) communist, how much incentive would Taiwan have for introducing free elections? Basically, the trend is to regard these “advances” in the human spirit, not as universal, but as strategic actions, intended for particular interests.
> back to the amorality of history <
Japanese hegemony = American hegemony. (agree or disagree?)
If the power (hegemony) cannot be differentiated, and judged on a moral basis, what do we judge? I feel like we’re intellectually left with little option but to judge the specific application of force and coercion in that hegemony. This is where Tai’s perspective was interesting because he’s studying human rights law. Perhaps it’s the degree of coercion and domination, rather than the truth and moral value of ideologies like “The American Way” or (for the case of Japan) “The Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere” that we should judge. So, we return to our disillusionment with ideas. . . perhaps we need to accept that someone will be hegemon and get on with it. And on that point, I wish the American record of violence and coercion in East Asia were better (Noh Gun Ri, My Lai), to distinguish it from the Japanese (rape of Nanjing, genocide in Korea).
--
Bass Ale in Sanya? Yup. I’m back at a bar in Sanya where they have bass and internet access too. Weird how gentrification creeps into places like this. I mean, this place is clearly set up for a different socio-economic set than the traditional Sanya resident. But, can’t complain. Mark, an englishman staying at a nearby hotel (Shin Koyo, if you’re interested) was just in here badmouthing Americans. As if the English have any right. . . but then again I badmouth America from time to time too. It’s kind of like badmouthing yourself; it can be therapeutic at times.
Prof. Yoshimi is pretty cool, and his seminars are quite unlike what I expected. He really tries to draw his students into a discussion, then gives his take on the material. The latter is in fact quite refreshing since most of the profs back in the states are kind of reticent about their own opinions. Today’s topic was ‘Bakhtin on Marxism and linguistics.” No, I didn’t get most of it.
Some random thoughts on Yoshimi and academics. I think there are two very important trends in the world of thought today: reducing the world to language, and reducing it to the operation of power. Bakhtin seems to combine these two by linking language and marxism. . . What I’m trying to figure out is a place for ethics. Tai and I had a long conversation about human rights and law, which made me realize how amoral history is as a discipline. We can say that it happened. We can even guess at why. But there’s also a strangely balanced view that nothing is ever unique. For example, Yoshimi has argued that American hegemony (economic, military) over East Asia is equivalent to Japanese hegemony over the same area before WWII. In terms of power, and the efforts of those in control to maintain their power, perhaps he’s right. The tendency is to ignore the justifications used by America and Japan, in particular, the differences between those justifications. The pervasive, and blasé attitude is that people will say anything to accomplish their aims, that for example, we should perceive the acceptance of the 1960s civil rights movement in terms of its propaganda benefits for the U.S. in the third world. The argument goes that the USSR and China were gaining too much propaganda mileage out of US segregation, and that US interests in Africa were being harmed by it. Disturbing thought isn’t it? Think also of democracy in Taiwan. If the PRC were not across the border, and if the PRC were not (ostensibly) communist, how much incentive would Taiwan have for introducing free elections? Basically, the trend is to regard these “advances” in the human spirit, not as universal, but as strategic actions, intended for particular interests.
> back to the amorality of history <
Japanese hegemony = American hegemony. (agree or disagree?)
If the power (hegemony) cannot be differentiated, and judged on a moral basis, what do we judge? I feel like we’re intellectually left with little option but to judge the specific application of force and coercion in that hegemony. This is where Tai’s perspective was interesting because he’s studying human rights law. Perhaps it’s the degree of coercion and domination, rather than the truth and moral value of ideologies like “The American Way” or (for the case of Japan) “The Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere” that we should judge. So, we return to our disillusionment with ideas. . . perhaps we need to accept that someone will be hegemon and get on with it. And on that point, I wish the American record of violence and coercion in East Asia were better (Noh Gun Ri, My Lai), to distinguish it from the Japanese (rape of Nanjing, genocide in Korea).
--
Bass Ale in Sanya? Yup. I’m back at a bar in Sanya where they have bass and internet access too. Weird how gentrification creeps into places like this. I mean, this place is clearly set up for a different socio-economic set than the traditional Sanya resident. But, can’t complain. Mark, an englishman staying at a nearby hotel (Shin Koyo, if you’re interested) was just in here badmouthing Americans. As if the English have any right. . . but then again I badmouth America from time to time too. It’s kind of like badmouthing yourself; it can be therapeutic at times.
salt of the earth
6/23/2004 Sanya, Tokyo. I shouldn’t be here. I really shouldn’t. Maybe the name doesn’t mean anything to you, but most Japanese would recognize it. I really didn’t realize where the hotel was located when I made the reservation. An American scholar (Edward Fowler) wrote a book about this place a few years ago called ‘Sanya Blues’, because it was such a notorious place. This is where of Tokyo’s day-laborers ‘live’, either on the street or in ‘silkworm shelves’ meaning crowded bunks. It’s recently been trying to reinvent itself as a place for backpackers to stay, since these flophouses are CHEAP, but the homeless are still here, and the poverty is still wafting in the air. In fact, the place where I’m staying is only 2 blocks away from the “Iroha” shopping arcade where Fowler almost got into a fist fight with some off duty workers (for taking pictures. don’t expect any photos from me). The ‘bars’ in the area aren’t called ‘snack’ or ‘bar’ (in Japanese that is); they’re labeled differently than drinking establishments elsewhere in Tokyo. Here, they’re called 大衆酒場 basically meaning an alcohol dispensing place for the ‘masses’. That includes me, for now.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
6/21/2004
Tired old Japan (Narita Express, grey payphones look worn, Landmark tower needs a good scrubbing) – everything looked so shiny when I first came in 1996. It really looks like a lot of the stuff I saw then hasn’t been replaced or refurbished.
100 yen stores are now called “One Coin Store”
difficulties with Japanese professor. not much to say about this, except that I’ll be working at Tokyo University next year instead of Japan Women’s University.
pointy shoes and the trashy look are in. Those shoes always look sadly ill-fitting. I wonder if they’re really made for human feet. I miss the clunky shoes and chucks.
Typhoon no. 6 passed through and made the day rather dramatic. I had to duck into Takashimaya in Shinjuku for most of the day. That’s fine, since I spent some time listening to Cds at HMV. Franz Ferdinand’s album sounds ok, but I was pleasantly surprised by Morrissey’s latest. Tim Booth (of James fame) had a CD out, but it kind of stunk. Sonic Youth’s disk wasn’t anything unexpected, but had a nice satisfying buzz to it. The Pixies best-of was there, and I spent a few minutes reliving memories with it. . .
6/22/2004 1:52PM Sitting in the starbucks under Landmark Tower. I passed through here twice a day for a year between 1999 and 2000. Some bitter memories, some sweet. Japan to me is a layered mess now. Not entirely exotic, but not home either. I want to be here, and I don’t. I’m alone, but I’m not. Just came back from the Ramen Museum near Shin-Yokohama Station. Bought some ramen (mysteriously and consistently transliterated as ‘raumen’ throughout the museum) for Satoko and her family, since I’m staying at their place. A few observations: the reconstructed ramen town in the two basement levels is kind of amazing. There weren’t that many people there today, but there are signs telling you things like “the wait for sumire ramen from this point is 60 minutes.” Some serious crowds must attack that place on weekends. I didn’t get in line for Sumire ramen (an old standby from hokkaido), but chose a bowl of Hachiya Ramen (from asahikawa, in hokkaido. I passed through there!) and then a mini-bowl at Shinasobaya (from Kanagawa). Amazing difference in noodle shape, and soup flavor. Another observation: many of the original Japanese ramen restaurants were founded in the late 1800s and early 1900s by Chinese immigrants. But the place isn’t just about ramen; it’s about nostalgia. They were selling cigarettes, candies, etc, in 1950s packaging, and the town itself was filled with memorabilia. There were old Kurosawa movie posters, fake subway signs, an old ramen-selling cart. . .
Tired old Japan (Narita Express, grey payphones look worn, Landmark tower needs a good scrubbing) – everything looked so shiny when I first came in 1996. It really looks like a lot of the stuff I saw then hasn’t been replaced or refurbished.
100 yen stores are now called “One Coin Store”
difficulties with Japanese professor. not much to say about this, except that I’ll be working at Tokyo University next year instead of Japan Women’s University.
pointy shoes and the trashy look are in. Those shoes always look sadly ill-fitting. I wonder if they’re really made for human feet. I miss the clunky shoes and chucks.
Typhoon no. 6 passed through and made the day rather dramatic. I had to duck into Takashimaya in Shinjuku for most of the day. That’s fine, since I spent some time listening to Cds at HMV. Franz Ferdinand’s album sounds ok, but I was pleasantly surprised by Morrissey’s latest. Tim Booth (of James fame) had a CD out, but it kind of stunk. Sonic Youth’s disk wasn’t anything unexpected, but had a nice satisfying buzz to it. The Pixies best-of was there, and I spent a few minutes reliving memories with it. . .
6/22/2004 1:52PM Sitting in the starbucks under Landmark Tower. I passed through here twice a day for a year between 1999 and 2000. Some bitter memories, some sweet. Japan to me is a layered mess now. Not entirely exotic, but not home either. I want to be here, and I don’t. I’m alone, but I’m not. Just came back from the Ramen Museum near Shin-Yokohama Station. Bought some ramen (mysteriously and consistently transliterated as ‘raumen’ throughout the museum) for Satoko and her family, since I’m staying at their place. A few observations: the reconstructed ramen town in the two basement levels is kind of amazing. There weren’t that many people there today, but there are signs telling you things like “the wait for sumire ramen from this point is 60 minutes.” Some serious crowds must attack that place on weekends. I didn’t get in line for Sumire ramen (an old standby from hokkaido), but chose a bowl of Hachiya Ramen (from asahikawa, in hokkaido. I passed through there!) and then a mini-bowl at Shinasobaya (from Kanagawa). Amazing difference in noodle shape, and soup flavor. Another observation: many of the original Japanese ramen restaurants were founded in the late 1800s and early 1900s by Chinese immigrants. But the place isn’t just about ramen; it’s about nostalgia. They were selling cigarettes, candies, etc, in 1950s packaging, and the town itself was filled with memorabilia. There were old Kurosawa movie posters, fake subway signs, an old ramen-selling cart. . .
6/20/2004 Japan, again. The air is humid, and heavy with memories. Long flight on Virgin Atlantic via Siberia. I’m adjusting my opinion of them. Good service, amazingly functional linux-driven entertainment system (yes, I saw it reboot twice and go through its startup sequence). I saw three movies (Starsky & Hutch – not really that funny; The Sea is Watching – serene Japanese period piece; American Splendor – made me want to kill myself, but was inspiring all the same). But the tradeoff was a big metal box under each seat that occupied part of my foot space.
Back to the sweaty present. It’s the smell of Japan that brings a vague wistful smile to my lips. Japan is surely the future, as the Matrix, Solaris (by Tarkovsky), and the Morning Musume remind us. For me though, it’s starting to feel like the past, because my life, my past emotions, and my friendships that have been so important to me feel so irretrievable now. But I also know that it’s time for a change. I’m almost 30. I’m at the transition from taking classes to teaching classes. I’m irredeemably irrevocably committed now to academics.
I never knew that traveling would be this tiring. I almost yearn for the quiet life, you know, no alarms and no surprises. Please. And when you travel alone you start talking to yourself. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. Sometimes I give myself the creeps. And sometimes I feel the unbearable unexpressibility of human experience. Can I even describe what I’m doing and seeing? And if I can’t, doesn’t it almost seem like none of this EVER HAPPENED?
Back to the sweaty present. It’s the smell of Japan that brings a vague wistful smile to my lips. Japan is surely the future, as the Matrix, Solaris (by Tarkovsky), and the Morning Musume remind us. For me though, it’s starting to feel like the past, because my life, my past emotions, and my friendships that have been so important to me feel so irretrievable now. But I also know that it’s time for a change. I’m almost 30. I’m at the transition from taking classes to teaching classes. I’m irredeemably irrevocably committed now to academics.
I never knew that traveling would be this tiring. I almost yearn for the quiet life, you know, no alarms and no surprises. Please. And when you travel alone you start talking to yourself. Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. Sometimes I give myself the creeps. And sometimes I feel the unbearable unexpressibility of human experience. Can I even describe what I’m doing and seeing? And if I can’t, doesn’t it almost seem like none of this EVER HAPPENED?
6/18/2004 Friday. 5:35PM at a starbucks near Picadilly Circus. No elephants or acrobats here. Just broadway theater-style musicals all around, and a kind of Chinatown spill-over crowd. Lots of fashion-conscious brits lounging about. I don’t exactly fit in, with my pragmatically selected 5-day wardrobe. Froze my ass off visiting Stonehenge without my jacket. I took some pictures though, and I guess that makes the trip worth it. My eyes are still gummy and sticky from my allergic reaction to England. But one look at Stonehenge and I realize how much more elaborate it is than the standing stones up in the Orkneys. The audio-guide bored me though, with its constant evocation of Stonehenge’s ‘mysteriousness’. In fact, I’m pretty satisfied with the existing hypotheses of the monument’s origins.
Salisbury Cathedral, the highest spire in England is still a bustling, functioning church, with hourly prayers and enthusiastic elderly volunteer guides. Saw another copy of the magna carta. Interesting thing about the spire is that the original building was not designed to support its weight. The pillars inside are buckling, and additional supports were constructed.
Last night in London. I’ll be back in Japan soon.
Salisbury Cathedral, the highest spire in England is still a bustling, functioning church, with hourly prayers and enthusiastic elderly volunteer guides. Saw another copy of the magna carta. Interesting thing about the spire is that the original building was not designed to support its weight. The pillars inside are buckling, and additional supports were constructed.
Last night in London. I’ll be back in Japan soon.
6/16/2004 Sightseeing day around London, under a fabulously clear sky.
Tower of London, Tower Bridge, St. Andrews wharf, the Thames, Tate Modern, Big Ben, House of Commons, Chinatown (only one association sign visible above the restaurants and stores), watching Euro2004 (spain ties greece) at a pub and chatting with a Bangladesh MBA student, watching the white swans in Hyde Park.
I guess the highlight was the Tate Modern, and Jan Svankmajer’s video piece “Punch and Judy: The Coffin Factory” – lovely, macabre and sardonic. Puppet theater. Negotiations for the sale of a guinea pig (yup, no lie) dissolve into violence and the ultimate death of both protagonists (including a Kill Bill 2 – style ‘Texas burial’). Too damn funny. Also Yves Tanguy’s painting “Les Transparents”.
I must be allergic to London. My allergies are worse here than anywhere else in the world. My eyes are tearing up.
--
6/17/2004 Thursday. I now have four different allergy medications because I’m tired of having it ruin my days. I’ve got phenylephedrine, loratadine, oxymetazoline, and that stuff that’s in benedryl. I’m ready for anything.
3:45PM The Fog of War at the Prince Charles Theater in Leicester Square (rhymes with ‘chester’ and ‘molester’). Amazing film. Surprising number of people in the theater are like me, alone. At 3 pounds, it’s a good deal. At 5:00, the Switzerland-England Euro2004 match starts, and pubs are gearing up for it. One advertises 1 pound ‘stubbies’ until England scores. ‘Stubby’ = 1/2 pint? This place is like a college town at homecoming or something. It lives and breathes on the fortunes of its team.
No pictures today. I’m tired of sightseeing. Just wandering the streets like a ghost, not a tourist. I don’t really belong here, so there’s little to actually ‘do’. But it’s not so different that I feel like snapping pictures of everything. I’m l’etranger (or simply etrange). I just draw out trite generalizations from otherwise sensitive, thoughtful people about the differences between fairly equivalent cultures. I think I’ve had the same conversation a hundred times over.
Sat down in Trafalgar Square for the live broadcast of the Royal Ballet’s performance of Onegin. Kind offunny to be appreciating that while the rest of the town is running around drunk celebrating England’s victory.
Tower of London, Tower Bridge, St. Andrews wharf, the Thames, Tate Modern, Big Ben, House of Commons, Chinatown (only one association sign visible above the restaurants and stores), watching Euro2004 (spain ties greece) at a pub and chatting with a Bangladesh MBA student, watching the white swans in Hyde Park.
I guess the highlight was the Tate Modern, and Jan Svankmajer’s video piece “Punch and Judy: The Coffin Factory” – lovely, macabre and sardonic. Puppet theater. Negotiations for the sale of a guinea pig (yup, no lie) dissolve into violence and the ultimate death of both protagonists (including a Kill Bill 2 – style ‘Texas burial’). Too damn funny. Also Yves Tanguy’s painting “Les Transparents”.
I must be allergic to London. My allergies are worse here than anywhere else in the world. My eyes are tearing up.
--
6/17/2004 Thursday. I now have four different allergy medications because I’m tired of having it ruin my days. I’ve got phenylephedrine, loratadine, oxymetazoline, and that stuff that’s in benedryl. I’m ready for anything.
3:45PM The Fog of War at the Prince Charles Theater in Leicester Square (rhymes with ‘chester’ and ‘molester’). Amazing film. Surprising number of people in the theater are like me, alone. At 3 pounds, it’s a good deal. At 5:00, the Switzerland-England Euro2004 match starts, and pubs are gearing up for it. One advertises 1 pound ‘stubbies’ until England scores. ‘Stubby’ = 1/2 pint? This place is like a college town at homecoming or something. It lives and breathes on the fortunes of its team.
No pictures today. I’m tired of sightseeing. Just wandering the streets like a ghost, not a tourist. I don’t really belong here, so there’s little to actually ‘do’. But it’s not so different that I feel like snapping pictures of everything. I’m l’etranger (or simply etrange). I just draw out trite generalizations from otherwise sensitive, thoughtful people about the differences between fairly equivalent cultures. I think I’ve had the same conversation a hundred times over.
Sat down in Trafalgar Square for the live broadcast of the Royal Ballet’s performance of Onegin. Kind offunny to be appreciating that while the rest of the town is running around drunk celebrating England’s victory.
6/15/2004 7:55AM at Aberdeen station. This is going to be a long rail-day from the top of Scotland to the heart of England. Direct service to London King’s X (‘cross’). But I’m stopping off at York, “the most haunted city in England.” Paris has been quietly discarded from my itinerary.
Last night: had a fried slice of haggis for the first time. Described as a stuffed sheep’s stomach, it sounds kind of nasty. But it didn’t taste that bad; I’d say it’s like a spicy sausage, but soft and crumbly when you stick it with a fork. If it were not covered in batter and deep-fried, it would have fallen apart. . . Ah British comfort food: everything here is kind of greasy. As the McCain’s chips commercial says, “chin up.” Considering the weather they have here, that’s the sort of food that’s called for. Chips, bacon, sausages. . .
Last night, rode with Liz and Colin to the ferry port, 2 PhD’s up in the Orkneys for research who were also staying at the hostel. Didn’t get much sleep on the ferry, since the only place dark enough was the cinema lounge. Wasn’t much different from sleeping on a plane. Disembarking, and finally greeting the sun here in aberdeen. 2.5 weeks down, and 3.5 to go. Can’t believe how tired I feel.
11:00AM leaning back in the train and watching the sky, while listening to radiohead (like a cracked polystyrene man). I think it was about 10 years ago that Miyazaki’s films taught me to look at the sky again. I don’t think it’s a normal thing for a college student to (re)discover, since we tend to get caught up in all sorts of other things at school (academics, drinking, partying, relationships. Because of Nausicaa and Totoro I spent a lot of time looking at trees. . . because of Laputa and Porco Rosso, I stare at the sky. Of course I think I always had this sort of tendency. As a kid, I remember people remarking that I don’t talk much in cars, but instead tend to stare out the window. And at Chinese camp years and years ago, I only took pictures of clouds, not the people.
6:45PM on the express train from York to London, finally full circle. The sun is out, spreading its crisp light on the gaudy shopping streets. Besides the viking museum, Yorkminster (cathedral), and the ghost hunt tours, York is just a big set of tourist shops. Picturesque in its antique sort of way, but still buzzing with shoppers and cash. But I was buoyed up by the warm sunlight, the cool breeze, and the sudden realization that I was close to accomplishing my mission. So this is England? Bring it on. Four days until I board the plane to Tokyo. Yorkminster was grand beyond words (see pics). Winners and losers in history are clear to see. Consider in comparison with the Cathedral at Elgin. Anglican church versus Catholicism. 275 claustrophobic steps (and odor of sweat) to the top. Oddly, I was struck by the three nuclear power plants that are visible from the top along the horizon.
‘The shambles’ – an old shopping district with a compelling name, but ultimately a disappointment .
Didn’t know this, but an ‘iconoclast’ during the English reformation meant a smasher of catholic images.
‘Lunch’ was a sausage sandwich (2 pounds) with stuffing and ‘brown’ sauce. Strangely, the brits describe their sauces by color. ‘Red’ sauce is pretty much just ketchup. ‘Brown’ is like worcester sauce. ‘Dinner’ at Marks & Spencer – 2 pre-packaged salads plus a drink = 5 pounds.
Arriving at Kings Cross at 8:40PM, walking to Warren St. tube stop to meet Tai.
Last night: had a fried slice of haggis for the first time. Described as a stuffed sheep’s stomach, it sounds kind of nasty. But it didn’t taste that bad; I’d say it’s like a spicy sausage, but soft and crumbly when you stick it with a fork. If it were not covered in batter and deep-fried, it would have fallen apart. . . Ah British comfort food: everything here is kind of greasy. As the McCain’s chips commercial says, “chin up.” Considering the weather they have here, that’s the sort of food that’s called for. Chips, bacon, sausages. . .
Last night, rode with Liz and Colin to the ferry port, 2 PhD’s up in the Orkneys for research who were also staying at the hostel. Didn’t get much sleep on the ferry, since the only place dark enough was the cinema lounge. Wasn’t much different from sleeping on a plane. Disembarking, and finally greeting the sun here in aberdeen. 2.5 weeks down, and 3.5 to go. Can’t believe how tired I feel.
11:00AM leaning back in the train and watching the sky, while listening to radiohead (like a cracked polystyrene man). I think it was about 10 years ago that Miyazaki’s films taught me to look at the sky again. I don’t think it’s a normal thing for a college student to (re)discover, since we tend to get caught up in all sorts of other things at school (academics, drinking, partying, relationships. Because of Nausicaa and Totoro I spent a lot of time looking at trees. . . because of Laputa and Porco Rosso, I stare at the sky. Of course I think I always had this sort of tendency. As a kid, I remember people remarking that I don’t talk much in cars, but instead tend to stare out the window. And at Chinese camp years and years ago, I only took pictures of clouds, not the people.
6:45PM on the express train from York to London, finally full circle. The sun is out, spreading its crisp light on the gaudy shopping streets. Besides the viking museum, Yorkminster (cathedral), and the ghost hunt tours, York is just a big set of tourist shops. Picturesque in its antique sort of way, but still buzzing with shoppers and cash. But I was buoyed up by the warm sunlight, the cool breeze, and the sudden realization that I was close to accomplishing my mission. So this is England? Bring it on. Four days until I board the plane to Tokyo. Yorkminster was grand beyond words (see pics). Winners and losers in history are clear to see. Consider in comparison with the Cathedral at Elgin. Anglican church versus Catholicism. 275 claustrophobic steps (and odor of sweat) to the top. Oddly, I was struck by the three nuclear power plants that are visible from the top along the horizon.
‘The shambles’ – an old shopping district with a compelling name, but ultimately a disappointment .
Didn’t know this, but an ‘iconoclast’ during the English reformation meant a smasher of catholic images.
‘Lunch’ was a sausage sandwich (2 pounds) with stuffing and ‘brown’ sauce. Strangely, the brits describe their sauces by color. ‘Red’ sauce is pretty much just ketchup. ‘Brown’ is like worcester sauce. ‘Dinner’ at Marks & Spencer – 2 pre-packaged salads plus a drink = 5 pounds.
Arriving at Kings Cross at 8:40PM, walking to Warren St. tube stop to meet Tai.
6/14/2004 2:50PM in Trenabies Café. Last few hours in the Orkneys, since I’m catching the Northlink Ferry back to Aberdeen at 11:45PM (arrives at 7:00AM!). Cute mulletted girl had mentioned this cafe as the only place in Kirkwall to get coffee ‘like starbucks’. Yeah, well, everywhere else it’s instant coffee. She actually likes that stuff, especially ‘Kenco’. The scone with ‘clotted cream’ was actually quite good, and it’s good to finally sit down in a warm place. The wind-blown drizzle outside stings the face, though the sky is now marginally brighter than before. I can’t really afford to ‘take tea’ like this, but there’s not a lot to do in Kirkwall on a day like this. Last thing to try in Scotland: haggis.
* The many smells of Orkney: the briney odor of sea spray, the heavy reek of cow manure, the nostalgic acridness of fireplaces, and the spicy muddy (‘laphroigh’) smoke of peat fires. Today, the dominant flavor is cow dung.
* Only in Scotland: Safeway brand generic SINGLE MALT whiskey. About 15 pounds per bottle, which isn’t that cheap. Nothing really is here. On sale, the local distillery’s ‘Highland Park’ single malt goes for 20 pounds a bottle. (brings to mind a certain town in central jersey)
* Frustration in ‘paradise’: Kirkwall is a ‘friendly’ city, but also home to a quiet ambivalence and desperation. This is most visible in its garbage littering youth (AC/DC shirts are really popular here), and the heavy drinking. Residents apparently knocked down many of the standing stones at the Ring of Brodgar, and someone intentionally let their sheep into the fenced-off lot where the Stones of Stenness are. I consider it vandalism, or worse, sabotage.
* The many smells of Orkney: the briney odor of sea spray, the heavy reek of cow manure, the nostalgic acridness of fireplaces, and the spicy muddy (‘laphroigh’) smoke of peat fires. Today, the dominant flavor is cow dung.
* Only in Scotland: Safeway brand generic SINGLE MALT whiskey. About 15 pounds per bottle, which isn’t that cheap. Nothing really is here. On sale, the local distillery’s ‘Highland Park’ single malt goes for 20 pounds a bottle. (brings to mind a certain town in central jersey)
* Frustration in ‘paradise’: Kirkwall is a ‘friendly’ city, but also home to a quiet ambivalence and desperation. This is most visible in its garbage littering youth (AC/DC shirts are really popular here), and the heavy drinking. Residents apparently knocked down many of the standing stones at the Ring of Brodgar, and someone intentionally let their sheep into the fenced-off lot where the Stones of Stenness are. I consider it vandalism, or worse, sabotage.
6/13/2004 9:00AMOn the ferry to Stronsay (all the islands here are in pig latin) with stops on Eday, and Sanday. Cute local girl with mullet in the cafeteria recommends the Kenco coffee, and pulsing jellyfish off the starboard side.
5:10PM, on the ferry back to Kirkwall. OMG. I was lucky to make it back in time. These islands are so damn windy that scarcely any trees grow here. They occasionally get hurricane force winds WITHOUT a storm. Derelict houses all over Stronsay, crumbling, with collapsed roofs. After I got off the ferry I started walking south when a retired Englishman named Brian Crowe picked me up in his car and took me to the south end of the island. (says I can knock on his door if I don’t think I can make it back in time) It would be 10 miles and 4 hours to get back to the ferry port. Mr. Crowe apparently came to Stronsay to fix up a farmhouse and settle down. A subsidiary isle of a subsidiary isle of Britain. Ferries stop in the winter because of the roughness of the seas, so it must be extraordinarily lonely here when the sun goes down for the last time around December 20th.
The sky remained an angry grey throughout the day, and it drizzled on and off. I followed the cliffs around the south-east promontory, and birds followed me calling out a warning to the other animals. The island felt HOSTILE. I did see some seals though. They were out on a rocky bar in the bay, groaning and slapping the rocks with their tales. When I approached, gingerly balancing on slipper rocks, some plopped into the water and watched me from there. I wish I had a better zoom on my camera. At another point I spied some birds that resemble cormorants. Mental note to ask the PhD student studying birds back at the hostel. Sat down on the wall of the ruins of a Pictish house for some ‘lunch’. A can of sardines and some bread. Then time to get moving. . .
Back at the ferry port, it’s amazing how good fish and chips taste after my ordeal.
5:10PM, on the ferry back to Kirkwall. OMG. I was lucky to make it back in time. These islands are so damn windy that scarcely any trees grow here. They occasionally get hurricane force winds WITHOUT a storm. Derelict houses all over Stronsay, crumbling, with collapsed roofs. After I got off the ferry I started walking south when a retired Englishman named Brian Crowe picked me up in his car and took me to the south end of the island. (says I can knock on his door if I don’t think I can make it back in time) It would be 10 miles and 4 hours to get back to the ferry port. Mr. Crowe apparently came to Stronsay to fix up a farmhouse and settle down. A subsidiary isle of a subsidiary isle of Britain. Ferries stop in the winter because of the roughness of the seas, so it must be extraordinarily lonely here when the sun goes down for the last time around December 20th.
The sky remained an angry grey throughout the day, and it drizzled on and off. I followed the cliffs around the south-east promontory, and birds followed me calling out a warning to the other animals. The island felt HOSTILE. I did see some seals though. They were out on a rocky bar in the bay, groaning and slapping the rocks with their tales. When I approached, gingerly balancing on slipper rocks, some plopped into the water and watched me from there. I wish I had a better zoom on my camera. At another point I spied some birds that resemble cormorants. Mental note to ask the PhD student studying birds back at the hostel. Sat down on the wall of the ruins of a Pictish house for some ‘lunch’. A can of sardines and some bread. Then time to get moving. . .
Back at the ferry port, it’s amazing how good fish and chips taste after my ordeal.
6/11/2004 Friday: chill-out day in Kirkwall. Emailing at the public library, shopping at Safeway (Skullsplitter! pasta and pita bread, I won’t bore you with the prices). Ended the night drinking and playing cards in the youth hostel (the curfew is very loosely enforced) with a Scottish college student Neil (who actually was on the same tour of Maeshowe as I), and Clive. The UK version of ‘Asshole’ is bizarre, arbitrary and requires no skill whatsoever.
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6/12/2004 Saturday, yet another chill-out day. I jogged down to Scapa Bay (not too far away, really) which is the final resting place of HMS Royal Oak, which was torpedoed by a German U-Boat during WWII. About 800 lives were lost, and there’s a memorial there. Out beyond the seaweed strewn beach are several buoys marking its grave. Had a desire for fish and chips, but ended up at ‘Buster’s Diner’, an American theme restaurant featuring license plates on the wall, and a working ‘walk/don’t walk’ sign. Oddly enough, some of the Michiganites were there, supping on pizza. Clive and Stuart left that night for the Shetlands. I briefly thought about going, but I was already so far over my budget, it just didn’t seem worth it. What would I see there anyway? Puffins?
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6/12/2004 Saturday, yet another chill-out day. I jogged down to Scapa Bay (not too far away, really) which is the final resting place of HMS Royal Oak, which was torpedoed by a German U-Boat during WWII. About 800 lives were lost, and there’s a memorial there. Out beyond the seaweed strewn beach are several buoys marking its grave. Had a desire for fish and chips, but ended up at ‘Buster’s Diner’, an American theme restaurant featuring license plates on the wall, and a working ‘walk/don’t walk’ sign. Oddly enough, some of the Michiganites were there, supping on pizza. Clive and Stuart left that night for the Shetlands. I briefly thought about going, but I was already so far over my budget, it just didn’t seem worth it. What would I see there anyway? Puffins?
6/10/2004 Last day in Stromness. Key words: caravan of Michiganites, Maeshowe burial mound, amusing runes, hitchhiking failure, storm clouds roll in, Kirkwall youth hostel, West End Pub with Clive, Martin & Stuart.
I guess I got up rather late, since I was in the Stromness Hotel bar until closing the night before, but I also wanted to enjoy the luxury as long as possible. Still it is annoying to have to check out at 10:00AM every day. It means that I have to dispose of my bags somewhere for the day, or hump them everywhere I go. I left them in the whiskey room. . . for safe keeping.
Maeshowe: the “finest neolithic chamber tomb in north europe” – I had passed it the previous day on my bike, but there was no way in hell I was going to do that again. My butt seriously ached from the un-soft seat. So . . . I took the bus. Sorry, no pics of the inside of the tomb (forbidden) but there were some interesting runes left there by visiting vikings, and ‘crusaders’ who broke into the tomb around 1000AD while they were on the way down to England to participate in the medieval crusades. Some left some bizarre and prosaic thoughts “Ingigerth is the most beautiful of women”, “Crusaders broke into Maeshowe,” etc. Yeah. Outside the gate I ran into a group of 15 Americans from Michigan. They were pretty funny, though the elders of the group had trouble entering the long passageway.
I had a little trouble getting back to Stromness afterwards though. I walked a few miles, but I couldn’t get any of the supposedly friendly islanders to pick me up in their car. I guess I looked a bit too threatening to the predominantly elderly drivers. The sky clouded up; it was amazing how clearly I could see the storm brewing. (I took a movie of it. Hopefully I’ll be able to put it online.) As the rain started, I found a bus shelter and waited (~1 hour). The day was shaping up to be very very soggy.
By the time I got to Kirkwall, the largest ‘city’ in the Orkneys, I was soaked. The youth hostel was even another 20 minutes up a hill, and it was miserable walking with all my bags in the wind and rain. The youth hostel itself was steeped in that wet-tatami-mat smell that I rather dislike. Perhaps you know what I mean. The proprietors were cool, and actually, big surprise, so were the residents. I met Clive (an Englishman), Martin (Welsh), and Stuart (Australian) and we ended the night over a few rounds at the West End Pub. ‘The Red MacGregor’ ale is pretty good. Try saying that with a Scottish accent.
A local (an Orkadian) told us the sad tale of Skullsplitter Ale. “It’s terrible. None of the pubs can sell more than three pints a night.” The Orkney Brewery is probably gonna stop making that shtuff. Too bad.
I guess I got up rather late, since I was in the Stromness Hotel bar until closing the night before, but I also wanted to enjoy the luxury as long as possible. Still it is annoying to have to check out at 10:00AM every day. It means that I have to dispose of my bags somewhere for the day, or hump them everywhere I go. I left them in the whiskey room. . . for safe keeping.
Maeshowe: the “finest neolithic chamber tomb in north europe” – I had passed it the previous day on my bike, but there was no way in hell I was going to do that again. My butt seriously ached from the un-soft seat. So . . . I took the bus. Sorry, no pics of the inside of the tomb (forbidden) but there were some interesting runes left there by visiting vikings, and ‘crusaders’ who broke into the tomb around 1000AD while they were on the way down to England to participate in the medieval crusades. Some left some bizarre and prosaic thoughts “Ingigerth is the most beautiful of women”, “Crusaders broke into Maeshowe,” etc. Yeah. Outside the gate I ran into a group of 15 Americans from Michigan. They were pretty funny, though the elders of the group had trouble entering the long passageway.
I had a little trouble getting back to Stromness afterwards though. I walked a few miles, but I couldn’t get any of the supposedly friendly islanders to pick me up in their car. I guess I looked a bit too threatening to the predominantly elderly drivers. The sky clouded up; it was amazing how clearly I could see the storm brewing. (I took a movie of it. Hopefully I’ll be able to put it online.) As the rain started, I found a bus shelter and waited (~1 hour). The day was shaping up to be very very soggy.
By the time I got to Kirkwall, the largest ‘city’ in the Orkneys, I was soaked. The youth hostel was even another 20 minutes up a hill, and it was miserable walking with all my bags in the wind and rain. The youth hostel itself was steeped in that wet-tatami-mat smell that I rather dislike. Perhaps you know what I mean. The proprietors were cool, and actually, big surprise, so were the residents. I met Clive (an Englishman), Martin (Welsh), and Stuart (Australian) and we ended the night over a few rounds at the West End Pub. ‘The Red MacGregor’ ale is pretty good. Try saying that with a Scottish accent.
A local (an Orkadian) told us the sad tale of Skullsplitter Ale. “It’s terrible. None of the pubs can sell more than three pints a night.” The Orkney Brewery is probably gonna stop making that shtuff. Too bad.
Monday, June 21, 2004
kichijoji
finally back in Japan. it`s been 3 years. still hate japanese keyboards. the space `bar` is about 2 keys wides. if you miss it, you hit the key to switch to japanese input, and then you have to mouse over and switch it back (no key to do go back to english!). I think I`ve done it about 3 times per sentence so far. ugh.
this internet cafe is creeeeepy. it`s classy and all, and you pay different amounts depending on the type of chair you want. I have a highback chair. the recliners cost more. and each unit is inside a dark cubicle with high walls so nobody can see what you`re doing. the whole place seems intentionally sleazy. still, it`s at least cheaper than what most places in london were asking. typed up reports on my previous days. will add them when I find a place to upload them.
this internet cafe is creeeeepy. it`s classy and all, and you pay different amounts depending on the type of chair you want. I have a highback chair. the recliners cost more. and each unit is inside a dark cubicle with high walls so nobody can see what you`re doing. the whole place seems intentionally sleazy. still, it`s at least cheaper than what most places in london were asking. typed up reports on my previous days. will add them when I find a place to upload them.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Two more days in London
home of the brash, outrageous and free. I guess. It's a pretty nifty city, and I'll have more in-depth coverage when I type up my handwritten notes. For now, just a quick update. I had a bad allergy attack last night, which sort of ruined a pub night out at some place that George Orwell used to frequent. Now, I'm sitting in the British Library enjoying their free wireless. Quite nice to finally be able to use my ibook.
I'm tired to having to use grimey internet cafe machines. Tomorrow I'm going to try to see Stonehenge and Cambridge in the same day. Yes, I know that they're in opposite directions, but when you have a trainpass, these things seem possible. . .
Anyway, I'm off to a Chinese buffet for lunch. It costs 5 pounds (~$10) but you know, that's starting to sound like quite a bargain here. If I eat enough, I might even be able to skip dinner (not bloody likely).
Some London pictures are up, btw, documenting my 5 mile walk yesterday.
I'm tired to having to use grimey internet cafe machines. Tomorrow I'm going to try to see Stonehenge and Cambridge in the same day. Yes, I know that they're in opposite directions, but when you have a trainpass, these things seem possible. . .
Anyway, I'm off to a Chinese buffet for lunch. It costs 5 pounds (~$10) but you know, that's starting to sound like quite a bargain here. If I eat enough, I might even be able to skip dinner (not bloody likely).
Some London pictures are up, btw, documenting my 5 mile walk yesterday.
Saturday, June 12, 2004
let's take it back to . . . 6/9/2004 ("ALL PLAYERS OUT")
6/9/2004 9:45PM at Skara Brae. I’m here, finally. It was a very difficult 8 mile bike ride over three very difficult hills to get here, but now I’m trying to warm up and dry off in the café here. Yes, it has a ticket office and a café. I was slightly gratified to see several other mountain bikes parked out front; I guess I’m not the only idiot to try to ride in the rain. I tried to use the hand-driers in the loo to dry my pants, but they’re still clammy.
--
Last night I stayed at the Orca hotel. Unfortunately, they don’t have any vacancies tonight, so I’m not sure where I’m going to stay. No sheepman either, though there are sheep scattered all over the island. I won’t miss the Orca hotel, because breakfast cost me about 5 pounds, and wasn’t particularly good. Compared to safeway in Inverness, that’s exorbitant. I purchased some canned corned beef (which tastes like spam) for 68p each, a can of kippers for 48p, and a can of sardines for 44p. With bread and some brie, it was all under 6 pounds, and show allow me to eat for 2 days. This is probably the only way for me to rein in my budget.
--
Anyway, last night while it was still light out I strolled over to the posh Stromness Hotel, and had some beer in their mahogany dining room/bar. It was quite a cozy place to be, but the only young people were the bartenders. It’s not exactly a scene that attracts people like me. Nevertheless, I ended up about an hour later drinking whiskey, and playing dominoes and jenga (mysteriously misspelled ‘jenja’ on the box) with Justin, Mark, Elaine, and Vicky (all staff of the hotel). Funny things happen when you travel alone.
--
Today, I biked 40 miles. First I did a loop from Stromness, to Skara Brae (too crowded, I decided to put it off to another time), to the Orkney Brewery (Skullsplitter ale! but otherwise nothing to see. . . ), to Ring of Brodgar, to the Stones of Stenness (utterly fouled by a group of sheep who somehow were let into the enclosure, the dirty, unrepententant bastards), to Maes Howe (couldn’t book a tour this time), and back to Stromness.
Coming back, I realized that I really had no place to stay. The youth hostel was closed, and nobody seemed to notice. Or at least, no one decided to let me know until I went up there at 5:30PM. No choice, I had to stay at the posh Stromness Hotel. Ugh. That totally derailed my budget, and I won’t tell you how much it cost me. A shower and a nap later, I noticed that the sun was shining brilliantly outside. IT was about 9:00PM, and the skies were clear. Not wanting to waste the sunlight, and still renting the bike, I decided to make another trip over the hills to Skara Brae. My legs were sluggish, and my knees hurt, but the prospect of seeing a moongate at dusk. . .
--
9:45PM with the sun hovering over the sea to the west, and my long shadow stretching across the ancient ruins. The wind was groaning across the excavated pits, and ringing like it was blowing across the lip of a bottle. Somehow it reminded me of the Valley of Wind. A gigantic bull watched over me as I entered the site, but otherwise I was alone with the sun, sea, and the giant midden mounds.
--
Last night I stayed at the Orca hotel. Unfortunately, they don’t have any vacancies tonight, so I’m not sure where I’m going to stay. No sheepman either, though there are sheep scattered all over the island. I won’t miss the Orca hotel, because breakfast cost me about 5 pounds, and wasn’t particularly good. Compared to safeway in Inverness, that’s exorbitant. I purchased some canned corned beef (which tastes like spam) for 68p each, a can of kippers for 48p, and a can of sardines for 44p. With bread and some brie, it was all under 6 pounds, and show allow me to eat for 2 days. This is probably the only way for me to rein in my budget.
--
Anyway, last night while it was still light out I strolled over to the posh Stromness Hotel, and had some beer in their mahogany dining room/bar. It was quite a cozy place to be, but the only young people were the bartenders. It’s not exactly a scene that attracts people like me. Nevertheless, I ended up about an hour later drinking whiskey, and playing dominoes and jenga (mysteriously misspelled ‘jenja’ on the box) with Justin, Mark, Elaine, and Vicky (all staff of the hotel). Funny things happen when you travel alone.
--
Today, I biked 40 miles. First I did a loop from Stromness, to Skara Brae (too crowded, I decided to put it off to another time), to the Orkney Brewery (Skullsplitter ale! but otherwise nothing to see. . . ), to Ring of Brodgar, to the Stones of Stenness (utterly fouled by a group of sheep who somehow were let into the enclosure, the dirty, unrepententant bastards), to Maes Howe (couldn’t book a tour this time), and back to Stromness.
Coming back, I realized that I really had no place to stay. The youth hostel was closed, and nobody seemed to notice. Or at least, no one decided to let me know until I went up there at 5:30PM. No choice, I had to stay at the posh Stromness Hotel. Ugh. That totally derailed my budget, and I won’t tell you how much it cost me. A shower and a nap later, I noticed that the sun was shining brilliantly outside. IT was about 9:00PM, and the skies were clear. Not wanting to waste the sunlight, and still renting the bike, I decided to make another trip over the hills to Skara Brae. My legs were sluggish, and my knees hurt, but the prospect of seeing a moongate at dusk. . .
--
9:45PM with the sun hovering over the sea to the west, and my long shadow stretching across the ancient ruins. The wind was groaning across the excavated pits, and ringing like it was blowing across the lip of a bottle. Somehow it reminded me of the Valley of Wind. A gigantic bull watched over me as I entered the site, but otherwise I was alone with the sun, sea, and the giant midden mounds.
try to remember. . . 6/8/2004
6/8/2004 6:00PM at Scrabster Harbor. “Scrabster” comes from a Norse word and means “standing on the edge,” and the port is indeed the northern-most point in mainland Great Britain. The vikings first used it as a base, and the Scandinavian influence is still lingers in subtle ways. It was four hours by bus from Inverness, and now I’ll be boarding the ferry in about an hour.
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Last night (the 7th) had a pretty good experience at the Inverness Tourist Hostel, which is run by a funky/cool South African named Keith. He joined a bunch of us hostelers at Blackfriar’s Pub down the street for some traditional Scottish music. Spent a relaxing evening drinking at da pub with Keith, Amy, Erin (both from Canada), Arturo (from Mexico). Had a cask ale called “Isle of Skye Red Cuillian,” which was hand-pumped and almost room temperature. It wasn’t bad at all. Strangely enough beers are more expensive than whiskeys here, perhaps due to the strict adherence to 25ml whiskey measures. I wonder if that’s less than what you’re served in the States? The Ben Braecke single malt was only 1.75 pounds while the ale was 2.40. My McDonalds salad cost me 3.50 in comparison. . . Anyway, I now know what a ‘jig’ sounds like. Inverness is a class place to be. In a somewhat off color observation, the bathroom had a vending machine that sells ‘whiskey flavored condoms.’ Only one quid for two! (No, I didn’t buy it)
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Last night (the 7th) had a pretty good experience at the Inverness Tourist Hostel, which is run by a funky/cool South African named Keith. He joined a bunch of us hostelers at Blackfriar’s Pub down the street for some traditional Scottish music. Spent a relaxing evening drinking at da pub with Keith, Amy, Erin (both from Canada), Arturo (from Mexico). Had a cask ale called “Isle of Skye Red Cuillian,” which was hand-pumped and almost room temperature. It wasn’t bad at all. Strangely enough beers are more expensive than whiskeys here, perhaps due to the strict adherence to 25ml whiskey measures. I wonder if that’s less than what you’re served in the States? The Ben Braecke single malt was only 1.75 pounds while the ale was 2.40. My McDonalds salad cost me 3.50 in comparison. . . Anyway, I now know what a ‘jig’ sounds like. Inverness is a class place to be. In a somewhat off color observation, the bathroom had a vending machine that sells ‘whiskey flavored condoms.’ Only one quid for two! (No, I didn’t buy it)
reset your clock to . . . 6/7/2004
6/7/2004
Last night (the 6th), spent one more evening at the ‘bar’ in the Globetrotters Hostel with ‘KOSS’, Junhua, and Spiro, a Greek nurse who works for Medecins Sans Frontieres. Quite an interesting group to share a Tennents with (the Scottish equivalent of Bud?), but I’m realizing (with some satisfaction actually) that I’m pushing myself pretty hard. On less than three hours sleep I rode 5 hours of trains, walked 8-9 miles, saw 2 castles, and spent a hectic hour or so trying to straighten out my plans for the next two days. One beer and I’m starting to fade. I liked this hostel. Great bathrooms and showers, lockers in the room, and since it’s so spacious, I got a single room for the price of a dorm.
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Another observation coming back through Edinburgh on a Sunday night. The city IS ghostly when the crowds aren’t around. One tour advertised it as the Jeckyl & Hyde city, and I can see why. Without the crowds and the traffic, you notice the DARKNESS and the QUIET, and the gothic skyline turns more sinister.
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1:00PM Back to the ‘present’. I’m past Aberdeen now, heading toward Elgin, which is halfway to Inverness. The sky is growing cloudier and the sea is shadowy and grey.
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4:00PM I’ve neglected to mention what I’ve been eating lately, but that’s mainly because it’s embarassing. Two words: iron rations. I try not to eat anything that costs more than two pounds. Sandwiches in the convenience store are usually in that range. A prepackaged salad (just bought one from ASDA, a branch of Walmart behind the Elgin train station). I also loaded up on peanuts and raisins (38p per bag). Breakfast at the hostel? They were charging 6 pounds = $12. Crazy. I never had any of it. Josie, an undergrad from North Carolina visiting Abbeys across Europe had the right idea. In the morning I saw her sitting in the dining room with a stack of pitas in front of her filling them one by one with hummus. I think I’m going to try that.
--
The train comes in 45 minutes. The Elgin Cathedra (ruin) [see the pictures!] was why I stopped here, baggage and all. The Let’s Go guide recommends it, but when you get here you realize that it’s not at all easy to get there as a backpacker. It’s not ‘awkward’ really, but since there’s no baggage storage anywhere in town, I had to hump both bags 20 minutes to the cathedral, and leave them behind the ticket counter. Luckily, Marta, the only one on duty, was quite accomodating. Apparently, the train station used to let you leave luggage there, but since the ‘trouble’ (their words, though I’m not sure specifically what they’re referring to) they canceled that policy. Now, the cathedral. Not much of it was still standing, since it had been burned down on several occasions, and sacked during the Reformation (16th century). The sandstone walls and columns weathered and crumbled after the lead was lifted from its roof. Amazingly, the grassy void in the center of the ruin used to be the site of the main steeple, 200 ft. tall. Summer grasses, all that is left. . .
Marta at the ticket counter was quite cool, and since I was the only one in the ruin on a monday afternoon, probably starved for conversation. That is, until her supervisor came back. But anyway, before that, she had somehow moved from explaining the grisly and particularly Scottish skull & bones carvings in the church, to discussing Scottish heritage in Canada (with me contributing my thoughts on Chinese heritage). Come to think of it, Nova SCOTia is pretty obvious, but for some reason it never occurred to me to consider the Scottish connection. Her theory is that the Canadian accent comes from the Scottish accent.
Last night (the 6th), spent one more evening at the ‘bar’ in the Globetrotters Hostel with ‘KOSS’, Junhua, and Spiro, a Greek nurse who works for Medecins Sans Frontieres. Quite an interesting group to share a Tennents with (the Scottish equivalent of Bud?), but I’m realizing (with some satisfaction actually) that I’m pushing myself pretty hard. On less than three hours sleep I rode 5 hours of trains, walked 8-9 miles, saw 2 castles, and spent a hectic hour or so trying to straighten out my plans for the next two days. One beer and I’m starting to fade. I liked this hostel. Great bathrooms and showers, lockers in the room, and since it’s so spacious, I got a single room for the price of a dorm.
--
Another observation coming back through Edinburgh on a Sunday night. The city IS ghostly when the crowds aren’t around. One tour advertised it as the Jeckyl & Hyde city, and I can see why. Without the crowds and the traffic, you notice the DARKNESS and the QUIET, and the gothic skyline turns more sinister.
--
1:00PM Back to the ‘present’. I’m past Aberdeen now, heading toward Elgin, which is halfway to Inverness. The sky is growing cloudier and the sea is shadowy and grey.
--
4:00PM I’ve neglected to mention what I’ve been eating lately, but that’s mainly because it’s embarassing. Two words: iron rations. I try not to eat anything that costs more than two pounds. Sandwiches in the convenience store are usually in that range. A prepackaged salad (just bought one from ASDA, a branch of Walmart behind the Elgin train station). I also loaded up on peanuts and raisins (38p per bag). Breakfast at the hostel? They were charging 6 pounds = $12. Crazy. I never had any of it. Josie, an undergrad from North Carolina visiting Abbeys across Europe had the right idea. In the morning I saw her sitting in the dining room with a stack of pitas in front of her filling them one by one with hummus. I think I’m going to try that.
--
The train comes in 45 minutes. The Elgin Cathedra (ruin) [see the pictures!] was why I stopped here, baggage and all. The Let’s Go guide recommends it, but when you get here you realize that it’s not at all easy to get there as a backpacker. It’s not ‘awkward’ really, but since there’s no baggage storage anywhere in town, I had to hump both bags 20 minutes to the cathedral, and leave them behind the ticket counter. Luckily, Marta, the only one on duty, was quite accomodating. Apparently, the train station used to let you leave luggage there, but since the ‘trouble’ (their words, though I’m not sure specifically what they’re referring to) they canceled that policy. Now, the cathedral. Not much of it was still standing, since it had been burned down on several occasions, and sacked during the Reformation (16th century). The sandstone walls and columns weathered and crumbled after the lead was lifted from its roof. Amazingly, the grassy void in the center of the ruin used to be the site of the main steeple, 200 ft. tall. Summer grasses, all that is left. . .
Marta at the ticket counter was quite cool, and since I was the only one in the ruin on a monday afternoon, probably starved for conversation. That is, until her supervisor came back. But anyway, before that, she had somehow moved from explaining the grisly and particularly Scottish skull & bones carvings in the church, to discussing Scottish heritage in Canada (with me contributing my thoughts on Chinese heritage). Come to think of it, Nova SCOTia is pretty obvious, but for some reason it never occurred to me to consider the Scottish connection. Her theory is that the Canadian accent comes from the Scottish accent.
Friday, June 11, 2004
back-dated posts 6/6
6/6/2004 Newspapers filled with D-Day commemorations. Heading north on a Virgin luxury train to Aberdeen. Random thoughts generated by reading the newspaper – what is the significance of movies/books/etc where the title character never appears? Is Lily Chou-Chou really Godot? Just read an amazing review of the Pixies’ reunion tour. I like how the author rejects the logic behind the statement: “If there were no Pixies, there would be no Nirvana.” His version is more similar to mine: “If there were no Pixies, then there would be no Pixies.” That would be the more significant tragedy. James Joyce’s estate is putting a damper on ‘Bloomsday’ commemoration planning this year, especially since it’s the 100 year anniversay of the events in Ulysses. Apparently they want to collect royalty payments on any public reading of any part of the novel. Organizers are scrambling to find ways to either pay it, or avoid quoting from the novel at all.
--
Yesterday (the 5th) summed up in a few phrases: Taiwanese guys, Edinburgh Castle crowds, “The Royal Mile,” angry Irish protestors (yes, in Scotland), “what makes a claymore a claymore?”, Three Sisters Bar (“because one is never enough”), the strange partying habits of British women (“hen parties”?) fag-hag, epiphany.
Perhaps it’s best to let these remain ambiguous.
--
10:20AM Stonehaven (one stop before Aberdeen) walking the three miles to Dunnottar Castle along the Grampian coast. And after the dreaming, the North Sea. This is what I came here for! Climbing up a steep trail over the ridge, the wind hits me in the face and I am face to face what appears to be the default WinXP desktop. In the distance the castle ruins appear like dark lumps on the horizon. There are no words to describe those 2 miles over the pasture. Look at the pictures.
On the way back, got a lift from a friendly English couple traveling up from Manchester. They dropped me off back at the trainstation, and away I went down to Stirling, the ancient seat of the Stewart kings. Two hours back on a crowded train, but I was asleep most of the time since the damn hostelers kept me up to about 3:00AM the night before with their buffoonery. Stirling is one of the most popular tourist destinations in southern Scotland, but I entered Stirling Castle right before closing time, and the staff was busy cleaning things up, and the other tourists were hurrying out the door. No one paid any attention to me, and I rather enjoyed that. The bustle was dying, and a ghostly quiet was settling in. Compared to Dunnottar, which was purposefully allowed to remain a ruin, Stirling demonstrated the opposite approach to preservation. Because the castle was used for many different purposes since the 1300s, as a fortress, a royal palace, an armoury, and most recently as a training base for the Royal Scottish Dragoons during WWII, the grounds are a patchwork of buildings from different periods, and several important areas had to be reexcavated to discover their purpose. The emphasis therefore lies in recreating how the castle functioned in its earlier incarnations, and to employ this as a living heritage for Scotland. There’s even an initiative to train a new generation of tapestry weavers. Their model? The unicorn series at the Cloisters in NYC. They’re already reproduced three of them. Much of the displays in the rest of the castle also focus on the living functions of the castle community: artisans, cooks, tailors, even jesters. And from the top, looking down, you can see the geometric sculpted lands of the royal garden which was first built in the early 1600s. Sublime, subtle and symmetrical. When I tired of the castle, I climbed down past sheep pastures and a graveyard in the forest, and walked the contours of the garden. Sitting down in the middle of the middle circle, two dogs came up to me, one wanted to be petted, the other wanted to bite me.
--
Yesterday (the 5th) summed up in a few phrases: Taiwanese guys, Edinburgh Castle crowds, “The Royal Mile,” angry Irish protestors (yes, in Scotland), “what makes a claymore a claymore?”, Three Sisters Bar (“because one is never enough”), the strange partying habits of British women (“hen parties”?) fag-hag, epiphany.
Perhaps it’s best to let these remain ambiguous.
--
10:20AM Stonehaven (one stop before Aberdeen) walking the three miles to Dunnottar Castle along the Grampian coast. And after the dreaming, the North Sea. This is what I came here for! Climbing up a steep trail over the ridge, the wind hits me in the face and I am face to face what appears to be the default WinXP desktop. In the distance the castle ruins appear like dark lumps on the horizon. There are no words to describe those 2 miles over the pasture. Look at the pictures.
On the way back, got a lift from a friendly English couple traveling up from Manchester. They dropped me off back at the trainstation, and away I went down to Stirling, the ancient seat of the Stewart kings. Two hours back on a crowded train, but I was asleep most of the time since the damn hostelers kept me up to about 3:00AM the night before with their buffoonery. Stirling is one of the most popular tourist destinations in southern Scotland, but I entered Stirling Castle right before closing time, and the staff was busy cleaning things up, and the other tourists were hurrying out the door. No one paid any attention to me, and I rather enjoyed that. The bustle was dying, and a ghostly quiet was settling in. Compared to Dunnottar, which was purposefully allowed to remain a ruin, Stirling demonstrated the opposite approach to preservation. Because the castle was used for many different purposes since the 1300s, as a fortress, a royal palace, an armoury, and most recently as a training base for the Royal Scottish Dragoons during WWII, the grounds are a patchwork of buildings from different periods, and several important areas had to be reexcavated to discover their purpose. The emphasis therefore lies in recreating how the castle functioned in its earlier incarnations, and to employ this as a living heritage for Scotland. There’s even an initiative to train a new generation of tapestry weavers. Their model? The unicorn series at the Cloisters in NYC. They’re already reproduced three of them. Much of the displays in the rest of the castle also focus on the living functions of the castle community: artisans, cooks, tailors, even jesters. And from the top, looking down, you can see the geometric sculpted lands of the royal garden which was first built in the early 1600s. Sublime, subtle and symmetrical. When I tired of the castle, I climbed down past sheep pastures and a graveyard in the forest, and walked the contours of the garden. Sitting down in the middle of the middle circle, two dogs came up to me, one wanted to be petted, the other wanted to bite me.
back-dated posts 6/4
6/4/2004 The fifteen-year anniversary of the Tiananmen massacre?
11:00AM I’m up later this morning. I intentionally tried to sleep as long as possible, and now I’m on the move again, trucking my stuff from Glasgow Central up to Buchanan Bus Station. I put my stuff in the lockers and head out for Glasgow Cathedral. Unfortunately, I locked up my jacket and now the sky is getting cloudy and the wind is picking up. It’s chilly, and I wonder if I’ll be able to stay outdoors for very long.
--
Glasgow Cathedral is beyond impressive. Princeton’s cathedral has nothing on this. The stone work is weathered to a deep hue, and the atmosphere inside is beyond words. I found the strangely garish stained-glass representation of Adam and Eve in purple in the west window. I also found that Glaswegians are extremely friendly.
--
And behind the Cathedral, occupying the highest point in town, and over the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ is the Necropolis: A city for the dead. An enormous, windswept cemetery that keeps watch over the city of the living.
--
Next, I went to GoMA. Yup, that’s what they call it. The Gallery of Modern Art. A neo-classical building with a hip and quirky collection of Scottish art since 1980s. My favorites: Roderick Fagan’s photographs of ‘weapons’, actually schoolroom implements of bullying, with wry descriptions modeled after descriptions of ancient weaponry. Rubber band slingshots, ‘pish balloons’ (piss water balloons!), the venerable lighter and aerosol ‘flamethrower’ etc, etc. Another interesting work was by Andrew Bick: multiple layers of painting and translucent wax which produce as hazy and 3-D look.
--
4:40PM Waiting at the Glasgow bus station, I shared a moment of consternation with a curly-haired Scottish woman waiting for her boyfriend because our bus didn’t show up on time.
--
Edinburgh: just checked into the Globetrotters Hostel, way way waaaay outside of the city center. It’s a huge dorm-like place. . . I just hope the showers are warm enough.
11:00AM I’m up later this morning. I intentionally tried to sleep as long as possible, and now I’m on the move again, trucking my stuff from Glasgow Central up to Buchanan Bus Station. I put my stuff in the lockers and head out for Glasgow Cathedral. Unfortunately, I locked up my jacket and now the sky is getting cloudy and the wind is picking up. It’s chilly, and I wonder if I’ll be able to stay outdoors for very long.
--
Glasgow Cathedral is beyond impressive. Princeton’s cathedral has nothing on this. The stone work is weathered to a deep hue, and the atmosphere inside is beyond words. I found the strangely garish stained-glass representation of Adam and Eve in purple in the west window. I also found that Glaswegians are extremely friendly.
--
And behind the Cathedral, occupying the highest point in town, and over the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ is the Necropolis: A city for the dead. An enormous, windswept cemetery that keeps watch over the city of the living.
--
Next, I went to GoMA. Yup, that’s what they call it. The Gallery of Modern Art. A neo-classical building with a hip and quirky collection of Scottish art since 1980s. My favorites: Roderick Fagan’s photographs of ‘weapons’, actually schoolroom implements of bullying, with wry descriptions modeled after descriptions of ancient weaponry. Rubber band slingshots, ‘pish balloons’ (piss water balloons!), the venerable lighter and aerosol ‘flamethrower’ etc, etc. Another interesting work was by Andrew Bick: multiple layers of painting and translucent wax which produce as hazy and 3-D look.
--
4:40PM Waiting at the Glasgow bus station, I shared a moment of consternation with a curly-haired Scottish woman waiting for her boyfriend because our bus didn’t show up on time.
--
Edinburgh: just checked into the Globetrotters Hostel, way way waaaay outside of the city center. It’s a huge dorm-like place. . . I just hope the showers are warm enough.
back-dated posts 6/3
I'm now sitting in the Kirkwall county library, on the main island of the Orkneys. This place is great. It's free, and they totally allow me to plug my drive in to upload pictures. I'm not up to date yet, but check out my yahoo acct for the new additions (photos.yahoo.com/gd1303).
6/3/2004
Early morning. Overcast, with a light drizzle. Back in Dublin if only for 30 minutes. The train from Cork to Dublin arrives at Heuston Station. I needed to transfer by bus from one side of town to the other in order to take the Belfast-bound train from Connolly Station. Kind of a pain, but it allowed me to relive some familiar sights: the Guinness storehouse, a wide-body truck painted black pulling a trailer full of kegs of Guinness, the River Liffey. . . Along the way, a tall wiry old man with deep liver-spots asked me if how to get to Connolly Station. As he descended from the upper deck of the two-story bus, I noticed how large his hands were compared to how thin his arms were. Was he on his way to Belfast as well? For the last time? On the platform at Connolly, a different sort of spectacle; I would have pegged her for a Russian prostitute. Sharp facial features (if somewhat attractive), white jacket with fur trim, and tall black boots fitted with spike heels and an absurd assortment of buckes and clasps. And me. All on the ‘Enterprise’ Dublin-Belfast express train.
--
Last night in Cork I finally made it down to the Shelbourne Pub. The hostel made a visit practically obligatory; they had a special price for hostelers there (3 euros for a pint) and even had an advertisement printed on the keycards they distributed to guests. There I met a young American by the name of R. J. whose father is currently serving in Iraq, and a bald Irishman (who reminds of some T.V. policeman whose name I can’t recall) with a Ph.D. in history. I guess we did the pub thing; over 3 rounds of beer, we discussed WWII, immigration, Iraq, Northern Ireland, and Israel. The old chap was a sharp one. He gave me the lowdown on the referendum on the Irish constitution. A vote ‘yes’ to amend it would stop the ‘abuse’ of the citizenship law in Ireland where parents of children born there are also granted citizenship. Under the proposed amendment, only children born in Ireland would gain citizenship, but not their parents. Supposedly, this will remove the incentive for visitors to bear children there, and drag down Ireland’s social welfare system. The old chap’s main point is that in America they don’t have the same degree of social welfare, so the debates are not comparable. Of course, I can’t totally agree with that, but then again I find it strangely hard to fault the Irish. Most countries in Europe are extremely stingy about granting citizenship. Germany for example has solved its labor-shortage problem with the gästarbeiter (guest-worker) program: workers are allowed in, but are not given citizenship rights. A lot of other countries are producing similar dual-structures in their populations.
Anyway, predictably the Labour party as well as marxists and socialists oppose the constitutional referendum, and equate ‘common-sense citizenship’ with thinly veiled racism.
--
Early bar closings, ‘The Brog’, Chinese chefs, and absinthe.
The rest of the evening must remain purposefully vague. But a few observations: bars tend to close early in Ireland, where they stop serving at 11:00PM, like Great Britain and Champaign-Urbana. However, some mysteriously are allowed to stay open, and these get ridiculously packed with people afterhours. Bartenders will direct you there in fact after they close up. “Go to the Brog, make a right, a right, a right, and look for the crowds.” Nowhere else to go, I guess. The music: The White Stripes, Stone Roses, Nirvana. The Beer: Murphy’s. The change encounter: a group of Cantonese and Malay-Chinese working in Cork’s Chinese restaurant (I think there’s only one?). Back at the hostel, joining a group of Canadians and Iowans for cards. Did I want a drink, they asked. Did you know that in Eastern Europe they still sell absinthe with the wormwood in it?
--
Back to the narrative present. Damn Belfast, and damn the Let’s Go™ guidebook. They say that you can take a ferry from Belfast to Scotland (a wee little port called Stranraer, pronounced Str-Ahn-nAR). Well, the LG map of Belfast doesn’t show the central trainstation. It’s simply indicated by a disembodied arrow pointing off the right edge. Neither is the ferry port on the map. When I asked the chipper but retrospectively quite insolent officer on duty at the trainstation, she replied that it was “awkward” to get to the ferry port. “Catch a taxi” she told me. Well, I walked. I carried my two backpacks along busy citystreets and highways, following the signs directing vehicular traffic toward the docks. I couldn’t a single taxi to stop for me. It took close to an hour, and I was soaked in sweat by the time I got there, dodging streams of cars and trucks the whole time. And according to the LG map, I went from terra incognita (where there be dragons) to the known world, and then back again.
--
5:10PM on the Stena Line ferry from Belfast to Stranraer. For one, it’s far less gaudy than the Irish Ferries ship I took to Dublin. It was decorated in more subdued greens and blues, though there still were gambling facilities on board (‘bandits’ they were labeled, for ‘one-arm bandits’ I suppose). I had a steak and guinness pie, which cost me the exorbitant sum six pounds. That’s close to $12.00! Now who’re the bandits? Tonight, I’m looking forward to staying in a real hotel in downtown Glasgow. I need to get a good night’s rest, and I don’t want to worry about waking other people from my coughing. Though I’m already feeling better. If I hadn’t thought that I had turned the corner, I would never have gone drinking the night before.
--
7:20PM Ah, but now Scotland. Rolling hills, cows, and blue skies. The sun doesn’t go down until 10:00PM here so there are a few more hours of light as I ride ScotRail to Glasgow Central.
--
Listening to Curve and watching the clouds and pastures roll by. I get chills the scenery is so beautiful.Black-faced sheep scampering in unison, rock strewn streams, the setting sun, a tan speckled falcon perched on a fence post.
--
Whoops! A drunk just got dragged back into the conductor’s cabin for starting a fight. I don’t quite get what the problem is, but they’re arguing quite animatedly about it still (in an accent so think it defies comprehension).
--
We’re stopped now at a tiny station in the fields, and he’s off the train. He storms back on and tries to batter down the conductor door. Now he’s stalking along the length of the train carrying a large rock. Moments later, he’s sitting down on the other side of the tracks. I don’t know exactly how that was resolved, but a few minutes later we’re on our way again. “I apologize for the delay” the conductor informs us.
--
10:30PM Glasgow Central station, and walking through the closed down shopping districts of downtown Glasgow. I’m staying at the Corus Hotel, which is amazingly luxurious compared to where I’ve been staying. The last place didn’t have consistently hot water in its showers. At the Corus, I took two showers and a long hot bath.
6/3/2004
Early morning. Overcast, with a light drizzle. Back in Dublin if only for 30 minutes. The train from Cork to Dublin arrives at Heuston Station. I needed to transfer by bus from one side of town to the other in order to take the Belfast-bound train from Connolly Station. Kind of a pain, but it allowed me to relive some familiar sights: the Guinness storehouse, a wide-body truck painted black pulling a trailer full of kegs of Guinness, the River Liffey. . . Along the way, a tall wiry old man with deep liver-spots asked me if how to get to Connolly Station. As he descended from the upper deck of the two-story bus, I noticed how large his hands were compared to how thin his arms were. Was he on his way to Belfast as well? For the last time? On the platform at Connolly, a different sort of spectacle; I would have pegged her for a Russian prostitute. Sharp facial features (if somewhat attractive), white jacket with fur trim, and tall black boots fitted with spike heels and an absurd assortment of buckes and clasps. And me. All on the ‘Enterprise’ Dublin-Belfast express train.
--
Last night in Cork I finally made it down to the Shelbourne Pub. The hostel made a visit practically obligatory; they had a special price for hostelers there (3 euros for a pint) and even had an advertisement printed on the keycards they distributed to guests. There I met a young American by the name of R. J. whose father is currently serving in Iraq, and a bald Irishman (who reminds of some T.V. policeman whose name I can’t recall) with a Ph.D. in history. I guess we did the pub thing; over 3 rounds of beer, we discussed WWII, immigration, Iraq, Northern Ireland, and Israel. The old chap was a sharp one. He gave me the lowdown on the referendum on the Irish constitution. A vote ‘yes’ to amend it would stop the ‘abuse’ of the citizenship law in Ireland where parents of children born there are also granted citizenship. Under the proposed amendment, only children born in Ireland would gain citizenship, but not their parents. Supposedly, this will remove the incentive for visitors to bear children there, and drag down Ireland’s social welfare system. The old chap’s main point is that in America they don’t have the same degree of social welfare, so the debates are not comparable. Of course, I can’t totally agree with that, but then again I find it strangely hard to fault the Irish. Most countries in Europe are extremely stingy about granting citizenship. Germany for example has solved its labor-shortage problem with the gästarbeiter (guest-worker) program: workers are allowed in, but are not given citizenship rights. A lot of other countries are producing similar dual-structures in their populations.
Anyway, predictably the Labour party as well as marxists and socialists oppose the constitutional referendum, and equate ‘common-sense citizenship’ with thinly veiled racism.
--
Early bar closings, ‘The Brog’, Chinese chefs, and absinthe.
The rest of the evening must remain purposefully vague. But a few observations: bars tend to close early in Ireland, where they stop serving at 11:00PM, like Great Britain and Champaign-Urbana. However, some mysteriously are allowed to stay open, and these get ridiculously packed with people afterhours. Bartenders will direct you there in fact after they close up. “Go to the Brog, make a right, a right, a right, and look for the crowds.” Nowhere else to go, I guess. The music: The White Stripes, Stone Roses, Nirvana. The Beer: Murphy’s. The change encounter: a group of Cantonese and Malay-Chinese working in Cork’s Chinese restaurant (I think there’s only one?). Back at the hostel, joining a group of Canadians and Iowans for cards. Did I want a drink, they asked. Did you know that in Eastern Europe they still sell absinthe with the wormwood in it?
--
Back to the narrative present. Damn Belfast, and damn the Let’s Go™ guidebook. They say that you can take a ferry from Belfast to Scotland (a wee little port called Stranraer, pronounced Str-Ahn-nAR). Well, the LG map of Belfast doesn’t show the central trainstation. It’s simply indicated by a disembodied arrow pointing off the right edge. Neither is the ferry port on the map. When I asked the chipper but retrospectively quite insolent officer on duty at the trainstation, she replied that it was “awkward” to get to the ferry port. “Catch a taxi” she told me. Well, I walked. I carried my two backpacks along busy citystreets and highways, following the signs directing vehicular traffic toward the docks. I couldn’t a single taxi to stop for me. It took close to an hour, and I was soaked in sweat by the time I got there, dodging streams of cars and trucks the whole time. And according to the LG map, I went from terra incognita (where there be dragons) to the known world, and then back again.
--
5:10PM on the Stena Line ferry from Belfast to Stranraer. For one, it’s far less gaudy than the Irish Ferries ship I took to Dublin. It was decorated in more subdued greens and blues, though there still were gambling facilities on board (‘bandits’ they were labeled, for ‘one-arm bandits’ I suppose). I had a steak and guinness pie, which cost me the exorbitant sum six pounds. That’s close to $12.00! Now who’re the bandits? Tonight, I’m looking forward to staying in a real hotel in downtown Glasgow. I need to get a good night’s rest, and I don’t want to worry about waking other people from my coughing. Though I’m already feeling better. If I hadn’t thought that I had turned the corner, I would never have gone drinking the night before.
--
7:20PM Ah, but now Scotland. Rolling hills, cows, and blue skies. The sun doesn’t go down until 10:00PM here so there are a few more hours of light as I ride ScotRail to Glasgow Central.
--
Listening to Curve and watching the clouds and pastures roll by. I get chills the scenery is so beautiful.Black-faced sheep scampering in unison, rock strewn streams, the setting sun, a tan speckled falcon perched on a fence post.
--
Whoops! A drunk just got dragged back into the conductor’s cabin for starting a fight. I don’t quite get what the problem is, but they’re arguing quite animatedly about it still (in an accent so think it defies comprehension).
--
We’re stopped now at a tiny station in the fields, and he’s off the train. He storms back on and tries to batter down the conductor door. Now he’s stalking along the length of the train carrying a large rock. Moments later, he’s sitting down on the other side of the tracks. I don’t know exactly how that was resolved, but a few minutes later we’re on our way again. “I apologize for the delay” the conductor informs us.
--
10:30PM Glasgow Central station, and walking through the closed down shopping districts of downtown Glasgow. I’m staying at the Corus Hotel, which is amazingly luxurious compared to where I’ve been staying. The last place didn’t have consistently hot water in its showers. At the Corus, I took two showers and a long hot bath.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
@SkaraBrae
I can't really get my full journal online yet, since the connection is so slow from here. Just want to let everyone know that I'm still alive. Barely. I biked about 40 miles yesterday, over hills and through the wind and rain. And I can hardly walk today. But hell, I got some decent photos. I'll show them to you when I get to a better connected place.
Saturday, June 05, 2004
short update
to say that I can't update the site yet. . . EasyInternet doesn't allow me to use my USB flash reader, so I can't get my new pictures up, or even upload my daily journal updates. I guess I could retype them up here, but I don't have the time. I'm going to tour a kilt factory here in Edinburgh. . . I'm hanging out with two taiwanese guys. One of them just got his masters from Columbia in architecture. Small world eh?
Hopefully the next city will let me upload these pictures.
-E
Hopefully the next city will let me upload these pictures.
-E
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
6/2/2004 Blarney and Cork
Second day in Cork. My throat hurts and I’m feeling feverish, but I’ve come all this way, and damned if I don’t kiss the Blarney Stone.
6:45AM up and getting ready, while trying to ignore the spreading pain in my lungs. I think I must have kept the other hostelers awake with my coughing and sniffling.
8:00AM on the street, talking to a garrulous Conan O’Brian clone in a yellow windbreaker who hailed me with the question, “are you Japanese?” I’m not. Nonetheless, he proceeded to tell me of his plans to go to America, “The Land of the Free.” Well, my appraisal of the USA was much less positive, and I told him so. But he says that he’s ready to try his luck. Ending the conversation, he briskly states “arigato.” Cork is a pretty friendly town . . .
9:30AM Arriving in Blarney, a town dominated by its tourist assets. The castle itself is wonderfully hollow; helpful signs indicate where the floors once were, and explain what the rooms once were used for. As it is, the signs are far off the ground, and you have to imagine the “kitchen” for example, way up there in the air, levitating. Lichen and grass clung to the weathered dark-gray stone of the Castle. Speaking of stones, the Blarney Stone is a roughly rectangular brick about 3 feet across which has been rubbed smooth by uncountable lips touching it, and hence is a recognizably lighter hue than the surrounding stone. It is attached to the bottom of the lip of the keep wall which is separated from the keep itself by a narrow gap. Thus, you need to lie on your back, grip two metal bars for support, and extend your head back and down to make contact with the Stone. Not particularly dangerous, but I’m not particularly fond of heights. ‘Smack’ and on my way, because there were about 20 people waiting behind me. I had asked an Ozzie to take my pic, but he missed the moment. Oh well. I would only have shown my legs sticking out from the wall.
--
Afternoon: feeling sicker, and feverish. I took a quick nap, and noticed that my bunkmate James was still sleeping. Wonder what happened to him. Is it time for me to move on? I’m weary, and rather unexcited about staying here. It could be the cold making me grumpy, but I’m not sure if there’s anything left for me to do in Cork. It’s a pretty enough town, but when you’re too sick to drink Guinness or Murphys, what point is there?
--
6:00PM Paid a visit to University College Cork. Isn’t that kind of redundant? The campus was rather quiet. I took a look at the campus map and briefly thought about visiting their history department. No sign of an East Asian department (or even a Dept. of Oriental Studies). They have a library named after Boole (originator of boolean logic?), but other than being somewhat picturesque, nothing much to write home about.
6:45AM up and getting ready, while trying to ignore the spreading pain in my lungs. I think I must have kept the other hostelers awake with my coughing and sniffling.
8:00AM on the street, talking to a garrulous Conan O’Brian clone in a yellow windbreaker who hailed me with the question, “are you Japanese?” I’m not. Nonetheless, he proceeded to tell me of his plans to go to America, “The Land of the Free.” Well, my appraisal of the USA was much less positive, and I told him so. But he says that he’s ready to try his luck. Ending the conversation, he briskly states “arigato.” Cork is a pretty friendly town . . .
9:30AM Arriving in Blarney, a town dominated by its tourist assets. The castle itself is wonderfully hollow; helpful signs indicate where the floors once were, and explain what the rooms once were used for. As it is, the signs are far off the ground, and you have to imagine the “kitchen” for example, way up there in the air, levitating. Lichen and grass clung to the weathered dark-gray stone of the Castle. Speaking of stones, the Blarney Stone is a roughly rectangular brick about 3 feet across which has been rubbed smooth by uncountable lips touching it, and hence is a recognizably lighter hue than the surrounding stone. It is attached to the bottom of the lip of the keep wall which is separated from the keep itself by a narrow gap. Thus, you need to lie on your back, grip two metal bars for support, and extend your head back and down to make contact with the Stone. Not particularly dangerous, but I’m not particularly fond of heights. ‘Smack’ and on my way, because there were about 20 people waiting behind me. I had asked an Ozzie to take my pic, but he missed the moment. Oh well. I would only have shown my legs sticking out from the wall.
--
Afternoon: feeling sicker, and feverish. I took a quick nap, and noticed that my bunkmate James was still sleeping. Wonder what happened to him. Is it time for me to move on? I’m weary, and rather unexcited about staying here. It could be the cold making me grumpy, but I’m not sure if there’s anything left for me to do in Cork. It’s a pretty enough town, but when you’re too sick to drink Guinness or Murphys, what point is there?
--
6:00PM Paid a visit to University College Cork. Isn’t that kind of redundant? The campus was rather quiet. I took a look at the campus map and briefly thought about visiting their history department. No sign of an East Asian department (or even a Dept. of Oriental Studies). They have a library named after Boole (originator of boolean logic?), but other than being somewhat picturesque, nothing much to write home about.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
6/1/2004 Hill of Tara, and on to Cork
**For my pictures, go to http://photos.yahoo.com/gd1303.**
A new month begins today. I passed up the wheat bix this morning, because frankly, the stuff is about as tasty as sawdust. Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything except sandwiches and potatoes since I’ve been here. I made my way to the bus station (the Busárus, which sounds like a breed of dinosaur) to catch the commuter bus to the Hill of Tara. The Hill is the historic seat of the ancient Celtic kings, 55 minutes away. Actually, the bus stop is one mile away at the base of a long but gently ascending road. I started noticing how quiet the countryside is. Ever since I left NYC its been constant noise, and Dublin was noisy (and noisome) in its own way. (too “aggro” as a resident of Cork later described it) The quiet on the Hill of Tara however was punctuated by bird calls and cow moos. The site itself was subtle; there was but one exposed stone monument, the ‘Stone of Destiny’ which did not roar when I laid my hands on it (but reportedly did when the legitimate Irish king did the same). The rest of the historic remains are underground, beneath the grassy concentric circles, gentle swells, and narrow ditches. Some have been excavated apparently, and show that the Hill of Tara was used for a long time, starting in the neolithic period. Unfortunately, my photos don’t capture the experience of wandering over those grassy hills; the view over the surrounding pasture land was glorious, and clouds cast creeping shadows over the neatly divided fields.
--
Ireland is having an important election soon, and campaign posters are everywhere. There’s even supposed to be a referendum on the constitution. I still have no idea what the issues are, but they seem to be related to citizenship. One campaign poster caught my eye. I forget the candidates name, or which party he represents, but his platform was written across the poster in bold letters: “Stop the Paedophiles”
--
11:15AM Brunching on vegetable soup and a scone at the hilltop café/souvenir shop. It was very peaceful, but I felt a cold coming on. the walk back down the hill was thus much less pleasant. However, I did get one good photo pf some sleeping cows. Who says cows sleep standing up? You won’t get very far trying to tip these cattle. Moments later a minivan buzzed past at a dangerous speed and woke the bovine sleepers up.
--
4:00PM Four and a half hours on the bus from Dublin to Cork; stopped halfway there at a petrol station. There, I had my first ‘Wimpy burger’ (a Wimpy Quarterpounder with Cheese, to be exact). Tasteless. I’m not lovin’ it.
--
10:00PM Went to work at this enormous internet café, ‘Web Workhouse’ where they have a roomful of machines sporting dual P4@3.0Ghz. Ridiculous. Pretty much overkill for the emailing and websurfing that most customers where doing. One bloke was playing counterstrike, but hey, that ran perfectly fine on 400Mhz PII’s. I was flabbergasted at the completely misplaced priorities of that place. Do they rent the place for LAN parties or something, or is it all about being 1337?
A new month begins today. I passed up the wheat bix this morning, because frankly, the stuff is about as tasty as sawdust. Come to think of it, I haven’t eaten anything except sandwiches and potatoes since I’ve been here. I made my way to the bus station (the Busárus, which sounds like a breed of dinosaur) to catch the commuter bus to the Hill of Tara. The Hill is the historic seat of the ancient Celtic kings, 55 minutes away. Actually, the bus stop is one mile away at the base of a long but gently ascending road. I started noticing how quiet the countryside is. Ever since I left NYC its been constant noise, and Dublin was noisy (and noisome) in its own way. (too “aggro” as a resident of Cork later described it) The quiet on the Hill of Tara however was punctuated by bird calls and cow moos. The site itself was subtle; there was but one exposed stone monument, the ‘Stone of Destiny’ which did not roar when I laid my hands on it (but reportedly did when the legitimate Irish king did the same). The rest of the historic remains are underground, beneath the grassy concentric circles, gentle swells, and narrow ditches. Some have been excavated apparently, and show that the Hill of Tara was used for a long time, starting in the neolithic period. Unfortunately, my photos don’t capture the experience of wandering over those grassy hills; the view over the surrounding pasture land was glorious, and clouds cast creeping shadows over the neatly divided fields.
--
Ireland is having an important election soon, and campaign posters are everywhere. There’s even supposed to be a referendum on the constitution. I still have no idea what the issues are, but they seem to be related to citizenship. One campaign poster caught my eye. I forget the candidates name, or which party he represents, but his platform was written across the poster in bold letters: “Stop the Paedophiles”
--
11:15AM Brunching on vegetable soup and a scone at the hilltop café/souvenir shop. It was very peaceful, but I felt a cold coming on. the walk back down the hill was thus much less pleasant. However, I did get one good photo pf some sleeping cows. Who says cows sleep standing up? You won’t get very far trying to tip these cattle. Moments later a minivan buzzed past at a dangerous speed and woke the bovine sleepers up.
--
4:00PM Four and a half hours on the bus from Dublin to Cork; stopped halfway there at a petrol station. There, I had my first ‘Wimpy burger’ (a Wimpy Quarterpounder with Cheese, to be exact). Tasteless. I’m not lovin’ it.
--
10:00PM Went to work at this enormous internet café, ‘Web Workhouse’ where they have a roomful of machines sporting dual P4@3.0Ghz. Ridiculous. Pretty much overkill for the emailing and websurfing that most customers where doing. One bloke was playing counterstrike, but hey, that ran perfectly fine on 400Mhz PII’s. I was flabbergasted at the completely misplaced priorities of that place. Do they rent the place for LAN parties or something, or is it all about being 1337?
5/31/2004 Dublin at the Litton Lane Hostel
Breakfast of ‘wheat bix’, cornflakes, and toast. Conversation with two Ozzies transplanted to London. Lots of Ozzies and Italians staying here at the Litton Lane Hostel. Took a short job along the River Liffey, which would have been enjoyable without all the cars and smog. Something about the smells reminded me of jogging in Japan, of the damp smell beside canals and rivers. Took a walk across to the vicinity of Trinity College, and had a coffee in a sandwich place. Most of the workers there were Chinese, probably exchange students. I ended up buying a new backpack later on, and negotiated the price in mandarin. The seller quickly offered a five euro discount. According to him, there are many many Chinese in Ireland, which is fairly surprising to me. Is there a Chinatown here?
--
Trinity College: quite bustling, both from its students and tourists. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a college campus turned into such a state before. Certainly at Princeton, most of the visitors are highschool students and their families scouting out the University. Trinity was charging ten euros to see the Book of Kells, an early example of ancient Celtic writing, but I passed up the chance. Ten euros!
--
Saint Patrick’s Cathedral: dark and solemn on the interior. The final resting place of the acerbic Jonathon Swift, who acted as Dean there later in his life.
--
Guinness Storehouse: My, they sure know how to make some rather obvious facts look glamorous. Guinness (“black gold” we’re told over and over) is made from water, hops, and malted barley, plus ‘magic’. Add water fountains, videos, and moody blue lights, and you have six floors of entertainment, including a massive giftshop. Preaching to the converted I guess is pretty easy. We were all there to celebrate Guinness anyway, so why bother with surprises? One thing that I did learn though was that the Guinness Book of World Records was originally produced at the request of the manager of the Guinness Brewery in the 1950s to resolve barroom debates. I guess that also gives you some insight into the Irish pub culture.
--
Rain, rain rain. The weather returned to its ‘typical’ state. I’m concered that I may end up climbing hills in the rain tomorrow.
--
Trinity College: quite bustling, both from its students and tourists. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a college campus turned into such a state before. Certainly at Princeton, most of the visitors are highschool students and their families scouting out the University. Trinity was charging ten euros to see the Book of Kells, an early example of ancient Celtic writing, but I passed up the chance. Ten euros!
--
Saint Patrick’s Cathedral: dark and solemn on the interior. The final resting place of the acerbic Jonathon Swift, who acted as Dean there later in his life.
--
Guinness Storehouse: My, they sure know how to make some rather obvious facts look glamorous. Guinness (“black gold” we’re told over and over) is made from water, hops, and malted barley, plus ‘magic’. Add water fountains, videos, and moody blue lights, and you have six floors of entertainment, including a massive giftshop. Preaching to the converted I guess is pretty easy. We were all there to celebrate Guinness anyway, so why bother with surprises? One thing that I did learn though was that the Guinness Book of World Records was originally produced at the request of the manager of the Guinness Brewery in the 1950s to resolve barroom debates. I guess that also gives you some insight into the Irish pub culture.
--
Rain, rain rain. The weather returned to its ‘typical’ state. I’m concered that I may end up climbing hills in the rain tomorrow.
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