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How to Write: Lesson 2

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Oriental Writer Cutting His Pen by Benjamin Gerritsz Cuyp (1640).

Continuing our series on how to be a writer, we’re picking up after the first (and truly most important) lesson: Just write.

Today, I’d like to discuss a little more the manner in which we approach this daunting task. There’s really no winning formula for Just Writing (TM). It is partly the responsibility of the writer to figure out what works best for them. Through discussions and reading interviews of other writers, I have come to see there being really two paths one can take to completion. I call this the Pants vs Plans dichotomy. The distinction is easily delineated by how much organizing and outlining an author does before she begins putting pen to paper or fingers to keys.

The first approach, the Planners, is characterized by detailed and extravagant flow charts and chapter outlines. These are individuals that want to know exactly how the narrative will unfold well before they even open their word document. A Planner will have detailed notes on plot progression, character bios and pacing details. The Planner knows exactly how the third act twist will go down and where the final climax of the story takes place. Most of the work of the Planner is done through charts and graphs. The story is a crawling web of connected events and details. What happens when she writes is simply filling in the last few connections between these moments.

On the other hand, the Pantser is a person who knows nothing about his story as he sits down to write. He might have some idea of a character, a theme or even just a genre that he wants to explore. At best, he might have a few events he’d like to include in the story with no idea where, when or how those events will unfold or even connect. For the Pantser, writing is as much a creative process as it is an act of discovery. In many ways, it reflects the journey of the reader. You don’t know what is going to happen on this adventure and you may only have the briefest of backcover synopsis to guide you. The Panster will thus be surprised how his story turns out and it is not an accident but the creative method working at its best when the story concludes in a dramatically different style than what he expected when he sat down.

There is no clear ranking to these two methods. Great stories can come from either. There are, of course, advantageous and disadvantages to both approaches. There isn’t even surefire way to know which method will work best for you without trying them. However, it’s important to understand why these methods work before adopting them so that pitfalls can be avoided.

Take the Planner, for instance. The best part of her method is that she’ll never truly get stuck. She knows exactly what is going to come next and will never truly languish in the fabled “writer’s block.” In fact, the highly detailed notes give her great insulation from being overcome by “what happens next.” Thus, if she starts to find a section that is tedious or emotionally draining, it is effortless to step back, look for a section that grabs her attention and curiosity more and jump to that point and channel her creativity there. The Planner, though seemingly the most linear approach allows great non-linearity when it comes to crafting the story itself. And there is nothing more important than being engaged by your own work. If you find your own words are laborious and boring, chances are that readers will too. And maybe after covering some unrelated part will give the necessary clarity and fortitude to address whatever was initially draining the Planner when she diverged from the original section.

The caution, of course, is that the Planner is front-loading all her work. It’s possible that this method can fall victim to the dreaded “writer’s block” before even reaching the starting gate. Problems in the outline will stall progress to the actual work of writing. It can even lead to a point where there’s comfort in the planning and avoiding the writing altogether! The Planner could spend her whole time fretting over the details of the outline and spend all her time ironing out more and more kinks in the flow charts. It’s a fantastic way to fail the very first lesson while still convincing yourself that you’re accomplishing work. At some point you have to put the outline down and get to the meat of the project.

For the Pantser, he has no excuse for not writing. When the time to write comes, he has nothing else but to write. As such, he’s far more susceptible to blocks to his creative juices. Each day is tempting stagnation and creative emptiness. Completing a chapter leads to yet another blank page that can always gum up the process. Even worse, should some boring section or frustrating issue arise, the Pantser is stuck resolving it immediately. He can’t take breaks and work on other sections. In order to overcome these challenges, the Pantser has to learn to simply press on and forget issues. Resolve persistent problems inelegantly to get them out of the way. Pull some deus ex machina in order to save the soul of the work. Characters will vanish just as quickly as they materialize. Plot threads will be forgotten. Things wouldn’t add up by the conclusion.

The perk, however, is the true rush of creativity. The Pantser is truly free in his approach. While the Planner could revise her outline, that tempts her away from the work. Any issues not predict in the earlier organization stages can slow everything down. The Pantser, however, is infinitely flexible. And there is quite a rush to having a character suddenly breath new life and direction in a story. It’s literary improv and can be just as thrilling. There’s also a storytelling “purity” in a sense to this method. The art of storytelling stretches as far back as language has existed and certainly the most ancient masters of the craft wouldn’t have had exacting plots plotted before their characters started plodding. The Pantser also has more focus on fun since it is his enjoyment of the moment that will direct his path and he can maximize that which holds his interest instead of having to slave away for vital scenes necessary for the overall plot.

These are, of course, taking extreme looks at the method. Really, most writers will likely adopt different elements of the Pantser and Planner approach. It’s more an axis than hard categorization. In fact, I use both approaches when I begin work on a new idea. Generally speaking, I’ve have some outline of characters or the plot and I’ll leave large blanks to be filled in while I write. In fact, I’ve noticed my approach evolving over time to address different projects and their requirements. Certainly stories with heavier emphasis on narrative or theme require more planning than character driven pieces. And the more I structure narratives, the less I need to plan proper pacing and climaxes as they become second nature.

So find what works for you and keep trying new things. Writing is a creative process, after all, and without experimentation you will never discover the new twists waiting to spring from your pen tip.

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How to Write: Lesson 1

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Oriental Writer Cutting His Pen by Benjamin Gerritsz Cuyp (1640).

I would like to do a postmortem on The International 2017 but my manager has informed me that I should be offering writing advice instead. Having now published my first book, I feel like I’m a little more qualified to offer tips on the process. There are some past articles I’ve done on related topics addressing the generation of ideas but I’ll try to make this series a bit more direct. There is, of course, a caveat to writing. As with all creative endeavours, what works for one person isn’t necessarily going to work for another. However, I will try and keep the tips and secrets as universal as I possibly can.

And actually, coming up with the first lesson (or tip, really) for writing was pretty easy. It’s the advice I always give whenever someone mentions that they are interested or trying to write their own stories. It’s possibly the easiest advice to give and the hardest to follow. And that tip is…

Just write.

That’s it.

Just write.

It sounds rather stupid on face value but there’s no other way you’re going to get your story completed without following it. Do you have a story you want to tell? Do you have a word document or piece of paper nearby? Then write. Have you stopped writing? Open up that word document or grab another piece of paper and start writing again.

Writing is a long process. It’s also a hard process and you’re never going to finish if you don’t sit down and do it. However, I can probably predict how most people will approach the task of writing. They’ll schedule a few hours on a slow day or they’ll find a quiet moment when the inspiration strikes. They’ll get their desk ready. They’ll find a warm cup of coffee or tea. They’ll set aside their writing material. They’ll get a few snacks ready. Then they’ll sit down and—

They’ll look up some songs to play in the background. They’ll browse the Internet for the latest news. They’ll open up their email. They’ll look up some photographs of their nieces. They’ll see their desk is messy and start to tidy it. Oh, but the floor is dirty too. Maybe that could be quickly swept. Oh, I should really add apples to the shopping list. Maybe I should check in with Becky and see what she’s doing tomorrow.

Before they know it, twenty minutes have passed and that blank page is still staring at them. They’ll get up to stretch. They’ll flick on the television. They’ll get started on an assignment due next week. And, you know, that new episode of Game of Thrones is about to start so better catch that. The words can always be done later.

In fact, people have a rather creative knack for avoiding any actual writing. I know this first hand. In fact, training myself to actually consistently write everyday was perhaps the hardest part of becoming a writer. Even if you managed to convince yourself to sit down before the screen, you’ll find your mind seize. Writer’s block will grip you. You won’t know what to write despite having imagined with the greatest ideas ever earlier while in the shower. Nothing will sound right in your head. And that blank page will keep staring at you.

I can’t count the number of people I know who have been trying to write a story. I can guarantee, however, that the reason they aren’t succeeding is because they don’t follow today’s tip.

And you want to know my secret? How do I overcome this initial inertia that paralyses so many others?

I write.

The trick, however, is to turn off your internal editor. Shut out all distractions and focus simply on putting words onto paper. That is the most important part. In fact, those words don’t even have to be good. They will typically be absolute garbage. I’d wager that about a quarter of my writing is actually serviceable. The rest I’m embarrassed to even show my family.

But it doesn’t matter because bad writing can be edited and fixed. But you can’t edit nothing.

And once you start getting things down, you’ll find that it gets easier. The worst is that initial start: that fixed point wherein infinite possibilities expand. It’s like the writing equivalent of the Paradox of Choice. You could go in just about any direction and choosing which one leaves you unable to select any. But once you’ve made that commitment and once you’ve started down that path then you’ve got a direction and focus that makes continuing easier with each step.

So what are some tips for conquering that dreaded blank page and ensure you just write?

  • Write a quick little sketch of the character for your story. It doesn’t have to be a scene that you plan to include. Have your character buy some coffee. Have them practice their sword work. You could take a fantasy princess and chuck her under the ocean or into a Star Wars cantina for all it matters.
  • Write what you see. Describe your work space. Describe your cat sitting on your keyboard. Describe how dirty your curtains are. Just don’t get up and wash them until you’re done your writing.
  • Set yourself realistic goals and don’t leave your writing space until you’ve achieved them. For my first novel, I wouldn’t get up from my desk until I had written 1,000 words. A paltry amount now but back then it could take me until two in the morning to achieve it.
  • Make a schedule and keep to it. Force yourself to write 1,000 words every day of the week. Participate in challenges like National Write a Novel in a Month (NaNoWriMo). I once did a challenge to write a novel (50k words) in a weekend. You really learn to turn off your filter and simply write with a compressed schedule like that!
  • Don’t worry if your writing is bad, your dialogue is stilted and your characters are shallow. Every author’s first draft is awful.
  • Don’t worry if your writing isn’t even connected to what you did yesterday. You can fix issues in your story in post-production (i.e. editing).
  • Write what you like. Don’t worry if anyone else will. You won’t ever finish anything you don’t enjoy. Find the whimsy and excitement in your own work first and let others discover it later.
  • Close this page and Just Write!

Dirty Gears and Dirty Streets

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Second preview for our first novel Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow. Enjoy!

Available for Kindle and Print at Amazon.ca and Amazon.com!

***

Chapter 1: Jarret Renette, Seven Days Earlier

 

“The principles of electromagnetism and steam are perhaps the greatest discoveries of our time. Perhaps they are the greatest of all time. Now, the elements held solely in the purview of the Lord and nature are opened to the ingenuity of man. We are seeing a great upheaval of thought fueled by the revolutions of the cog and crank. Never has the destiny of man been so changed since the invention of the wheel.”

~ Alfred Patel at the Third Annual Academic Conference of Bélise

 

With a clap, Lieutenant Jarret Renette of the Queen’s Sixth Battalion slammed shut the pocket watch. It was impossible to shake the dogged anxiety. Not when he was so close to his destination and certainly not when he was already twenty minutes late.

Outside, a great crackle of electricity shot past the window and filled the air with the shock of its passing. The lingering flash echoed in Jarret’s eyes as he blinked the image from his mind. He sniffled at the smell of ozone as it wafted in from the cracked window. He would have shut it entirely but the heat emanating even this far from the engine would be suffocating.

To this is what I am returning, the young ex-soldier thought with a dry smile.

He could see the land outside. The view of the country offered little distraction from the jostling of the grand machine. The land, ostensibly famed for its lush greenery, was a brackish haze smeared across the bubbled pane. Small drops of rain pattered against the glass, causing once familiar beech trees to become twisted and deformed. They were the wracked, skeletal remains of a distant past that Jarret had nearly forgotten.

Jarret turned from the foreign countryside. He peered absently about his cabin, tired eyes drifting over the worn luggage shaking haphazardly upon the shelves overhead. The edges of those cases were frayed and stained with the grime of travel. Each rip and tear spoke a story – one filled with daring and adventure through the telling lips of unmended bullet holes. It was a life far removed from the trimmed morning coats and patterned ascots that they held. Wedged upon the polished brass shelves, those ratty cases were little rugged barbarians invading the pinnacle of refined society.

A cough from the other occupant stirred Jarret from his thoughts. It was a private cabin but, due to the excess of returning men, Jarret was required to share. Though he would have preferred the solitude – a commodity sorely lacking on the crowded ship – he could not find it within himself to say no.

But his fellow traveller hardly made an impression. The passenger still wore his military regalia, identifying him as a lieutenant of the Queen’s Cavalry. Furthermore, he occupied much of his time reading the local paper. It shook in his hands, though Jarret chanced to read the raised name – the Thyrian Chronicle. The front-page article covered, in exacting detail, a recent rash of thefts plaguing the city.

Curiosity led Jarret to browse the opening. After a cursory interview with a man by the dubious title of Grand Arcanist Loaghairne, the columnist proposed his own theory for the thefts: a secret cabal of sorcerers whisking the dining platters of the wealthy for use in disturbing but unknown rituals. Jarret expected to find mention of the Queen’s troops and the war waged for Empire and throne. But such business had already fallen from the interest of the world’s mightiest Empire.

The Lieutenant cleared his throat before folding the paper and tossing it to an empty seat. He regarded Jarret coolly.

It was hard to distinguish his age beneath the well groomed chops and moustache but he certainly was no more than a few years Jarret’s senior. Neither the cavalryman nor infantryman was familiar with the other. Jarret had only known a handful of the mounted troops and most of them did not returned with him.

“We must almost be there,” the Lieutenant spoke.

Jarret nodded, “That is my hope. It seems that even with these mighty inventions, public transport still fails to maintain decent promptness.”

“Punctuality: the lost art,” the cavalryman smiled. He leaned forward, extending a thin hand. “Lieutenant Remuel Bontflore of the Queen’s Third.”

Jarret grasped the man’s hand. Bontflore squeezed firmly – a trait common in the commanding officers.

“Are you on leave?”

Jarret shook his head, patting the head of the cane stretched across his lap.

It had become his closest companion over the long return home. Simple bands of silver reinforced its humble frame and a plain handle topped the polished rosewood. Only a subtle, weaving design etched around the top betrayed its foreign origin that valued small but exacting detail over obsession with progress in the face of propriety. It was the last souvenir Jarret obtained and was one he would keep with him for the rest of his life.

His companion gathered the meaning immediately.

“Forgive me. Most of the men I knew returning were either wrapped in bandages or born in boxes.”

“As were mine,” Jarret said. “I was fortunate that the offending bullet pierced clean through the flesh. Unfortunately, where the weapon failed the jungle succeeded. The physicians said the infection has been practically purged but the damage left shall be permanent.”

“So you were a member of the patrols?”

“Not exactly but we certainly passed through the jungle enough to feel as such. My detachment was entrusted with visiting the villages and ensuring the rebels found no safe haven there.”

“That must have been a most… difficult task. I confess I rarely left the cities as there were few places that accommodated the equestrians. If only we had been trained to ride those fearsome pachyderms like the locals.”

Jarret gave a smile that belied the tinge of horror he felt. Those beasts and their terrible march were impossible to forget.

“I heard stories of some rebels using the beasts in skirmishes. I can only imagine the courage needed to face down that foe.”

“Courage is a remarkable thing. In the moment, it is nearly indistinguishable from foolishness.”

Bontflore nodded. Another shock of electricity cackled, startling both men. They turned, bearing matching childish grins.

“I am certain we must be getting close,” Bontflore said.

Jarret forced himself to leave his pocket watch tucked away.

“I shall not miss this trip.”

“Nor I!” Bontflore laughed. But the smile quickly faded. “It almost pains me to think that the Empire plans to build these machines back there.”

“Considering the beasts they rode, this wouldn’t be as terrible.”

“Save for the smell.”

To accentuate Bontflore’s point, another cackle of electricity burnt ozone into the air.

“Will you miss it?” the lieutenant asked, following Jarret’s gaze towards the window.

Not an unexpected question, but it was one for which Jarret possessed no answer. He had been through much he had no desire to dwell upon again but for three years those jungles had been his life. The world he left behind was now the one that felt strangely foreign.

“I shall never forget it.”

“I often find my thoughts wandering those distant lands. I mean to say, so many months at sea will make any land appealing and while I loathed it while there, those boats forced me to reconsider the jungles with a touch more affection. And now, it seems all I do is try not to dwell on it. It’s been so long but I wonder if I felt this way when I left the isles.”

“There are things I missed,” Jarret said. “From both home and abroad.”

“Oh, truly. However, heading there carried the great sense of adventure. There was wonder and excitement over the unknown. But the return is so…”

“Predictable?”

“Terribly so. It is as if the Empire stood still while we were gone.” Bontflore laughed. “But yet, we say this upon the infamous Lighting Rail. This must be the recollections of world-weary sons.”

“I am sure, given enough time, we shall fall back into the familiar routines.”

“If I stay that long.”

“You plan to return?” Jarret asked.

It was Bontflore’s turn to regard the clouded window. His expression grew distant as if his eyes saw past the countryside and to another land.

“I don’t know if I have truly left. My dreams still carry their exotic aromas. Even the nightmares seem more real than this. I fear I left something behind. Something I must reclaim.”

Bontflore shook his head.

“I must sound like some love-struck poet. The truth is my return to Thyre will surely be limited. Arrangements with my trading partner back east are already made and I shall only oversee our business venture for a short time.

“But what of yourself? Are you happy to be returning?”

Jarret knew he should. But there was something familiar in his companion’s words.

“I, too, have some business to address in the city,” he said. “But I fear mine shall keep me for quite awhile longer. Regardless, I fear I am no longer in much shape for distant voyages.”

“Ah yes, the leg. She certainly left her mark on all of us, hasn’t she? That land was a wild mistress.”

“That she was.”   

The car shook as it thundered along its rails. Gears screeched as metal ground metal. Between the bright shot of sparks, Jarret noticed the pastoral landscape slowly dissolve. A grand road now wove outside, connecting the growing collection of houses. Farms vanished and Jarret could see the dark, smoky bulk of the city looming in the distance.

The capital of the world’s greatest empire, Thyre, did not rise from the ground so much as erupted from it.

Enormous towers scraped the skies, belching thick clouds of dark smoke into the heavens. Two large escarpments rose on either side of the winding rivers running into the endless sea of steeple-roofed homes. Tall, ancient walls surrounded the old city, ineffectual in containing the sprawl. Those walls were legendary for holding back the barbarian hordes. And now, the city had accomplished what dozens of invaders could not.

One cliff-side of the city was covered in the expansive terraces and gardens of the aristocratic estates capping at the great golden domed palace. Across from it, its twin cliff was pock-marked with porous holes from the endless mining in its side. They were the scars of the never ending search for metals smelted and laid out across the old cobbled streets.

With reckless abandon, the train ploughed maddeningly toward that pile of steel and smoke.  

A gurgled, disembodied voice crackled through the cabin as the engineer announced their arrival. With a great lurch the machine’s brakes deployed as a horrific scream – as if the metal beast were screeching its final breath – pierced through the entire cabin. Jarret slumped hard into the seat across from him as his cases crashed upon the floor.

Bontflore was quick with his assistance, retrieving Jarret’s cane and helping the soldier disentangle himself from the fallen luggage. Jarret could feel a flash of anger bite his face but he held back the urge to push the man away.

“We shall leave the trunks,” Jarret said curtly as Bontflore reached for the luggage, “we have almost arrived.”

The engine’s cry lasted the entire descent into the city as the last of the bent trees gave way to cobbled walls. At last the train rolled to a stop amidst a dock of stone and steel. Great cables hung from the girder-lined ceiling like the looping vines of a metal canopy.

Jarret waited until he was sure the machine had stopped before planting his cane heavily against the floor and clambouring to his feet. He turned his attention to the fallen cases, quickly inspecting his things to make sure they survived their fall.

The door shook open and a porter appeared, confused at the bags already waiting upon the floor. Jarret gave a beckoning nod before doffing a simple chimney-pot hat. He waited for the porter to bundle his things before turning to his companion.

“Perhaps we will see each other again, sir,” Bontflore smiled.

“A pleasure,” Jarret nodded. He paused. “Sir Jarret Renette. Perhaps you would be interested in stopping by my estate in the future?”

Bontflore started.

“Forgive me, I was not aware you were a lord,” Bontflore bowed.

“It is unimportant. We are both soldiers. And I dare say, I would not mind a comrade’s visit before he departs the city once again.”

Bontflore smiled, gathering his extravagant walking stick in his hands as he bowed the Lord out.

“I would like that very much.”

The hallway of the car was lightly carpeted and small brass lanterns jutted from the walls between the rowed cabins. The lanterns hissed at Jarret’s passage, the small flames waving their delighted farewell from the gas pumping through the inlaid pipes. Jarret could hear the raucous chatter of homesick boys and men finally returned.

Jarret pulled his pocket watch loose.

“We are near an hour late.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but the machinists are still working out the kinks. We apologize for any inconveniences while riding the Lightning Rail.”

“Have they considered the troubles this could cause the concerning gentleman?”

“Once again, sir, we offer our apologies,” the porter bowed. “But I would like to say that the trip from Dovern could nary be completed within two hours by either carriage or ship. It’s our hope this doesn’t impede your decision to travel with us in the future.”

“Well, it certainly would not be the only thing,” Jarret muttered.

They emerged from the machine and stepped down to the bustling platform. Jarret could feel the hairs on his neck tingle as he passed the energized hull. A footman was waiting to offer his hand and ensure no passenger mistakenly touched the metal. As if bidding farewell, the engine released one last great crackle of energy into the air. The blast struck the retaining rods bolted to the ceiling, discharging harmlessly above the heads of the gasping crowd in a great sheet of forking light.

The train was certainly an experience.

Officers in dusty uniforms shepherded the masses with brass whistles clutched in their teeth. The porter stood apprehensively by Jarret’s side as the gentleman peered about the faceless bodies moving past. Impatiently, he rubbed his sore thigh. The immobility of the journey had caused a terrible cramp to take hold of his leg.

It was just as his crest was falling that a friendly face emerged calling as he strolled forward.

“My word, has there ever been a more haggard visage of a half-dead phantom!”

He was a vibrant gentleman wearing a white wing-tipped shirt beneath a brazen double-breasted vest patterned in bright, swirling emerald and lavender. Great frills poked from the sleeves and collars held barely intact by a mauve cutaway tailcoat. White gloves and a simple black top hat finished the daring ensemble.

“The trip was quite different from that of my departure,” Jarret replied. The two young men embraced. “It is good to see you, sir Theodosius.”

“Ha, such formality is best saved for the unacquainted or the fawning! Come, we have long kept our correspondences during your foolhardy excursion to the wild, far-flung colonies. As I was when you left, still I remain your ever humble Theo.”

“Much has changed my friend but your new-found humility is something even I can not believe.”

“You wound me!” Theo gasped. The gentleman motioned for one of his servants to relieve the porter of his burden then beckoned Jarret through the crowd.

“Come, you must visit my estate at once. My curiosity over your journey will not be satiated until I bear witness to the great trophies of your excursion!”

“I fear I bear little that is worthy of attention,” Jarret confessed, his cane tapping rapidly to keep pace with his friend. “But surely our visitation can wait till after I have caught my breath at my own home?”

“Save such foolish talk. A strapping man like yourself has no need of rest! I simply must hear the story behind this keepsake.”

Theo lightly tapped Jarret’s cane.

Jarret grew quiet.

Theo sensed his companion’s hesitation and paused to examine the mighty Lightning Rail. Despite the lack of electricity, there was still a tangible charge in the air that caused travelers to give the engine a wide berth.

“What are your thoughts? I have yet to ride its magnificent interior. It is the first of its kind, as you undoubtedly know. Works off the principles of electromagnetism put forward by the top scholars of the Academy.”

“Quite the industrious empire we have.”

“Did you not enjoy your ride?”

“We heard tales of the wonder in the jungles,” Jarret related, leaning heavily on his cane. “The officers delighted in the advancements back home and spent many nights discussing the newest curiosities in our weekly rag. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I would have preferred the carriage.”

“Old-fashioned? My boy we are on the cusp of the future and Thyre shall lead the way into a glorious new age! This is a very exciting time for the empire.”

“If it is anything like the factories, I suspect it will be less glamourous than you imagine,” Jarret replied turning and continuing from the platform. “I would be quite pleased if I never saw that contraption again.”

Theo hurried after his friend. They emerged from the busy station to find a solitary carriage awaiting. Jarret’s belongings were already being loaded and the doorman gave a polite bow as the gentlemen approached.

Jarret looked about the street but there were no other persons to greet his arrival. Save for the carriage and the servants, only Theo remained.

“Is this it?”  

“Ah, yes. My apologies but it seems your arrival was a touch untimely. I fear most are involved with a rather important ball at the ha Romonte’s family estate.”

“I see.”

“Their son has just returned from the Far East himself. It seems now is the homecoming of the city’s prodigal children.”

“It is always important to remind one’s self of his place,” Jarret said. He climbed as best he could into the carriage. “I presume, from your presence, your invitation was lost in the mail?”

“Dreadful system we have. It always seems my address is cursed by neglectfulness. I harbour suspicions that no service wishes to travel the length of my boulevard.”

“Ha! Of course. Well, if its length has not become too ungainly since my last visit, I would be delighted to travel such an unfathomable expanse.”

“Our course is settled then. I take it as my personal responsibility to remind you of all the finer things likely forgotten since trampling around your smelly wilderness. It would be my greatest failing if you are not once more overcome with your misplaced patriotism by the time I am finished.”

“Since when did you become an avid supporter of the monarchy?”

“Less Queen and Country, Jarret, it is the women and wine where my loyalty lies. They may be awfully pale, but I am sure they are sweeter than what could be found in your muddy adventures.”

“The women,” Jarret asked, “or the wine?”

“Both. To home!”

***

Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow is available on Kindle or for online reading from all Amazon sites. Canadian customers can find the digital copy here: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Kindle Edition

Paperback versions are also available but only from a limited number of Amazon sections. If you are in Canada, you’ll need to order from Amazon.com. If you’re in the United States then you don’t need to worry! Check it out: Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow Paperback Edition

Hostel Hopping

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We (my intrepid brother and I) have been travelling for a couple of weeks now and outside of two nights spent at a cheap hotel, we have been staying exclusively at hostels. While I confess I have yet to get around to rating or commenting on my stay at the various places, I have been reflecting on what makes a good hostel and how the various establishments stack up.

So rather than worry about making many different reviews, I am going to share them all here and now.

I confess when looking for a hostel I do consider location. I am one of those travelers who wants to find something close to the train or bus station. Why? Well, I am not looking to stay at a fancy resort, I am looking for a place to crash for the night while I explore the local (and generally popular) sites around me. Furthermore, when hefting around massive backpacks in the sweltering heat and humidity of summer you want something that requires less walking.

We had a private room in this hostel that forbade snorers for booking beds in the dorm. As you can see it was two futon on a tatami floor. The privacy was nice!

SPACE Riverhouse Hostel in Nikko is not conveniently located. This interesting little hostel is a solid twenty minutes by vehicle at break-neck speed from the main attractions of Nikko. While the proprietor may consider the distant location an asset, it makes getting to and from the hostel a difficulty. Sure the river setting was nice once you were there, but without a car of our own we were reliant on the shuttle service provided by the hostel. And with only one man running the show, it was … limited.

SPACE Riverhouse used to be an onsen. The evidence clearly shown in the shower area, which is right beside the now empty baths with their artificial stone surrounds. While that was an interesting feature, it certainly didn’t compensate for the few western toilets, at least one of which had a cracked seat. Sadly, this hostel, with barely a kitchen, was in a dilapidated state of disrepair. The best feature by far was the western breakfast made fresh each morning and different too!

According to the American owner SPACE Riverhouse was suffering from a lack of customers. I could certainly believe it. With some further improvements to the facilities and a few more staff, the hostel could have been a great little stop over. This was seen with Dot Hostel in Nagano which had even fewer beds than SPACE Riverhouse (16 versus 24) and still managed to support two staff along with the owner.

This tiny two story house worked in four rooms, two dormitories with six beds each and two private rooms. We were i the mixed gender dorm.

This tiny two story house worked in four rooms, two dormitories with six beds each and two private rooms. We were i the mixed gender dorm.

Dot was an old home converted into a hostel. The beds were extra wide, so you could keep some things (toiletries, electronics) around her space, and fitted with heavy curtains for privacy. The stairs leading up to the mixed dorm were dangerously steep, but that was not my concern with Dot. No, my biggest complaint was the shower, with its lightly frosted glass it lacked a feeling of privacy I usually want in a shower. Even the single toilet for a house of about 16 guests was nothing in comparison. The best features of Dot, were the location close to the main temple in Nagano and the nice kitchen that I wish I had used even more.  

Outside of the location, facilities are another important feature of hostels. The key ones include: toilets (number and style); showers (number and size); kitchens; and of course beds. But facilities can also include the common rooms; laundry; front desk support; luggage storage; security and air conditioning (important summer issue). For toilets, I am looking for a western throne. Something on which I can sit. Keyaki Hostel in Sendai had only one western toilet and three Japanese squatters, a ratio I was not fond of. Sometimes you just want to sit down. And when you do sit, leg room is nice to have – mark against Akari Hostel, Nagano for nearly no knee space.

Showers with a separate space for changing are the best. These are made even better with a few small additions: a basket for your clothes or hooks on the wall. Akari Hostel in Nagasaki had my second least favourite shower as only a curtain separated the washing space from the changing space. This meant that the changing area was often damp. =(

Akari Hostel - an eight bed mixed dorm. I only ever take pictures of the sleeping room in a hostel (well generally.).

Akari Hostel – an eight bed mixed dorm. I only ever take pictures of the sleeping room in a hostel (well generally.).

Kitchens are important when you plan on staying multiple nights in one place. In fact it was one of the principal features that separates a hostel from any other type of accommodation. Obviously some places have better kitchens than others, but the lack of a cooktop (stove or hotplate) at the Yakushima Youth Hostel really disappointed me. We were staying there for four nights, on an island with few restaurant options, and had anticipated an actual kitchen. As such I had actually bought food for cooking before we officially checked in and discovered the partial kitchen status of the hostel. I made scrambled eggs in the microwave for the first (and hopefully last) time there. Then there are kitchens that lack some seemingly obvious equipment. Khaosan Origami in Tokyo has an adequately sized kitchen with large fridge and two stove tops. However, it lacks a spatula and can opener. The absence of a spatula as taught me that I can flip pancakes with chopsticks – my new talent!

Since the purpose of the hostel is to provide a place to stay for the night, beds are rather crucial. Some are comfortable, most are adequate and a few I will be happy to never see again. Since making and stripping your bed every night is tedious, staying in one location for several nights in a row is highly appealing. But if you are doing this, then space is an even greater concern. Most dorms have some sort of bunk system. I think my favourite has either custom made bunks or cubbies. In both cases the beds are raised higher for the person on the bottom to have enough head space to sit up on the bed. Wider bunks provide storage space for toiletries, clothes or bags. Hooks and hangers are important for hanging towels to dry and dark curtains block out light and create a sense of privacy. Rooms with only four beds can get by without the curtains, but it is nice anyway.

K's Oasis in Takayama. These beds are a cross between a capsule and a bunk, they are cubbies!

K’s Oasis in Takayama. These beds are a cross between a capsule and a bunk, they are cubbies!

Common rooms are a place to meet other travellers and hang out socially in the evenings. The size and arrangement of the space varies from one establishment to another. K’s Oasis in Takayama had a beautiful common room adjoining the well equipped kitchen. It had an end with tables for eating and another end with sofas for lounging. It was a great set up, only it was little too small for the number of beds in the hostel. Too small an area, means few people are able to linger and that changes the overall atmosphere of the hostel.

Laundry is only relevant if you are travelling for an extended period of time. For my winter trip of two weeks, I didn’t bother with laundry. It is summer however, and we are travelling for longer than two weeks and sweating far more in the constant heat. Laundry is important. Price is variable as is the quality of the equipment. I have had so many problems with laundry machines not working as they should. I have spent 600 yen to complete one load of laundry, where 400 yen was required to dry the clothes in 10 min cycles. Another time, the washer didn’t spin dry properly so I was left to wring out each garment by hand before hanging it to dry. Laundry can be a challenge at times.

Having friendly, knowledgeable staff manning the front counter is obviously a draw. It also helps if they can provide quick assistance in locating food (restaurants or grocery stores), using public transport and of course a streamlined rundown on the rules of the establishment.

The cubbies in Khaosan Origami Tokyo. What you don't see is that each bed also came with a good sized lock box and two numbered hangers! Good thing, as we spent more nights here than anywhere else!

The cubbies in Khaosan Origami Tokyo. What you don’t see is that each bed also came with a good sized lock box and two numbered hangers! Good thing, as we spent more nights here than anywhere else!

Finally, as a personal preference, I do like the places which have a shoe cupboard in the front entrance and a shared slipper box beside it. I am fond of walking around in socks or bare feet and that is just nice to do over floors that are not covered with grit and grime from the great outdoors.

With all these different criteria, how did my hostels stack up?

Coming out on top I would say that K’s in Kyoto is one of the best. Hana Hostel in Kyoto was also really good, except the air conditioner died in the middle of the night and the room was sweltering and too unbearable to remain in by 4am. K’s Oasis in Takayama was another excellent establishment as is Khaosan Origami in Tokyo (where I am currently) – even though the kitchen lacks a spatula and can opener.

Though to be fair, all of the places we have stayed have been fine. Just some have had more distinct negatives than others. So overall, Japan rates Good on the Hosteling experience.

 

Kevin’s ranking in stars (out of 5):

Smile Hotel – Utsunomiya *

SPACE Riverhouse Hostel – Nikko ***

Dot Hostel – Nagano ****

Backpackers Matsuyado Hostel- Matsumoto ***

K’s Oasis Hostel – Takayama *****

*Night Bus! (Nagoya to Sendai) 0

Keyaki Hostel – Sendai ***

K’s Hostel – Kyoto *****

Green Guest House – Kagoshima ****

Yakushima Youth Hostel – Yakushima/Miyoura ***

Akari Hostel – Nagasaki ***

Hana Hostel – Kyoto *****

Khaonsan Origami – Tokyo *****

Keyaki in Sendai. It has tatami floors and bunks - not actually exciting.

Keyaki in Sendai. It has tatami floors and bunks! If only the bunks were not so shaky.

Matsushima Ah! Part Two

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In comparison to Entsu-in, Zuigan-ji was rather disappointing. But we were expecting this with all the construction signs around. We purchased our ticket at the vending machine–a first for temples that I’ve ever seen–but still had to present them at the gate thus rendering our own fumbling with the foreign machine rather pointless. We took what peeks we could at the main hall behind its fence and passed through the gate to the only attraction we were allowed entrance. A security officer stood guard which made me worried as he kept a keen eye that all guests removed their shoes. I’m travelling with my hardy boots and… well, let’s just say that the odour trapped in them after a full day’s walking could knock out an ox. Apparently, we hadn’t explored enough as the guard was still left conscious, but I did slip my boots off and shove them as far from any other shoes on the off chance someone called biohazard disposal and I had to return home barefoot.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.The building we could explore served as the old kitchen and service building for the monks. Apparently the relics from the main hall had been moved for displaying here but all the signs were in kanji so we couldn’t read them. We took plenty of photos, snapping a few of the hall under construction out the window as we passed. There was a hooded passage that connected to a secondary hall in the back of the ground and here we came across a wide room with intricately painted doors. These, as it turns out, were replicas but were also a major feature of Zuigan-ji. At one time they had been gold leafed and brilliantly coloured with expensive dyes possibly as a sign of the prosperity of the sect. However, after centuries of exposure to the public and the elements, they were severely damaged. Thus, the temple decided that, after restoring them, they would store the original doors in a museum and put up the industrial printed ones instead.

The hall itself held statues of the founding fathers of Zuigan-ji, a statue of Kannon (the buddha of mercy) and some funerary repository for… someone important in history. We only learned this because a tour group came in behind us and we eavesdropped on their explanation. I also took the time to read the brochure that was handed to us at the gate.

After the tour, we wandered across a hidden street behind a low stone overhang. We skirted another temple complex (which I took a photo of before noticing the dreaded “No Photo” signs) and climbed a small hill up to a very ornate squat mausoleum. I recognized the momoyama style from my time in Nikko with its near excessive use of ornamentation and gold leaf. It’s quite the contrast to the often austere design of Zen Buddhism and the bright reds, oranges and greens (kept in top condition by the dutiful monks) really contrasts the unblemished black of its walls and supports.

Naturally, we documented every inch of it. Special detail was given to the “elephant” heads that looked more like some madman’s fevered dream than any animal which walked on earth.

We then doubled back to Zuigan-ji proper, wandered into the museum to learn the actual history and relevance of all the stuff we saw before retracing our steps back to the food trucks of Matsushima. Outside of two brief stops, we were nearly done and we still had an hour or two of touring to go. We crossed two bridges to a nearby island with a famous viewing spot. I was especially carefully crossing the second bridge which was reduced to two blanks left carelessly over the exposed cross beams beneath our feet. I wondered how many people slipped and dropped cameras and phones down the rather large cracks then tried to not wonder about that at all as I held my camera in a death grip.

This island was especially busy with tourists, all eager to get their photos at the famous spot. Kait and I took pictures of the small wooden and very weathered shrine that had a carving for each year of the Chinese Zodiac along its walls. I took ample time to sit and rest my sore feet as we debated our next move. After a good ten minutes, enough space opened for us to squeeze in and snap a few hasty headshots of the bay. We then wandered back the way we came heading for Kait’s much anticipated tea house.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.It was remarkable only in how much it disappointed. Our guide paper said it was one of the few remaining original buildings from Date Masamune’s period but you wouldn’t have been able to tell if they hadn’t put a large sign at its entrance. We had to spend three dollars each to enter and there was basically nothing inside. There were to tearooms selling overpriced cups of steaming disillusionment brought to you by dolled up ladies in kimonos hoping that either they or the wide view of a bunch of private jet boats would distract you from your expensive hot water. A long table on the far side of the building sold the typical kitsch you’d expect from festival tents or seedy knock-off vendors. There was a “museum” of sorts that had a grand total of five displays. The only one of interest was a map of the bay with the standard lights and control panel to highlight the areas of interest. Of course, only half the buttons worked and everything was illegible. But what made the map most interesting was that it was painted and assembled at the bottom of a fourteen foot hole right in the middle of the room. Neither Kait nor I could guess why it existed and least of all in the dingy backroom of a tiny tourist trap. The icing on the cake was a security camera place prominently over the displays that gave you the sensation you had stepped into a deathtrap horror movie rather than viewing a collection worthy of even a locked door.

We left quickly.

By now we were ravenous and Kait was her usual indecisive self. So, I suggested that we keep an eye out for sushi places on the way back and, if we didn’t find any, we could go to the kaitenzushi restaurant that she knew of in the shopping arcade. Naturally, we didn’t find anything so we were back on the ear popping train ride through the tunnels to Sendai. We were nearly running to the restaurant, stopping only to confirm from the menu outside that this sushi would, indeed, be delivered by conveyor belt.

We were seated quickly and waiting with great anticipation as the first of the coloured plates rolled by. I had already instructed Kait on how these establishments work–the cost of your plate is determined by the coloured design printed on it. At the end, the server would come by and tally your bill by your dishes. Naturally, being the frugal creatures that we were, we opted to stick to the one dollar plates alone.

Except, everything that rolled by was upwards of five to eight dollars. I wracked my brain for how you would order a specific item on the menu from the chefs stationed right in front of us, but thankfully a few tuna salad rolls started to make their rounds. It quickly became apparent the reason for our drought of affordable options was due to a pair of high school students sitting further down the line. They had mountains piled by their elbows as they spoke and I tried not to glare with resentment as they snatched salmon sushi before it had a chance to even experience the world.

We probably ended up sitting there for close to an hour as options that we could actually stomach were eventually rolled out (and carried our way once the schoolkids packed it and left). Kait bemoaned how unfilling the sushi was as she glanced anxiously at her accumulating pile. I tried to calmly remind her that we usually go to sushi buffets back in Canada, so obviously it would take us a great deal to fill up on it. In Kait’s growing starvation and desperation, she grabbed one of the gray plates instead of the yellow. I commented on her expensive tastes as she realized with dawning horror that she had picked up a six dollar option.

She then tried to sneak it back before I yelled at her.

To assuage her guilt, she shared half of it with me. It was a fatty tuna sushi (easy to mix up with the cheap cut of tuna we were normally eating) but the one bite we had explained the difference in price. It was fresh, tasty and incredibly easy to digest. Oh to eat that by the plate would be kingly! Or it would, at the very least, take a king’s ransom.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.However, because we were in the restaurant for so long, I was able to answer a mystery that had been plaguing me. While watching the same plate of squid roll around and around, I wondered what the store did with food no one clearly wanted. Eventually, the chef took the plate from the belt but instead of throwing it out, he swapped the offering to a cheaper plate. It was picked up within two passes afterwards.

It struck me that, if you truly wanted a fine meal, you would probably want to come when the place was near to closing. Perhaps the desperation to offload all their food (since sushi doesn’t really keep overnight) would see a lot of options at a significantly reduced price.

Either that, or all they’re making at that hour is egg sushi.

By the end, the damage was pretty light and about one thousand and five hundred yen apiece (about fifteen dollars). Course, Kait was still grumbling about how hungry she was so we packed things up and returned home so she could snack on goodies we had stored in the fridge all the while feeling guilty about eating so much.

Upon reflection, we should really do a better job of not skipping lunch on our trips.

Pauline Pearl – Shichi Go San was a festival created due to high rates of infant mortality so parents brought their children to shrines at ages 3, 5 and 7 to thank the gods their kid lived that long and appeal to them to make it to the next age.

Matsushima Ah! Part 1

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Sure, you all are probably thinking, “Man, three months in Japan. That must be really nice.” Well, I’ll have you know this isn’t some spring time in Waikiki. Not only do I have a novel I must write within the month but I also have to make Kait’s bed in the evening. Sometimes I even help with the dishes or carry groceries! It’s a real challenge, I tell you. I’m not certain how I make it through the day.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

Kait loves her drainage systems!

That said, with our weekend jaunts, I have extra work to do during the week so I don’t fall behind on those days we’re out of town. Mostly, this is an explanation for why the journal entries are late. I’m doing them, they’re just second place to getting my main work finished. That, and actually seeing Japan.

Of all the places near Sendai, there was really only one that I had to see. I even warned Kait that she had to take me here. It didn’t matter how many period houses I had to see to make it happen. For, you see, Japan is pretty bottom heavy in regards to its major attractions. The bright lights of Tokyo, the ancient cultural hotbed of Kyoto and even the modern travesty and revival of Hiroshima happens almost along the exact same latitudinal line. If you’ve heard of it, chances are it is down in the Kansai-Kanto region. Kait, however, had the gall to get placed up in Tohoku. This would be the equivalent of taking a trip to the United States and deciding that Minnesota would make a good base camp.

There is that exception, however. That one spot that I had longed to visit when I was first here in 2010. But no matter how I tried, I couldn’t arrange a visit to the eponymous Matsushima Bay. But why did I want to travel here? Let me leave it to Japan’s resident poet laureate to explain:

Matsushima ah!

A-ah, Matsushima, ah!

Matsushima, ah!

~ Matsuo Basho, 1644-1694

And you thought our haiku was bad.

Matsushima was held as one of the Three Great Views of Japan. If you didn’t know already, Japan loves making lists. But the Three Great Views stands in stark contrast to the others for being the original that made popular the short rankings. It has the equivalent cachet of visiting the Seven Wonders (and I mean the listing that doesn’t put the Pyramids of Giza as an honourable mention). The other two views are the floating torii gate of Itsukushima (of which you can see my head plastered over if you are so interested) and the sandbar of Amanohashidate (scheduled for our December travel bonanza). While the floating torii was of prime importance to me, Matsushima was always a close second and only because of its supposed grandeur.

Course, as I espoused my eagerness, Kait was quick to temper my expectations.

“It’s mostly like Georgian Bay.”

Well, it was a cloudy Saturday that we decided to make the trip. The nice thing about Matsushima was that it’s just outside of Sendai. Give it a few more decades and I won’t be surprised if the northern capital eventually subsumes the coastal locale in  the inexhaustible expansion of modernity. But fortunately for me, given its geographical location and shape, Matsushima had emerged relatively unscathed from the 2011 earthquake. While I didn’t expect it to still be rubble, I had concerns whether sites would be open or not.

“Don’t worry,” Kait assured, “the only places that are closed are ones that were falling apart before the earthquake happened.”

Of course. Never change, Japan. It wouldn’t be the same touring within your borders if you didn’t have some famous place fenced off and hidden behind steel scaffolding.

As it was Kait scheduling this trip, we had yet another tight schedule ahead of us. She was a little disappointed in her first trip to the word-snatching bay. She saw only a couple of expensive bridges and had to spend the entire time with Pauline. So, with full control of the itinerary, Kait was determined to get to the places she didn’t see and this meant a seven o’clock rise so we could hurry down and catch the train to arrive in Shiogama by nine.

Shiogama isn’t technically part of Matsushima, though given that it’s a bay it does have some of the scattered weather beaten islands filling its harbour. We weren’t there to see any of that, however. Kait force marched us behind the only other Japanese person with a backpack and bucket hat in search of Shiogama Shrine. This is a shrine complex over 1200 years old and dedicated to protecting fishermen and safe childbirth. It’s a bit of a tall order for a country that loves roe on their sushi. Fifteen of its buildings are labeled Important Cultural Treasures by the Japanese government and are also stinking old. It’s a place of startling beauty and tranquillity, uplifted from the busy city streets by a flight of worn, two hundred year old steps that have shifted and grown into a steep, uneven climb beneath the ubiquitous Japanese pines.

Kait couldn’t care, however, because she was too entranced by the city’s covered ditches.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

Not pictured: the intense staircase.

We passed a father and son running up and down the steps, the poor father probably going to be left immobile by noon from all the climbing. The shrine itself was quite clean and orderly. It was in fantastic condition and much larger than Kait and I expected. This naturally led to us spending nearly an hour poking around its grounds, taking pictures of stone cows and clam shells the size of a rambunctious child. We saw some couples parading their dressed up children for the 7-5-3 Festival that seems to run for most the month of October. It was only as we were exiting the south gate and heading towards the gentle decline for the old ladies to reach the shrine that Kait informed me our boat was leaving in ten minutes.

Apparently, the original plan had been to poke around the shrine for twenty or so minutes before taking a ferry up through the islands of Matsushima (Ah!). However, the ferry only left every hour and if we missed the one she scheduled, Kait was uncertain we’d be able to see everything that she wanted.

We hurried through the streets, stopping for the sparse route markers and heading down random streets. After a few missteps and waiting for a light before a kindly local pressed the walk button for us, we arrived at the dock just in time to see the ferry casting off.

Well, damn.

We debated waiting for the next ferry but a look around the tiny “market” at the dock convinced us that it wasn’t worth delaying our day by two hours. Taking the train to Matsushima proper would still take about forty minutes, however, so we dejectedly retraced our steps to the station.

At least this gave us the opportunity to dig into our meagre trail mix supply. Since, you know, if we were being honest with ourselves we knew we wouldn’t be eating lunch today.

The train was as busy as one would expect for a prominent tourist spot on the first day of a weekend. We shuffled out of the crowded train and down the narrow steps into the tiny train station. We weren’t quite sure which direction we were headed and Kait was far too shy to ask anyone, so we mostly found a couple of determined tourists and followed them until coming across a guide map of the area. There was only one island Kait was going to take me to and it was solely because it was free.

We walked past what remained of the Matsushima Aquarium (everything was apparently moved to Sendai after the place was damaged during the earthquake). The route wasn’t particularly well marked and we ended up wandering through some random parking lots until we spotted the bright red bridge to a small pine covered island. We snapped our shots (as we always do) and poked around the small paths crisscrossing the island. Apparently these places were used as burial locations for the nearby temples and shrines over the years. Many alcoves had been cut into the rock with wedged epitaphs or stone statues filling their interiors. And, outside of the shrines and buddha statues, the place was as Kait described: very reminiscent of Georgian bay with its wind cleaved rock and scraggly trees wrapping their thin roots about the sharp stones. Leaves scattered across the ground while catboats cut the mirror top of the bay in their lazy circles. We found a park bench and enjoyed the pack snacks while reminiscing of sunset watching, roasting marshmallows and sleeping in tents. It’s beautiful but it’s not unique.

We poked around the island some more, snapping pictures of bleached white trees before finally giving up on the location. Kait was eager to get to the temples that she passed up the first time. We discussed meal options as we walked, likely prompted by the number of food cars parked in the centre of the waterfront park. We were hopeful to eat some sushi since Kait hadn’t truly had any since arriving in Japan. We figured that a port town like Matsushima must have some easy to find conveyor belt sushi.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

Welcome to Georgian Bay!

We were wrong. It seems the place is more obsessed with its oysters than its fish. And neither Kait or I had any interest to indulge in that local delicacy.

But this was only of passing concern as we passed the restaurants outside the park to Zuigan-ji.

Kait warned me that Zuigan-ji–a prominent Rinzai Zen Buddhist temple–had been damaged in the 2011 earthquake and was under repair. I hadn’t expected this to include the walk to the temple, as a great fence separated the large tree lined path that beeped from bulldozers plowing its ground. The park was ringed not by buildings but a small cleaved hill with more rock carvings and burial markers for the temple’s graveyard. We snapped pictures as we went along, trying our best not to obstruct the other tourists eager to see the old National Treasures.

We puttered around the entrance of Zuigan-ji while Kait decided how we were going to explore this area. There are several temple complexes in the area but she was interested primarily in two: Entsu-in and Zuigan-ji. Reading some of the signs we learned that workers were currently addressing Zuigan-ji’s main hall and square. To make up for this closure (and to justify their ticket prices not being discounted) the temple had opened up one of the adjoining halls typically restricted to temple staff. There was also a showing of the mausoleum for Date Masamune’s wife, though apparently its opening was unrelated to the work going on.

Kait opted to explore Entsu-in first. It was a much smaller complex renown for its garden grounds. I should correct that: it was very renown. We had hardly paid our tickets and taken several steps inside before we were crushed in a mass of gawking bodies. A long, ponderous and shuddering line wove its way through the stone paths with hidden hands lifting cameras and tripods at every turn.

We joined in, taking what pictures we could of the rock garden. I’m assuming this was Kait’s first and it’s a shame that she had to experience it in a rushed and crowded manner. I actually quite enjoyed viewing the meditation gardens in Kyoto when there were less people and I had the luxury to sit beneath the eaves and take in the meticulously manicured piece beneath pregnant clouds. The experience is significantly less when you have people bumping into you and you’re pushed to the tightest corners of the walkway.

Things improved as we ventured deeper into the grove and the trees rose up around us as a carpet of tended moss stretched between their roots. We found ourselves before the primary attraction: Date Masamune’s grandson’s mausoleum. It was small and relatively understated, at least from the outside. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a good look at the interior with the amount of people gathering before it so I missed the little decorative details that slyly hinted at the young man’s Christianity during a time when the religion faced persecution.

We wandered the rest of the grounds which were dedicated to gravesites than enlightening tranquility. Kait looked for a yew tree or something to little success and we descended a staircase sheltered with tall bamboo stalks into the rose garden. And, in Kait’s own words, “I don’t like rose gardens.”

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.There was a heart shaped fountain which, if you prayed before it, you got good luck or a healthy sex life or something. Really, the reason we were stopping at every spot was because Kait was looking for the fabled location where we could make our own rosaries. We finally found a hall with several shoes in boxes outside and what looked suspiciously like groups of tourists crouched on the floor and poking in boxes. Of course, there wasn’t any English, so Kait fretted and dithered, unsure whether she should ask or whether we should just leave altogether.

She eventually decided to enquire over the thirty dollar bracelet option. She poked her head inside, prompting a worker to shuffle nervously over. When it was clear Kait was only going to be speaking English, the younger worker was waved over and we were brought to a corner of the room. There, we were to measure our wrists against a pile of sample bracelets. I didn’t know this at the time but Buddhist rosaries come in specific bead sets. Typically they’re a denomination of 108 unless you have weird wrists like mine then there’s an option to settle for twenty-two beads and consider it close enough. Once sized, we were instructed to pick out a central bead that would be unique from the others. Then we had to pick two small beads that had to match but, once again, had to be unique to everything else. After that, we were given free reign to design our rosaries however we want.

Kait elected for a subtle orange and black design. I initially was tempted towards the darker colours–which surely comes as a surprise to everyone. However, I decided that I should try something different. I picked up the white stones veined with grey striations and attempted to make something pleasing to the eye that would also not be all gloomy. Kait wrapped hers up while I was still poking and prodding over half my design. Invariably, I roped her into assisting since she has loads of experience doing crafty stuff. Surely, I reasoned, that would mean she had a good head for colour balance.

The consequence of my nagging, however, meant that Kait forgot to take photos of the activity. Eventually, I settled on a combination I could live with. It wasn’t brilliant but at this time my legs were killing me as we were sitting in seiza since neither of us wanted to stand out amongst the others dutifully making their own buddhist bracelet. So, knees cracking as we stood, we shuffled to the small table where one of the workers sat. She tied and glued them together and rang our purchase. Then she waved over the older woman who, surprisingly, worked through the meaning of the bracelets as best she could in English. It wasn’t… the most coherent but Kait at least understood that she was naming which stones and giving a general idea of what they convened. I discovered that the more different types of stones you slapped on your string, the more positive benefits you apparently would receive. So, while Kait and I both shared good business fortune, I was also blessed with better health and two kinds of stress and anxiety free living!

Woohoo, Kevin wins again!

So if you ever end up in Entsu-in (which I would recommend since, as I commented to the old lady in a kimono who stopped us on the way out, the garden is very lovely) and you elect to make your own bracelet, try to slip as many coloured beads as you can around your wrist. It may look gaudy but at least the universe will smile on you!

And despite our Scottish nature, Kait was all grins leaving the temple with the rosaries in hand. They certainly made a unique souvenir!

 

 

Anatawa so Sou Sou Sou Part 2

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After the disappointment of Buried Rooster Mound, we followed Pauline to the local onsen. When a departing elderly man politely informed us this probably wasn’t our destination, he gave us some confusion directions to the Visitor Centre which had been our goal. Between the three of us and over the span of ten minutes, we finally gathered his pointing and headed in the opposite direction.

The Cultural Heritage Centre wasn’t the prettiest building on the outside but it had a pretty comprehensive (if small) exhibit. Generally I avoid going to these centres when I travel because I feel they don’t offer many good photography moments. On the other hand, this one did a good job of explaining why Hiraizumi got chosen as a World Heritage Site (and not because of the 2011 earthquake, contrary to Pauline’s theory). There were quite a few pictures and accounts of the “Kyoto of the North” that was the brainchild of an overly optimistic buddhist clan called Fujiwara who thought they could create a centre of learning and the arts square in the middle of the warring states era. Apparently all that gold they found nearby and their reluctance to swear fealty to any of the neighbouring warlords isn’t the best combination for starting a pious Switzerland in terrain that’s easily traversed by armies.

Apparently the Minamoto invaders were so distraught over the ruination of the beautiful Pure Lands that they vowed to protect the city and try to keep its splendor alive. That the Heritage sites are two reconstructed gardens and two ruined ones gives a good idea over how concerned they really were.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

So happy!

The two workers at the front desk informed us (in basic Japanese that I could understand despite Pauline’s uncertainty) that the rear of the Cultural Heritage Centre had several interactive displays. Kait and Pauline dressed up in the bureaucratic robes of old timey Hiraizumi officials. Pauline dressed up as a boy because it’s better (obviously) and Kait fulfilled a lifelong dream of wearing a costume kimono. Then, they clambered inside an old carriage, tried a weird instrument that looked like an upside down circular pan flute and even attempted some weaving. I mostly stood on my blistered feet trying to forget how hungry I was.

By the time we finished at the Centre, Kait checked her watch just in time to start panicking about our schedule. The original plan was to take the scenic stroll along the walking path back to the station so we could grab some bicycles and head to the temple outside of town. However, the bike ride itself was about an hour to get there and we only had a little over two hours to see two major temples still in the main city. Thus, she charged us past the restaurants yet again as we headed to the furthest flung Chuuson-ji. We couldn’t cut this place out, however, as it was pretty much the only authentic still standing collection of buildings left from the ancient glory days.

And it was clearly the main attraction as tour buses lined the suddenly wide street and packs of people meandered up the wide flagged stone walkway. We debated where we should enter–whether through the old torii gate marked on the map or the very lovely manicured pathway winding its way up the hill and choked with visitors. We opted for the pathway mostly due to proximity and a fleeting hope that we could still see everything.

The path up to Chuuson-ji was very nice. Enormously tall Japanese cedars lined the route and blocked out the rusted town that surrounded it. Numerous small shrines and viewing areas branched off the side (as well as the main entrance we noted with chagrin). Despite the number of people, everything was orderly and clean. Even old stone roofing lay neatly and free of leaves in piles off the path. Kait paused at all the small shrines so she could pray–as she is want to do. And as we got to the temple complex proper, we found small covered stalls with enormous flowers (apparently chrysanthemums), manicured bonzai trees, and large shield shaped flower garlands. Apparently, we were on the tail end of a seasonal festival and though we missed the stall food, we could still enjoy everything submitted for the competitions.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.Unfortunately, we ran into the large Chinese tourist group and I had to fight to get some decent pictures of the newer temple buildings that weren’t swarming with strangers. We sort of meandered through the complex, looking for the fabled gilded hall. After a few false starts, we found a rather severe concrete structure selling tickets. We managed to parse that it was both a ticket office and museum. But we were on a schedule and skipped the museum to follow the picket fence to where the famous gilded hall lay.

Much to our disappoint, the great treasure of Hiraizumi–Konjiki-do–was housed in a very plain cement box of a structure. Many “No Photo” signs were hung about, irritating me to no end. This was one of the original 1100 structures and was a gold leafed mausoleum that housed the remains of the Fujiwara elders. We showed our tickets then slipped behind the wall of people ogling the travesty.

First, when I think hall, I picture a structure you could actually stand in. Granted, I’m probably much taller than the monks bobbing around in the twelfth century, but there would be no way I could enter this thing with a modicum of dignity. You’d have to shuffle around on your knees, careful to not bang your head on the golden tie beams and dent over a million dollars worth of damage. It’s also packed full of squat statues on a raised dais, presumably some sort of representation for the bodies I can only presume are all shoved Tetris-like beneath their feet.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.Oh, and all this is kept under poor lighting and behind an inch of glass. Needless to say, I couldn’t find a good angle to steal some photographs of the bashful golden dead though Kait bravely found a spot and took her first illicit photo! I’m so proud of her.

We filed out of the small cement box and moved to the sutra repository–a wood relic that has been stripped of any valuables but at least the logs are old! The old shrine that housed the mausoleum was open and we poked around inside its empty hall, marvelling at the weird stickers that have a habit of accumulating in Japanese temples and trying to appreciate the old paintings hanging on the walls while our fingers grew cold in the lengthening day.

By this time we’d resolved ourselves to just one more site, so we spent a little time poking around for the outdoor Noh stage and even taking a minute to whirlwind through the museum and its handful of random items.

We gave up on the walking path and booked it as fast as our sore, worn feet could to Moutsuu-ji. This was the site of one of the four gardens of Pure Land Hiraizumi and was one that was reconstructed. Though, I feel they used the term lightly. We arrived forty minutes before closing so the place was pretty empty when we entered. The sky was beginning to darken with the first hints of encroaching night. My batteries had died up at Chuuson-ji, so I spent the first while trying to find some that worked. Once again, the perks of Kait’s new camera ensured that we had lots of pictures of samey looking temples despite me being out of service.

Moutsuu-ji is only about a quarter of its original size. Little remains of its layout, with the main hall and two ancillary halls situated around the garden. I won’t confess to having any clue about the design or intentions of buddhist gardening, which is a simple confession to make since even Japanese scholars don’t fully understand what inspired Moutsuu-ji’s… unique design. The main feature of the grounds is a large, gangly pond with a tiny peninsula jutting up from its southern bank and about four rocks clustered in a small shoal on its left side. A few trees poke around its perimeter but judging how they burst from the old stone pathways, I doubt they were an original feature.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.Otherwise Moutsuu-ji is a collection of a dozen empty plots with white markers listing what once stood there. You really have to stretch your imagination to picture what the place was. It’s much like the first empty hall we visited. It’s basically Rome all over again. Whatever rich heritage was here has long given up to the earth and grass. However, unlike Rome, it’s clear that the inhabitants would have loved to keep their old buildings. The recurring story amongst the signs I could read told of careless fires or structures being destroyed during periods of conflict. Decade by decade, Hiraizumi was picked down to its barest bones. The one bright spot is that the Japanese are not adverse to reconstructions–and they usually adhere to traditional design and building methods when they do them. Perhaps, one day, Hiraizumi will arise like the phoenix from its muddy ashes but as it is now, you have to squint really hard to overlay the artistic renditions over the gaping spaces scattered about the town.

The peace and tranquility, however, inspired us to write our own haiku with each of us contributing a solitary line:

 

Ducking mosquitoes,

you need seven syllables,

overhead the clouds break.

 

I think it puts Basho to shame.

After completing our circuit of Moutsuu-ji, it was time to head back home. By now, having near nothing to eat, I was ravenous and tired. While the girls once again tried to sort tickets for our train (assisted by a very helpful young Japanese man who kindly took charge of speaking with the ticket office to figure out our lines), I snacked on what little food Kait had brought with us. I also nursed the small package of Halloween Smarties gifted by Pauline who only upon arriving in Japan realized how poor an idea of loading up a bunch of children with sugar would be. By the time we had our route sorted, night was fully upon us and we shivered at the train platform.

Pauline and Kait rudely sat on the old, pregnant disabled seats while I properly clutched at the handrail until we made our transfer in Ichinosaki. We boarded a tiny two car seat filled to the brim with high school students (don’t ask me what they were doing all Saturday in their uniforms because it was probably boring) but kept piping warm with the heaters right beneath our butts. We saw only one person in costume board and it was a young guy sporting a half decent Baron Samedi type outfit which we all tried to admire without staring.

Though the snacks had staved off my hungry, I was getting really grumpy by the time we rolled into Sendai. Unfortunately, Pauline was dead set on going to this fabulous little eatery in Izumi that she neglected to mention was a forty minute walk from the train station. As we prowled the dark streets, passing one restaurant after another and listening to Pauline prattle on about how Germany invented daylight saving time to save oil during World War II (they didn’t if you were considering fact checking), I was told repeatedly that the restaurant was “just a little farther.”

I could tell Kait was even getting annoyed when she started commenting on random noodle places as looking good. This is the girl who confessed to having survived on yaki-soba for her first two months. We finally came to an Indian restaurant completely empty of customers. The owner greeted us first in Japanese then in English. He was more than happy to serve us directly and mentioned how glad he was to see Pauline returning. Kait ended up taking a cowardly level three of spice in her order. I had to ask how spicy level five was and was told that it was Japanese hot. My expression must have said everything since he followed-up that they offer up to level fifteen off the menu. I don’t know why, but I elected to go with twelve.

I found mine rather mild so I can only imagine how plain Kait’s was. She was even emboldened enough to try my curry and, while hotter than she’d prefer, she said she would order hotter if we returned. All three of us got an enormous piece of naan to eat with our dishes (I had chicken) and, overall, it was both a filling and (relatively) tasty meal and also made me suspect that Pauline wasn’t vegetarian.

Once done, my feet were past protesting and nearing outright rebellion as we had to double back the entire distance to return home. Pauline filled that space with a story of Japan’s rice famine that required America to step in and force them to stop exporting all their rice so they could feed their own population (I couldn’t even narrow this down at all in the history books to figure out what she meant to describe). Kait and I walked in mostly silence. By the time we waved her goodbye and arrived back in Kait’s tiny apartment, I had enough energy to peel my stinky shoes off and pass out in bed.

My feet were going to really be suffering in the morning.

Pauline Pearl – Sou sou sou means shut up.

I Love You sou Shut Up Part 1

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Hold the phone, people! I’ve got some exciting news! Kait and I made the most astounding, unexpected discovery.

We’ve found the Japanese Rome.

Let me take you on a journey. It all begins on October 31st, otherwise known as All Hallow’s Eve. For most, this day involves candlelit pumpkins, elaborate and often morbid costumes as well as copious amounts of sugar as though our society sorely needs a critical mass of Type 1 diabetes. There’s probably discussion of ghouls, goblins and the like. I had something far more terrifying.

I had an early six o’clock wake up.

You see, after Kait took me to see Yama-dera, reserved the fabled Loople Bus for Tuesday and planned a jaunt to Matsushima for the next weekend, we’d all but exhausted the delights and wonders of Miyagi-ken: Kait’s home prefecture. Thus, we were headed north to Iwate prefecture. This place may or may not ring any bells for it was the centre of the 9.0 scale earthquake of 2011 that devastated Japan. Needless to say, Iwate was the prefecture hardest hit, damaging nearly all the prefecture’s piers and fishing boats and inflicting more than three hundred yen worth of damage to the area’s primary industry: fishing.

To put any early concerns at ease, however, we were not planning on spending any time near the ocean. This little historical tidbit simply helps explain the numerous “flee tsunamis and rising waters” signs scattered throughout the city’s boundaries.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This trip to Hiraizumi was special for several reasons. For one, this was Kait’s first really planned trip. The sojourn out to Yama-dera was mostly her following a previous itinerary she did with several other ALTs. Secondly, we’d have to navigate the JR rail lines instead of relying on local trains and routes. Third, we were seeing a UNESCO World Heritage Site which are always a prime attraction for my travelling. Finally, we would not be travelling alone; Kait (after much apologizing) had invited the other ALT posted in Izumi-chuo along for the adventure.

So, even though we were at the subway in good time, Kait checked her phone to politely inform me that Pauline was running late. Oh, and we only had ten minutes to get to the station, buy our ticket and find the platform from where the train actually left.

Have I mentioned that none of us really speak Japanese? We most certainly do not read kanji. Furthermore, since we were leaving the prefecture, there weren’t many trains available for us to complete this day trip and we had a tight schedule for catching the last train back to Sendai and about twenty sites that Kait wanted to see in that incredibly narrow window.

So, of course the first thing we did when we got off the subway–which Pauline loudly talked on the entire trip down–was hustle over to Tourist Information and plead with them to help us find which ticket booth we needed to buy our ticket. Pauline and Kait then stared at the massive map and poked at buttons on the screen trying to decipher the kanji coded contraption while I read through a pamphlet of places to see in the area when we inevitably missed our ride and the whole adventure fell through.

The girls managed to procure our passes and we wandered the upper floor until Kait braved speaking to one of the employees who directed us to the gate we needed. We were almost running through the ticket stiles and up the platform steps to our train. Luckily, we made it with minutes to spare. We found our car and seats (as these were reserved tickets) and then marvelled as several old women kept poking their heads in to snap pictures of the train’s interior.

Well, at the very least we knew we were travelling with other tourists!

Apparently it’s a thing to photograph trains in Japan. You know how it is. Some travellers take shots of their shoes. Some have group shots of them jumping in the air. I’ve got Kait taking “selfies” without those sticks to hold up your camera because, damnit, we were doing this before it was cool! And most photograph the internationally famous sites. Well, I guess in Japan they like to record their trains. Maybe it is their way to prove that they were there without needing to put their faces in the frame. I can’t really think of any other explanation for the four or five people that piled out of our train in Hiraizumi to snap hasty pictures of the vehicle before it tried rolling away without people recording its bad side.

Of course, by the time we’d arrived in Hiraizumi, at least an hour had passed so the girls needed to use the bathroom. We slipped through the small station, accosted by smiling old Japanese handing out little plastic bags of goodies. Unfortunately, our Halloween fare wasn’t sugar candy but information pertaining to the various sites and history of the Pure Land of the North.

That may or may not be the official name. It’s probably going to be the one I use because I’m not too concerned about using a misnomer for a city that’s been dead for over five hundred years.

My first impression of Hiraizumi, I must confess, was rather positive. Though the aforementioned station was small, it was clean and had wide polished benches that were clearly a recent instalment. The square outside the station was surprisingly good looking. I’ve seen my fair share of small Japanese towns and you’re lucky if there’s anything more scenic than a great smear of asphalt when you first arrive. Hiraizumi, however, had a small cul-de-sac lined with clean cobblestones before the awnings of traditional Japanese architectural store fronts. A backdrop of pine crested hills rose at the end of an expansive main street shooting straight from the front doors like an arrow right into the heart of wild, untamed wilderness.

So while the clouds overhead were dark and the air crisp, I waited pleasantly outside as the two girls did their business. It was then that a large mass of foreigners passed me, following like dutiful lemmings a woman dressed in a neatly pressed uniform. It took all of seconds to gauge that this flock had landed from China. I thought this was a little odd. How many organized tours could there really be for northern Japan? I know if I had to take a bus tour, it wouldn’t be through Iwate prefecture. But these visitors piled into their massive tour bus and nearly ran over the girls as they emerged to poke around the small bike rental shop for directions and confirmation if we could take vehicles on the route clearly marked “walking path” on our maps.

Surprise! You can’t. However, we were given rough time estimates it would take to walk the main route of attractions in Hiraizumi and we’d certainly enough time to see them all and still be back for our four twenty departure. Yes, we had about five hours to take in an entire town’s worth of sites. What could possibly go wrong?

Kait and Pauline looked over the map and Kait designated the route we should take. Naturally, we all headed down the wrong street.

We didn’t know this at first, of course. We did start to get suspicious as we scampered over rail crossings into a rundown portion of town with shuttered stores, droopy workshops and the general air of decrepit misfortune. It’s starting to sound like Europe’s jolly boot already!

We doubled back and crossed a few streets to arrive at the first stop on our route (which coincidentally is the last stop on the shuttle bus). We stood before an empty field, looking over our map to ensure we were in the right place then looking around the field and wondering if maybe the site was behind the small copse of trees or not. Fortunately, we found a sign and shuffled up like ignorant little tourists to get further directions.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

So picturesque!

Turns out the muddy field was our destination. We looked at it again. We looked back at the sign. Sure enough, the World Heritage plaque was set proudly on the top. And the sign sported a lovely summer shot of our currently brown and dreary field. Course, since it is a UNESCO site, the information sign had an English section to explain why we should care about a handful of scraggly trees and drying puddle.

Apparently, we were proudly surveying the “remains” of the Buddha Hall in a historically famous temple grounds. The aforementioned hall was renown for the beauty of its surrounding park which contained a sacred garden pond (our mud puddle), a man-made island modelled after the Phoenix Hall in Kyoto (our bumpy hill) and raised earthworks that aligned with the sun and local mountain (our scraggly tree clump).

If you squint hard enough, you may even convince yourself that it’s not a glorified rice paddy!

Alright, at least Rome had some wonderful walls and foundation ruins to look at. I suppose that’s the perk of ancient construction favouring stone in Europe over the predominant wood structures of this Buddhist paradise. We took several more pictures now that we knew this brown patch of grass is important or something. We walked along the raised earthen walkway. We marvelled at how unmarvellous the trees were.

Then we turned around and immediately trudged up the street into wonderful constructions. Kait was dead set on seeing some monument at the top of a really long hill. Pauline got discouraged by the three dollar entrance fee so she opted to stay on the old bench across from the ticket booth manned by an old monk.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

Kait loves her men in strange boxes.

I kind of expected a bit more of the monument, especially after noticing the parking lot for tourist buses. There was a museum in the same sense that the top of Mt. Fuji has a shopping centre. A structure that would normally be used for an outhouse had some distressing statues and a few placards and the ubiquitous vending machines and nothing else. The monument was a mini shrine with a small board for writing wishes. I don’t even know what it was commemorating. Apparently some dead dude called Minamoto no Yoshitsune I think. Or something about family suicides. At least the view of the river valley was quaint. And there was another stone slab with Basho’s poetry written on it!

I think Kait mostly wanted a break from Pauline.

The first time I came to Japan, I reflected that the ALT position attracted certain types of people. Pauline seems like one of those individuals who falls into the “loves Japan perhaps a bit too much” camp. This can be tolerable even if said individual takes every opportunity to share every bit of information about Japan they’ve learned. It’s a little harder to swallow, however, when you can tell the person is just making shit up.

I feel the biggest issue with Pauline is that she’s just young. Hm, that’s perhaps a strong way to word things. Let’s rephrase. Pauline has a very obvious desire to impress others. This leads to her overemphasising her capabilities or her perceived capabilities. For example, Pauline is very quick to tell people that she’s studied Japanese in school and is very good at speaking it. She’ll then turn around and make declarations like “Anata-wa” means “I love you.”

For those not knowledgeable about Japanese, “anata-wa” literally means “you.” Like, that’s what you’d say (if you wanted to be polite) if you were going to make clear your statement was directed at the person to which you are talking. That’s it. This little detail would take all of five seconds to pick up and is a pretty basic grammar point that’s probably taught within the first few beginner Japanese classes.

Now, I have lived in Japan and can probably guess what Pauline meant to say. The Japanese language has a tendency to drop the subject of sentences if it’s clear so you don’t normally say “I will X,” “You should Y,” “We will Z.” You basically just say whatever it is the person is going to do. Direct translations would be in the realm of “Will study tonight.” So, it is being overly formal to use “You” in Japanese and, amongst people that are familiar with each other, it can have certain amiable connotations.

That said, Kait hears “anata-wa” in school all the time and we’re both pretty certain that her Japanese English Teacher isn’t professing his undying affection to her. I suppose it’s not impossible that he’s really hopeful Kait has a preference for older men, though.

So, while we explored the rather limited sidewalks of Hiraizumi, we were regaled with wonderful little “Pauline Pearls.” These ranged from bizarre history to descrptions of her friends in Calgary. Which, once again, wouldn’t be such a terrible offence if it wasn’t phrased in such a way to extol just how much better Pauline is than us rather maudlin peasant. Like, she will go to great lengths to describe her friend who is an Olympic speed walker while completely missing an innocent joke about how it doesn’t matter how big her thighs are since she can’t lift her feet to run after you. (“No, her legs are pretty big so she can run fast too!”).

At any rate, Kait unrolled her map and we trudged to the next marker. We had to scamper around even more construction, dodging cars as we ran from one side of the road to the other like tourist frogger. I’m not entirely sure what this stop was for, as the sign was in kanji and well beyond all our capabilities. There was a very red tree to which the girls were quick to photograph. Pauline had plotted our path while we visited the hilltop and she marched us across the railroad tracks to the thickest knot of restaurants.

But despite her clear intentions, Kait wasn’t having any of this lunch nonsense. “We’ll do it after we’ve seen the temples!” she declared, taking the lead again and force marching us around Hiraizumi’s hilly streets. We ended up looping around the back of the Golden Cockerel Mountain. I was excited for this one because it had a UNESCO designation.

My photo. Copyright me. Belongs to me. No steal plz.

The summit of mighty Golden Cockerel Mountain!

Well, it turns out that Golden Cockerel Mountain is neither golden nor a mountain. It isn’t even a shrine, despite the svastika symbol. It’s mostly a dirt trail that climbs up a short but steep incline into a forested hilltop. It starts off promising with a bright vermilion torii gate (across the street from some weird blue honeycomb trailer park that doesn’t even have trailers) and a paved leaf littered trail that snakes around a small shrine for two moss covered statuettes. But it quickly leads to empty meadows and disappointment. The view from the top is too tree-lined to give you a scenic vantage point and the only thing of note we could find was a small stone “house” even less remarkable than the entrance statues.

As it turns out, the mountain is most famous as being the alleged location of a buried golden cockerel and hen pair that was meant to protect ancient Hiraizumi from tragedy. Given the state of the modern town, I hazard there were probably better ways to spend that money. At the very least they could have locked the treasures behind some glass and charged ancient entrance fees from old timey tourists. As it stands, it’s going to be a hard sell to charge tickets to this venue.

So far it’s been Japan Rome: 3 and Us: 0.

Boring Cry of the Cicada

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Can I say what a difference a table makes? I must because I just did. Seriously, over this last week I’ve become somewhat of an expert on Kait’s eight by eight foot apartment. Before, she had me chained to a red bean bag chair before a white shelf that has been far too generously referring to as a work table for too long. After seeing the depressing photos when she first arrived, I’ve maintained that Kait had to purchase a proper table and chairs so her place didn’t exude such an impoverished atmosphere. She resisted, of course, partly from inertia and partly from thriftiness.

 

Well, now that we braved the lengthy journey to foreign Ikea and returned 10,000 yen lighter but with lots of cardboard boxes in tow, things have really improved. We shuffled around her kotatsu, spread her tiny living nook along the walls and now the place looks more like someone’s home and less like a vagrant picked the double locks on the door and was quietly squatting with the hopes of skirting the attention of her neighbours.

 

There’s still the issue of the low hanging light swinging square in the widest space reserved for our optimistic exercising. Don’t know how we’ll overcome this obstacle without ruining our tentative feng shui and we might have to settle with a few bruised scalps and battered hands. Now we just need to do something about these spartan walls.

 

Anyway, up until October 26th, the aforementioned trip to the world’s most ubiquitous cheap furniture warehouse was the most I’d seen of Japan. Hardly what one would consider a good use of a twenty hour flight around the world. That all changed, however, as we boarded the train and took the rails an hour and a half out of Sendai. The concrete jungle brushed away to pine covered mountains and wide gorges with tiny rivers for tongues. Though what the Ouu Mountains lack in grandiose majesty, they make up for with cresting tranquility. These aren’t the Rockies but they’re a pleasant break from steel and asphalt. For most of the trip, they basically appear like a long line of mother nature’s traffic cones set up for a giant’s driving test. But there’s rocks and trees and trees and rocks so it spoke to my and Kait’s inner Canadian.

 

We deboarded the train before our target at Omoshiroyama Kougen station. You might know it by it’s other name–Middle of Bloody Nowhere. It’s an unmanned station with a single side platform and a perpetually locked booth which makes me wonder how someone boards at this spot. But then I remember that there’s nothing here so no one would be trying to board in the first place.

 

These photos are mine. Do not take. Do not say they aren't. We, however, were on the hunt for adventure and Kait had heard from some anonymous source of a fabled hiking path that led up to Yamadera from this location. We operated on the false pretence that it was an hour hike which, in my mind, meant it would only take forty-five minutes tops even with our predilection for photography because whenever I hear time estimates it’s usually accounting for the gait of little old ladies. We began our day early, though (Kait had to pay a bill at the post office at nine o’clock so naturally we were both up at six). So we had plenty of time to wander cluelessly behind the handful of Japanese who got off the surprisingly busy train that was making the cross through no man’s territory. We immediately had our cameras in hand since, once passing through the five minute tunnel boring straight through the mountain, we emerged into a valley that actually showed signs of autumn. Unlike the forests leading up there, the area around Omoshiroyama was on fire with the oranges, reds and yellows of dying leaves. More than that, the ravine which would be our hiking course was about thirty feet from where we disembarked.

 

Needless to say, it wasn’t long before we were descending into the ravine and snapping away with all the wild abandon of two dweebs lost in the wilderness. The scenic beauty of the ravine wasn’t lost on us and we had to pause nearly every ten steps to take a new picture. It helped that our trail was hardly a foot wide meandering path cut right into the rock face that escorted the river and crossing it at breathtaking sections with old, rickety bridges. The bubbling of the brook, the crash of a dozen small waterfalls and the rustle of the leaves was the symphony that accompanied our walk.

 

This was the Momijigawa Keikoku hiking trail and it was easy to feel that we’d struck gold off the beaten path of the standard Japanese sightseeing docket. There were few others that came with cameras and tripods in hand to explore the moistened rock faces with us. Most were the elderly who braved about thirty minutes into the ravine before turning back and shuffling to the lonely station. This was fortuitous since the few times we found people coming along the route in the opposite direction we had to climb off the trail and stand amongst the rocks in the river until they passed as there was no space to comfortably meet anyone on the trail itself.

 

Kait loved the the curious furrows the river cut in the valley’s floor. I appreciated the appropriately named Japanese Maple River Ravine’s tree fenced cliff sides and the moss covered stones. Seriously, we probably have a thousand photos of the ravine alone between the two of us. This was even after we’d all but given up on taking pictures after only clearing half the valley. Course, the final stretch had us hunched over and crawling nearly on hands and knees through a concrete hole while a train rattled above us. That hardly makes for fantastic memories.

 

Once we reached the end, we’d also learned why so many people had turned back instead of pressing to the end of the trail. There was nothing that connected the hiking path to civilization save for a single lane twisting road that wove through the mountain range. A quick look at the sign suggested we were 80 minutes from Yamadera itself though this was likely an estimate made for people with motorized vehicles. We started our trek still operating under the naive assumption that the trail itself was an hour from Yamadera and we had somehow spent far longer than normal in the ravine itself.

 

And when I mention that the road was narrow, it was no exaggeration. Whenever a car came puttering around a winding bend we had to jump off the road to make room for them to get across. This is made even more telling when one realizes that the average Japanese vehicle is half the size of an American one. I felt nervous that we were breaking some sort of highway traffic law until a bicycle came meandering along the road.

 

These photos are mine. Do not take. Do not say they aren't.The road was pleasant for a road, I suppose. It wasn’t as good as the hiking trail but it still offered some nice views of the mountains though you had to ignore the rattle of the train as it passed beyond the trees. We dragged ourselves into Yamadera proper, near collapsing on some stones at the start of the thousand step climb to the famous temple itself.

 

Some quick background: Yamadera–Mountain Temple–is actually the common name for a sprawling temple complex that includes the important temple of Risshaku-ji. It was founded in 860 AD (because everything outside of North America is ridiculously old) when the priest Ennin returned from China and brought the principles of Buddhism with him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the first priest to do so and in order to distinguish himself from all his peers in Kyoto he decided to build his house on the distant northern mountain Hiei at the edge of Bloody Nowhere. Naturally, no one came to visit.

 

It wasn’t until the famous haiku poet Bashou stumbled across the place on his spite vacation from civilization that it returned to the map. For those that don’t know, haiku poetry was created when the poets of Edo Japan decided to hold a brevity contest because epic ballads are so 500 BC and these are the 1600s, damnit! Get with the times! We’re also growing our hair long! You wouldn’t like our music either!

 

Bashou was so struck by the beauty of Yamadera that he spent his entire three line poem talking about the damn buzz of the cicadas. He could have talked about the buddhist carvings in the blanched stone face, the wide view of the valley from the top of the 1,000 steps, the peculiar beech wood structures that are rare among other temples or even the gold buddha statue in the main complex. But nope, let’s comment on the loudest, most obnoxious insect. Because, you know, it’s not like you can’t find the damn things all across Japan.

 

At any rate, everyone loved the man of few words and his poems of even fewer words so pilgrims flocked to Yamadera like Japanese tourists to an overly hyped historical monument. No doubt this led to the meandering construction of temples running up the trail. A thousand steps sounds like an impressive number too–it must since Skyrim used it!–but it really isn’t much of a climb. Certainly not enough to justify the weird walking sticks/wood measuring wheels they sell. And I have no idea what all the buildings are erected for since there certainly aren’t enough monks for those to be dormitories and mess halls. That said, the complex is pretty though it’s hardly forgiving for photography. While the steps are wide in the main complex itself, the path hugs the temple buildings themselves so that you can’t get a good angle on them. And as you climb higher, all you can see is their roofs from above. The observation platform isn’t much better since it was swarmed with huffing and puffing elderly Japanese people all congratulating themselves on not having heart attacks.

 

Seriously, there must have been some sort of nearby geriatrics convention to explain the bus loads of old people that descended on the site. Since Kait and I were pretty exhausted from our walk through the ravine followed by the walk to the sleepy town of Yamadera itself, we had very little energy to explore the temple. Plus, Kait had been there before so this was rather old hat. We snapped some pictures and enjoyed the views before backtracking to the temple’s proper entrance and rubbing a wooden buddha’s belly for good luck.

 

These photos are mine. Do not take. Do not say they aren't.We turned our backs on Yamadera and hobbled to the JR station. Kait bravely resisted the few ice cream vendors still open while we stumbled into the rail station. We checked the times for the train to Sendai and got disheartened when we realized we missed the train by six minutes and had an hour to wait for the next one. Kait opened her mouth to propose options for wasting our hour when the station master opened the window from his post and asked us if we were headed towards Sendai. We said we were and then he spoke in rapid fire Japanese. After getting nothing but blank blinks, he garbled out some decent English to explain that the train was running fourteen minutes late! An oddity in Japan but certainly one that did us benefit. We thanked him profusely, hurried through the door, got stumped by the ticket booth and then thanked him profusely again as he waved us to the platform.

 

Seriously, Kait doesn’t appreciate how much easier she has things with so much English around her. The only downside to us catching the 3:13 train was that we were caught on the same train that the high school students used to travel from Sendai’s outlying schools back to the city proper. At the very least we could communicate in horribly butchered French without worry that we would be too loud for the other passengers. Course, we had to trample some unfortunate Japanese kids to squeeze out of the packed car. Oh well, that’s what happens when all you brats crowd the doors!
With feet, legs and knees in full protest, we hobbled back to the apartment and properly crashed after eight full hours of walking and climbing. Overall, I’d consider it a successful day.