Back in my high school days, I read a popular Japanese comics, 'Tokyo Love Story', which takes on the story of a bizarre love triangle like those in Jules et Jim and The Norwegian Wood. One detail has stayed with me: those plastic, disposable umbrellas people pick up at the convenient store. The picture of anonymous faces, flitting across the streets under endless transparent umbrellas. Mundane objects, bits of daily life that fade into boredom and stay there, reminders of the repetition and conformity one must endure.
The umbrella was a novelty on a rainy day in Koyto (so was the trip, if I may add). The moment I opened the umbrella outside the train station, I felt it was a privilege. My foreigner's fantasy from long ago suddenly came true, and I had never thought about it. Years of my life seemingly closed in; I was still the same person, older, walking down the streets in a foreign country, a present of illusion and possibility. Or was I still the same person?
Anyone can take better pictures of sakura - or any scenery - than me. When I check out historical/famous sites I try to learn about their significance, to see how it manifests or relates to the city's present. It's the fluidity, the promise I'm interested in, more than the sites--unless, of course, they're stunningly beautiful or intriguing. Unless other travelers who exclaim and shoot, I take in the impression and contain the thoughts. The scenery ceases before me. The pictures, the efforts are half wasted; I have no talent for capturing it through the lens.
In the same vein, I'm not a travel writer who relives a city on the page for the readers to experience. Nor am I a critic who offers thoughtful analysis, a glimpse into a culture hidden from the rest of us. My interests are people, the way they live, the vibrancy and colors of a place--where it clashes and burns, or fails to burn.
Kyoto is a nice city: pretty and neat, minimal stress to navigate through the crowd, almost slightly inflated in the way it's so well-organized and maintained. It has a classy look to it, a quiet and relaxing vibe. To borrow someone else's words: a proper vacation setting.
Over the weekend we were there, tourists from all over Japan inhabited Kyoto with their guide books and posh outfits. From one temple to the next, the tourists followed the designated paths, stopped in front of traffic lights, left no room for conflicts or deviation. The ladies wore their perfectly made up faces. One look across the train compartments, and you wondered if Japan specializes in producing good looking women. The illusion was broken when the work week started, and when we arrived in Osaka later--but that's another story.
Night in Osaka is a simulacrum of what you see in movies and music videos, the red neon signs flashing along the streets. Translucent, sugary, surreal with a vaguely dated feel. Day is heavy traffic, numerous men in ill-fitting suits, sights of warehouses and industrialization, a bridge above the ocean. A town with a practical personality.
The umbrella was a novelty on a rainy day in Koyto (so was the trip, if I may add). The moment I opened the umbrella outside the train station, I felt it was a privilege. My foreigner's fantasy from long ago suddenly came true, and I had never thought about it. Years of my life seemingly closed in; I was still the same person, older, walking down the streets in a foreign country, a present of illusion and possibility. Or was I still the same person?
Anyone can take better pictures of sakura - or any scenery - than me. When I check out historical/famous sites I try to learn about their significance, to see how it manifests or relates to the city's present. It's the fluidity, the promise I'm interested in, more than the sites--unless, of course, they're stunningly beautiful or intriguing. Unless other travelers who exclaim and shoot, I take in the impression and contain the thoughts. The scenery ceases before me. The pictures, the efforts are half wasted; I have no talent for capturing it through the lens.
In the same vein, I'm not a travel writer who relives a city on the page for the readers to experience. Nor am I a critic who offers thoughtful analysis, a glimpse into a culture hidden from the rest of us. My interests are people, the way they live, the vibrancy and colors of a place--where it clashes and burns, or fails to burn.
Kyoto is a nice city: pretty and neat, minimal stress to navigate through the crowd, almost slightly inflated in the way it's so well-organized and maintained. It has a classy look to it, a quiet and relaxing vibe. To borrow someone else's words: a proper vacation setting.
Over the weekend we were there, tourists from all over Japan inhabited Kyoto with their guide books and posh outfits. From one temple to the next, the tourists followed the designated paths, stopped in front of traffic lights, left no room for conflicts or deviation. The ladies wore their perfectly made up faces. One look across the train compartments, and you wondered if Japan specializes in producing good looking women. The illusion was broken when the work week started, and when we arrived in Osaka later--but that's another story.
Night in Osaka is a simulacrum of what you see in movies and music videos, the red neon signs flashing along the streets. Translucent, sugary, surreal with a vaguely dated feel. Day is heavy traffic, numerous men in ill-fitting suits, sights of warehouses and industrialization, a bridge above the ocean. A town with a practical personality.
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