Monday, December 31, 2018

A year in reads: 2018

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "1972.05.07  Bickershaw Festival"

Saturday, December 29, 2018

Miracle on Third Street: Walking Kyoto’s Sanjo Dori

"In our final Deep Kyoto post of 2018, Edward J. Taylor completes his walking exploration of Kyoto's Sanjo Dori in the company of friend Max Dodds. Together they contemplate the shared memories of our collective history and wonder how the present will be remembered in times to come... "
Part One

Part Two

On the turntable:   J. Geils Band,  "The Best of the J. Geils Band"


Friday, December 28, 2018


Of a year on the wane,
Traces washed away by
Sake and rain.

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, Dick's Picks Vol. 34"

Wednesday, December 26, 2018


And in the continuing spirit of year-end cleaning, I came across a number of fragments written over the last decade:

"In Carl Jung's psychology, metanoia indicates a spontaneous attempt of the psyche to heal itself of unbearable conflict by melting down and then being reborn in a more adaptive form. Jung believed that psychotic episodes in particular could be understood as existential crises that were sometimes attempts at self-reparation."
--World, Underworld, Overworld, Dreamworld By Mike Hockney

Slouching to a Different Drummer

Small Wars in Faraway Places

 Japan --  Movement without momentum

Socially enraged Buddhism (punk)

Celts dividing the year in half, the dark half of winter a long wait for light

Yoga's popularity in the 1990s as a means of controlling end of millennium fears

Laugh like rusty hinges (nasal)

In 2008, the government of Ecuador gave the natural world the same civil rights as to humans. In contrast, the US gave civil rights to corporations.

Anti-social social club

Hysterical piss bottle theatrics

Tennyson-- “O sorrow, wilt thou live with me / No casual mistress but a wife.”

“I know more about how my meat was raised than the meat did.”

Hopping into bedlam

Road coffee, served hot and weak in styrofoam cups. 

The close relationship of DNA to the environment (and subsequently arising culture) is disconnected due to mass migrations in modern times, which leads to more psychosis.

People upset their country is dead.  All that remains is who gets to pilfer the remains.

Heian shades of winter

Churches of the west are meant to be filled with the presence of God.  Religious centers of the east are filled with the presence of oneself.

To follow a blog one must be prepared for the lack of closure. Bloggers tend to give up suddenly without any notice; you'll always be left wondering whatever happened to the person,  how the day-to-day life that you have long been following turns out.

Yesterday's news is tomorrow's history. 

The song of the bird gives way to that of the cicada.  

Life is simply a day to day struggle to make sense of things. 

Sometimes I feel like I'm a hospice worker, sitting at the bedside to watch Japan as it dies. 

Behind every traveler writer is a frustrated novelist.

Kitchens are made for dancing 

On the inflight map there were more names for rivers than for actual towns.  (Over Siberia)

Congenital congeniality

Territorial pissings

Jehovah's Witness protection program

Left to their own devices

The bizarre miniaturization effect on Japanese cities when seen from the Shinkansen. was the political version of the Archimedes principle, that the bigger an oppressor gets, the more people get displaced...

Flanders ‘stache (Band name)

Summer sunshine
Wipes the lingering snow
From Fuji's brow

On the island of Shikoku, after the drab tones of winter, spring comes in as an increase in color across the landscape..  Not only with the pink of the plum blossoms and their more celebrated cousins the sakura, but also in the white shapes drifting from temple to temple. 

Above the onsen,
Fog swirls about like transparent witches
Rushing to the mountain wizard's coven.

At an exhibit of Shinto art:
-Mori as reading for 社 (Forest as sacred)
-Nihon Shoki, every kanji character a treasure
-Shinto forms in 8th C.  Buddhist influence

An old birch tree
Raises gnarled arms
To direct traffic.

During my long walks, farmers I pass often tell me that I'm erai when they hear I've walked more than say 10 km.   But they are the ones out here tomorrow doing the same hard physical work, whereas I'll be back at my soft desk.  


On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 35"

Monday, December 24, 2018

Odds and Sods

(Some leftovers from the journals, which didn't really fit anywhere else.)

...premise for a Singapore story, about a professional dog walker being a front for a burglar...

...houses in Singapore function not so much as homes but as places to escape the heat...

...a fence for a queue is erected around where I'm sitting.  A perfect Singapore metaphor, this control of personal space...

 ...Echoes of the muezzin's prayer overlaps across the valley, distorting the original word of god...

...into the narrow valley of Oku Hida and an accompanying claustrophobia probably due to the overcast skies and the fact that it is still winter up here.  The sakura are not even close to bloom, although they've already finished in Kyoto.  Sign of the times in Japan:  staff of our inn is split between Mandarin speakers  and English-speaking Nepalese.  Not a local to be seen, but for the cook who'd pop his head out at the end of the meal, as if in expectation of accolades. Good selection of sake and surprisingly good choice of red wines.  Our small group makes its way through most of the former.  I go back to my room to read my books about Tibet, but I'm not yet ready for the Himalayas.  Not quite done with Japan... this year's insane heat of July, the crows all seem to have their mouths open. And its the first time I've seen kites in awhile.  I watch one whose tail twitches to catch the thermals and I realize that's probably why I hadn't seen them, as there's been no wind to speak of.  When it has blown, it's been sparse, and hot.  Today for the first time in weeks I can feel a bit of cool coming through my open windows.  Despite that, my body still remains wrapped in its usual sticky film...

...on the commentary for an Ozu film, Donald Richie was talking about how well the Japanese do goodbyes. It got me thinking about the American hello vs. the Japanese goodbye.  It is difficult for the individuality-loving Americans to break their personal laws of inertia to join any type of group, so when they come in they come in strong, with a robust "Hi, how are you?"  The Japanese on the other hand find difficulty in breaking through the tensile strength of the group, and the bows and farewells drag on and on... 

...I began to wonder why 49 days is the magic number for reincarnation. The Buddhists believe that the soul goes through seven stages of tests, each lasting seven days, seven of course being a magic number in many cultures.  But with a little poking around I was pleasantly surprised to find that forty-nine days is also the time in which an embryo is thought to develop, knowledge I believe the ancients were on to...     

...pale diffuse light of winter crawls down the wall...

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks, Vol. 31"

Sunday, December 23, 2018

Sunday Papers: Lucian Swift Kirtland

"When a Japanese sleeps his absorption by his dream hours is so complete that one is tempted to believe that his so-called waking hours (no matter how manifested in energy) may be only a hazy interim between periods of a much more important psychic existence."

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 28"

Saturday, December 22, 2018

Heaven and Earth are Filled...

Learning to see beyond Christian dogma to recognize that Heaven is simply a present existence while engaged in good deeds.  Hell is the opposite, while engaged in bad.  Simple mathematics really:  good begets good; evil begets evil. 

The Chinese have instead looked at this in terms of heaven and earth, where earth is the physical existence we enjoy here on this planet, and Heaven is the elements moving around us, like weather patterns, natural phenomena, etc.   The landscape paintings therefore most often depicted a sage in the mountains, but it's not really him in the mountains as much as him engaging the phenomenally of existence, where the human force and the natural world come the closest to terms.  I suppose had the ancient Chinese been more of a seafaring people, more of their paintings would have depicted the open water, as there too we are the most vulnerable to the whims of nature.  

A decade of zen study in Japan had brought the idea of reincarnation to the fore, that souls eventually transmigrate into something else, as conditioned by the laws of karma.  Yet when my son died, I was puzzled by all my Japanese relatives talking about how he was now in Heaven, or the Pure Land in the Japanese Buddhist idea.  I made temporary sense of this in thinking that the subjective corporeal stamp that was Ken's "soul" was now in Heaven, while the more objective animating "spirit" would reincarnate.     

It was just after university that I started to read more about Buddhism and found myself more and more swayed by it's ideals. The Buddhist concept of the world made more sense to me, and I was able to eventually reconcile in it the Catholic ideals that I had been raised with.  But I was simply unable to make the leap from the Christian concept of Heaven to Buddhist reincarnation. It proved to be a near impenetrable chasm.

Yet Robert Linssen's Living Zen eventually helped me chose one over the other.  The book deftly explains zen usuing the language of a number of disciplines, such as religion, philosophy, psychology, and metaphysics, among others.  But I found clarity in its description of zen in terms of energy, particularly in how energy is always in balance, how atoms (and electricity) are in a constant flow of plus and minus.  I began to see Heaven, at least how Christianity defines it, as a sort of energy bank, where souls go after they die.  It made no sense to me, as it seemed contradictory to what I understood about the world.   

Bizarrely enough, as my understanding of Buddhism evolved, I found that I could no longer believe in reincarnation either. A zen teacher I studied under claimed that reincarnation has no place in traditional Buddhism, and it found its way in later due to the Vedanta-inflected Buddhism that developed later in Tibet.  And this began to make sense.  

Now I feel that reincarnation is simply a metaphor for the body decomposing and its remains going on to feed already existing life forms like worms and vegetation,  then working its way from there up the food chain to create life in new bodies.  

In a metaphorical sense, perhaps the word 'reincarnation' should be replaced instead by 'reanimation.'   Which brings us back to the Christians again.  After all, wasn't Jesus reborn three day after death, like a hermit meditating in cave, this new person born after some sort of enlightened experience?  

Or as others would have it, Christmas's proximity to the Winter Solstice speaks volumes, for on December 21st the sun stops moving southward, pauses, and then starts moving northward.  The very word "solstice," derived from the Latin "sol" for "sun" and "sisto" for "stop."

Thus the confusion continues.  Doubt, I suppose, is a wonderful catalyst for resurrection, of ideas both old and new.   

On the turntable:  Bach, "Cantatas"

Thursday, December 20, 2018

Cheerio: Blues Big Coffee

Yesterday I accidentally came across a piece I published back in 2008, on a website more or less defunct.  The link can possibly be found here.

It had to happen during rainy season. She told you that she was getting married, and you'd had no idea whatsoever that she had something going on the side. And it just had to happen during rainy season. This time of year, you always feel so hemmed in, the clouds like a lid over the city, the air much too tactile. You think you're going to be sick and go quickly into the bathroom and kneel in front of the bowl. Nothing comes. You're zoning out, still stunned, staring at the Rorschach patterns of mold on the tiled walls. She always joked about that, about how you never cleaned it because you thought the fungus had some sort of anti-biotic effect and kept you healthy. Now these same walls are hemming you in. You gotta get out.
You brush past your neighbor on the stairs, barely registering as she says something about the color of your face. You make it onto the street and walk awhile. The sky is clearing some, but the damp still hangs heavy around you. You wait for a signal to change, then cross the street and find yourself before a ridiculously colorful vending machine. It says "Cherrio" on the side, which brings an ironic smirk to your lips. You want something cold. You push a coin through the slot, and hit a button under a can of Blues Big Coffee.

You can really relate, man. Under the logo is a guy blowing a horn — maybe Louis Armstrong — and surrounding him are the words, "High Quality Enjoy Coffee." A contradiction, you think, between enjoyment and the blues. But this town has never had a shortage of contradictions. The can's design, too, is far from bluesy, with colored stripes like the backdrop to some Monkees video. But the Monkees got the blues too sometimes. And as you pop the top and take a sip, you remember their prophecy:

"And I will drink my coffee slow,
And I will watch my shadow grow,
And disappear in firelight,
And sleep alone again tonight."
Ted Taylor works in Kyoto as a writer and yoga teacher, essentially twisting words and human bodies. He aspires to make balloon animals someday. More of his writing can be found at
Discuss with other coffee lovers. (1)

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Winterland 1973, The Complete Recordings"

Sunday, December 16, 2018

Sunday Papers: Graham Greene

"Perhaps no one can write in depth about a foreign country—he can only write about the effect of that country on his own fellow countrymen, living as exiles, or government servants, or visitors. He can only “touch in” the background of the foreign land."

On the turntable: "In the Mood for Love (OST)"

Friday, December 14, 2018



                   carve out
                           "S" 's
                             in the mud
                          of the castle's
                      shallow moat.

 On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 29" 

Sunday, December 09, 2018

Sunday Papers: Wendell Berry

"We have not inherited the earth from our fathers. We have borrowed it from our children."

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead,  "Dick's Picks Vol. 18"

Friday, December 07, 2018

Musings on Taiji

Last month, I found myself in Taiji, and I took the opportunity to do a two-hour wander at dawn, to have a look around.  I was staying at the brand-spanking new Hotel Holistic Resort (which for some reason is labelled the "Hollis Tick Space Japan Medical & Resort"), hidden away at the remote Kandorizaki.  I walked out to that point just as the sun was rising, staining red the waters below.

Red waters are of course the very reason for Taiji's infamy.  As the setting for the 2009 film "The Cove,"  the town is now firmly affixed upon the mental map of anti-whaling activists worldwide. Many of these descend on the town during its annual dolphin hunt, a time when the small peninsula on which it sets becomes fortified, and the townspeople find their energies divided into two simultaneous fighting fronts.

As I walked the cliffs above the rocky shoreline, it became apparent that even more powerful than the town's whaling lobby is its PR arm.  A large amount of money had been sunk into the trail I was walking, not only in the well groomed course, but in the parks, the restrooms, and the ample informational signage along the way.  The signs were erected in 2016, and offer a running description the town's whaling history, beneath the benign title, "Living with Whales." That year also saw the release of the rebuttal film “Behind ‘The Cove,’ ” not to mention an English pamphlet, "Taiji's Cultural Heritage," which I find beside the Bible in my hotel room.

In fact, the town itself has repackaged itself as a sort of Whale Theme Park, with a dolphinarium, two whaling museums, seven whaling-related memorials, a half-dozen large concrete statues, and countless murals and drawings.  The town's annual festival has a whale dance that dates to 1970 (which is about the time that international anti-whaling legislation was first being penned), and naturally a large number of restaurants around town proudly offer the creature on their menus.   

I decided to do this walk when I found the course in a collection of walking routes in a Japanese guidebook published in 2006.  But recently, about one-third of the sections have been blocked by high fences, with the words "Do Not Enter" written in Japanese and English.   These of course are the sections flanking the killing ground, although a small swimming beach is still accessible in the summer months.  Directly across the road is a new police box.

My main take away from this morning's walk was how quick and efficient a Japanese PR machine can be, and how deft its spin.  Large amounts of money have been poured into the town, probably exceeding the whaling budget itself.  But another point stayed with me, one that my more liberal friends will probably take issue with (despite my sharing their politics). While I am of course anti-whaling, I also believe strongly in cultural relativism, within reason.  The Japanese defend their position by stating that whaling is an inherent cultural tradition, and as such, the practice should be continued.  Were this to be say, the taking of a few animals a year for food, I might agree.  But there is no logical reason for the government quota of 1820 dolphins last year.  Even less for the larger numbers taken by the factory whaling fleet in the Antarctic whale sanctuary, in the name of research. 

Where I might also be taken to task is my feelings that those against whaling are also culpable in the deaths of the dolphins.  Twenty years ago, whaling was not an economically viable practice, and like any unsustainable business, would have eventually died out.  But the sheer volume of the protests pushed the Japanese to the water's edge, and they decided to turn and push back.  Cultural justification was found to defend the practice, which is in itself pretty hypocritical, since this is a culture that has an unsentimental view of its own history, and over my near 25 years here I've seen a fair number of beautiful things destroyed or abandoned in the name of modernization. And so it was that a dying practice was given new economic life in the form of whale meat in school lunches.  While the fishermen and national government agencies that support them deftly spin the protests as an attack not on an outdated industry, but on Japaneseness itself.   This is a country that has an (unhealthy?) obsession with how it is perceived worldwide. Foreign interest in its culture has helped rejuvenate a number of traditions that were facing extinction.  Maybe the opposite can also hold true, replacing the strong-arm tactics with a calmer discourse that is kept fixed on economic issues rather than environmental.  Of the latter, this culture "living in close harmony with nature," has little apparent interest.           
A week after my walk I was encouraged to see that Taiji announce that it will no longer capture dolphins to sell to aquariums, and will instead begin a breeding program for those already in captivity.  Not the ultimate solution, but it does show that the "industry" is suffering from the ban on Taiji dolphins imposed by aquariums worldwide, which proves that the film did indeed have an effect.  

But the hunts, and the fights, are sure to go on.       

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 19"

Wednesday, December 05, 2018

Autumn Sketches

The day before going to Yonago, I watched the 1960 film ‘Akitsu Onsen.’ As the filming location of Okutsu Onsen was on the way home, I thought I’d drop by to walk the Okutsu gorge, atop fallen leaves slick with the night’s rain. 

The old Otsuri Inn featured in the film has long since gone, but the adjacent riverside bath of Hannyaji still exists, so I enjoyed a nice soak as the autumn foliage danced around me, falling quietly from above.

I later made a quick stop at Tsuyama castle, which is also briefly featured, though without the current structure built in 2005, nor the 300 yen entrance fee to pay for this folly.

On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, Dick's Picks Vol. 15"

Monday, December 03, 2018

Ramen Headers

In the case of fortuitous timing, I read an article about the Tottori used car dealership Hot Air getting Michelin recognition for its Ramen. As I was heading up to Yonago for the weekend, I thought I would drop by. To a raucous symphony of slurping, I dove in. 

(And the inevitable film crew turned up, giving me a chance to star once again in my by-now-familiar role of Token White Guy.)

On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 12"

Wednesday, November 07, 2018

The Great Decline

I last read this brilliant book in August 2001, and my main takeaway was that Afghanistan is a place where empires go to die. A few weeks later, the Twin Towers fell, and a few weeks after that, the empire of America got itself entangled there, an act that has yet to prove a definitive conclusion.  

Ironically enough I am revisiting this book as America goes to the polls. I have a number of opinions about what direction the country has taken between these two readings. I await the results to see what direction it will turn next.

On the turntable: Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 6"

Monday, November 05, 2018

Nanao Still Knows...

Nanao Sakaki, one of Japan's best known poets and counterculture figures passed away a decade ago after a storied and peripatetic life. A 10-year memorial service was held Saturday November 3rd on the Kyoto University campus, with music and poetry readings alternating throughout the day.  I attended his memorial service in 2008, and was happy to be asked to read today.  I chose my piece from Tokyo Poetry Journal's recent Japan and the Beats anthology, performed below.
What better way to honour Japan's Culture Day holiday than with a celebration of its counterculture?


 On the turntable:  Grateful Dead, "Dick's Picks Vol. 4"

Thursday, November 01, 2018

On the Karakorum: Lahore

Moving though the checkerboard farmland of the Punjab, counterbalanced by the near-desert of rutted arroyos and broad sandy riverbeds.  Above, the sky was the palest blue, feathered with the lightest of clouds.  The latter was spotted by raptors with great tails.  

One of the greatest of tales begins at our eventually destination, opening with a line immediately familiar to an older generation of schoolboys: 

"He sat, in defiance of municipal orders, astride the gun Zam Zammah on her brick platform opposite the old Ajaib-Gher - the Wonder House, as the natives call the Lahore Museum. Who hold Zam-Zammah, that 'fire-breathing dragon', hold the Punjab, for the great green-bronze piece is always first of the conqueror's loot."

Much of this loot was behind the cannon in the museum itself, spreading outward in four stubby wings that created a cross-like shape, betrayed not at all by the proud Victorian facade, and accented atop with steep Moghul domes.  Overall, the interior and its exhibits looked neglected, forlorn, and one almost expected to come across a scabies-ridden taxidermied tiger, snarling before the faded carpets, and a few token chipped Buddhas.  The second floor seemed almost a rebuttal to the first, merely photos and documents that betrayed a definitive anti-British tone.  These are always the best parts of these kinds of museums, the things that foreign guests are not meant to see, a nation's political medicine cabinet.

As the museum didn't take much time to get through, I lingered awhile in Kim's Book Shop, named of course for Kipling's novel quoted in the passage above.  Here too was a treasure trove of old titles, run by a man nearly of their generation.  I always enjoy meeting the owners of second hand book shop;  one feels that you already know their character after scanning their shelves.   

I eventually left to find a few of our group in conversation with three young men of college age. One of them was pontificating about the charms of his hometown of Quetta.  He did this with the enthusiasm of a politician (despite specializing in economics), entreating us repeatedly to come for a visit.  I didn't have the heart to tell him that Quetta had the reputation as the most dangerous place for foreigners in Pakistan, as the majority of the killings and kidnappings during the last decade had taken place there.  

The past is always a troubling subject in Asia, as memories are long in this part of the world.  But the eye continues to gaze forward.  Pakistan's tourist industry completely collapsed in the decades after the fall of the Twin Towers, and has yet to reassert itself.  Economic growth since has been slow, but there is some momentum with the emerging middle-class, a parallel found throughout the rest of Asia.   The newly moneyed are rarely sentimental, and the first to go are the monuments to history.  Our bus drove beneath the hulks of former Victorian glories, either abandoned or with marble facades impaled by gaudy signs and bound by power lines that crawled across their faces like vines.  Progress, whatever that means, had been superimposed upon the past, as Lahore moved unapologetically toward its destiny.  

We finally escaped the clangoring bustle of traffic to the safety of our hotel.  We were originally supposed to go out again later to have dine in a local haveli but had been bumped to allow for a party of government ministers (in a neat parallel with the same occurrence back at the Chini Bagh in Kashgar, when we'd been forced to shift our dates).  We ate instead in the hotel dining room, the buffet again allowing for some variety, though the taste of cumin still impressed upon us its versatility.   Ours was the lone group until a large wedding party arrived, each and every member clad in the outer limits of exotic beauty.  Though we never engaged them, it was a wonderful end to our time in Pakistan, and the eye was drawn again and again to the dark-eyes of the bride, the slim and sequined dandy of the groom, the bejeweled nose of the grandmother, the geometrically perfect rising slope of the uncle's moustache.  

Often in travel you feel like the locals going on about their business around you are extras in the story that is your trip.  But here I felt the extra, that my presence here was mere background to the more important business playing out throughout the room.  

In the morning we left the mothership of the main group, or should I say they left us.  They'd be crossing into India where after a couple of days in Amristar, they'd be enjoying an extended stay on the houseboats of Kashmir.  We of course had also intended to go, but during the visa process, Indian bureaucracy did what it does best. Despite having all my papers in order, the new Indian consul in Osaka decided he wanted to sit down with me and hear a bit more about the trip.  I was not given a specific time when this would occur, and after a few days passed, I worried that I wouldn't be able to get my visas for Pakistan and China, which were allegedly much more difficult.  So I returned to the Indians and told them I'd no longer be needed their services.  They were a bit surprised and I decided to twist the dagger by fibbing in saying that the one or two thousand dollars  I would have spent in their country I'd now be spending in Pakistan.     

So LYL and I would be spending this last day exploring the sights of Lahore.  We began on the outskirts of town at Jehangir's tomb, with a design now familiar after previous visits to similar Moghul monuments across the border.  But this one charmed in being far more run down and refreshingly unrestored.  Ironically there was more life, in the boys playing cricket on the stone lanes, in the adult men wrestling in the grass, in the families out enjoying a sunny morning.  A caretaker had to be roused to let us into the main tomb, as sweepers brushed the night's leaves and debris from its porticos and walkways.  The other buildings were in greater disarray and as such were less visited, creating the perfect rendezvous point for covertly cuddling couples.  

The old fort was in better condition, a large rambling spot that had hosted the Moghuls, Sikhs, and British, as they made their own personal mark.  We wandered in and out of its rooms, across its courtyards, peered into hidden nooks.  Our progress was slow due to being asked to pose for photos with dozens of families, which seemed to annoy our guide.  From then on it was strictly, "No Paparazzi!"   

I'd hoped to walk from there to the Old City, but we instead began from a gate on the opposite side, closer to the baths and market.  Once inside I could understand why, with all the motorbikes zipping through the narrow lanes.  When quiet it was timeless, a bazaar going about yet another day, the ordinary piling up as it has for centuries.  In contrast to the labyrinthian passages of the Royal Baths was the open courtyard of the Wazir Khan Mosque, delightfully tree-shaded and devoid of people.  We sat awhile on a bench, and enjoyed the cool marble beneath our feet.  It felt a nice respite from all the movement of the previous weeks.

But as always, there is more.  We pushed across town for a brief stop at the Shalimar Gardens, whose named brought to mind an R&B group from the 1980s.  And like that group, the garden's heyday had been brief, though it appeared in the book The Golden Oriole that I'd read not long afterward.  The fountains were dry, as was most of the grass, though it did provide locals a nice spacious counterpoint to the encroaching neighborhood pushing in from all sides.  

It seemed most fitting that we'd finish our time in Pakistan with a visit to the border closing ceremonies at Wagah.  I'd seen it on a travel show from the '90s, and it was even greater in person.  After the expected intense security checks (a bombing here had killed 60 in 2014), we were able to get good seats in the arena that had been built to offer the locals a free show every evening. Across the way, we saw the friends we'd left that morning climbing the grandstand on the Indian side.  I tried to wave, but a man sitting beside me told me it was better I didn't.

It was early, but already the music was pumping, the crowd beginning to come alive, with all the adrenal build up of a rock show.  I was impressed with how the organizers created an air of tension, which rose and rose with the appearance of the drummers, with the perpetually-spinning one-legged man, and peaked just as the soldiers came out to perform their silly walks.  It was impossible not to notice their height, each individual standing close to two meters tall, obviously cherry-picked from the ranks for intimidation purposes.  The biggest and burliest one Cleese-stepped his way to the border, and with a sideways glare twirled his moustache across at the Indians, who were probably doing the exact same thing.  Then, another soldier stepped up to the border, gave a quick salute and handshake to his Indian counterpart (I imagine under his breath a "Nice to see you Sanjay, how's the family?"), followed by the flags being lowered in a sort of competition to see whose would be last to furl.  As a coup de gras, the border gate was slammed shut, just as the sun left the sky.     

Our guide rushed us through the crowd in a parody of the quick walking soldiers earlier, to our car which rushed us to the airport and our flight.  Having two hours until check-in we sat in the near empty lobby, which slowly began to fill with an array of fantastically clad figures from throughout the Middle East.  Most impressive were the Bedouin types in their flow of robes. One old man came and gestured to me to allow him my seat, which I gave up.  Having spent the day in the muggy heat, I walked off to the handicapped toilet to prepare for the red-eye flight, washing off in the sink, changing into clean clothes.  When I returned, LYL too had lost her seat, as a whole clan of nomads had pushed in to overtake our bench.  Thus, we too pushed onward, eyes looking across the horizon of check-in desks, moving on the wing to whatever place comes next.       

On the turntable: Grateful Dead,  "1977/05/09 Buffalo War Memorial"
On the nighttable:  Peter Hopkirk, "The Great Game"