As ever, the folks in Japan were incessantly patient, friendly, and generous, despite the language barrier (which I most often failed to overcome, despite the undeserved praise others have heaped upon my alleged proficiency with Japanese). I hope I'm wrong, but I must say it's difficult to imagine anyone with only a smattering of English being treated so kindly by total strangers here in the States. Well done indeed, Japan. You are hospitality itself, and an example to us all.
Though I suppose I shouldn't be speaking for other members of the group who may already be hospitality itself and need no example. I amend, dear Japan: At the very least, you are an example to selfish and standoffish people like me.
But, as much as I enjoy the fine art of self-deprecation, let's launch into some reader-worthy memories and musings, complete with photos courtesy of my lovely wife. And hey, I've remembered that this blog can do hyperlinks, so let's see if I can throw some of those in. That way you can fact-check and rest assured I'm not making all of this up.
Nara and Tōdai-ji (that's two already!) were indeed impressive. The Daibutsu (literally, "big buddha") is, yes, big. Though he was quite a sight with his towering bronze serenity, I confess he wasn't my favorite of the statues we saw. The snarly-faced guardians behind him had rather more personality, I thought. But maybe that's me being over-partial to things theatrical.
One of the glowering guardians flanking the Daibutsu in Tōdai-ji
I was also keen on the divine bird who plays the flute at Sanjūsangen-dō. I remembered him fondly from the Kyoto trip two years ago, and I was glad to see him still there tootling away, rather than getting burned (which, as a lot of temples' and shrines' plaques would have it, seems a pretty incessant hazard at Japan's holy sites). Though if I had to pick a non-bestial statue to praise, I'd have to go with the Jizō at Hōnen-in, perhaps the humblest temple along Kyoto's Philosopher's Walk. Adam especially liked this temple two years ago, it being set back among the trees so it's dark and very green and has a definite air of mystery about it. We couldn't go into the main hall there, but the outdoor Jizō (a bodhisattva who protects children and whom you see depicted in graveyards a lot), merely man-sized and unassuming in his little alcove, had so kind a presence that I couldn't help but bow there.
The green, dark entrance to Hōnen-in
But, before this rambling departs from Nara completely, I must say the deer were fun. Aside from the poop-smeared walkways and occasional doubts as to wild animals being turned into tourist attractions, I do enjoy contact with large animals. Not that these were terribly large deer, but they did the job for me. The does and fawns I found were very polite as I fed them some deer cookies, and they didn't savage me when I ran out. And a visual I'll always remember: Wading through the torrent of schoolkids and glancing back at Kelsey as a stag approached her, her eyebrows raising and lips parting sadly when she saw he had only one antler, she stroking his head where the other antler should have been. (Which was smooth and showed no apparent sign of injury or deformity, so I guess he was fine.)
Me in Nara, feeding some deer just outside Tōdai-ji
Back in Kyoto, another temple, Saihō-ji (a.k.a., Koke-dera, the "moss temple") was lovely, though its peaceful grounds were a sharp contrast to the sutra-writing required for visitors. Scribbling unknown kanji with a marker, driven on by rapid drumming and chanting, was an almost frantic experience, one which I hope earned me a little merit for a good rebirth. And speaking of rebirth -- or rather, what precedes it -- I'll always remember stopping for a group photo in the temple grounds and standing in a certain place to prevent folks from stepping on a dead bird I'd noticed. Iridescent blue flies walked on top of him, and he seemed occasionally to twitch, but this was him being nudged by the bright black-and-orange beetles crawling beneath him. An arresting sight, and quite literally a colorful one, amidst the garden's misty grays and muted greens.
Just a small part of the extensive grounds of Saihō-ji
Which reminds me of a phrase taught to us by Mayumi: itadakimasu, pronounced "ee-tah-dah-ki-mahss" or "-mah-su". (From what I could overhear, the Japanese are divided on whether a verb's final "u" sound is silent or not.) I don't know the literal translation, but this seems to be a Japanese equivalent of grace spoken before a meal, but it's not thanking a deity who gave you the meal, but instead recognizing the creatures whose lives were taken for your meal. I'm sure there's lots of deep history and philosophy behind this single word -- which I won't pretend to grasp -- but it seems to me a remarkably civilized thing, to express this humble gratitude and recognition of what had to happen so that you could eat.
Crane (heron? egret?) outside the Gion restaurant where Mayumi taught us the notion of "itadakimasu"
I cannot remember if I did, but I certainly should have said "itadakimasu" before tucking into a certain pizza in Japan. Dave Barry has warned us all about Japanese pizza, and now I understand. You see, prior to seeing Kyoto's production of Phantom of the Opera -- to which the very generous Jane treated Kelsey and me -- we got lunch at an Italian place inside the theater foyer. I opted for the pizza, which looked relatively harmless. But when it arrived, I found it included just about every animal protein possible: beef, chicken, fish, tentacles of some kind, and (why not?) a poached egg in the middle. I ate it all like a good guest, and I am thankful for the nourishment it provided. So here's an after-the-fact itadakimasu, just in case any of you slain animals are reading this. (And if they're not, would someone be kind enough to pass it along, next time you see them? Cheers.)
The actual play was interesting, and I mean that sincerely. (I'd wondered if a Japanese production of Phantom would have a sort of kabuki theme, but it was just as Dickensian-looking as an American production. Perhaps the play's still too young; give it another fifty or hundred years, and we'll be seeing all manner of variants in era and culture, like what people do with Shakespeare's plays.) My Japanese wasn't good enough to follow the dialogue, only to catch the odd word here and there. Aside from characters' names, certain lyrics remained in English: "Phantom of the Opera," "masquerade," and, most curiously, "I love you." And yes, Japanese does have an equivalent for "I love you," lest you go thinking it's such a formal and uptight culture that they never figured out how to say that until we spunky Americans showed them how to live and love and breathe the air of freedom.
Fushimi's Inari shrine is among the more unique shrines I've seen. It has most of the usual shrine features, like a big torii at the entrance, lots of orange architecture, storefronts selling amulets and charms, and various smaller shrines where you can get the attention of the kami and pray. But it also has the thousands of torii you can walk through for miles, which Kelsey and I did. (I don't think we made it through all the torii, but definitely enough to accumulate some serious blessings, which I plan to use for gaining the ability to shoot fire at people.) Plus, while most shrines have statues of guardian lions out front, shrines dedicated to Inari -- the kami of rice and merchants -- have foxes instead, who are the servants of Inari and are just plain charming.
Inari's foxes guarding the entrance to another stretch of torii
Though -- my apologies, dear Inari -- they are not quite as charming as Japan's very fine citizens. Whenever I was feeling homesick and overwhelmed by the bustle of Kyoto, by the incessant smell of warm rain, by squinting at Japanese letters whose twists and loops were enough to make me feel carsick sometimes, the sudden charm of a local was always enough to make me appreciate where I was. There were the schoolkids assigned to practice their English with us at various tourist sites; at Nijō Castle, they even gave us little laminated drawings as a thank-you. There was Miki at K's House, who always seemed to be on-hand and ready to help whenever we were having some scheduling crisis with a planned tour. There was the older fellow who excitedly chatted with Kelsey and me at a Starbucks; he'd been teaching himself English for years and kept producing from his pockets little scraps of paper covered in fairly advanced English sentences on which he wanted us to verify his grammar. (One example was something like: "They have augmented the carrying capacity of the railcar.") And of course there was Takeda-san at Bob's favorite yakitori place, who grills up some righteous food and gifted Bob with a sake set, which I have little doubt is one of Bob's most treasured souvenirs from Japan.
(To anyone wanting some fine yakitori in Kyoto: Go to the main entrance of Higashi Honganji. Facing the temple gate from the sidewalk, turn left, walk to the end of the temple block, then take your first right. Two or three doors down on the right, you'll see a restaurant facade with four white paper lanterns -- each showing a hiragana character: ya ki to ri -- surrounded by red paper lanterns. This is Takeda-san's yakitori place. Indulge and enjoy.)
So them's my final thoughts on our 2011 excursion to fair Japan. Contemplate them well, or ignore them completely. I don't mind either way.
Kelsey in Sagano bamboo forest, just 'cause she's hot
