You Can't Win Them All

To get from Rebun to Sasebo, my next destination requires a travel feat of near biblical proportions. First, you must catch the last ferry from Rebun to the mainland, a not particularly difficult feat when front door delivered to the ferry terminal. The afternoon ferry is subject to the afternoon and evening storms that regularly roll off the ocean into Wakkanai Bay. I combat the roll and pitch of the waves by sleeping through most of the trip, knowing that if I was awake I would be wrapped around a toilet. In this way, I pass the two hour ride.

We arrive too late for me to catch a train from Wakkanai to Sapporo, which is bad because my flight leaves at 1000 tomorrow morning, and it is at least a six hour train ride back. The ticket vendor sees me begin to slip into panic and holds a hand out. "No train – Bus."

I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

The night bus to Sapporo leaves at 2300, and arrives at 0500. I kill the six hours waiting by reading on my tablet and answering emails. When I finally climb aboard the bus, I realize that my life is about to become an utterly miserable odyssey of uncomfortable seats, wide eyed insomnia, and occasional slips into not quite sleep.

Significantly the worse for wear, I arrive at Sapporo station. It is raining as I rush, bleary eyed, from the bus station to the train station. Somewhere between getting off the bus and getting tickets, my watch disappears. Ticket to the airport in hand, with less than twenty minutes left, I scour the area for my watch and eventually find it outside at the bus station. My outdoor search has drenched me, but the satisfaction of finding my watch pushes my frayed morale back to optimism. Maybe I'll sleep on the plane.

Now back inside the train station, I pass a short Japanese man with what can only be described as a balding mohawk. He stares at me as I pass, and I stare right back at him, thinking about how weird he looks. Something about his gaze makes me uncomfortable, but I am too tired and too happy to have my watch back to think much of it.

A minute later, standing on the platform waiting for my train, I spot him again. Staring at me. Again. I lock eyes with him and acknowledge his presence with a nod. He seems to take this as leave to come over. Passing in front of me, I brace myself for another conversation in broken Japanenglish. This is not what happens.

He stops an arm’s length away, looking at me. Then creeps closer. And closer. I open my mouth, and am halfway through a "Can I help you?" when he presses himself up against me, puts a hand on my thigh and starts upward.

I'm not sure how fast neurons travel, or how long it takes a command to get from the brain to the rest of the body, but I assume it is somewhere in between the speed of sound and the speed of light, both of which are fast, but not fast enough. I shove him back, harder than I meant to, and wish fervently that I knew the Japanese for "No." English will have to do.

He looks surprised, and scared. I outweigh him by at least sixty pounds, and the look on my face was hardly friendly. He puts both hands up and makes what sounds like an apology, while vacating the area as fast as his legs can carry him. I blink, at first unable to process what has just happened to me. After a second, I notice two middle aged Japanese women trying to hide their mirth. Intellectually, I realize that I should feel something about this, but at that point, I had been awake for roughly twenty four hours, my body moving through space for nearly all of those.

I begin to laugh too. At me, at him, at the whole situation, it seemed like the only response.

An hour train ride gets me to the airport. My flight departs on time, and I am on it. An attempt at sleep while waiting for the plane ends in futility, and once in flight, I close my eyes and pray that the Gods, any God, will let me sleep. Unfortunately, the plane ride is just as uncomfortable as the bus ride, and the Gods and I don't talk enough for them to take requests. After a short transfer in Tokyo, I arrive at Nagasaki airport at 1600. It has been nearly 18 hours since I left Wakkanai – another 18 since climbing to the top of the bluffs near Wakkanai. I have stayed up for this long before, at OCS, but I'm out of practice and fried from traveling alone and all that has happened.

Nagasaki Airport is a bit of a lie, as it sits nearly an hour and a half's bus ride away from Nagasaki. My objective is not Nagasaki, but rather Sasebo, its neighbor, two hours to the north. My friend Marty is stationed at the Naval base there and has offered me free lodging. I jumped at the chance to see one of my closest friends.

In my rush to make it to Sasebo to arrive at our pre-agreed meeting point, I catch the wrong bus and end up in Nagasaki proper. I am too tired to be anything but resigned to tardiness. A two hour train ride to Sasebo gets me there three hours late. I sit in a coffee shop and try to contact Marty over facebook messenger, my only resource since getting a temporary mobile phone in Japan requires something of a minor miracle.

After an hour, I give up, find the nearest English speaking person, a young Asian woman who is teaching English to a younger Japanese girl, and ask to borrow her cell phone. She readily agrees, and asks me if I’m here on Navy business. I laugh a little bit. Apparently, despite the beard, hair and civilian clothes, I look like a military man.

My phone call to Marty is short. "You were coming in today? I thought it was Friday. I'm on duty until tomorrow afternoon."

Oh well. You can't win them all.  

  

A Personal Tour

It is my personal belief that all military personnel are programmed to seek the high ground, no matter where they are or what they are doing. Whenever I find myself in an unfamiliar place or setting, my immediate thought is to find the high ground and get a look around. This internal programming has taken me to the top of Tokyo Tower, Sapporo Tower, the mountains near Kyoto, and now the Wakkanai 100 year memorial tower, which is located at the top of a series of large bluffs above the village of Wakkanai.

It is around 0930, and I've got roughly an hour and a half until my ferry leaves for Rebun, one of two small islands that represent the northernmost you can get in Japan without actually being in Russia. This charming proximity to the motherland is evidenced by street signs in Japanese, English, and Russian, as well as a ferry that leaves for Russia every day. I've taken this hike because I woke up too late to catch the early ferry to Rebun, and I've paid too much for this trip to sit around at the ferry terminal for three hours.

That and I like views. This view in particular is spectacular. The rain and snow from last night has disappeared, and I'm left with mostly clear skies and miles of visibility in all directions. Peering off into the distance, I see a faint shape of land, and I wonder if I'm seeing Russia. Sarah Palin's house has nothing on this view, that's for certain.

A quick check of my watch tells me that I need to start heading back if I'm going to catch my ferry. A quick jog down the mountain gets me there in plenty of time.

Japanese people will come up to you and practice their English on you. It can be at times rewarding, frustrating, entertaining and annoying. I would say that nearly all of my experiences have been positive, though draining. Communication is hard. Most people don't realize it until they're forced to communicate over a language and cultural barrier. Every single time the conversation has been carried by the Japanese, whose usually very good command of my language leaves me embarrassed at my pathetic knowledge of theirs. They're patient, curious and incredibly polite. While waiting at the ferry station, one of these conversations evolved into what could be described as one of the most unique events of my life.

While waiting at the ferry terminal, I catch eyes with a Japanese man who appears to be in his early fifties. We lock eyes and nod, I bow my head in the traditional manner and he smiles. He comes over, and I brace myself. "Here we go again."

A short conversation tells him where I'm from, and what I'm doing. I find out he's a Rebun native, and has just come back from the mainland doing something I couldn't translate. After a few minutes, he tells me he has to go, because he is driving his car onto the ferry. We part ways, and I prepare to board the ferry from a pedestrian standpoint.

I love ferries. I can't remember the first time I rode one, though it was probably on a family trip to Whidbey Island from when my dad moved the family to Seattle so he could go to law school. When I returned to Seattle to get my undergraduate, I took every reasonable opportunity to ride a ferry, just because I love them. It's something about the wind on the deck and the thrum of the engine and the smell of the ocean air that I love. A feeling I can't quite place.

Boarding this ferry is similar, but different to ferries in the states. There are no chairs in the interior, and there are first, second, and steerage cabins. The plebeians in steerage, which is actually quite nice, don't get chairs, but rather big carpeted areas to relax on, sleep on, watch the giant tvs on, whatever. I ignore these and explore the ferry, climbing out onto the deck and feeling the vibration of the ship and the howl of the wind.

I am surprised when my companion from earlier appears at my side with two cans of coffee. Wincing internally, for I hate coffee, I accept and wrap my hands around the warm beverage. We sit on the exterior chairs and converse, after a fashion. He uses his iphone to show me pictures of his three daughters, and his granddaughter. The pride and joy in his face when he talks about them transcends cultures and languages. I tell him of my trip, my job, and my family. He is a barber, as far as I can tell one of the only barbers on Rebun – a cornered market.

This leads us to talk of Rebun and Reshi, the two islands we are bound for. I show him my dual tickets to both islands and he asks me in broken English how I plan to get around. I shrug and indicate that I had planned on walking. He narrows his eyes at me.

Our ferry left port at 1150. It is roughly a two hour trip to Rebun, perhaps a half hour to get to Rishi from there. Assuming we arrive at 1400, I will have perhaps an hour to explore Rebun, on foot, and then assuming the ferry leaves when I want it to, a half hour ride to Rishi, where I've got maybe an hour before it gets dark. Oh, and I still have to get back to Wakkanai, and if all goes according to plan, catch a train back to Sapporo. As my companion explains this to me, I realize that I may have made some serious tactical errors. 

He quickly convinces me to ditch Reshi, as the island is really just one large volcano that is best viewed from a distance anyway. Furthermore, he tells me that an hour of walking wouldn't get me anywhere on Rebun and that there were few buses. Apparently a car is necessary to explore the island. I mentally start kicking myself, and then, with a few more words, he offers me salvation.

"I drive you. Take tour."

I'm sorry, it sounds like you just offered to drive me around your home island for a few hours. We just me an hour ago. In any other country I would have flatly refused. Safety, Western ideas about what's polite, and sheer anti-socialism would have kept me from it. But not in Japan. Here it would be rude to refuse, the people are super nice, and besides, I don't think he actually gave me a choice in the matter.

I agree. As we approach Rebun, I can see Rishi, perhaps 20 kilometers away. The volcano rises out of the ocean in truly epic fashion, reminding me of pictures and paintings of Mt. Fuji.  No wonder it's called "The Fuji of the North." Rebun, on the other hand, is a series of low hills covered in grasslands. In the summer months it fills up with meadows full of flowers, and is quite the tourist destination for Hokkaido.

Upon arrival I climb into my companion's car, and we speed off along the only road on the island, a coastal artery that is barely larger than the car itself, with houses and shops squeezed up on one side against the cliff face, and the ocean on the other side. I routinely grab the "oh shit" handle above the window, but do not say anything. Classic rock blasts from my friend's stereos, routed from his iphone. As we drive, he points out landmarks.

A somehow smaller road leads us up the side and to the top of one of the large hills. We park, and jump out, my friend pointing out a small protected cove to the northeast where a small village sits. "My house."

The island feels like it is bracing for winter. The flower topped hills have turned to sea blown grass, and trees are few and far between. Those that appear are twisted and windblown. I ask my companion what winter is like.

"Hard."

I do not doubt this for a second. The people that live on this island must really want to live here.

More driving leads us to the furthest north point on the island. It is a small spit of land, barren and rocky, utterly exposed to the icy north wind. Across maybe three hundred yards of ocean another, tiny island, perhaps a kilometer across hosts a tiny lighthouse.

While I take pictures, my companion grunts and tells me that his great grandfather lived on the island, but that no one lives there now. A glance at my watch tells me that we need to return to the ferry terminal, so that I can catch the last ferry back to Wakkanai.

The drive back is as pleasant and as terrifying as the drive out was, and all too soon we're at the ferry terminal. A shake of hands, bowing, and exchange of emails marks our passing. I feel as though I have under emphasized the language barrier in this writing, but make no mistake, though we bonded, I understood perhaps a tenth of what he said. Every conversation we had was a struggle to make ourselves understood, and still, despite this, it was perhaps one of the most meaningful experiences of my life. This man shared his island with me, a complete stranger.

I have previously spoken of the Japanese people. I forgot to mention one thing: their actions speak much louder than their words, and well to their nature.

Wakkanai

It is dark and cold when I arrive in Wakkanai. The wind coming off the ocean rips into me, but my jacket keeps me from being totally frozen. I have no reserved lodgings, and can only hope that I can find a hotel room instead of breaking out the sleeping bag. It might rain tonight, or more likely snow, this far north, and I don't have a tent.

The Dormy Inn is ten stories, perhaps the second tallest building in Wakkanai; the other looking much more upscale and therefore, expensive. I really only need a rack and some privacy. The privacy part is probably negotiable.

The Dormy Inn turns out to be a Godsend. For roughly 5,000 yen I got a decent-sized room with a private bath, free internet access, and free admittance to the rooftop onsen. Two hours after checking in, the lower half of me is roasting while the upper half freezes in the outdoor sauna that is designed to look like a natural hot spring. Utterly naked, as is tradition with onsen, I stare out at the lights of Wakkanai, feeling like a king surveying his domain.

In the soft lighting I see snow begin to fall.

As the snow comes down, the wind whips it into vortexes that interact with the steam coming off of the water, creating mini weather systems that are born, live, and die in seconds.

Inside there is an ice bath, dry sauna and another hot pool. When my body gets too hot, I move to the ice bath and try to stay in as long as possible. Moving from hot bath to ice bath to hot bath again produces a kind of euphoric high of adrenaline, endorphins and temperature extremes. This is how men were meant to recreate. My only wish is for companionship and good conversation.

At nearly one in the morning, I stand by the railing, feeling the wind whipping the water off my skin and staring into the patchwork of lights that battle the night. Tomorrow I will be Douglas Wood, living out of a backpack and without a home for four and a half more months.

Tonight – I am King of the North.  

Going North

I gaze out the window at the Hokkaido countryside as my train speeds north to Wakkanai. Japan's north island is all rolling hills and grassy plains. There are mountains in the distance, and as we make the journey north we pass through and sometimes under them.  Storm clouds cover the sky, with patches of sunlight poking through and creating the traditional "Ray of God" effect.

Time passes. The sun dips lower, and the day grows dim. It is as though my travel north is taking me to a darker, wilder place – a place of windswept hills, meadows, coastlines. A place where the ocean meets the land, and life is a hard struggle against natural forces beyond the control of men.

A place for Northlanders.

Time passes, and I begin to realize how long this journey will take. I set off in search of the furthest north point in Japan, known as Wakkanai. A few hours ago, I climbed onto a train bound north. My lack of language knowledge kept me from knowing the arrival time, but I'd guessed it would only take two or three hours.

Four hours into my journey, with no end in sight, I begin to drift off to sleep.

The train rocks gently from side to side, occasionally shuddering. The passengers are all silent, and if I close my eyes, it's easy to imagine that I'm alone, hurtling toward an unknown destination, with only my knowledge and skill to help me on arrival.

My eyes open. It is dark outside, finally. A glance at my watch shows the time to be only a quarter past five. We must be far north for the dark to have come upon us so quickly and so early. An elderly Japanese man is staring at me from across the aisle. His toothy grin is both menacing and reassuring. Using my rudimentary Japanese, I ask him the questions most pertinent to my life at this moment.

"Semasen?" The word is "excuse me," "I’m sorry" and "good day" all rolled into one. The old man nods, which I take as permission to continue.

"What time?" I point at my watch. "Wakkanai?" Like a Google search, when communicating in English with a person who doesn't speak it, use keywords.

"1815." The Japanese businessman behind my seat responds, not looking up from his newspaper. The old man grins wider, somehow, and nods.

"Arigato gozaimas." Thank you very much. The two Japanese men nod, and the train is silent again.

We speed steadily north.   

Shrined Out

Miyajima is a small island in Hiroshima bay. It takes about half an hour to reach from city center, including a ten minute ferry ride. When we arrive it is raining, an abrupt change from the sunny, hot weather that has defined my trip so far. Fall has finally come to Japan, and it's not kidding around.

My friends, Hannah, a Brit, Hunter, an Australian, and another Ozzie whose name escapes me, and I are all determined to see the island fully. All four of us will be going somewhere else tomorrow, and this is our last chance to see the island – possibly ever. Such is the way of travel; rain or shine, you go out sightseeing because you don't want to have to say that you've missed it.

Which is how we ended up on top of Miyajima's Mount Misen in a rainstorm. Mt Misen is about 530 meters high, but it took us nearly two hours to hike the 3 kilometer path up the mountain in the rain. Our reward for being soaked to the bone was the lack of any other tourists as crazy as we are. For the first time ever in Japan, I feel like I'm seeing some place few people get to.

The jungle of Miyajima is sub-tropical; giant ferns and dense underbrush make it seem like a dinosaur might pop out at any moment. The last two hundred meters of the path is a vertical slog up wet stone staircases that make your calves burn with delicious fire. At the top, we are rewarded with a view of...

Nothing.

We're in the middle of a cloud. Grayscale fills our vision, and the furthest we can see is maybe ten meters or so. I'd be disappointed if the hike wasn't so good. Still, we are soaked, and I can feel the water squishing in my shoes, which is not a good thing for hiking. We resolve to make the trip back via a gondola system that leads down the mountain.

One of the best and worst things about Japan, at least for a history/religion major, is that there are shrines or temples literally everywhere. Our group had heard that there was a shrine at the top of the mountain, but none of us were really interested in exploring it. Ben likes to call this being "shrined out," which is as good a term as any.

Being "shrined out" involves looking at the exterior of the six hundredth shrine or temple that you've seen, determining that you don't want to pay the five hundred yen to go inside and see your one hundred and fifty seventh giant Buddha, or in the case of a Shinto shrine, a screen hiding the rest of the shrine from view, and just forgoing taking pictures because the last time you looked at your photos, you have approximately a million photos of shrines whose names you don't remember.

I got shrined out about two weeks into Japan. I'm hoping it changes when I get to another country, but as of this writing I'm still not down to see any more unless they really are important.

The temple on top of Miyajima is important, or at the very least interesting. It consists of three buildings. A main temple area, a shrine, and what can only be called a smokehouse. The smokehouse is really a shell for what's inside it, which is a fire that has burned for more one thousand three hundred years. It is supposedly the campfire of one of the monks who brought Buddhism to Japan in the late 600s. Let me repeat that: this fire is older than the European discovery of my home continent. Older than the Magna Carta. Older than the Crusades. Older than some written languages. It predates the Dark Ages. It is the stuff myths and legends are made of.

Maybe I'm not all shrined out.

-Doug    

Hiroshima

The train arrives, and I take a deep breath, preparing myself.

Then I remember that it's not 1945 and that there is still a city here. As I gaze out at Hiroshima's skyscrapers, I shake my head. Intellectually, I know that expecting this place to be a bombed out crater of a city is not only wrong, but also childish. Still, as I walk out of the train station I can't help but look around for some signs of destruction. Instead I find a bustling metropolis.

It takes me a while to find a trolley, but I do, and soon I'm on my way to the hostel. Halfway through the ride I give up my seat to a woman in her fifties, who greets me with a generous smile. A few minutes later, the seat next to her opens up, and she indicates to me to sit down. I can tell she speaks no English, if she had she would try to open up a conversation. Still, I smile, and we have a moment where our sentiments trump the language barrier and a connection is made.

Then the trolley turns the corner, and it's right there – the Hiroshima Dome – last and only physical memory of the destruction of the very first atomic bomb ever detonated in anger.

I feel like I've been sucker punched. I look over to my companion. She won't meet my eye.

Two hours later I've checked in and am out at a bar with Ben and a girl whose name I don't remember. Ben is half French, half Asian, and his passport reads Australian. The girl is German by nationality, though ethnically she is some gorgeous combination of Middle-east and North African, I think. And then there's me – the European mutt American. I think dad Dad's sister Nancy once said there's some Native American in me; if there is, it's not enough to keep me from being pasty.

I tell Ben I'm walking over the A-Bomb Dome tonight. He wants to come. I nod, but secretly hope he changes his mind. This has become a thing for me. I like Ben, and we are going to go tomorrow, after a castle and the peace museum, but tonight, I think I'd prefer if it were me and the echoes.

I walk across Peace Memorial Park alone. Japanese pass me by, and I wonder if they know I'm here to have my own secret ceremonials at their public place of memorial and pain. I wonder how many Americans are compelled to do this. I wonder if I'll be able to hold it together.

The dome is lit up at night, with floodlights and the glow of the city around it. It is a shattered husk of a building: internal braces put up after the bombing as well as extensive preservative work make it appear as it did right after the attack.

A sign tells me that the bomb exploded roughly half a kilometer straight up and west from where I'm standing – less than a mile.

Suddenly it is 1945, and a bright flash appears above me. My brain doesn't even have time to process what is happening before a wall of fire and overpressure and catastrophic nuclear chain reaction turns me first into ashes and then scatters those ashes before the continuing firestorm. There is literally nothing left of me, and I put out a nonexistent hand, and suddenly I'm back, left hand gripping a tree so hard it hurts.

I am breathing hard, and feel dizzy. My body wants to weep, but I won't let it. Not tonight. Not here.

Exhausted rage fills me. This is history. This is my home court. I know why this happened. I know when it happened. I know the prelude, the event and the aftermath probably better than most Americans.

I ask myself the same question I've always asked myself.

"Was it worth it?"

I wonder if Harry Truman ever asked that.

This was done with intent. My grandfather's fathers gave the order to murder over seventy thousand men, women and children in this city alone.

It saved millions of lives in the long run – theirs and ours.

In the short term, it took less than a second to burn a city to the ground and kill double the amount dead at Gettysburg – all noncombatants.

The shell of the building seems to challenge me. I can almost hear the ghosts around me. I am so tired – tired of being told that you have to kill, tired of believing it, tired of knowing it won't stop. I want so badly for this to have never happened, to have never had to have happened.

The city around me is alive. Inside the monument, grass grows. I see a stray cat sneak past the gate, and a minute later it stares down at me from the highest rafter of the destroyed building. Its gaze is inscrutable.

I leave. Sixty-seven years ago the men that ran my country ordered this city burnt to the ground, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it . . .

Except make sure nothing like it ever happens again.

-Doug

Ten Thousand Gates

I am writing this on top of a mountain.

Well, not quite on top. I'm on a terrace maybe 100 meters below the summit. There is a small restaurant here, and hikers can rest here before completing the climb to the shrine at the top.

My location is the Ten Thousand Gates, or (Torii) which is a symbolic gate that traditionally signals the entrance to a shrine, household, castle, or anywhere really. The Ten Thousand Gates is a pathway to a mountain shrine lined with literally ten thousand Torii – probably more. I'm not counting. It is Sunday, and an army of Japanese tourists have descended to visit this incredible place. Their laughter and conversation is utterly incomprehensible to me except as ideas; for every human knows what humor sounds like and the sound of exasperation and sarcasm and teasing and sweet nothings. Language changes the words, but rarely the tone. I immerse myself in the sea of humanity so close to my own people, but so fundamentally different.

The hike is by no means truly arduous for anyone in reasonable shape. I have seen men, women, children and the elderly plod their way past, all equally determined to reach the top. Various mountain terraces provide rest stops for the weary, and small shops line these to provide water, food, incense, candles, charms, and even ice cream. The restaurant I just ate at has a spectacular view of the city, and dominates the beginning / endpoint of a large loop leading up to the main shrine.

It is easy to get lost here, as various offshoots lead deeper and deeper into the woods, and straying from the main path means leaving the crowds. There are also nearly no maps in English, which is both frustrating and provides an interesting challenge.

I had planned to spend a maximum of two hours at Ten Thousand Gates, but I'm at hour four and considering staying for longer. I cannot hide the nagging feeling that I have not yet teased the secrets from this place.

I probably never will.

The true tragedy of travel is not being able to see all the places you would like to; I had hoped to visit at least three other sites today. Happily, this tragedy of missed opportunities simply results in the idea that you must visit again. My return to Kyoto, unplanned except for the faintest hint of an idea, holds a thousand plans and shrines and temples and markets and goals, all in the mind's eye.

-Doug 

The Japanese

I have not yet discussed the Japanese people. This is because I've heard many things, read many things, and wanted to form my own opinion before sharing it with you. Well, I've been in Japan two weeks now, and while I think I could spend a lifetime gaining a measure of the people, I have at least scratched the surface enough to share my thoughts.

I have the utmost respect for the Japanese. They are polite, efficient, gregarious, kind, funny, charming and more than anything else – honorable.

Several events illustrate these traits for me. The first happened literally less than an hour into the country. I was lost on the streets of Tokyo after emerging from the subway. Giant bag in tow, eyes as big as saucers, the neon lights blinding me, I looked like a two year old in a mall who’s been separated from his mother. Immediately I was approached by a man in his late twenties. He asked me where I was going, in decent English, and I told him the name of my hostel. He whipped out his iPhone, typed in the address, and in a few seconds had the location and a directions for me. I was at my hostel less than ten minutes later. It was a good thing he showed up, too. I was about to head in the opposite direction from my hostel. Whoops.

A second experience really won me over. Ben and I were making our way out to Nara, which is about 40 minutes from Kyoto. We were cracking jokes, making fun of each other, discussing travel, and in general acting like twenty-somethings. We almost missed our stop, and had to charge out of the train at Nara station.

It was only hours later that I realized that I had left my Kleen Kanteen on the train. The water bottle was nothing, though I had grown attached to it, as I am want to do with inanimate objects, but what really broke my heart was that a carbineer that had belonged to my father was attached to it. I have no idea when or where he got it, but I had taken it from the garage and kind of made up a back story for it. It's all metal and has no locking mechanism. The engraving on it says KG-2000 and the other side says Bonaiti, Italy. I tried to brush off my disappointment and irritation. Somehow Ben and I still had a good time in Nara (They have tiny deer! All over the town! And they bite people!). It has several beautiful temples, and the path to the temples are lined with stone lanterns, thousands of them, that make you feel like you are in a samurai movie. Also, the pastries are delicious.

Still, when we made it back to the train station I was a little despondent. I resolved to ask about my water bottle, purely on what I know of the strength of Japanese character. In any other country, I would have just walked onto the train and written the water bottle off.

The information desk guy spoke broken English, but the second I mentioned a water bottle, his eyes lit up and he jabbered excitedly, "A black one?"

"Yes, about this big," I indicate with my hands.

"Please wait." I don't allow myself to hope.

Ben cocked an eyebrow at me. "If they have it, I'm going to be super impressed."

"It would be a miracle."

The information desk man came back cradling my water bottle, "This?"

"YES!" I think he was shocked by how excited it was. I filled out some paperwork and with my best Japanese thanked him profusely. It boiled down to repeating "arigato" about a dozen times and bowing my head.

I'd gotten my water bottle, and miracle of miracles, they had been storing it in the cooler. It was ice cold.

The last experience I'm going to talk about was my dinner last night. Ben had left for Hiroshima, and I wasn't feeling like going out with a whole bunch of people. So I wandered alone from the hostel, looking for a meal. I found myself in a tiny hole-in-the-wall place run by an old man and his wife. Three ancient Japanese men in dress clothes sat on the customer side of the bar that ran the length of the restaurant. They regarded me like three sphinx until I put on my best smile and said, "Konnichiwa!" The old man and his wife responded back with some unpronounceable Japanese, and the Three Wise Men nodded and went back to their food. I sat down at the bar a few stools down.

The old man surprised me by asking in passable English where I was from while handing me a menu written in the same. After some small chitchat, he flipped my menu over for me and pointed at a dish, "Teriyaki Chicken. My best dish." It was priced mid-range, so I ordered it. The old woman brought me tea and water while the Three Wise Men conferred quietly among themselves.

After a time, the Wise Men asked a question to the old man, who then looked at me, "Where you from?"

"United States." I'm always hesitant about identifying myself. The United States are so controversial, and I could just as easily pass for a Canuck just to save myself the grief. I've stuck with the truth here though, and not yet regretted it, except for a lively conversation on gun control my second night in Tokyo.

The old man relays my answer to the Three Wise Men and goes back to cooking chicken. The easy noises of cooking return, and the Wise Men drink their tea, nodding and speaking low Japanese to each other and the owner.

Just before my meal comes the Three Wise Men get up and begin to leave. The owner and his wife go through the standard thank you for coming rituals, with the kind of personal flourish that makes me think this might be a regular thing for these guys. As they pass me, the Wise Men bow.

I've been in Japan long enough to know this one.

I bow right back, matching their depth and head inclination. They nod in what looks like approval, but is really just inscrutable old man language, and disappear out the door. Two minutes later my food comes. As I eat, the owners and I converse. I discover they have a daughter who lives in Australia, and is married to an Ozzie. They proudly show me pictures of their granddaughter, who is quite beautiful. My chicken is delicious. The wife compliments my skill with chopsticks, which makes me feel all of ten feet tall.

Too soon it's over, and lacking real reason to stay, I thank them profusely and disappear into the night.

There's just something about the Japanese. They're so unique, so different and yet so similar. I've yet to have a bad experience with them – knock on myself. I think I'm going to miss Japan and it's people.

-Doug

Kyoto Mountain

I've been in Kyoto for three days now (It weirdly feels like 4), and I love it. Whereas Tokyo felt like Seattle with a better metro, Kyoto feels like a much flatter version of Albuquerque. With a bike, you can be anywhere in the city in forty minutes, which is a massive improvement on Tokyo's easy to use, but not very scenic subway system. Being outside constantly improves my mood, though I think I'm catching a cold. Kyoto is literally riddled with temples and shrines: some 3,000 dot the city. Buddhism and Shintoism coexist side by side so easily here it's often hard to see where one begins and the other ends. I, the history and comparative religion major, regularly confuse the two, though I'm getting better at it. 

Rasmus and I spent the day before yesterday and today hanging out and seeing the sights. We've become fast friends, and I miss him already. He's headed to Osaka, and then to China. I probably won't see him again for some time, if ever. Hostel friendships are brief but meaningful exchanges. Traveling alone is perhaps one of the most lonely things I've done, but also one of the most rewarding. I have made more new friends in the past ten days than I have in the last six months. And nearly all of them are from other places.

Today I spent most of the day with Ben, an Australian from Sydney. We made the decision last night to get out to rural Japan and see what life is like outside the city. Our quest led us via bus and then train to the town of Kibune, located in the mountains north of Kyoto. The town maybe housed a hundred and fifty people, though it seemed like a popular hiking destination. Many Japanese were there, and very few westerners. The hiking trail we took led up the mountain, over the peak where a small shrine was dedicated to the mountain god, over the edge and down three to five hundred meters of steep steps to a huge temple nestled in the trees.

The trees in Japan are similar to Aspen trees in the states, though much larger. Massive, thick cedars tower over us, limbs only on the very tops, as every time a tree falls down, it knocks off the limbs of its neighbor. Some ancient trees are as wide as I am tall, and have ropes tied around them - a Shinto tradition that supposedly keeps away evil spirits. Every once in a while we'll encounter a grove of bamboo almost too thick to see through. I feel as though I am living my imagination fantasyland of Japan.

The temple is beautiful, and we watch as a family inters the ashes of a family member there. The monk's chanting is fast and loud and mournful. I look through the haze of incense and dark lighting at the altar, wondering if this branch of Buddhism believes in a Hell. The dominant branch in Japan is "Pure Land" Buddhists, which in my opinion are very similar to the Abrahamic traditions. They don't rhyme, but the meter is the same.

After the long hike down, Ben and I soak in an Onsen, a traditional Japanese hot spring bath. It has been a long, but productive day. Ben and I are quiet, and as I watch the sun sink below the mountains, I think - alone in my thoughts for the first time in a few days. Japan has been a whirlwind, both exhausting and massively rewarding. I have grown so much in so short a time. I can't imagine what I'll be in five months.

-Doug  

Swords

In Japan, the martial arts are exactly that, arts. From the 13th century on, a specific class of warrior-servants, known as Samurai, practiced war and fighting every day, waiting for the Emperor or the local lord to call on them to do violence. These professional soldiers served local lords, called Damiyos, essentially warlords loyal to the shogun and emperor. Samurai followed the Bushido code of the warrior, and fought lived and died under a strict code of honor. They became experts of war, proficient with everything from spear to bow to horse mounted versions of both. But more than any of these, samurai practiced their swordplay. Hundreds of distinct sword fighting styles evolved out of this, and to match them, sword craft evolved too.

The Japanese Katana is between 22 and 28 inches long. It is made of folded high carbon steel wrapped around a base of tough low carbon steel. This makes for an incredibly strong core with a easily maintained and flexible exterior. The blades are polished for three weeks in order to reveal the harmon, the swerving wave down the center of the flat of the blade. The harmon is the visible signature of the sword maker, and is unique.

Katana are the product of over two thousand years of sword making. The curve makes them easier to wield and much more precise than European blades. It is a slashing weapon, primarily designed to cut straight through bamboo and leather armor, though it can be used to stab. They are designed to be worn blade up, a evolution from the Tachi blade, which was the Japanese swordsman's primary weapon a thousand years ago. A companion sword, the Wakizashi, was designed with indoor use in mind, and it was traditional to strip your Katana and leave it at a "Sword Check" when entering the homes of prominent citizens, lords and of course, imperial residences.

The Katana I'm staring at is two hundred years old. To it's left is a Tachi that was made in the 13th century. It looks like it was just finished yesterday. We are at the Japanese sword museum that holds more than thirty of these masterpieces, nearly all of them over a hundred years old and most older than the ideas that founded my country. I long to touch them, but they are behind what appears to be bulletproof glass and have had their handles stripped away anyway. If anything this makes them more beautiful and reveals the signature of the sword maker, located below where the handguard would go, on the tang.

I am in awe. I have seen swords older than these: rusted roman gladius and broadswords from the 11th century, but those, while impressive, are not the pieces of martial art that these are. After a long time, I must leave. My goal is to visit the shrine dedicated to the 47 Ronin. I was unsuccessful, the shrine closed early because that day was a national holiday. However, I am resolved to see it before I leave Japan, and plan on visiting it when I return to Tokyo for my flight to China. If you don't know the tale of the 47 Ronin, I beg you not to wikipedia it, but rather to read Chushingura, the play based on the incident. Or if you wait until I visit the shrine, I will explain the story in that blog post.

A few buildings down from the sword museum are shops dedicated to the sale and procurement of antique swords. The most expensive one I saw was a sublime beauty worth around 3.5 million yen.

It was two hundred years old.

-Doug

Karaoke

Tokyo at 4 am is a strange creature. In places like Akihabara and Asakusa drunk Japanese businessmen stagger around, laughing and killing time for the metro to open at 0500. Cabs bustle back and forth, luring people with the promise of an early ride home at exorbitant prices. Other places are dead, not even dogs wander the empty streets and the background city noise is the only noise. The street outside Smash Hits Karaoke Bar is one of these.

Six hours earlier, Barbara, Ryan, Rob, Rasmus and I set out on our adventure. Smash Hits is one of five karaoke bars that Lonely Planet recommends. It's got mostly English songs (Though we learned when we got there that there are songs available in over twelve languages), gives you two drinks with cover, which is an expensive 3500 Yen, and there is unlimited Karaoke time.

A sketchy looking stairwell leads down to the bar, which is much smaller than we thought it would be, though that expectation has held true for all of Japan so far. Ryan, a self-admitted Karaoke addict, bounds up to the dj and puts in his request. I glance skeptically over the songs list, kicking myself for coming. I can't carry a tune in a bucket, and rhythm is for marching. Then I remember that I'm six thousand miles away from anything I know well. Time to harden up.

Ryan's name is called. He practically jumps onto stage and utterly kills "My Way." by Frank Sinatra. I glance down at the song list and a name pops up at me. Suddenly I am in. I scribble down my choice and Barbara runs it down to the DJ with hers. Hoping for some courage or some rhythm or something I slam my drink and tap my fingers nervously. Two songs later, I'm up.

I run up the stage, flash a smile and all of a sudden I'm totally confident. I've been taught to be, and when I'm not, to fake it convincingly. I tap the mic. "Mic check one two, one two." The crowd laughs. And my smile gets bigger.

The opening lines of "Friday I'm in Love" by The Cure begin to play.

Two hours later we own the bar. Ryan and Barbara are the best singers out of the two of us, and do a duet that earns them high fives and applause.  Rob is not as good as them but whips out his LA Spanish and raps. Rasmus and I make up for our lack of any and all skill with volume and enthusiasm. We've done several group songs are now known as "Tokyo Hostel". I feel like I'm in a band.

Maybe I am.
Our direct competition is a group of what have to be Germans, and some Gaijin Americans led by a sallow eyed woman who is either high or crazy. Ours is the only international alliance, and our dominance shows in our versatility.

High woman has taken a shine to Ryan, who mutters darkly about her at our table. His irritation is hilarious to the rest of the group, his accent making every swear and idiom into a joke of it's own. "I'm just gonna tell 'er to piss off next time I'm up there."

And he does. When his name is called he jumps up on stage and instead of picking up any of the three other mics demands hers. She looks confused. I can't fully hear them, but I catch something about it being his set and he doesn't want her on stage.

She steps down just as his set starts. Our group cheers. This woman has been screeching along with our songs for the last hour.

You could not pay me to mess with Ryan. He's got an air of barely restrained violence about him and a cool confidence that makes it seem natural. When he laughs it is deep and rowdy. His most drunk ever story involves throwing three tvs and a microwave out of a fourth story window. At the same time, he is thoughtful and quiet. He worries about his country's ability to handle it's failing welfare system and is fiercely proud of Scotland. I wonder if all Scotsmen are like this.

Barbara and I jump up on stage and give our rendition of 99 Red Balloons. The Germans jump up to join us and we don't stop them. This is their song.

High Woman's group is losing cohesion. After a strong first couple of songs, their voices are fading and they do fewer and fewer songs. We continue to dominate.

It is somewhere around 2 am. The Germans leave shortly after my rendition of "Alejandro". I've been picking songs based on how well I have them memorized. Which leads to some weird choices. "Call me Maybe" being one of them. God help me. It's pop radio's fault. I resolve to invest in a satellite radio for Daisy, my twenty four year old Dodge Dakota.

We shut down the bar at 0300 with Mrs. Robinson, all five of us up on stage. Our rivals are on their way out. As we dismount the stage the bartender claps. The DJ shakes my hand. We have won tonight. Emerging onto the dead streets of Tokyo I am euphoric from nerves, exhilaration and exhaustion. I cannot believe Barbara is even standing. She got in from Germany less than 36 hours ago. The short, dark haired former Berliner has the skinny/strong build common to people that work out. She and I share an affection for climbing, though she is more experienced than I.

It is 0330. After munching on Japanese McDonald's (because it's 330 am in Tokyo, why the hell not?) we make our way around the city looking for something to do until 5 am when the subway opens.

Half an hour later we find ourselves at a 24 hour convenience store. Rasmus and Ryan have bought cigarettes and are smoking when we notice something of an anomaly. A car is parked down the street. The classic lines and unique hood ornament allow me to instantly identify it it.

A restored Ford model car from the 1940's. I don't know the exact model, an I'm not that into cars, but I know the machine standing in front of me is a piece of history. The owner walks out in a suit and hat, noticing us staring. He speaks perfect English and identifies the car's manufacture date as 1941.

What this shady looking dude with an antique car was doing at a convenience store at 4 am in the morning I will never know. But it was the cap on our night. Exhausted, we raise a taxi and pay an exorbitant amount to get back to our hostel. We don't care. We won tonight.

-Doug

Weddings!

I'm a nerd. I spent a good portion of today explaining to my new friends, Rasmus, a Dane, Ryan, a Scot, Becca, a Swede, and Barbra, a German, the finer points of Shinto religion, Tokugawa era and Meijji Era Japanese history. Granted, they knew I was a history nerd from our conversation last night, and had asked me to explain. Doesn't help the fact that all of a sudden I've become the kid from Eurotrip who's constantly got a Frommers in hand and jumps up and down at the idea of seeing a monument.

Oh well, rock it.

Our expedition had started around ten thirty, we'd stayed out late the night before shooting the shit and just getting a feel for each other. In the morning, Ryan and I ate breakfast and quizzed each other about our plans. I had planned to visit the Imperial Palace, but discovered that Ryan and Becca were planning on heading to Harajuku, a part of the city famous for cosplay, a kind of dress up that people who are into comics and anime do. After politely asking if I could tag along, we picked up Barbra and Rasmus who also wanted to go. A short metro and train ride later we were in Harajuku.

Three hours later we had seen a total of one cosplayer. I'm not sure if we got the location wrong, or our guidebooks just deceived us, but we did find an upscale shopping district, Barbra and Becca were in hog heaven, Rasmus, Ryan and I were just bored. Around one or two in the afternoon, we came to the consensus that the cosplayers must be in the large park directly to the north of us.

Half an hour later, intrigued by a giant torri (a wooden structure that serves as a symbolic gate) we found ourselves wandering through wide pathway surrounded on all sides by dense forest. When we saw another torri in the distance my brain finally engaged and I realized where we were.

We were on the path to the Meijji Jingu. The resting place of the ashes of Emperor Meijji and his wife. The holiest Shinto shrine in the city.

I probably should have toned down my excitement, but again, I'm the history nerd. When we arrived at the shrine there were thousands of people there, I noticed a few people off to the side in traditional Shinto garb, but thought nothing of it until I was politely asked by a police officer to get out of the way. Turning around, I realized that Ryan and I were blocking the procession of people in formal wear from getting to the shrine. I was confused for all of two seconds before I realized that we were getting to watch a traditional Shinto wedding!

Then I got to get my teach on by explaining to everyone what was happening. Good day? I think so.

-Doug

Grant

Meeting new people is half of why travel is important. Travel enriches your mind in ways that you can't even imagine until you've done it. It's the best way to build tolerance, because once you've met someone and been to their hometown, seen that they put their pants on the same way you do, it's difficult if not impossible to hate them. Nathan Fick, a discharged US Marine Officer, said that the best possible way to make sure that Marine Officers were following the will of the people was to send them to college. This would effectively educate them in the same environment that the future civilian leaders of America were educated, and give everyone in the government, military and civilian, common ground. As of this writing, more than fifty percent of all USMC officers are educated at a civilian institution, with the rest either being educated through a service academy, or commissioning without a degree.

I feel the same way about travel. The future of the United States is built on a global stage, where worldwide economic, military and social decisions are being made by individuals from all countries. We cannot live in isolation, as that is the death of our society.

All this comes to mind because of a conversation I had today. This afternoon I was walking around Ueno Park, a large recreational area in the northeast of Tokyo that houses the city zoo, national museum, and a few other art museums. I was checking out a large statue of a Japanese military leader whose name escapes me, and I discovered a smaller monument off to the side. As I approached, the strangely familiar face of General and President Ulysses S. Grant smiled beatifically at me and anyone else who approached.

After getting over my initial shock, I remembered that Grant had visited Tokyo in the late 1880s as a goodwill gesture. He had been greeted by the emperor himself at the Hama-rikyu Gardens: where I was yesterday. I had unwittingly retraced the steps of the eighteenth president. The memorial I stood in front of was a commemorative plaque put up thirty years after, in the early 1900s. The two trees behind the memorial were planted in honor of Grant and his wife, and stand there to this day.

As I took all of this in, a Japanese man in his mid fifties approached me and asked me if I was American, and I answered in the affirmative. At first hesitant, we began to converse about the importance of cultural exchanges, and how Grant's mission to Japan was a symbol of how two vastly different cultures could exchange ideas and learn to respect each other. I found myself easily agreeing with him, and from there our conversation progressed. For the next hour and a half we talked of everything from the weather to international politics, to how languages are put together and what exactly the difference is between ed and ing in English. He confessed that he had approached me hoping to brush up on his English language skills. I told him his knowledge of history and culture impressed me and he responded back that he was a history teacher for a local high school. This of course led to a discussion of Japanese history, and I learned some things I had never known about Buddhism, Confucianism and Daoism. He told me that the reason Uneo park was located where it is is because when the city was founded there was a high concentration of temples put in place there. When I asked why that was he hunched down and started drawing in the dirt in front of the monument. Sketching an outline of ancient Edo, he showed me that Uneo was located to the Northeast of the imperial palace, the reason for this being that in Buddhism, evil spirits are said to blow in from that direction (Read: Washington DC). The temples are located there to attempt to block and redirect that evil energy.

He drew on the map some more and mentioned Zojoji Temple. After I excitedly told him that I'd been there yesterday he jumped up and shook my hand. Without knowing it I'd apparently completed some kind of good fortune ritual. Zojoji Temple is located to the southwest of the Imperial Palace, and evil spirits are also said to come from that direction. They are called "demon gates" or something similar, and by visiting both holy sites I'd apparently inured myself against bad luck.

Without a doubt, my passing meeting with this Japanese man whose name I don't even know has been the defining moment of my trip so far. His compassion, friendly nature and knowledge made me feel right at home, six thousand miles away from it. Later, after we had parted ways, I felt an immense sadness that neither of us had the presence of mind to exchange emails. Truly, our experience was of ships passing each other. I'm so glad it happened, and it will remain a bittersweet memory for the rest of my days.

-Doug

Franziskaner

From the top of Tokyo tower the city looks like a massive living metal and concrete carpet, stretching literally as far as the eye can see. Tokyo barely beats out New York City on population by a few hundred thousand, but the sheer size of the city is shocking to me. It is sunset, and I've spent the day in the Hama-rikyu gardens and at the Zojoji Temple. Both are beautiful places, and worthy of your attention if visiting Tokyo.

Hama-rikyu is what remains of a fortified retreat first created by the Tokugawa era Shogunate. The land borders Tokyo Bay, and has three separate tea houses, duck hunting ponds, gardens, and a landscape that changes depending on if the tide is in our out. The central tea house sits on an island in the artificial pond. Its tatami mats and rice paper screen architecture is exactly how you would imagine a Japanese tea house looking. I spent about four hours there watching the scenery change.

The Zojoji Temple is a large Buddhist temple complex put together by a fundamentalist sect in the late twelfth century. Located fewer than three hundred meters from Tokyo Tower, the largest radio tower and possibly the tallest building in the city, it is a perfect representation of the Japanese attitude of respecting and honoring the past while pushing forward into the future. There are several temples in the complex, and many shrines, but the most interesting part of the Zojoji temple is barely advertised and nearly impossible to see. Buried on the premises in a private cemetery are the graves of six of the fifteen Tokugawa shoguns. At the rise of the Tokugawa shogunate, the Shogun adopted the Jodoshu school of Buddhism, and the Zojoji temple became the Tokugawa family temple. The graves are considered to be national treasures, and only certain people are allowed in to see them, which was a huge disappointment.

I consoled myself by paying the ten bucks to ride to the top of Tokyo tower, where I borrowed some one's binoculars and got a birds eye view of the tombs. Not the same, but I got my history on anyway.

I forgot to mention the shrine for unborn children, which graces the north side of the complex. Thousands of small statues of children line the road heading east to west past the temple, and many have been decorated by worshipers with small pieces of clothing or toys. Looking at them, I found myself compelled to drop a few coins into the donations box and burn a bundle of incense at the altar.

Culturally, children are sacred to the Japanese, and a declining national birth rate has made them even more so. This morning I watched my host take half an hour to play with the baby of one of the other guests, and in my admittedly short time here, most if not all of the interactions with children I have seen have taken place with a kind of respectful awe.

After the Tokyo Tower I somehow managed to find the only bar in Tokyo that serves Franziskaner Weissbier, my favorite German beer. They were gearing up for Oktoberfest, which I guess is a thing even in Japan. Kegs of beer lined the entrance, and they were happy to serve me a liter or two. I nearly missed my stop on the subway headed back to the hostel. Arriving back at the hostel, I watched the presidential debate and then jumped into an international card game with some Ozzies, two Scandinavians and a Scot.

Life is pretty good.

-Doug

USA

I was going to post about the temples and awesome gardens I saw today, but I managed to find the only German bar in Tokyo. So I had some Franziskaner and watched the debate instead. New post tomorrow morning I swear! Proud to be American!

-Doug

Sensoji Temple and Asakusa

Stepping out of the airplane at Narita Airport, the first thing I noticed about Japan was that everyone was tiny. Literally everyone in this country is almost a foot shorter than me. I would soon discover that non only was everyone in the country shorter than me, but all the architecture was designed with them in mind, and not a six foot two Gaijin. Tokyo is built with space as a premium, and the Japanese as a people don't seem to need much. Buildings are built nearly on top of each other with tetris like engineering. Riding into the city on a raised railway system, I saw that the roofs of some buildings were so close together that you wouldn't even have to jump to climb from one to the next. I can only imagine what it was like before the war, when everything was made of wood and more traditional architecture was the norm.

Tokyo today is a weird mix of architectural styles, with western apartment buildings sharing space with shinto shrines. From my hostel roof I can see influences from at least four distinct cultures from three continents. From that same roof it is easy to see how I got lost earlier today while trying to find the Sensoji Temple, a large temple located in the heart of of the Asakusa district.

The Sensoji Temple is possibly the most popular Buddhist temple in Tokyo. It's located in a complex of shines and temples near the Sumidagawa River and includes the Asakusajinaja Shrine and the Dempoin Temple. And yes, I am getting better at pronouncing those names. Still can't read anything though, and my new favorite word is Arigato which means "thanks".

The Sensoji Temple is cool because of it's size and complexity. My camera died just as I went inside, but I have a few photos of the exterior. As I made my approach I was puzzled by a near constant clinking sound: closer inspection revealed the noise to be the near constant dropping of coins into a large (9 foot x 5 foot) donation box. As far as I can tell, any coin worth less than 100 Yen is near worthless, kind of like a penny, but even dropping 20 or 50 yen coins in I can only imagine the daily income of just that one collection box. That was only one of perhaps a hundred collection boxes in the entire complex, not to mention the places where you could buy incense for burning or small wooden prayer cards to be tied onto shrines.

Only the foyer of the Sensoji was open for tourists, so there was no need to remove my shoes, but most of the other temples and shrines in the area make you take your shoes off. This is a traditional Japanese practice, and as few as forty years ago, I would have had to take my shoes off to enter any building. I like it. Makes you feel more connected, and puts an emphasis on the concept of a sacred threshold, where if you're crossing into some one's home or business or place of worship you are a guest and must behave with the manners of guest. Manners are kind of a big deal here. One of the things I learned today is that it is considered rude to eat and walk. I of course learned this while reading my guidebook after walking back from a grocery store. While eating an apple.

Oh well, you can't win 'em all.

-Doug

P.S. Fun fact about the Dempoin Temple, which is right next to the Sensoji Temple. It's so impressive that when it was constructed the Sri Lankans gave the monks of the temple a bone relic from Buddha. Put in perspective, that's essentially the same thing as having a bone from Jesus or Moses or Muhammed blessing your church/temple/mosque. THAT IS SO COOL. Unfortunately, Dempoin is not open to the public, for probably that very reason.