Santa-san

Questions for Santa Claus from Japanese children:

"I was naughty this morning; how come I still get a present?"
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"How many floors do you have in your house?"
"What kind of food do you like?"
"What present do you want for Christmas?"

A Kyoto Christmas

Christmas

Walking through the grounds of the Imperial Palace at dusk

alone

a light snow

the intersection of my horizontal journey

and

the vertical journey of the falling snow

my boots meet the gravel path

each step recorded with a crunch

tiny stones shifting slightly

on the edge of the sharp evening air

I smell the proud ancient pines

the world

this Japanese world

slides quietly into monochrome

color washed out in the fading light

the low clouds

the snow.

I close my eyes

and

walk a straight line.

Bonsai

Bonsai is one of those cultural exports from Japan that everyone is familiar with, like kimonos and chopsticks.  But recognizing or being aware of something is very different from understanding it, as I came to discover at the 34th annual Taiken-Ten Bonsai exhibition.

Bonsai inhabits a strange place somewhere between gardening and sculpture.  Growing miniature trees in containers has existed in Japan for more than a thousand years.  As with many cultural things in Japan, Zen Buddhism has played a role in defining the aesthetics of bonsai.  There are long established and rather strict   guidelines and techniques for cultivating little trees that have the appearance of big trees.  This is both beautiful and bizarre.  Even as I admired the many artistic interpretations of bonsai - the sensuous flowing lines, the often gravity defying balance, the congruity of living and dead elements - I couldn't help but think this is really a perverse manipulation of nature, the same way chihuahuas, toy poodles and other small dogs are.  It is worth noting that bonsai trees are not genetically modified plants.  The tiny size is achieved through meticulous trimming, pruning, wiring and even grafting.

The question running through my head the whole time was, "How?"  How are these insanely twisted, completely unnatural forms achieved?  How are these trees kept alive?  How long does it take to grow them into these shapes?  There was a vendor section to the exhibition that for me, an outsider, could only hint at answers.  There was the vendor that had a wide array of bonsai tools for sale spread out like surgical instruments used by a doctor in an operating room.  There were vendors selling bonsai containers of varying shapes, sizes and finishes, vendors that specialized in soil and fertilizers, elegant rocks and books about bonsai.  And of course there were trees, very expensive trees.  They ranged in price from ¥2,000 (about $20) for a starter specimen no larger than your pinky finger to fully mature, show-quality trees upwards of ¥1,000,000 (about $10,000).

Adding to the somewhat surreal atmosphere was a musical soundtrack that swung from a Muzak version of traditional Japanese melodies to a Lord of the Rings fantasy score.

I got the impression that bonsai has a sort of cult following, that the people in attendance were part of a small clique, like Trekkies at a Star Trek convention.  But like so many of the people that support traditional Japanese culture it would seem, this clique was mostly 60+.  As the Japanese population continues to gray, one wonders if these ancient art forms will survive.

Daihikaku Senkoji (大悲閣千光寺)

The tourists, both foreign and Japanese, tend to swarm on all the big temples and shrines on weekends and holidays, especially during the peak seasons.  It is best to avoid these areas and days.  Find a quiet cafe near home and do some reading.

Japan has a sort of Thanksgiving holiday at the end of November, but unlike the American version, it is a day to express gratitude for labor and production.  I think mostly it is just a day off.

Aware of the crowds that would certainly meet me, I set out Monday afternoon anyway.  Arashiyama is just a few stops on the train from Katsura, so I figured I could easily retreat if overwhelmed by the humanity.  The Arashiyama station was thronged.  I paused for a moment, observed the direction of the multitude and went up an adjacent road that was relatively empty.  A good decision.  This led me past a quiet shrine and on to the south bank of the Hozu River.

The river was full of bright blue rowboats and couples trying to navigate it.  Nonomiya-jinja is nearby which is the shrine of choice for lovers and would-be lovers, so I imagined the romantic aquatic excursions were part of some courtship.  It was a charming sight, the azure blue of the boats hemmed in by the steep canyon dressed in full autumnal regalia.

As I discovered last year, the farther along a path you go, the more solitary the journey.  I like this.  Little by little the sounds of human conversation and movement is replaced by nature's equivalent.  Serenity arrives.

Far up the river I found a sign for a temple and some steps leading up the hillside.  I knew this could only lead to something really good.  There were only a few other people that had ventured this far upstream and some were dissuaded by the climb necessary to reach the temple.

Perched high above the Hozu is Daihikaku Senkoji.  This temple was apparently founded by a wealthy 16th Century merchant named Suminokura Ryoi who pioneered Southeast-Asian trade.  It is meant to commemorate the heavy human toll of his river excavation project.

There was something beautifully ramshackle about this temple.  Most temples are pristine and untouchable, the route through the grounds clearly marked with large red arrows, the dos and don'ts posted everywhere.  Here, at Daihikaku Senkoji there is none of that.  This is not simply a historical showpiece with coffers of tourist Yen; this is a proper habitation.  Everything has the warm patina of frequent use and time.

Information about the temple is hand or typewritten and photocopied like a punk rock fanzine from the 80s.  There are shelves of books, not rare antique tomes, but well-thumbed paperbacks you'd find in an ordinary bookshop.  There are art supplies, bamboo brushes, inkstones and washi paper for shodo (calligraphy) and sumi-e (ink painting).  Two temperamental Shiba Inus keep the lone monk and his attendants company and also entertain visitors.

A cup of matcha tea and a sweet appear on a tray decorated with a freshly fallen red maple leaf.  I sit for a long time listening to the water dripping from a bamboo spigot and the temple bell that rings periodically.  The sun begins to set illuminating the city in the distance.  Somewhat reluctantly, I make my way back down the hill to the now deserted river.

The 100 Bus

Note to self: do not take the number 100 bus along Higashioji-dori on a Sunday afternoon at the peak of the autumn tourist season.

I generally don't take the bus - anywhere - Kyoto, New York, Paris, Los Angeles.  It is a silly and fairly unpleasant way to travel.  The whole point of using mass transit is to arrive at your destination quickly and efficiently.  A bus cannot avoid or bypass traffic snarls.  So while you may not have the stress of driving, your forward progress is nonetheless halted.

I got on the 100 bus around Heian-jingū Gate hoping to dash across town to the Kyoto National Museum.  The bus was completely full when it arrived at the stop, but somehow, disregarding convention and safety, we packed at least another dozen people on board.  Buses in Japan are very small compared to those you find in the US, so this is a real claustrophobic nightmare.

Everyone is wearing winter coats including me.  It's hot.  There is no air-conditioning and the windows are all shut tight.  I didn't want to violate some Japanese code of conduct by opening a window, perhaps sacrificing the comfort of others for my own needs.  I suffer thinking that at each approaching stop everyone will get off.  They don't.  In fact, a few new people manage to stuff themselves onto the bus.

Meanwhile, outside on the street the traffic is crawling along like a stoned tortoise.  I could literally walk faster.  I wrestle with the idea of getting off and hoofing it, but the distance to the museum is pretty great.

I finally arrive at the Kyoto National Museum completely frazzled and sweating.  And what greets me just past the entrance?  A 90-minute queue to get into the special exhibition.  My whole reason for going to the museum was because I had a free ticket which was expiring.

I skip the special exhibition and head for the permanent collection.  This too was packed, visitors slinking slowly past each display in an orderly line as if on a conveyor belt.  This is no way to see art.  I refuse.  I search in vain for the one gallery that is if not empty, at least not thronged with these art zombies.  In the end I set a new personal record for quickest museum visit, blazing through the whole building in less than 20 minutes.

I must thank Japanese architect Yoshio Taniguchi for saving my afternoon.  Once outside the museum I sat in the garden contemplating the new Heisei Chishinkan wing of the museum, the amazing modernist structure which he designed.  I was already a fan of his without realizing it.  He also designed MoMA in New York and the Gallery of Horyuji Treasures in Tokyo.

Tofukuji (東福寺): notes and impressions (II)

The tree in the temple garden: simultaneously birth, life and death.  Cool and warm, green and red.  Setting sun warming my head and hands and the wood under my stockinged feet.  A cool breeze protests.  Shadows stretch.  Maple leaves float without branches or stems, delicate lacework.  Filtered light, random spotlights touching the shadows.  The Insai Tokuda painting - black ink across four fusuma, white tinged with age.  Perfect gesture, abstract expressionism slashing into/against pure representation.  Masterly use of negative space.

The ultimate Japanese blunder

So after almost nine months in Japan I have made the ultimate Western blunder in the worst possible place.

Removing shoes.  At a temple.

I have not carried a Kyoto guide book with me since returning to Japan in September.  With a day off from work I decided I would do some extemporaneous exploring.  I found myself in the northern part of the city where I happened upon the Eizan train line.  I remembered taking a funny little two-car electric train last year to or from Ryoan-ji Temple.  Unfortunately the train I was on last year was not the Eizan; it was the Randen.  Similar trains.  Completely different lines.

This was not really a problem.  I found a stop on the train map with a temple I'd never been to and set out into the light afternoon drizzle.

Jisso-in Temple, originally built in the 13th Century, is way off the tourist map.  Except for a few autumn foliage obsessives who come to see the trees reflected in the high-gloss floors of the temple, the place is fairly empty.  It is set in the foothills of the Kitayama mountain range.  Iwakura, the name of the area, gave me the distinct impression of a mountain ski town somewhere.

Despite my nonchalant approach to this outing, I did want to know if the temple before me was indeed Jisso-in.  I walked up to the ticket window and inquired.  The woman inside said something brusquely in Japanese accompanied by some fraught gestures.  I looked down and realized I was standing on a small carpet with my wet shoes.  I stepped back and apologized.  She was still agitated.  Huh?  What?  Oh shit!  It was not my wet shoes or the carpet.  I was standing on the low, slatted platform where one removes one's shoes before entering a temple.  I stepped back onto the concrete, removed my shoes and approached the window again in my stocking feet.

Next I slaughtered the name of the temple.  I asked (in Japanese) if this was Jisho-in Temple.  The first woman was apparently so outraged she asked her younger colleague to deal with me.  This more calm and attractive woman corrected me: "Jisso-in".  I repeated what she said, or thought I did.  She said it again, emphasizing the s sound.  I said it again.  She said it again.  And again.  And again.  I took my ticket and slunk away still trying to pronounce the name of the temple correctly.

I hoped the beauty and serenity of the temple and garden would whisk my mind away from my faux pas.  But I could not enjoy anything after that.  I was too embarrassed.  Even as I write I cringe when I think about my gaffe: wet Doc Martin boots in the no-shoes zone.  How could this happen?  I've never done this before.  The shoe removal area is always so obvious at temples.  It is impossible to miss.  Ugh!

I cursorily made my way through the temple and gardens, returned my stockinged feet to their big, ugly boots and moped back to the train.

Gion Odori

Each of the five hanamachi (geisha district) in Kyoto holds an annual odori (dance performance).  The first such performance happened in 1872 as part of a civic effort aimed at showcasing the art and culture of Kyoto after the capital was moved to Tokyo.  Most of the odori take place in the spring around the time of the cherry blossom.  Because the world of the geisha is rather secretive and the geisha houses are essentially private clubs (you need an introduction from an existing client to gain admittance), this is an opportunity for the general public to see them do what they do.

Gion Odori, performed by the Gion Higashi Kabukai (Gion-East Song & Dance Society), is relatively new (1950s) and the only odori that happens in the autumn.  Following on my chance encounter with a maiko, I decided to go.

The Gion Kaikan Theatre has seen better days.  It is not shabby in a quaint eccentric kind of way.  Rather, it appears to have had a poorly executed renovation in the 80s and has not been updated since.  Despite the drab setting the performance was brilliant - graceful, beautiful and perfectly Japanese.

The event began with the optional tea ceremony.  As an absolute beginner eager to understand this mysterious ritual that is so deeply embedded in the Japanese culture, I paid the extra ¥500.  This performance seemed to be a take-out version of what I imagine a real tea ceremony is.  The maiko were immaculate in appearance and gesture, but the attendants were lacking the same charm.  It was a hurry-up experience like eating at a diner where the waitress is trying to turn covers.  This I could have skipped.

I was happy to see the audience was for the most part dressed very smartly, men in jackets and quite a few women in kimonos.  It felt like the Metropolitan Opera in New York.  Also, like the opera, the odori crowd was mostly gray-haired.  I was an outsider by not only my nationality, but also my age.

I didn't know what to expect really.  I read a brief synopsis in English beforehand that said the theme of this year's odori was inspired by the paintings found on fusuma (sliding doors) in Kyoto's most famous temples.  There was to be a prologue and six scenes.

The curtain rose on a side stage revealing the musicians and chorus.  I was a little surprised to see that there were no men and no one under 50.  The main curtain rose and four maiko were posing as if in a still-life painting.  Soon they were floating around the stage, their movement fluid, like a leaf caught in a gentle breeze or the current of a stream.  I imagine their training is not only dance, but also perhaps t'ai chi and zazen.

The music and singing are rhythmic and hypnotic.  I can only compare it to Gregorian chant heard in a traditional Catholic mass where the listener is lulled into a spiritual trance.  There is a narrative which is sung both as a chorus and solo, though my extremely limited Japanese means I have to rely on the movement of the dancers to tell the story.  The wonderfully simple background paintings also help, placing the action in each of the four seasons.

The last scene and finale is interesting because there are geiko (the preferred term for Kyoto geisha) that appear that were not in the previous scenes.  Like the grande dames of Broadway, beneath the makeup and elaborate kimonos, one can see their age and somewhat fading beauty.

After the performance I stopped by the cafe Rinken for a drink.  As I sat there reflecting on the evening the maiko from the odori pass by still in costume.  They bow slightly acknowledging the barman.  Yeah...a very special evening in Gion.

On the menu...

Working in the smallest kitchen ever - one burner, no oven and a counter top that measures 27 X 45 cm (a little smaller than a folded newspaper) - somehow I'm still able to eat pretty well.

Japanese Laundry

There is very little I don't like about Japan.  One thing I can add to that very short list is the Japanese laundromat.

I have never owned a washing machine.  I've never lived in a place large enough to accommodate one.  In New York, in Los Angeles, in Paris I would take my laundry to the laundromat.  In New York, if you are lucky, there are laundry facilities in your building.  But even if you aren't so fortunate, laundromats are everywhere.  You never have to go far with your bag of smelly clothes.

In Japan, it seems, everyone has a washing machine, even in a tiny 215 ft² (20 m²) apartment like mine.  I don't mind sleeping with my refrigerator, but a washing machine is where I draw the line.  Because everyone has a washing machine, laundromats are pretty scarce.  The nearest one to my apartment is more than a 1/2 mile (1km) away.

The laundromat looks more or less like what you would expect: industrial-sized washing machines and dryers, linoleum floor, fluorescent lighting, a couple of tables for folding and some rolling baskets.  But you know you are not in the States, or even France, when you look at the machines: everything is in kanji.  Of course, you're in Japan!  So what does "cold wash" look like in kanji?  I look up these two words in my dictionary (I came prepared).  寒い - cold.  洗う - wash.  I figure out the wash part, but I have no idea how to select the temperature.

Okay, let's use our intuition.  There are four choices: two colored green, one colored blue, one colored yellow.  Blue is cold, yellow is warm?  No.  The blue selection indicates 12 kilos of laundry.  That sounds like more than I have so I rule that out.  The yellow selection is only ¥100.  That is too cheap for a load of laundry so I rule that out.  That leaves me with the green choices: 8 kg or 4 kg.  I go with 4 kg.

I notice a little sticker with what looks like a box of laundry detergent and a scoop and a red "X" through it.  Do not use soap.  Hmm.  Laundry without soap.  Interesting.  Frustrated and helpless I decide to ask a women that has come in, the only other person in Kyoto without a washing machine.  We fumble through our languages and I conclude that the soap is automatic.  What?!  What does it smell like, this automatic soap?  Do I like the fragrance?  Who decided on this national laundry detergent?  Was there a contest among soap manufacturers to see who would get this contract?

In goes the laundry, in goes the ¥1,000.  That's almost $10, by the way, for one load of laundry.  I noticed the machine was warm when I put my clothes in, but didn't think anything of it.  It goes through the actions a washing machine should, filling with water, draining, spinning, etc.  Except...when the washing ends, and I go to remove my clothes the door is still locked.  Then it begins to spin again.  I realize the machine has begun to dry my clothes.  Nooooo!  Anyone that has ever seen me do laundry knows that I line-dry most of my clothes.  Now I'm upset.  There is nothing I can do but watch.

Defeated, I stuff my clean (is it?) laundry into my bag and walk the long walk back to my apartment.  Naiveté can be a funny thing.