A year in reads: 2017

 

On the turntable:  The Beatles, "Live at the Hollywood Bowl"

Imbibing Bibliophile #41

Home from Sea, by Robert Louis Stevenson

         Vailima Pure, Samoa Breweries Ltd

On the turntable:  Jerry reed, "Red Hot Picker"

Imbibing Bibliophile #40

Oomingmak by Peter Matthiessen

Mango Wheat, Blue Moon Brewing Company

On the turntable:  The Germs, "MIA"
 
 

Imbibing Bibliophile #39

One Life at a Time Please by Edward Abbey

Cappuccino,  The French Pastry Shop and Crêperie

On the turntable:  Green Day, "Insomniac"

Sunday Papers: Paul Theroux

"Travel, which is nearly always seen as an attempt to escape from the ego, is in my opinion the opposite.  Nothing induces concentration or inspires memory like an alien landscape or a foreign culture. It is simply not possible (as romantics think) to lose yourself in an exotic place. Much more likely is an experience of intense nostalgia, a harking back to an earlier stage in your life, or seeing clearly a serious mistake."






On the turntable: Esperanza Spalding, "Radio Music Society"
On the nighttable:  Paul Theroux, "The Happy Isles of Oceania"

Sunday Papers: Kenneth Rexroth

"Experience has very few pointers and those point around in circles. Experience is its own content."


On the turntable:  Enya, "The Celts"

On the Great Eastern Road III

A pair of Russians were poking around in an old house.  I saw them enter through the front door, which they left open, revealing a couple of tatami laying on their sides, and old stove.  They dwarfed the old Japanese man with them, who was presumingly showing them the property.  What I found most curious was what Russians might be doing out here.  We'd see the occasional Russian sailor up in Yonago (accompanied by urban myths about stolen cars and bicycles stolen being sold over in Russia), but that was a port town on shared waters. But this was landlocked and somewhat remote part of Mie.  Brazilians I could understand, a presence hinted at by the trilingual signs warning them, and me, that a 3.2 meter tsunami could reach here to dampen my shoes.

I'd see no more foreigners that day.  The locals of Yokkaichi though were out and getting on with their respective days, and those that I passed at this early hour actually gave me a greeting.  I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised since strangers (foreigners included) have been walking this Tokaidō for many centuries.  A nice change I suppose from what had been expected of their ancestors:  on their knees, faces in the dirt, and god forbid any incidental eye-contact was made with a feudal lord  passing by in their fanciful processions.  

A steady stream of traffic sped past me on its way back to town.  I sometimes hate walking these roads at this time of the morning.  It was particularly bad today, as in most countries this narrow road would be for single lane traffic only.  But here it was for two, and the unpleasant trend lately is that people's preferences are leaning toward bigger cars.  When walking on heavily trafficked roads, I tend to stay on the right, against the flow so that I can at least see the cars before they hit me.  But the Japanese are taught the annoying habit to pull over to the extreme far left when stopped or when in a queue, leaving me very little room between their wing-mirrors and the frontage of houses.  It was unpleasant going, but as usual I could escape into my music, listening to a rotation of Elvis Costello and Ewen MacColl, as they told me all that was wrong in Britain in the late 20th Century.  I continue to move against this flow like a steam train, little puffs of white emerging from my mouth every few steps.  

The clock must have hit nine, for suddenly the rush of cars was no more.  I can begin to take better note of what's around me.  Stepping into the oasis of a shrine,  the sound of birdsong tricked me into thinking I was listening to the sound of a cicada.   I laughed at the sight of a woman who had put on a heavy parka to take out her rubbish, a journey of perhaps five meters from her front door.   

I knew that was climbing because the tsunami warning signs were increasing their increments.  The road dipped again briefly into Ishiyakushi-cho, where I ate lunch hastily on some crates stacked behind a supermarket.  Naturally there was a pleasant little park with benches about a 100 meters further on.  It marked the end of a poetry walk of sorts, as each of the houses in this little town had poems by Sasaki Nobutsuna hanging in front.  The house of this great tanka poet still stands, though most of his real work was done in Tokyo, where he founded Japan's first poetry monthly, and was later the first recipient of Japan's Order of Culture.     

The next suburb had postings of another sort.  Photos of the faces of construction workers hung near their building site, probably to ease the minds of nervous suburbanites, living in a nation growing more and more afraid of the outside world.  Though what really has changed since the days when Sasaki's poem, “The Song of the Conquest of China,” rallied the boys 80 years ago?

Kameyama welled up next, the first glimpse of real charm all day.  The initial shopping arcade not so much so, with its shuttered shops eliciting the usual question of whether they simply had the day off, or was the town slowly dying.  An abrupt left turn led me downhill through an older part of town, which still bore a number of houses from the feudal period.  One of these had a sign proudly announcing the work of the Tokaidō Preservation Project.  I fought off an urge to call this group and ask where they were getting their funding and whether it they really felt it was worth it, as the machinami vibe was long gone.  Aside from a few nice buildings, the rest were completely prefab, and looked as if they'd been built during the previous decade.  A mobile phone attennae towered above it all.  And the directional signs for the Tokaidō itself were the worst in the prefecture.  Game over, man.  

But bizarrely enough, this was the nicest stretch of all, pressing toward Seki on a quiet riverbank.  I'd wanted to explore the town, as it is the best preserved on the entire Tokaidō.  But I needed to get back to Kyoto to pick my daughter up from school.  I'll be sure to return early next time.  As it was, the ride home was complicated, at the typhoons of last September had knocked out the rail line, and the substitute buses were about as consistent as the efforts at preservation in Kamiyama.  I made a pathetic attempt at hitching, but only a taxi could get me to the next train station on time for the once hourly service.  So a day that had started with traffic moving too quickly culminated in a further rush of tires, the meter frustratingly following suit.


On the turntable:  Ella Fitzgerald,  "The Complete Ella Fitzgerald Songbooks"
On the nighttable:  Tony Horwitz, "Blue Latitudes"

  

      

Tokai Shizen Hoedown: Chubu V

The Tokai Shizen Hōdō, while technically a single course, is in fact accentuated by a number of looping branches that diverge from the main trunk.  Unfortunately somebody thought it would be a clever idea to put all of these trail intersections in places that were far from any public transport, namely on the peaks of mountains.  What this meant was a fair amount of backtracking at either end of these intersections, not to mention expensive taxi rides.  

In this particular case the cab took me out a long narrow valley that culminated in an underused golf course, and a sad little zoo.  And on a morning as cold as this one, I didn't see anyone on the links, nor any sign of animals but for the frantic barking of caged dogs.  At the place where the road ended it splintered out into a number of smaller lanes, and it took a fair bit of guesswork to figure out which one.  Before long, I was able to come across a trail marker for the TSH, and following that path uphill for about ten minutes, I was able to come to the junction that I'd been looking for.  Then I turned around and went back.          

This was the first, yet for me the final, portion of the Ena Route of the TSH.  I'd walked about half of it repeatedly over the years, while leading tours along the Nakasendo,  and from there I walked south to rejoin the main eastbound path again.  After I finished my intended stretch today, I planned to return to the end of the Kansai section, and pick it up from there. 

But this section seemed almost as if it were trying to make me forego the whole thing altogether.  There are few things as uninspiring as 28km over tarmac, through bland suburb broken by tinny monuments to small industry.  Not to mention the stench coming from the paper factory coming from over the rise in Kani, which filled my nostrils every few steps. 

But I plodded on, down busy roads, beneath highway flyovers, concrete ever underfoot.  Over the course of the day, my perspective would shift to reveal the peaks of Mounts Ontake, and Hakusan and Ena, each snow covered and looming far out in the distance.  A man joined me for a short stretch, falling into step along the way to his car parked nearby.  He offered me an apple, which could have been the apple of knowledge, though I'm not sure.  We chatted awhile, and once again I was amazed that people in the countryside rarely acknowledge the fact that I'm not Japanese, and talk to me like a normal human being. 

The apple proved to be my only food for awhile, as the store I'd planned to hit up for lunch had closed years ago.   Others lay just off my route, but it would be awhile before I'd pass one closer in.  On the way there would be two hills, a narrow, sakura-lined concrete river, and a small tunnel like that from the dead platoon scene in Kurosawa's Dreams.  

I lingered over that eventual lunch, resting a pair of aching feet. My iPod is a godsend on days like this, but the battery conked out not long afterward. And my mood soured from there on, fixated upon whoever had created this route.  They had a lot to answer for, calling the section a "nature trail."

Finally, under a massive tree tied to some legend from the Heian Period,  a quaint town of Kukuri rose up on both sides to meet me.  The concrete remained, but the scenery at least was a little better, above a long, sinuous reservoir that was pretty in its own way.  The trail took an abrupt turn here, as if it too wanted to venture into the surrounding hills.  And finally, my feet found something softer beneath them.  

My mood was lifted to such an extent that I had no fear when I got to the bear.  I never saw it, but I heard its threatening huff, then the sound of its bulk crashing down the hillside.  I barely broke stride, but grew less pleased with the trail when it dropped me in the very direction that the bear had run.  Wild boar had been active here as well, the trail shredded by their foraging snouts.  

So it was with no little irony that I was happy to come to road once again.  My guidebook showed that a path would before long divert me to the right and through forest again, but the ample signage through here kept me on the fire road as it weaved down toward the valley floor.  The route must have been changed at some point.  

This was verified by a man I met along the way.  He told me that he walked this road often, and wasn't too happy when I mentioned the bear.  The stick he carried was for such possibilities, as unlikely as they were, and the way he wielded it gave me the impression that he was a martial artist.  He showed me some of the side routes that he sometimes took, telling me that they would lead me to the train station faster. But I was determined to stay with the TSH.  So we continued on, chatting as we did, though there was some sort of disjunct in the conversation, and I assumed that he spent a lot of time alone.  

When we hit the valley floor, I left him behind, and moved quickly along a small stretch of river toward Mitake station.  I knew this town well from my Nakasendo walks, had many times enjoyed its quiet temple and free museum,  and the tasty okonomiyaki at the shop run by the Korean lady who I learned had recently passed away.  No matter today, for I simply wanted to get off my sore feet, and was lucky to find a seat amongst the high school kids who knew nothing of bears, or old roads, kids who like me simply wanted to move past unpleasantness and get on to the next thing.  


On the turntable:  Eric Clapton, "Stages"

Imbibing Bibliophile #38

The Happy Isles of Oceania, by Paul Theroux

Devil Craft Tokyo Brewery,  Escape Pina Colada 

On the turntable:  Elvis Costello, "Brutal Youth"

Imbibing Bibliophile #37

The Scarlet Gang of the Asakusa, by Kawabata Yasunari

Asahi Breweries, Craftsmanship Weizen

On the turntable:  Ewan MacColl, "Scottish Drinking and Pipe Songs"

(untitled)

Seeking greater heights,
As the twilight brings
A lingering chill.

On the turntable:   Elliot Smith, "XO"

Sunday Papers: E.M. Forster

"Buddhism has died out in India, in accordance with its own law."


On the turntable:  Paul McCartney And Elvis Costello,  "The McCartney/MacManus Collaboration"
 

(untitled)

Under autumn skies,
Feet and spirit swell;
28km over hard road.

On the turntable:   Elvis Costello, "Spike"

Sunday Papers: Micheál O'Luain

"In its relationship with China, Japan was sometimes described as a “younger brother”, or as the reflective moon to China’s sun. At other times it was seen as a rival. But “China” for Japan was in reality just a construct of otherness against which, in its selective adaptation of Chinese cultural elements, Japan could measure its sense of own national identity."
  

On the turntable:  Enigma, "MCMXC a.D."

(untitled)

Circling around,
Spiraling in.
Microcosms.

On the turntable:  Fairport Convention, "Unhalfbricking"
 

Imbibing Bibliophile #36

Captain John Smith, by Charles Dudley Warner

Baird Brewery, The Craic Original Special Ale 

On the turntable:  Eels, "Beautiful Freak"

Imbibing Bibliophile #35

Botchan by Natsume Soseki

Dogo Beer, Botchan Kölsch

On the turntable:  Walter "Furry" Lewis, "Presenting the Country Blues"

(untitled)

Against the deep purple
Of crépuscule skies,
Maples, adorned.

On the turntable:  Elvis Costello, "Momofuku"

Imbibing Bibliophile #34

Wabi Sabi: For Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers by Leonard Koren

Wabi Sabi: Further Thoughts by Leonard Koren

In Praise of Shadows by Tanizaki Junichiro

Kamikatz Rise & Win Brewing Company, Pale Ale

On the turntable:  Elvis Costello, The Delivery Man"

Sunday Papers: Colette

"The true traveler is he who goes on foot, and even then, he sits down a lot of the time."

On the turntable:  David Tanenbaum, "Acoustic Counterpoint" 

(untitled)

Water seeks it own level,
As the spirit seeks levels
All its own.

  

On the turntable:  Elysian Fields, "Dreams that Breathe your Name"
 

Nakasendo Waypoints #103

All that ripens
Must eventually fall.
Deepening autumn.

On the turntable:  Elvis Presley, "The King of Rock 'n' Roll"
On the nighttable:  Mike Marquesee, "Chimes of Freedom: The Politics of Bob Dylan's Art"

On the Great Eastern Road II

I stand with my back to the water.  The river is wide, and a long narrow island lies just off shore, covered with those bristly susuki reeds that symbolize autumn.  Boats used to ferry people and livestock across, but the service ended in the late 50s, after the typhoon.  The only movement out here is an elderly dog walker, who had earlier pointed me to this place.  

As I had already begun walking the Tōkaidō last spring, I decided to walk a few stretches closer to home.  Traditionally, the road had stopped across the Ibi river at Miya, and those ferried across would pick it up again here at Shichiri-no-watashi.  It seemed a good place to start the Kansai section.  

The 'shichi-ri' in the name would refer to the seven ri that it would have taken to walk, one ri being the old Chinese measure of distance, equal to how far a man could walk in an hour while carrying a full load on his back.  Ri markers still line the old roads in Japan, having been used as waypoints of sorts.  Roughly equal to 3.75 kilometers, the walker will indeed find himself passing one about once an hour.  

The morning is early.  I need to be up in Nagoya by mid-afternoon, so left before daybreak.  I look around through the sharp light of dawn, hoping to find something that tells me whether or not the old boat across still exists, even once a year on a festival day or something. Seeing nothing, I begin to move up the road, led forward by shadows.     

Kuwana is a pleasant little town, if lined by modern homes.  It makes sense, as this area got the full force of the Ise-wan Typhoon, which killed over 5000 people and flooded 80% of the town.  The typhoon is still considered the worst storm ever to strike Japan. Having lost most of their history in a single day it is little wonder that Kuwana takes such pride in what remains.  Signage is ample, as are explanatory signs along the way.  It is easy to trust in the path, and leave the eye free to take in what it bisects.  

I follow the canal system lined with power boats and crossed by small bridges.  There is a small park that has been down up as the Tōkaidō in miniature, including a mini Mount Fuji.  I am fed past multiple temples and shrines, and  even the most mundane suburban street have something to hold interest.  An old-timey toy shop has paper adverts for treasures of a pre-digital age.  

The road climbs up to an embankment and abuts the Inabe river.  An old inn still operates here, its frontage a small park.   But the boat service here too is long gone, so I cross on a wide bridge nearby.  I see an old man taking photos, surely another walker.  I'd met two others earlier on, so surely this is a popular section. Or perhaps the fine autumn weather is too perfect to loll about indoors.  

Squashed animals are becoming a theme.  I've seen a frog, a surprisingly late season centipede, and even a small turtle, which may have tried an escape from the small garden in front of a restaurant nearby.  Corpses of another sort hang in the window of an old butcher shop.  Birds above are quite active, especially along the waterways.  There are crows and cranes and egrets.  An old man in hipboots stumbles along one stream net in hand, apparently after the same lunch. 

On a poster I see the face of that Benin guy from Koko ga Hen da yo Nihonjin, a popular show from about 20 years ago.  I'm not a TV watcher, but I enjoyed that one, though I didn't trust that the editing revealed the whole truth, and was cut in a way to emphasis conflict and misunderstanding. (And over the years I've become friends with a number of Tokyo foreigners who were regulars.)  I imagine viewers went away from it with their stereotypes about foreigners even more firmly entrenched.  The Beninese was particularly volatile, yet bizarrely enough went on to become Ambassador to Japan.     Spying his face got me thinking about the nature of foreign "talent" in Japan, and how I've been seeing the same handful of faces for over twenty years, perpetual one-hit wonders who linger about as if they are playing the county fair circuit.  I remember an old interview with Dave Spector from back in the 80s, him saying that he'd do anything for fame.  and would even play a panda if asked.  Perfectly apt for a black and white worldview.  

I notice that there are another of historical signs for the ruins of temples,in a far greater percentage as you would normally see.  I imagine that these must have been victims of the suppression of Buddhism at the end of the feudal era, and were particularly acute here due to the proximity to Ise Grand Shrine, the most important symbol of Japanese mythmaking.  Much like that shrine is reconstructed every 20 years, Japan too completely recreated itself culturally, and much of what we (and the Japanese themselves) think of as being ancient traditions were actually adopted at that time.  The temples, and the foreign religion of Buddhism, no longer had a place.

I cross the last of my rivers, of which there were many.  The Tōkaidō may have been Japan's principle old feudal road, but it with all the river crossings it would have been unreliable, especially during rainy seasons or typhoons.  My own progress has been much quicker, although impeded by gusty breezes that have built over the last hour.  I decide to shorten my walk by a few kilometers.  The last stretch takes me through an old shopping arcade, whose mascot seems to be some strange monk with an elongated neck.  (I find out later that this is Onyudo, a malevolent spirit know across Japan, though here in Yokkaichi he brings good luck in business and as such is celebrated by a festival.)   As I leave this renowned shape-shifter behind, I make my way toward the train station, to undertake my own metamorphasis into tour leader, for a group awaits me at Nagoya station.  This morning walk had served me well, a modest 18 kilo stroll to get the legs back in action after two months kicked up in leisure.    
      
On the turntable:  Elton John, "Friends (sdtk)"
 

Imbibing Bibliophile #33

Gaijin by James Clavell

Matsumoto Brewery, Castle Stout

On the turntable:  Elton John, "Honky Chateau"

Sunday Papers: John Blofeld

"I [believe] that the power which certain places have of evoking a mood of intense spirituality stems chiefly from the atmosphere created by the pious thoughts, high aspirations and ardent prayers of generations of pilgrims who have come to those places century after century with deep faith in their hearts."  


On the turntable:  John Mayall's Bluebreakers, "Bluesbreaking"

(untitled)

Searching for another way,

As autumn settles in.

East Trunk Road.

On the turntable:  Elliot Smith, "From a Basement on the Hill"

Sunday Papers: Sandy Boucher

"An epic novel lies unwritten in the Benares train station."

On the turntable:  Eric Clapton, "Crossroads" 

Imbibing Bibliophile #32

Sri Aurobindo; A Legend, by Madhumita Dutta

Bira 91 Brewery, Blonde

On the turntable:  Elbow, "Leaders of the Free World"

Sunday Papers: Andrew Schelling

"From the start, Buddhism showed a sharp impatience for stay-at-home habits."


On the turntable:  Iodine Eyes,  "Idee Du Nord"

Imbibing Bibliophile #31

Assessing the damage after a visit to the College Street bookstalls, Calcutta.

On the turntable:  Ernest Tubbs,  "Retrospective, Vol. 1"

Imbibing Bibliophile #30

Along the Ganges by Ilija Trojanow

Masala Chai

On the turntable, "Eels, "Beautiful Freak"

The Biblioing Imbibophobe

On the turntable: Ernest Ranglin, "Gotcha!"

(untitled)

All that remains of once great tribes:
Paw prints in the dust,
Monkeys in the stones.

On the turntable:  Furry Lewis, "Back on My Feet Again, "

 

Imbibing Bibliophile #29

Plain Tales from the Raj, Charles Allen

Indian Chai

On the turntable:Erroll Garner, "Body and Soul "
 

Sunday Papers: Marcus Aurelius

"Loss is nothing else but change, and change is Nature's delight." 

On the turntable:  The Blues Project, "Live at Town Hall "

October 14 Elegy

(untitled)

Ribbon roads
And pungent pine,
At the collision of continents.

On the turntable:  Ernest Ranglin, "Gotcha!"

(untitled)

In the higher reaches,
Some jewels of the Raj
Still maintain their sheen.

On the turntable: Red Foley And Ernest Tubb, "Red And Ernie"
 

Knowing Tranquility XIX (Okunoshima)

If I were allowed to make lists a la Sei Shonagon, I'd add to the one titled "Moving Things," the white of the egret wrapped in a green rice paddy.  The rice harvest is just beginning, the fishermen moving into the fields, riding up and back the rows on their tractors.  One completed, they'll trun once more to the sea, to their oysters and sea bream.  Then they'll turn indoors, to wait out winter.  

I find a massive queue for my boat out to Okunoshima.  I've heard about how popular the place has become, especially with the foreigners.  There are are few ahead of me, taking up space with their huge backpacks.  Luckily the boat the big car ferry, with plenty of room for all.  The shipping company too is maximizing the tourist boom, and as the island wells up, it is announced that we are about to arrive on Rabbit Island.    

They must be conditioned to the sound of the engines, and even before we dock, a couple of dozen rabbits appear from the bushes.  As I walk across the grass in the direction of the visitor center, they seem to be everywhere, around the benches, tucked around and beneath the wooden walkways that line the shore.  The ferry passengers are all hard at work in feeding them, with carrots and bags of feed that was sold at the ferry terminal and at the local convenience store.  The former has a good system where you return the empty plastic bags for postcards when you return to the port.  

The island has no homes, the only inhabitants being the transient workers who come from the mainland to work the visitor center, the gas museum, or the Kyukamura Resort here.  The former is surprising in size and content, with dispalys of the wildlife and even a passage that allows you see what is happening underground.  I pay a visit to the museum, which doesn't hold my interest for very long.  The gas works themselves are on the north end of the island, merely a shell now.  It was secretly developed in the 1920s to develop mustard gas, converted from an old fishery.  Employees and the few residents of the island were never told what was manufactured here, and little surprise that many of them fell ill from exposure.  The US Occupation forces were co-conspirators in this, destroying records and covering up evidence after the war.  And the usual Japanese aversion to its wartime history can be inferred by one of the English explanations that say no one is sure how many people were affected during the war.  In fact we do know: 80,000 victims during the 2000 times the gas was used.  

Most people assume that the island's famous rabbits are descendants of animals tested in the factories.  The Americans euthanized those after the war.  The current colony originated with eight animals brought here by school children in 1971, and has since exploded into over a thousand.  The tourism of course justifies this as a boon rather than as a problem , though one sign made me chuckle as it asks visitors to refrain from releasing their own pet rabbits.  (Though nowhere did it say that you can't take a few home.)

The largest number of animals, and people, is on the broad lawns of the Kyukamura Resort. Aside from a few towering palms, there is little shade, and as I walk along the hot and sunny west shore the only rabbits I see are resting in shallow pits they've dig in the shade.  The path itself gets far more shade as it wraps around the north end of the island. There are a number of old gun barracks here, some as old as the China War of 1895.  Later during the Korean War, the US stored weapons in the ruins.  For me this was the best part of the walk, ducking in and out of the ruins, before facing the main attraction: the massive gas works, towering sulkily amongst the vegetation, gutted completely with only light filling its broken windows.  

Much later, I read an article about the rabbits on the Modern Farmer website that states that the ecosystem here is completely unsustainable, as the rabbit are fed a great deal on sunny days like the one I had, but then get nothing when the rains keep the visitors away.  This imbalance, the lack of actual edible vegetation on the island due to overpopulation, has shortened their life span to two years. 

And so it was that their source of sustenance boarded the ship back across the water.  Along the way I thought I was being witty in thinking of this land of bunnies as Easter Island.  Yet as that island's residents too had deforested and overpopulated themselves into extinction, it no longer seems so amusing.  


On the turntable:  The Church, "Of Skins and Heart"          

Knowing Tranquility XVIII (Onomichi)

My daughter, a true Cancerian, isn't yet finished with the water.  She wants to skim more stones. We see huge jellyfish floating in the tide line, and lucky for me they left me alone the evening before.  Then it is time for our boat.  We ride the five minutes back to town on the 2010 reconstruction of the Irohamaru, whose spiky black form looks a bit intimidating.  It would have been a fearful sight to watch it appear from a bank of fog.  

Our next boat is sleek and modern, but we have time for a quick coffee at a little shop near the Joyato.  The smell of f afresh roast is strong, and once again I am glad that the Japanese are such world-class hobbists, that they work so hard to get things right.  The ponytailed owner seems at peace with himself, and I think of so many like him that I have met over the years. It is easy to follow your dreams in the countryside, where prices are cheap and the locals are usually looking for an interesting distraction. The decor of this ramshackle old house has a number of CD's for sale, the bands probably having played here before.  So reminiscent of my life before Kyoto.  I feel so at home in these little rural environments.

A direct boat between Tomo no Ura and Onomichi seems such so obvious, but they only run it on weekend in the summer.  After nearly boarding the wrong boat to god knows where, we jet away from the port.  As looked at from the water, the town shows its most delightful face, held steadfast by the famous stone lantern.  For a moment or two we too are part of "Japan's best scenery," before we too drift off on the tide.    

Tides are little important at this speed, but time appears frozen, as it often does while on the water.  Temples hang from cliff faces. Men fish from small craft, watching the flow of thought as they await the next strike.  A large bridge arcs beautifully across the straight.  A seaplane--a new service as of a few months before--unleashes a wall of spray then is aloft.  Pulling close to the massive prop and
keel of a new frieghter being constructed here, but already registered to Panama.  (I had found this strange at first, that an unlikely number of ships carried that registry, or for that of Monrovia.  An obvious tax dodge.) 

As the boat drops us near U2, we step in for lunch.  This hotel is perhaps the trendiest in Japan at the moment.  Ostensibly built for the use of bicycles prior to their crossing the Shimanami Kaido, the modern, cutting edge rooms are attracting all sorts, in order to enjoy the unique fusion of trad Japanese and the latest amenities.  We grab a few interesting things for tomorrow's breakfast then sit for lunch in a hip cafe that screams ultra cool minimalism.  Behind us is a funky gallery and a bicycle shop, filling this huge open warehouse with hip. 

Our own digs for the night are up in the hills above, though also affiliated with U2.  On the way to their offices to pick up the keys, we stop in the Onomichi film museum, commemorating the fact that this atmospheric town has been the local to over 40 films, the best known being Boy, Naked Island, and of course, Tokyo Story.   This is one of my favorite museums in Japan, filled with stills and posters from some of the Japanese film industry's greatest works.  I am obsessed in particular with Showa period film, in particular the 25 years after the war (From 1970, the works of even the greatest directors begin to look a little too much like TV.), and it is like revisiting old favorite.  But perhaps the highlight is the old 1960s cinema they have erected in the back room, projectors whirring away.

Our accommodation is an old kura storehouse that has been gutted and rebuilt in a similar way to U2 itself, blending Japanese aesthetic with an almost Scando-minimalism.   There is a sunken wooden living room where a hori-kotatsu had once been, the only furniture are a mass of throw pillows.  The hinoki tub overlooks a vast garden, above which is an old Taisho era house that must offer amazing views of the straits below.  The bedroom is as plush as any luxury hotel, though framed in dark wood and shoji.  A dream.

We don't linger long as we are already well into the afternoon.  We spend it wandering the alleys and passageway along the hill.  I have already traced the route connecting the temple on two prior visits, so feel no real need to see anything.  We meander the cat alley, then ride the ropeway to the park above Senkō-ji. There are many people enjoying the warm sunny day, but it appears that the Asian tourist groups have yet to discover the town.  Here, and at Tomo no Ura the day before, reminds me of what travel used to feel like it Japan, three generations of dreamy but nervous young couples, the quiet, well-dressed, and somewhat jaded middle-aged, and the bus groups of old-timers.  

We descend down the Path of Literature, stopping to try to read the large stones imprinted with quotes of famous poets and writers.  My daughter ducks and hops the large stones the define the trail.  After a spin around the old Buddhas of Senkō-ji, I climb the chains to the Ishizuchi shrine atop some towering boulders.  The view from this point is the best in town.

At sunset we descend to town to haunt the old shopping arcade in search of dinner.  Little is open on the three-day weekend, causing me to wonder yet again whether small business owners are truly serious about making any money.  We continue to walk, and it is full dark by the time we reach the Takemuraya Inn, where Ozu filmed a number of scenes for Tokyo Story.  (If it weren't for U2 I'd probably stay here.)  In front of nearby Sumiyoshi Shrine is the tall and familiar lantern that served as a pillow shot for the film. Beyond it, the night is still and quiet.  And despite the main takeway line from Ozu's classic, life, and this moment in it, isn't a disappointment at all.     



On the turntable:  The Band, "The Last Waltz"
On the night table:   Ajahn Sucitto. "Great Patient One"