The Nicoise

"If the weather is not nice, I mean, what is the point?  Really." A young man said this as he was wrapping up a pair of red suede shoes, in a store named Bruno overlooking the port in Cannes.  He was punchy, jokey and cool--the other half of an odd couple tending the store, and the one who might have been there to cater to our demographic.  The other half, whom must have been the eponymous Bruno, was fifty years his senior.  Bald as a cue ball, he wore a bright orange cable-knit sweater.  He said nothing to us as we entered the store, and now was engrossed in a deep conversation with another old man.  The old man was holding up a pair of light blue linen shorts with a drawstring.  They were big enough to be a flag.

The weather hadn't been nice yet.  The first 24 hours here, it had rained non stop.  The next two days proved overcast and windy.  When you are still cold bundled up in your robe, sitting by the pool just seems silly, so we decided to scrap our original itinerary and go for a drive.

We drove down to Cannes and back.  Aside from the red loafers and a hearty lunch of veal kidneys (T) and Provencal stuffed veg (me), there wasn't a lot exciting going on.  We found a sleepy English language bookstore.  We saw some of the theaters making preparations for the film festival just a couple weeks away.  Mostly condominiums, tourists and guys who looked like Bruno.

The following day, we drove to Menton - a town that ends in Italy - and is famous for its lemons.  On the way back, we stopped in Monaco to walk around.  It too was gearing up for its Grad Prix, lining the streets with metal crash guards.  This town too was mostly condominiums, except guys like Bruno drove around in Ferraris here.  On one floor of the parking lot overlooking the 

marina in Monte Carlo, 

we counted 3 Ferraris, a Porsche and a Lambo. Crazy.

For some reason, though, I didn't think any of these places were nearly as nice as Nice.  Our hotel is just three towns west of Nice.  It takes about 30 minutes to get there, driving along the ocean.  We went yesterday to the market, bought up a bunch of goodies like crunchy whole wheat grissinis, a gooey Brebris cheese, some tomatoes from Sicily and delicious olives and strawberries.  And because I couldn't resist, we also picked up two wonderful looking pastries - they seemed to be just the extra crunchy, flaky part of a croissant.  Even better, they were stuffed with cream.  We walked around a bit more in old town, and then decided to head up to the Matisse Museum in Cimiez, a tony neighborhood of Nice just up the hillside above town.

We found a parking spot, which is one of the more difficult things to do here it seems, and made ourselves a wonderful picnic lunch.  We must have been near a school.  It was lunchtime and there were masses of children running around in the park, with mothers clucking after them.  Some fathers seemed to have met up with their families too.  It was bright and windy, and no one seemed to want to be anywhere else than here.

But by far, the most interesting experiences, have been our two dinners in Nice.  

The first night, we ate at a place I read about, again on Chowhound boards.  This part of the world is known for its fish and fish dishes.  And the fact that many restaurants require 24 hours advanced notice if you'd like to have Bouillabaisse should tell you how seriously they take it.  So imagine, to my delight, coming across a Chowhound post promisingly authored by Chef June.  "Bourride is a dish the Nicoise love even more than their Bouillabaisse."  Really, I thought?  After a touch more research, I find that this Bourride is also a fish soup of sorts, accompanied with the same fixings of croutons, aioli and cheese.  However Bourride is made without saffron (Bonus!) and without Conger Eel (Double Bonus!), in favor of whiting and monkfish.

So, with a swagger, I ask our hotel to reserve us a table at L'Ane Rouge, and express our interest in having Bourride.  

When we arrive, we are greeted with a flurry of men in formal waitstaff attire.  The sommlier even has a taste vin.  The dining room overlooks the lovely port of nice, but the red carpeting and banquets are a bit thread worn.  My starter of peas and favettes comes out in a warm cream soup.  Strangely, its served in what seems to be a caviar service, over faux "ice" that is somehow lit from below.  The overall impression is one of gooniness.

I was excited though, because Chef June really talked this place up.  And when we reviewed the menu, I noticed that Bourride wasn't even on it.  Another off menu request!  Its got to be good!

Well, lets just say that I understand why its off the menu.  Not because it was bad.  No no!  It was savory and hot and garlicy.  Not because it was bad at all!  Its not on the menu because no self-respecting person conscious of her health or her waistline would ever order this dish!

It was enough fish, mussels and crab-lettes for Jesus to feed 5000.  And just like those seven fishes, they seemed to last forever when they were added to a large bowl lined with potatoes and dolloped with several ladles full of cream broth!

Or what I thought was cream broth.  It was only later that I realized what I thought was cream, with little pools of butter floating on top, was actually a fish broth thickened with that omnipresent, Provencal side - aioli.  It was the egg yokes that gave it the custardy velvety-ness.  And that was the olive oil that had slightly separated, and danced in little pools on top.  Would you like more? Our waiter asked.  Todd waved it in.  A true champion.  

At this point, I felt like the rivet on my jeans might start popping off.  "Non, Merci," I said.  "Oh! You said 'Merci!'  You must speak French!"

Why you gotta do that?  You just stuffed me with a trough of hot garlic custard soup, potatoes and umpteen creatures of the sea.  You can see I am in pain.  What's with the comment, man?

It was truly, strangely wonderful.  Once in a lifetime.  But then again, for my sake, I hope that meal really is once in a lifetime. 

Last nights meal was at the other end of the spectrum. Of what spectrum, I am not sure.  We ate at a place called Cafe Turin off Garibaldi Square.  Our hotel had recommended it for lunch in Nice.  If you want to have a little fun, go there.  It has fresh seafood.  Wooden tables.  It's very local.

Well, we had our market picnic for lunch that day, so we decided to return to Cafe Turin for dinner.  And now I understood why the concierge had been so coy- because it had fresh seafood, wooden tables and locals.  And that is it.  C'est tout!

We walked in to a jammed hall, and got a table in the back.  It was one of those places where the placemat is also your menu.  And the quantity of crustaceans is just about the only description you have to guide you on your way.  Do you want Crevette Rose or Gris?  6 ou 12? Moule?  Langoustine?

When the dishes arrived, I understood why.  Because there was nothing else to say.  All the shellfish had been boiled or shucked, and now were cold.  They were all served the same way - with a tub of spreadable butter and a lemon.  

I know what you are thinking: "Come on Lauren.  This is just like Red Lobster!" I say no!  This butter was not hot, melted over a little Sterno in a funny little crucible, with the lemon already squeezed in!  It was a pat, which you smeared on to your now-peeled shrimp with your knife, over which you squeezed a bit of your lemon.  T's sea snails, the fist-sized No. 1 Oysters-- they all came the same way.  And along side was the only bit of non-crustacean on offer.  Squashed slices of two-day old Rye bread.  Fresh from the Casino grocery.  Not even made.

But in a way, though much less satisfying, this too was very good.  Because the seafood was so fresh, Cafe Turin could just about get away with it.  And the locals knew enough to bring in bread, or hot Socca (a chickpea flour flatbread), as we saw the table across the room do.

Day 58: Our Last Dinner in Asia

It has flown by fast.  After touring the Great Wall, T and I returned to Beijing.  It was our last night in China.  It was our last night in Asia.  And like every day, the all important question was upon us - What are we going to eat?

The problem was, this wasn't an easy question to answer here.  I hadn't really enjoyed the food in the Beijing area nearly as much as the food in Shanghai.  I also had gotten lazy.  A night of room service here, a couple of buffet lunches there, and all of a sudden the vast majority of my culinary experiences were circumscribed by the Saint Regis. 

This wasn't what we wanted out of our flight of fancy!  We wanted to experience culture, learn new things, push ourselves past our comfort zone.  And here I was seriously considering 

another Wagyu Beef Burger.... Enough! 

Fifty some odd days ago, we kicked off our adventure with street food - including a steaming bowl of chili crab, a cheap forty and no napkins.   And so we thought we'd go to the Night Market in Beijing, and bring the chapter to a close with another round of unpronounceable dishes, maybe even unknowable dishes.  Go out with a real bang.

The Beijing Night Market is a small strip of vendors literally sandwiched between two streets-- a highway median, really.  As we approached, T kept talking about his approach to the evening. There was his normal, head-first, "gotta find something good" banter.  But was there a bit of hesitation too?  "I am really, really looking forward to France.  Some western-style food." Pause.  Pause.  "I wouldn't want to get myself sick."

After octoballs, fish eyes, otak otak, chendol, stink beans and durian, T had a lifetime of street (food) cred with me.  "Don't be a hero love.  Just don't be a hero." 

Under a series of awnings, almost any thing you can imagine has been harpooned with a bamboo skewer.   There was a tangle of tentacles, testicles, seahorses on a stick.  There nameless pieces of mutton that had been minced beyond oblivion and stuffed into what looked like a split Baily.  There were piles of what might have been giant, chestnut flour gnocchi.  Might have been, if were were in Tuscany.  But here, these guys were in fact larva of some kind or another.  

T and I walked along, taking it all in:  the neon lights; the athletic store with a faux Nike swoosh, which we would later learn is the largest athletic brand in China; the book store we had stopped in earlier in the day.  Out of six floors, an entire half floor is designated to foreign language books.  And on that half-floor, I came to understand why the Chinese must think Americans are a poor, weak and degraded culture.  Rows and rows of Lipstick Jungle, the Devil Wears Prada, Twilight and John Gresham novels.  We were there for an hour.  T bought a Ian Flemming novel in protest.  Apparently here, the great western mind who thought up 007 counts as a "Foreign Classic."    

Well, You only Live Twice - the first time you eat street food, and day you decide you will never eat it again.  As we got to the end, a steamy wave of stink over came us.  Completely foul.  Like someone had lost their bowels in the street over.  Sure enough, just behind T, was giant mound of tripe.  Is it considered tripe uncooked?  A giant mound of cow stomach then.  That was enough for me.  And it was even enough for T - "How about we go get some Peking Duck?"  

I wasn't exactly sure.  You see, I don't like duck.  Ever since my Dad let me order it at Mountain Jacks at tender pre-teen age, I haven't been able to go back.  There was just something about the way it came out - pink and fatty--and something about spitting it half chewed in my napkin, that scarred me.  And ever since I've avoided it.  I think I'm the only person in the history of Tour D'Argent's patronage that has ordered beef at their restaurant.  If the oldest restaurant in Paris has numbered each duck that has been served since its inception in the 17th century, you know they have a hall of shame for patronesses like me.

But, then again, I know a nice man who loves Peking duck.  He loves it so much, that he'll order himself an entire duck, even if he's eating alone.  I think he told me he ordered himself a duck a day when he was in Beijing.  Plus, could I leave China, without giving it a go?

We went to a place called Quanjude.  I had done a bit of research on Peking duck joints, just in case the meat-on-a-stick market failed to fill us up.  According to the Chowhound Beijing boards, Quanjude made great duck.  This was important.  Be just as important was the quality of the trimmings - the pancakes, the hoisin sauce and all the little extras.  

When we walked in to Quanjude, we followed the crowd.  Crammed into a tiny elevator.  Ni Hao.  And ushered into a waiting room.  We took a number.  Xie Xie.  And then we waited, watching the men smoke and the children terrorize each other.  This place was huge.  A warren of dining rooms, decked out in red and gold, were crowded with giant round banquet sized tables.  When we were shown to our seat, we noticed a party of 14.  Just behind them, a handful of men in chef whites and toques were expertly carving up the four ducks the family had ordered.  We were in for a treat.

T and I ordered cabbage hearts and chestnuts and a half duck.  Along with the duck, we got the typical fixins - Hoisin, Scallions, Pancakes.  But I had read a thing or two.  No wanting to come across like the duck luddite I was, I ordered some extra extras - turnip sprouts and some minced garlic.  The later was an off-menu request, but according to The 'Hound, molasses-glazed ducks were served in Imperial courts with Hoisin sauce for the ladies and garlic sauce for the men.  I just wanted to show them I knew a thing or two.  That's all.

When our duck came, we were served up a hunk of skin first.  Lacquered, brown, crispy, hot and chewy too.  This was to be dipped in the bowl of sugar.  Like chewy, smokey, butter sugar.  Next came the meat itself.  Apparently I hadn't fooled anyone, because the waitress quickly set about teaching me how to assemble my pancake.

First, you set out your pancake.  You then got about 2 or 3 hunks of duck, and really slathered it in sauce.  Next, you used the duck to swab the sauce all over your pancake to get it good and sticky.  Next, you dipped your scallions in said sauce, placed it on top of your duck, and made it all into a neat little pile in the upper middle part of our cake.  One horizontal fold to tuck your duck in, then two vertical folds on each side.  A voila.  

It was delicious.  Warm, crunchy and smoky.  It was even better with the extra bite of garlic and turnip sprouts.  We made short shrift of it in no time.  As our duck-loving friend would say, it was "quite nice...."  

So we ended our trip to Beijing in the same way we started it in Singapore.  With a meal that brought us to our senses.  A meal that taught us a little bit about the people who had cooked it. And made me all the more excited about learning more about this crazy, wonderful and challenging part of the world.

So I close this post with the full disclosure that I am currently sitting in Eze, France.  While the subtitle of my blog is no longer completely accurate, I still have about a week and a half of being footloose and fancy free.  With an 18 hour flight, a twelve hour time zone change, what better way could there be than to split it in two, and sandwich a bit of La Belle Vie in between?

Days 56 - 57: The Great Wall

They call it great for a reason.  T and I were fortunate enough to go on a cool, clear day. It was was perfect for the 30 minute hike up to the wall and for our climb around the stretch we visited. 

The Badaling section of the Great Wall is the closest to Beijing, just an hour and a half drive into the mountains to the north east.  Most of this area of the wall was built up and expanded durning the Ming dynasty--a relatively new stretch compared to other parts, which was first built during the Warring States Period in the 5th century BC.   And generally speaking, given the heavy volume of tourists, one that had been heavily "restored."

Our hotel, The Commune by the Great Wall, was a perfect example of a modern Chinese hotel, run by a western hotel management chain. Originally, the complex had been developed as a luxury housing development.  Few of the houses were sold, the investors where bought out, and the site was expanded and converted into a resort. With over 190 rooms, the hotel boasted modern architecture, good food and strong coffee, as well as edgy paintings of Mao-as-Buddha.  The staff wore kitchy uniforms with a giant Red Star on the lapel. Parts of the hotel were lovely, but mostly it felt empty and cold.  But far and away, it was worth the stay, just for the wall alone.  Ironically, the Commune had its own private section of the Great Wall.  

A path snaked behind a red, cantalevier-style house made of concrete, stone and bamaboo. After twenty or thirty minutes, we reached the top.  The massive wall stood right along a ridge, and snaked from peak to valley to peak.  I wasn't prepared for its scale, severity, or its steepness.  And the stretch before us was empty, overgrown with shrubs and trees.  In some parts the stone had turned to rubble and in 

some, the wall had just fallen away.  Behind us and up the mountain further, the wall was all but gone.  It looked like a rocky scar rising up the face of the ridge.     

It was quiet, cold and the wind was strong.  I found it hard to shake the vertigo.

Day 55 - On Touring Beijing

When you are a tourist in Beijing, sometimes its hard to tell who is on the tour.  Or what is on the tour.  Or even, if you are part of the tour yourself. 

Our second day started off with an morning jaunt through the Temple of Heaven.  The Temple of Heaven is surreal.  Built in the 15th century at the same time as the Forbidden City, it sits close to the center of modern Beijing.  Unlike the Forbidden City, which was just mobbed with sightseers, the temple seemed to be a site of living history; it's purpose was equally dead and alive, ancient and relevant, eerie and celebratory.  

When we arrived, we walked though a hallway that connected us from the East Gate to the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvests.  The hallway was crammed, so that we had to slowly make our way through the crowd.  And we had to strain to hear our tour guide Sandy explain: "Many people come here in the morning for exercise, to play poker together, to sing.  Since the temple is in the city, many locals will buy a monthly pass, and come here regularly.  It's very good for the old people."  I saw grandmas and grandpas playing something that looked like hackey-sack.  I saw them leaning against the railings in the morning sun, with cards dealt out between them.  And most of all, I saw and heard them perform.

For most of the past two months, I have grown over-accustomed to being the audience. Performers at temples aren't uncommon, especially at very famous sites, as its one of the many ways locals capitalize on the tourist industry, and for tourists to capitalize on local industry.   But this morning, the men weren't playing the ehru for me.  Further on, a sixty-something woman, modestly and carefully dressed, stood in front of a small crowd.  Her hair was pulled back in a bun tied up under her hat.  Her hat shaded her petite face. She sang with her eyes closed, her eyebrows arched.  Her hands moved very steady and slow.  She is an old opera singer, Sandy said.  Other groups were larger, gathered around a few men with old looking instruments, and a man with a microphone.  In these groups, everybody joined in, singing songs they all seemed to know.  Like everyone there, these were songs from their past.  Like everyone, but us.

We came to the Hall of Prayer for Good Harvest.  The temple was round with the roof tiles painted blue, both traditional Chinese symbols of heaven.  In Ming and Qing dynasties, the 

emperor would come to the Temple of Heaven to pray for harvests and it was here that his ceremony would start.  He would then progress, being carried in a sedan, down past the Vault 

of Heaven to the Altar of Heaven.  The altar was a series of 

concentric marble rings, rising towards the center, and open to the sky.  From the top of the altar, the emperor would pray for a good harvest, and oversee an animal sacrifice being carried out on a pyre below.

Having left the temple parks, the locals gave way to tourists, and soon T and I found ourselves amidst a sea of red, yellow or green baseball caps, all trailing behind an umbrella, stick or backscratcher tied with a red, yellow or green flag.  Most of them were Chinese tourists.  

Domestic tourism has been on the rise for quite some time.  Hessler writes in his book about the Chinese tourism industry. In the years he was in China leading up to the Three Gorges Dam project, would-be tourists were exhorted -- see them now before its too late!  Too late, meaning before they flooded the gorges to create the largest hydroelectric dam ever built. Since the late 1990s, however, domestic tourism has increase by 250% - last year over 1.6BN Chinese tourists visited China, spending an average of roughly $70 each. 

And so I found myself in front of other people's cameras as often as they were in front of mine.  

It would go like this.  One of them would approach Sandy, and ask her a question.  She would turn to us, and say "They have asked to take a picture with you." At first, we said "Sure!" and both hopped right in.  Then I would practice flexing one of my two Chinese phrases (Ni Hao and/or Xie Xie).  And next thing you know, other girls would want to join in.  Or the guy taking the picture would trade places with his wife and jump in the middle, resting his hands up on our shoulders.  Xie Xie! Xie Xie, Ni Hao.  Id say.  (Thank you thank you hello).

Then we realized we had a good thing going here, and T started staying out of the frame, taking pictures of the craziness himself.  "People think you are glamorous here," Sandy said.  "They will go home and show pictures of you to their friends and say they met Westerners at the Temple of Heaven."  At one point, our guide even started saying Money, Money when people were approaching to enquire, as if we were getting to the point where we'd charge for taking a picture with us.  Apparently this word translates, because we all laughed.  Even the dude with his hand on my shoulder, tag still on his suit jacket, Beijing medal around his neck.  Xie xie!

 

Day 54 - Culture in Beijing

"Shanghai is like New York.  Beijing is Like Washington DC." Our guide said this within the first thirty minutes of our all day tour, which was to include: Tiananmen Square, the Forbidden City, the Hutong Area (Old City), and the Lama Buddhist Temple. 

We had gotten in around midnight the night before, and I was excited to have a fully packed agenda; if left to my own devices, I probably would have frittered away the morning.  I notice I have this tendency if cities feel overwhelming.  I get this feeling mostly when a city feels unwalkable-- and especially if it has lots of highways and/or hotels that are located in strip malls or over giant parking garages.

And Beijing feels built for cars.

This is a completely crazy thing to say for lots of reasons.  But mostly because Beijing has existed for most of history without cars.  In fact, the earliest remnants of human habitation stretch back to Homo erectus (the Peking Man) between 230,000 to 250,000 years BC.  Cities were in this area in the first millennium BC, and Beijing first got it's name all the way back when it was established as a capital city during the Ming dynasty, in 1403.

You would never know it today.  In fact, the characterization by our guide is somewhat fair.  In 2009, Beijing is a show city.  It's well organized with a series of concentric ring roads, east-west roads and north-south roads.  The streets are clean.  There are historic preservation projects in old Beijing.  Its most famous sights are well-managed, -signed and -concession-fed.  My favorite symbol of the new, New China, post Deng Xiaoping, are the placards everywhere that say "Help preserve our culture.  Do not touch."

China is deeply fascinating.  And like a total greenhorn, or worse - an ass maybe? - there was something about standing in Tiananmen Square that made me want to jump right in to all the awkward questions.  Chairman Mao - do people respect him still?  Is he still a hero?  Did your parents live through the Liberation?  Was your father "Reeducated"?  How many children do you have? What do you think about Hong Kong?  

I couldn't quite help it.  You see, this was my chance to try my own hand at understanding the Chinese. 

I have been reading a terrific book, River Town: Two Years on the Yangzee, by Peter Hessler. It is the memoir/travelogue of a super intelligent guy, who taught English for 2 years in the 90s in Fuling, China.  Over two years, he works hard to learn Mandarin and make Chinese friends.  And he offers all these bits of insight, which I might have missed on my first several (hundred) trips to China - things like how the Chinese refer to everything before 1911 as "feudal times" or "feudal" society.  Or that there isn't an equivalent word to "farmer":

• People who work the land are nongmin, literally "agricultural people" and in English, this word is usually translated as "peasant"...Farmer fails to convey the negative connotations that are associated with working the land in China.  Roughly 75 percent of population is involved with agriculture, and the divide between these people and the urban Chinese is one of the most striking gaps in the country...Even the word for soil -- tu -- can be applied to people as a derogatory adjective, meaning unrefined and uncouth. 1
  

It was in this light that I revisited an exchange I had with a sales woman, who replied to my interest in traveling outside China's major cities.  "Oh.  But they are not modern."  When she first said that, I originally interpreted her reply as a bit of caution - the same as when a tour guide tells me that the toilet at a particular sight-seeing attraction is "only 3 stars," meaning it lacks a Western-style option.  You are going to have to squat, its not what you expect, bring your own toilet paper and by all means, DO NOT sit on the "seat."  

I think the same thing when our tour guide Sandy, takes us to a nice, tourist-trap lunch on our first day, saying it's "nice and clean."  In countries like Malaysia or Thailand, "clean" meant it came with fork, was not spicy and you could eat uncooked vegetables as a foreigner without getting sick.

But after the past several days here, I realize that the sanctity of the past may not be as relevant here.  For our guide, a "clean" place was infinitely preferable, even if her own customers were asking for local noodle shops.  Even if we said that waiting in line for a 10 Yuan bowl would be great. For the sales woman, "not-modern" was an indictment.  And it was without irony that another young guide  told us that the Old City would have been redeveloped if foreign professors hadn't lobbied Beijing to preserve it as a historical area.

For one, the country spent 10 years eradicating its past as part of the Cultural Revolution from 1966-76.  Secondly, when you have thousands and thousands of years of continuous history, how do you pick which parts are relevant to save? And most significant in my mind, progress is always good when starvation is a recent memory.  Preservation, heritage sites and societies -- these are my fetishes.  I buy heritage breed meats, order handmade crafts on Etsy.com, switch to "Obama bulbs" as my sister calls the energy-efficient ones.  To a Chinese person, I am crazy.  I might be crazy anyway...

In the old city, I climbed an 15 c. bell tower.  I gulped down incense at the Lama Buddhist Temple.  Tiananmen Square was big.  The Forbidden City was lovely.  It was anything but forbidden feeling.  It was overrun with tourists - mostly Chinese tourist.  To see in the "Hall of Supreme Harmony," you had to either throw elbows or have them thrown at you.  

So while Culture did not make it on the list of Xiaoping's Four Modernizations (Agriculture, Industry, Technology and Defence), I am happy to report that I enjoyed every moment taking it in.  So did the Chinese.

Maybe those signs - "Help us preserve our culture" - are signs in more way than one.

Footnote:

1. (Hessler, pg. 228)

Days 51 - 52: Kyoto - Where it All Makes (More) Sense

Despite having some very mixed feelings about my experience in Tokyo, I would come back to his country in a heart-beat. Most of that can be attributed to the two days I spent in Kyoto.  Somehow, being outside the mega city seemed to put this culture in more context.  Some of the oddities - various shades of curious, surreal, formal or efficient - fell in to a bit of perspective.  

Take for example, the fastidiousness of moving through this country.  A sidewalk will crowd at a crosswalk until the Do Not Walk sign turns to green.  This is true even if there is not a single car on the street.  Everyone waits for the sign to turn.  You wait in line to board the subway cars.  You walk up one set of stairs to come, and another set of stairs to go. In Japan it seems that everything has a right way and a right path.  One that has been carefully considered and now one that is carefully observed.  And from my vantage point, it all seemed unnatural.  

But 24 hours later, I find myself standing in the middle of a garden that was first conceived of in the 14th century, as part of what is now called the Golden Pavilion temple.   Clearly marked, the garden was a measured progression of views framing the pavilion itself, from the ponds, to sculpted pines, to the gnarled plums and profuse cherry trees.  In this garden, there stood a 600 year old Bonsai tree in the shape of a boat, sailing west.  It was twisted, trimmed, and yet 

organic looking at the same time.  Graceful and strong.  Earlier that day, I met a man who kept a private garden.  His father had planted it 60 years ago, and as he shared it with us, he explained that now he maintained it as his father had.  All trimming and pruning, of which there seemed to be much, was all done by hand.  It is more graceful, more feminine this way, he said.  Between these two gardens, I gain a bit of appreciation for a culture that had evidently being thinking about how we move through its country for quite some time.  And the way cultivating a specific approach - pruning by hand, or the placement of a rock within a pond - can affect the sensibilities of the traveller.  This is not to say such lovely gardens wouldn't have been as lovely if they were more ragged or wild, or if I had strayed from the path.  I just felt a keen interest in seeing something as someone 600 or even 60 years ago would have wanted it to be seen.

In Kyoto, we made the decision to stay at a ryokan, or a traditional Japanese inn.  As we entered, we left our shoes in the entrance hall, still wet from its welcome ritual of being cleaned with water every evening. Upon entering the inn, we were shown into our room, overlooking a small garden at the center of the house.  Low ceilings, rice paper screens and tatami mats, low slung table and chairs without legs -- these were the only furnishings in the room.  No TV of course, no Internet.  But you could hear a dripping sound - slow and steady - from the garden below.  

We shared a bath with all the guests of the inn.  Traditionally, guests bathe in the late afternoon and evening, more as a way to relax than to get clean.  In fact, the "business" part of the bathing ritual is done outside the bath itself, sitting on a squat bamboo stool, with a shower head perched just over your shoulder.  Here you wash completely, and when you are finished and clean, you climb into a hot bath that was drawn sometime earlier in the day.  The tub is big, rectangular and wooden.  Hotter than a hot tub.  And as you sit down, you feel the none-to-familiar pleasure of being stretched out and immersed, up to your neck almost, in a steaming, stupor-inducing bath.

This is typically before or after a Kaiseki style dinner, prepared by the inn.  Kyoto, as the capital of Japan for almost 1000 years, is famous for this style of dinner, which is said to have originated in the Imperial courts.  Course after course are paraded out: delicate soups topped with radishes sliced so thin they are transparent, cut out in the shape of hearts and blossoms; bamboo shoots, now just in season, steamed so they are crisp to the bite; jellies of cherry blossoms, with steamed rice and red snapper.  And an equal bounty, it seams, of sake.  This is all presided over by our inn keeper, whose family has owned this ryokan for over 200 years.  He is the seventh head chef in that time.

When we return to our adjoining room, the screens are just ajar so you could feel the faintest spring chill.  Our beds were set up on the floor.  This included a thin mattress, a coverlet and a heavy, plump buckwheat grain pillow.  I crawled in.  As I put my head on the pillow, it gave a little sigh. I could smell the warm aroma of malt the buckwheat gave up, and it occurred to me that for a long time, this is what sleepiness smelled like here.   With its ritual welcome, its orchestration of slippers and kimonos, very warm bath and thoughtful cuisine - this experience was an artful, careful expression of the Evening.  How an evening should be considered, and if your lucky, how observed.  

Just now, I knew 250 kilometers away, throngs of goth twenty-somethings heaved on the sidewalks in Shibuya, patiently observing another more modern ritual. Do not walk until it's green. 

Epic: Tokyo, From A Guy's Point of View

I've been to Tokyo, Kyoto, and back again.  And I hardly know where to start.  The good news is that I think my mission was accomplished.  My brother, sister and I had an interesting experience together -we saw a crazy, wonderful, challenging part of the world.  We broadened our own horizons, and certainly our palates.  And even better, I think everyone had a good time doing it.  I think my little brother summed it up best.-- This place is "epic."

As such, I figured I'd take a different approach to this post and think about the attraction or distractions of this city from his point of view.  Or more broadly, from the guys point of view. 

A Guy's Guide to Tokyo

1) Samurai Swords

This fall, T and I will have been together for ten years. For roughly five of those, I have forced him to watch two hours of Antique Roadshow weekly.  And while we've been known to collect the random trinket and manly accoutrement here and there (read: English maps and ostrich eggs), I had no idea T harbored a burning desire to collect swords as well.  Well, he does.  And if you are a guy, I think this country just might stir it up in you too.

Leave it to the romance of Shinto shrines, Shogunate palaces and woodcuts with grimacing Samurai to pique the latent sword collector.   T convinced me there were four great practical reasons why we should get a Samurai sword: a) we like to collect things (I think this is circular reasoning), b) it'll look real cool above his desk c) it's a piece of art (kind like the real piece of art we currently have hanging above his desk) and my personal favorite, d) as a form of personal protection (you know - just in case someone wrestles down our doorman and blows out the triple lock on our apartment door, which is religiously secured). 

It was like a kid in a candy store, or like my little brother with his first lacrosse stick.  And I guess it really is that cool.

2) Culinary Bravado

Speaking of cool, there are some serious bragging rites to be earned here for anyone with an iron stomach.  I've already alluded to this a bit already, but food here is seriously wack and if you can eat it, it's worth getting some street cred for.  For example, one of the more intimidating dishes we all had the pleasure of eating was fish head.  When this came out as part of an omakase style dinner the other night, you could almost feel the dread hanging in the air as we suspiciously eyed - eye to eye - our dinner.  

At this point though, my brother had acquired a rather worldly approach to food.  Namely "If i

ts cooked, I'll try it."  This is saying a lot from a college kid whose largest food group is comprised of Cheese Danishes and Grande Burrito Supremes.  So with a swagger, he took a snap shot (for his Facebook page) and dug in.  Literally dug in, because the meat on a fish head is in all these weird places, like behind the face, and in front of the pectoral fin and my personal favorite, the "oyster" of meat located between the eyeball and the gills.

To the chef's credit, and the fish's credit I guess, it was damn good.  And to my brothers credit, he did himself damn proud, with an after snapshot to accompany the before.

Not to be outdone, my husband topped off his pickled seaweed and  cheese-covered octopus ball eating odyssey with another first - eating eyeballs - and popped that fish head's sucker right in his mouth. 

For the record, since that evening, our party has since decided that burgers, pizzas and steak are the way to finish out our time in Japan.  

3) So Damn Expensive

Just know that if you offer to buy a round of anything in this country, it will be about seven times more expensive than you are planning for.  For example, after our brush with the culinary outer limits, we decided that a burger at our hotel bar sounded real good.  

This hotel bar is rather cool because it on the 52nd floor overlooking Tokyo and had some decent jazz band playing.  On top of that, it was immortalized in Lost in Translation, and who doesn't love walking in the foot steps of a good, sullen, alcoholic Bill Murray?

Well, a couple rounds of drinks, dinner and 800,000 Yen later, you remember that this city really is damn expensive.  And unfortunately, this is the rule, not the exception.  Cabs for example - the starting fare is $7.10.  So what if they are wearing white gloves and have doilies on their headrests?  

4) Akihabara

To a certain subset of guys, Akihabara Electric Town is very cool and relevant.  To another subset of guys, this is a cultural anthropological adventure.  We had both sets of the spectrum in our party (I believe our stint here was fundamental to T's Post-Post theory.  See Comments). 

It's like you made an entire neighborhood of Tokyo into a video arcade.  Aside from girls wearing strange French maid costumes with kitty-cat ears, there were rolls and rolls of electrical wire, rows and rows of video game character figurines and other merchandise.  And floors and floors of pre-teen to middle aged dudes, hunched over consoles and ashtrays, killing each other anonymously.  As if this wasn't enough, almost anything you purchased was in vending machines of those "bear claw" style, which I haven't seen since the last time I was tempted to buy a stuffed animal at a bowling alley.  

We were shocked.  We were awed.  For those of us who went into the fray and played a game, we were sitting ducks and suckers, picked off by the network of gamers sitting around us.  But my brother kept saying, "This place really isn't that bad.  It's kinda cool."  In fact, he reminded us that this place was just like the place he had worked - a place called Ether - give or take a little bit.

5.) The Tuna Auction

Within our party, both of the men of working age are traders (or have been most recently traders) for a living.  And there is something about that profession that really translates, no matter what you are trading.  Take fish for example.

At the Tsukiji Fish Market - the largest fish market in the world - fresh caught and frozen tuna is auctioned off each morning.  And it was quite a sight to see.  Pre-market open, there was chatter, research.  Men bent over the tuna, cutting a small piece off to rub between their fingers to ascertain the fattiness of the meat.  They stood in galoshes; they sized up the market.  And with the opening bell at 5:45 AM they got down to business.

The auctioneers work for the fishing companies.  The bidders are middle men, who process (mostly by hand, the jig-saw, or the sword) the tuna , and sell it to restaurants or other retail stores.  At any given time, an auctioneer will have ten to twenty fish to move, which typically go for about 7,000 yen a kilo.  And it is all over in the rapid-fire space of ten minutes.

The closest auctioneer stood on top of a stool, wore a baseball-hat rally-cap style, and really got into his work.  His whole arm shook as he rang the bell.  He stamped his foot as he accepted the final offer.  He worked the crowd and moved his fish.  

It was awesome.  We left there and my husband said, "I'd kinda like to give it a go..."