Au revoir, France

I have just eaten the last croissant of my trip, and drained my last café au lait. I am flying home today.

J left yesterday, leaving me on my own for my last 24 hours. I'm not sure if I have been bottling up shopping desires or what, but I made yesterday into Parisian retail adventure of major proportions. Of all my purchases, I'm most pleased with what my new friends at Comptoir des Cotonniers called "carotte" pants: seriously fashion-forward tapered and cuffed trousers that I've seen on a few style mavens here. This shopping excursion, among other things, has widened my vocabulary considerably, and I'm happy to report that I have once again achieved conversational comfort in this lovely language. I'll be looking for a French tutor, or at least a French conversation-partner, once I get back to the states. (My language flows most fluently in the presence of tall and handsome French men who like to tell me I'm ravissante, so keep your eyes peeled for candidates.)

So, armed with a few books from Shakespeare & Co. to tide me over until I land, I'm off. The meaning of au revoir comforts me now: it's not "goodbye," but rather, "until I see you again." Au revoir, France.

Chars a voile, NRJ and medieval mists

We have just returned one tiny black hatch-back Mercedes to Europcar in Caen. It was an automatic, thank goodness, and it had a lot of legroom. J and I drove it through Normandy and Brittany (la Normandie et la Bretagne) for the last three days, pumping French and English jams courtesy of our new favorite station, NRJ (pronounced "energy"), unintentionally filling it with sand from an extreme beach excursion, and switch-backing through the winding roads of the Breton countryside.

We left Caen on Monday afternoon, with me at the wheel and J managing navigation, which was no small task. (Both of us are used to signs for 95 taking up the skyline, whereas the French technique is far more subtle. Due to another French roadway strategy, we have also achieved a new level of roundabout-courage.) Our destination was Dinard, just south-west of St. Malo on the coast, but curiosity got the better of us and we decided to investigate a new sandy activity and hope for the best, accommodation-wise, once we had our fill. We were drawn to the beach when we saw dozens of sails circulating on some hidden track, and once we realized that these sails were attached to go-karts, we decided to go for it. An hour later, we were covered in dirt and sporting windblown hairstyles, having sand-sailed on chars a voile. It was still very light out, so we thought that, before leaving, we would attempt to cross the desert-like dunes to find the actual coast-line. What must have been a mile later, we were in mud past our ankles, seemingly no closer to the pilings that we had been certain indicated where the water began. We gave it 10 more minutes, but decided to can our quest when the mud crept up our calves, and there was still no real water in sight.

By the time we got back to our car, it was after 8 pm, and we thought that we should probably find a place to lay our heads. We ended up in a medieval-tower of a bed and breakfast, welcomed by a charming host, Edith, and her black lab Tempo, who had a red bandana endearingly knotted around his neck. We dumped our things, and dined in St. Malo, finishing our day with a stroll along the ramparts of the old city.

Yesterday morning, after breakfast and easy conversation with Edith, we drove further inland to Huelgoat, stopping for a home-style lunch in Guerlesquin on the way. The village of Huelgoat had everything we had hoped for: mist, tons of hiking trails, some fairy-tale gullies and, to our great surprise, a tiny little cafe hidden in the middle of the forest, where the celtic music tinkled, and local artists had us digging into our wallets. But the best part of the afternoon was the hour or so that we spent scaling and bounding over, around and between enormous moss-covered boulders, not stopping until our shoulders and quads were sore.

Today we spent most of the day on the road, making our way back to Caen, where we are currently sipping beer and waiting for our train back to Paris. Just two more days for me-- I'm determined to speak as much French as possible.

La route des vins d'Alsace

J made the statement early on today: "We could not have picked a better day for this." "This" was our bike trip from Seléstat to Colmar, along La route des vins d'Alsace, and he was completely right.

We woke up at 7, in time for a lovely breakfast at the hotel, then pedalled over to the train station, where we boarded our train for Seléstat, a town about 20 minutes south of Strasbourg. We quickly happened upon two locals who were able to direct us to une piste cyclable, a bicycle route, but their expertise was not the best part of the interaction. The coolest part, for me, was that they spoke Alsatian, a mixture of French and German that is the regional dialect. They spoke to me in French (in which I have regained my confidence, the product of many sustained conversations during the days I was by myself, as well as a few well-placed compliments), but would consult with each other in a language I kind of understood, but mostly did not. I was so happy I got the chance to hear it.

Then J and I were on our way, zooming through acres and acres of vinyards, corn, and sunflowers. We stopped in Bergheim around 11 to have a degustation with a lovely man, who inherited his vinyard and winery from his father. Three sweet sips of white wine later, we got back on the road with a bottle of our favorite in my basket. We wandered through Ribeauvillé, and then headed up into the foothills, where the biking got a little harder, but the views got even more impressive. We finally hit the brakes in Colmar around 4, unable to believe how beautiful the entire ride had been. Between our aching quads and the bottle of white that we neatly put away while sitting under various trellises and sprawled on lawns through the trip, we we able to soundly sleep slumped-over in our seats on the train home. Now we have showered away our grime, and eaten a serious dinner, and are calling it a night. Another early wake-up call tomorrow, for our 7 am train to Caen!

Deux étoiles, minimum

Sitting in the lobby of the THREE star hotel that J and I have decided upon for our stay in Strasbourg, France's most German city. I am supremely content with these accomodations, which are a departure from our original plan, and respresent the second time this week that I've privileged cleanliness over cost. While travelling alone, it made sense to stay in hostels (and I found one EXCELLENT one in Marseille, called Vertigo), since I was often able to meet and hang with people there. However, now that J and I have met up, we've made a collective decision to direct some funding towards pristine accomodations.

One change of plans from earlier this week, which also landed me a sweet spot to sleep, was a trip to Dijon. I spent less than 24 hours there, but enjoyed a good run in one of the several parks, as well as an afternoon at the Musée des Beaux-Arts, where I fell hard for an artist named Picquart, whose style reminded me of Chagall in form and Gauguin in color. From Dijon (where, by the way, I did make a point of buying mustard), I made my way to Paris to meet up with J and a friend of his.

Now we are enjoying the very different feel of Strasbourg and are excited for a day-long bicycle trip tomorrow, from Sélestat south through Haut-Rhin to Colmar, along La Route des Vin, or the Wine Road. We are also planning a foray into French cinema tonight, and are looking forward to testing our comprehension skills with a movie called Le premier qui l'a dit, or The first one who said it. Neither of us cares too much about the plot, which may end up being a good thing!

Cuisine courage

I'm rounding out my time by myself, which has been a circuit between the three largest cities in France, with a trip to Lyon, about halfway between Marseille and Paris. Considered the gastronomic capital of France, it is quite a different feel from Marseille: more pig cuisine, more hipsters, less sun. In general, the French people I've spoken with would agree that it is "plus tranquille."

Speaking of cuisine, it is only fair that I give it some attention: I AM in France, after all. Marseille represents a cool mix of Provençal style with north African: I went from papetoun, a tower of goat cheese and tomato, doused in olive oil and basil with olive tapanade in the middle, to a tajine of chicken. Les pates au pistou is like pasta with pesto and alfredo sauce, another classic from Provence. And today, I tried a popular dish from Lyon, unfamiliar to me at the time. I grew suspicious when I dug in, and then did the background research: le boudin is black pudding, sometimes called blood pudding. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but it was not bad at all. I am what one might call a reformed vegetarian.

Other than that, I'm enjoying croissants for breakfast, and small amounts of strong coffee as often as I can. In fact, I'm planning to search for one now, before I head off to explore Lyon's Musée des Beaux-Arts!

Marseille, c'est le pop.

Had a lovely trek to the beach today, many kilometers away. It was windy, and much sandier than Nice, with lots of people doing lots of extreme sports. Sometimes I like to do extreme things, but today I was happy to alternate between watching others, and reading my wonderful book, A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth, which paints a remarkably detailed picture of India on the heels of partition. (...1474 pages worth of a picture. The inscription at the beginning, attributed to Voltaire, reads: "The secret of being a bore is to say everything.")

At dinner last night, I got into a conversation with my waiter about how much he loves Marseille. I mentioned that I had been to Nice, and that I preferred Marseille, to which he responded, "Nice, c'est la musique classique. Mais Marseille, c'est le pop. E le pop vient du corps." (Nice, that's classical music. But Marseille is pop. And pop comes from the body.)

I quickly glanced at the tome that had been my dinner companion, turned to my pithy waiter, and replied: "Je suis absoluement d'accord."

Heaven on the Mediterranean

I have found a crazy, noisy, combustible and beautiful version of heaven on earth. I spotted the pearly gates from the train, where the man in the cafe car complimented my accent (an instant path to my heart). Within 2 hours of my arrival, a local on a mo-ped careened to a halt in front of me to say, genuinely, "Ou vas-tu? Je t'emmène." ("Where are you going? I'll take you."). I politely declined . But it was my two waiters last night, both named Philippe, who convinced me that this is a version of paradise, with its mix of Miami heat and midwest openness. Philippe #1 slipped me a note with his number, ...si j'avais besoin d'un guide, and though I turned this would-be guide down graciously, I left him something like an 80% tip for my drink. Philippe #2 not only m'a offerte un p'tit kir (French-restaurant-speak for giving it to me for free), but loaded me up a zillion calissons (marzipan candies) on my way out the door. He seemed truly disappointed that I will be heading up to Alsace-Lorraine soon, telling me "Mais, vous allez geler!" ("But you are going to freeze!").

Aside from the lovely Marseillais, my hostel is also heaven-like, and not only because of its seemingly bottomless coffee-pot. After taking advantage of this feature this morning, I set out for a walk through the open-air market on the other side of town. After enjoying myself tremendously, and having purchased a few small things, I decided to walk up the enormous hill that I saw to my right, assuming that I'd find the Marseille's famous basilica, Notre Dame de la Garde, at the top. I did: in the form of a gorgeous view. Determined, I kept walking, and finally reached this stunning church, as different from Matisse's Rosary Chapel as can be. The mosaics on the domed ceilings, the framed pictures on the walls, and the 6 mobiles of ships hanging down above my head, not to mention the shining golden statue of virgin and child at the very top, captured my attention for a long time.

I spent the afternoon continuing to wander, and booking the rest of my solo-trip: on Sunday, I'm off to Lyon, and will spend Tuesday night in Dijon before meeting up with J in Paris on Wednesday! But, for now, I'm content to soak up this version of what I've realized is actually the Mediterranean life.

Paris, nous t'aimons

Though I sadly said goodbye to A this morning, I've happily begun my solo-travels with a trip to Marseille. My interest in this city originally came from a comment I heard during the rioting in 2005: because it is on the ocean, there is no room for the marginalization that creates "les cités" that can be found outside of Lyon or Paris. Thus, it is a far more integrated community than most other big cities in France. I'm discovering that myself, with hostel-managers who come from any country BUT France! This is great for me, since I seem to feel more comfortable speaking French with these non-native speakers.

But, before A left, we spent two glorious days in Paris, devoting the first to wandering the streets and the second to museums. Activites included: (1) splitting a beer on the steps of Sacre Coeur; (2) finding an urban vineyard in Montmartre, from which 850 bottles of wine are captured each year, and auctioned off for charity; (3) appreciating Winged Victory but skipping Mona Lisa; (4) using newly acquired GRE vocabulary at every opportunity (Nonplussed does not mean what we have taken it to mean our entire lives, or, in a sentence that sounds redundant but is, in fact, not: "The Mona Lisa leaves some people feeling nonplussed, and strangely underwhelmed."); (5) finding a cool street artist from Chile who sold us gorgeous earrings; (6) enjoying chocolate fondue under the watchful eye of a serenading waiter; (7) trying not to break, stain, touch or breathe on any of the amazingly pricey items in Louis Vuitton; and (8) marveling at the challenging and wonderful exhibition elles@centrepompidou.

Now, off to appreciate some bouillabaisse and spend some time imitating Julia Child, at least in my head.

Symphonie, et voyages, fantastique(s)

Currently sitting at an internet cafe in the Latin Quarter, right next to the vegetarian restaurant where we ate last night. A was happy to be able to choose from a menu without skirting 800 different kinds of chicken and beef, though we did have a false start to our dining adventure: for future reference, "faux-filet" does NOT mean "imitation filet", but rather, sirloin. A ha.

Our trip to Aix ended in style: we found 25 euro tickets to see the London Symphony Orchestra play three works by Berlioz, as one of the features of the month-long music festival that we discovered from our guidebooks. I could not actually see the orchestra play for the first half, based on my seat, but I enjoyed listening and going through the program, circling new vocabulary words and trying out various conjugations of the unusal verb tenses I saw. Not only do the French employ the subjunctive, a strange enough situation for Americans, but also a tense called the "passe simple," which is used in place of the "passe compose" when writing a formal document. It has been a shock to my system to realize that while I have a lot of vocabulary in place, I am wrecking up even the regular verb tenses, to say nothing of the complex ones. The single good thing I can see about A flying home in two days is that I will be forced to speak even more French, and will hope to feel more confident by the time J arrives.

From Aix, we took two commuter trains (no reservation required!) to Grenoble, where I studied for 4 months about 5 years ago. We stayed at the fairly luxurious Hotel de l'Europe, where the sheets smelled the same as in my memory; hiked up the Bastille, where they've installed a contemporary art gallery; ate on Quai Perriere, where I was pleased to see that dozens of pizza shops still exist, side by side; and discovered that Neptune Cafe, my old haunt, has shut down its computers for the last time. Before leaving yesterday, we went to the Museum of the Resistance and Deportation, which chronicles the resistance effort in the Isere Valley. The entire 24 hours felt like a trip down memory lane, and I pointed out shops, cafes, streets, even tramcars with fondness.

Now we are in Paris, for the last leg of A's trip. After meatlessly dining last night, we strolled across the bridges connecting the banks to the islands, and found ourselves in the middle of a very choreographed show by an endearing street artist, which he brought to a close by saying, "If you give me 5 euros, I will go home happy. If you give me 10 euros, I will go home very happy. But if you give me 50 euros? I will go home with YOU." His hat was overflowing by the time we left.

Three days of Matisse

We tore ourselves away from the Azure Coast today, and are now in Aix-en-Provence, the first city of this trip that I have never before visited. We feel as though we're walking through a Cezanne painting: perfectly slanted sunlight, various shades of coral and pink buildings, and lavender everywhere. We visited his atelier this afternoon, and I was mesmerized by the huge bay window taking up one entire wall of the studio. We agreed that admission was a little pricey, but felt like that was just an exqmple of cosmic balance: there was no admission fee at all for the Matisse museum we explored on Thursday.

The Musée Matisse featured work from all periods of the artist's life, including the very first still-life that he created. The current temporary exhibition was composed of works featuring Lydia Delectorskaya, his most-frequently depicted model and muse. In fact, there was a period of 4 years during which she was his only model, which we found hard to comprehend. In addition to finished or formal works, there was a section of the museum devoted to sketches, plans and drawings for the Rosary Chapel that he designed in Vence, a work which he completed in 1951, three years before his death, and considered his masterpiece. I had wanted to visit this chapel since the last time I was in Nice, so we took a little pilgrimage to this town up in the mountains yesterday afternoon. It was the simplest, most beautiful church I have ever had the pleasure to visit. A brought up the brilliant point that his four-year devotion to this religious project must be a product of deep faith, but that his unusual approach (for example, in not separating each of the 14 stations of the cross, but, instead, composing one large mural for this part of the sanctuary) demonstrates a willingness to stray from tradition, an interesting combination. I was reminded of Keith Haring's tryptich in St. John the Divine.

Finally, strolling Cour Mirabeau in Aix today, we happened upon an exhibition of his Jazz cut-outs! We feel fully Matisse-stepped.

Other than appreciating art, we spent our time in Nice soaking up some serious sun, checking out the night-life, and making some new friends: two women, one Brazilian and one French, named Lillian; a Lithuanian student and her American love-interest; and a British yachtie among them. We also found a bar with Kylie Minogue videos on repeat, roses painted on the ceiling and a fully functional shower...in the middle of the dance floor. Ooh, la, la: la France.

Le feu d'artifice

Other than learning from experience to book a TGV well ahead of time, I've picked up more French tidbits over the last few days. For example, at dinner last night, A and I learned from a lovely old French couple that if the receipt says "service compris", you should consider leaving a 5% tip, though you are not obligated. (I was reminded about the SMIC, or French minimum wage, which allows waiters to earn more than they would in the States). We also had a small adventure with counterfeit euros, but were forgiven by our jovial waiter, thus inspiring us to leave him something slightly more than 5%.

After dinner, A and I headed to the fireworks display over the ocean, in celebration of Bastille Day, and danced to a slow parade of moving band-floats. The streets were packed with merry-makers, who either held sleeping children or half-empty bottles of wine in their hands.

This morning, we set our alarm to wake us up early, and hit the beach before the crowds. I went on a wonderful run, and wound my way up the Ancien Chateau, to tunes pumped by an ancient accordian-player, for a glorious view of the Mediterranean. It felt SO FRENCH, and I loved every stereotypical second of it. Off to the Matisse Museum this afternoon!

Nice is nice

A and I have made it to the French Riviera, which proved to be more complicated than we anticipated. In the hour before we left for JFK, I decided to play it safe and book us seats on a TGV bound for Nice so that we could hop on as soon as we arrived. Turns out that everyone wants to hit the Cote d'Azur at this time of year, and there were no seats to be had! So much for playing it safe.

However, the guy on the other end of the SNCF hotline was a gem, got us seats on the earliest train out of Paris today, and waived the registration fee. THEN, we had the great fortune of being able to procure a room at a lovely Paris hotel, AND they did not charge us for our cancellation in Nice. So, crisis averted, and we got to spend an extra night in gaie Paris. I think that this is auspicious.

A+

When I studied in Grenoble, our program director always finished emails with "A +." I thought, for the longest time, that she was exhorting us to shoot for 20/20 (almost unheard of in the typical French grading system, where a 17/20 indicates exceptional work). Actually, this is a tricky French shortcut for saying "A plus tard," or "(See you) later."

So, A+. My math camp is finished, with great success, including a discussion of infinity based on an article you can find here. I'm flying to France tomorrow, with a very dear friend from college. She and I will spend our first nights in Nice, and I am definitely looking forward to Bastille Day in l'Hexagone. Last year, I popped French champagne on the hill at Wes. I have no idea what to look forward to, this year, but can't wait to see what is in store for us.

Count me in

I started my math camp today, and am extremely pleased with how the first day went. As background, here is an excerpt from an email I sent interested parents about the version of my camp that I will be running at my town's public library in August.

I have designed this program with three goals in mind: I'd like to (a) encourage teenage girls to stick with math, (b) introduce them to non-curricular math ideas, and (c) show them that math is full of opportunities for group work. My goal is NOT to say that math is easy; rather, I want to convince my students that it is interesting and fun enough to "stick with," even when it seems difficult.

I will be introducing students to studies showing that even babies have some "number sense," show them how to read a stock page, address some basic ideas of economics, have them find examples of the Golden Ratio in nature, and demonstrate to them some mind-bending proofs about infinity. I hope to also teach students how to play the game "Set," during our break time each day. I will use a variety of techniques and materials, including a "Great Books"-style seminar, an excerpt from NPR's Radiolab, the Business Section of the New York Times, and lots of collaborative work.

The Radiolab excerpt is really great. If you're interested, check out Numbers. We listened to minutes 2 through 18, avoiding the reference to Johnny Cash's "25 minutes" (a countdown song to the gallows, something I thought might not sit very well with a group of 13-year-olds...or their parents).

I am looking forward to the rest of the week!

Home!

I made it back last night, after 3 train rides and 2 flights. The trip itself felt dream-like, maybe because it is so incredible that one day can begin in Kyoto and end in Princeton, but more probably because I dozed for most of the time in the air. One of the unanticipated benefits of this trip is a heightened tolerance for flying: I only gripped C's arm in panic once.

I finally figured out, with some help, what a few of the unidentified things I ate are called. The yogurt-like pasty stuff is mashed mountain yam, or yama imo. And that evening we spent with our new-found friends (who we hope like hosting as much as we like to travel), we ate okonomiyaki, a savory pancake, and monjayaki, similar to okonomiyaki, but slightly runnier, and eaten directly off the griddle with a miniature spatula.

Now, I turn my attention to my math camp, which I've entitled Count me in! I'll spend the next two days running around, not from shrine to tea house, but from Staples to school, getting everything prepared. Though I'll miss my travels, and my traveling companion, I am looking forward to working, and being a teacher again (at least for one week).

Obis and Kobe

We began our last full day here with a quick stop (our first, surprisingly) at the 7-eleven up the road to have some Japanese fast-food breakfast (i.e. nori-wrapped rice and salmon). When we returned to Ikoi no Ie, we looked forward to being dressed in antique kimonos and participating in a traditional tea ceremony.

Mari, our host for the morning, had us each choose a kimono to wear. C's had flowers all over a deep blue background, and I went for a sea green design. Then, Mari found a complementary under-kimono and obi, or sash, for each of us, and spent about 15 minutes wrapping each of us in these layers, each of which was tied with a different, smaller belt. By the time we were fully dressed, each of us wore 2 kimonos, 1 obi, 5 smaller belts, and 1 small pillow at the back. Bending over was not going to happen, but we were suddenly blessed with impeccable posture.

After this, we enjoyed matcha, or finely ground green tea powder whisked into a frenzy with hot water. There is a series of phrases and hand gestures involved in the tea ceremony, and both C and I struggled with the order, but did enjoy the whole process. The tea room itself was stunning and simple, with a tatami floor and beautiful windows looking out onto a traditional Japanese garden.

Once we shed our kimonos and said "Arigato gozaimasu, thank you very much," about a thousand times, we whipped out our JR passes and hopped a train to Kobe, hoping to enjoy some sea breezes and views. It was a nice outing, though we did not, in fact, eat the highest quality beef.

We spent our last night in Kyoto walking the river, and discussing things we've come to love about Japan-- from the careful job each shopkeeper does when wrapping a package, to the coexistence of past and present on each street filled with neon and shrines. We've also devised the outline of an itinerary for our next trip: (1) climb Mount Fuji (and yell BANZAIIII at the top), (2) relax at an Onsen and (3) take in a sumo match. But, for right now, our last Japlan is to take a shinkansen back to Tokyo, and change, for the last time, at Ueno station, in order to make our shuttle to Narita.

Kyoto and Nara

We left Tokyo yesterday morning, and headed for Kyoto. We made it to our new hostel, Ikoi no Ie, in the late afternoon, dumped our stuff and headed directly to Gion. This neighborhood is the central location for the book that C is currently reading (and one that I've read before), Memoirs of a Geisha, by Arthur Golden. Of course, geisha no longer trip down the streets of this district, though we did catch sight of about a dozen kneeling beside tables on veranda over the river, serving tea to suit-clad men.

If Tokyo is like New York, then Kyoto reminds us both of Philadelphia. Its energy is less frenetic, and cutting-edge fashion seems to be less of a priority. However, it is beautiful, especially the eastern part of the city, which ends in a park abutting some major hills. We had a lovely time walking the streets at dusk, and got a chance, ourselves, to sit on a porch overlooking the river before we headed back to our hostel.

Today, we set out right away for Nara, home of a well-known Buddhist Temple, Todaiji. There, in the middle of Nara Park, amidst hundreds of wild deer who gently nudged our hands in search of food, is the largest wooden structure in the world, housing the largest statue of Buddha that I have ever seen. The particular representation is Vairocana Buddha, posed with one hand up, palm out, and one hand on his lap, palm facing upwards. Hundreds of people swarmed the based, lighting nag champa, snapping pictures, buying trinkets and staring in silent meditation. It was an incredible sight.

Tomorrow, a tea ceremony and our last full day here!

Catstreet and Japanese ink

A quick post before we pack up and head to Kyoto. We're both feeling a little sad to leave Andon, and Tokyo in general. We have defintely gotten comfortable with our subway route ("Oh yeah, we change at Shibuya, like always..."), and with our neighborhood (Need a post office? We got you. Soba recommendation? Easy. 7-eleven? We can tell you how to get to two.).

Yesterday, we went back to Harajuku and what is called Catstreet, and spent time searching for Cosplay, a gathering of young Japanese dressed to the nines, usually in a combination of goth and cartoon character. We were slightly disappointed with how that turned out, but were on cloud nine by the end of the day, after having found one ex-pat, his Japanese wife, and their music-industry friend who took us in. This trustworthy trio spent an hour helping us to find a tattoo parlor so C could get the wrist designs she's been dying for, stayed with us during the tattoo, then stuck around to show us the strangest art-gallery/restaurant, where we all grilled our own pizza/omelets on the table in front of us. I mentioned yesterday that our friend who has been here for about 10 months hasn't lost her sense of Japanese wonder. Well, neither has our friend who has made his home here for 13 yearｓ。

From yaki tori to Crispy Nuts

Yesterday, we met up with a friend of a friend, who has been living in Japan and teaching English for the last 10 months. She has been here long enough to understand some parts of the culture that have been puzzling us, but not long enough to have fallen out of love with exploring and marveling. She took us to Nishi-Nippori, a part of Tokyo that reminded me of Ile-St.-Louis in Paris-- full of small shops with beautiful clothing and jewelry, as well as a million food vendors. We made the day into a culinary tour, since there was so much that we wanted to try. We started with yaki tori, a kind of Japanese shish kebab, and were also introduced to satsumaimo, a kind of sweet potato snack. We drank green tea samples, and accepted the Japanese cherries kindly pressed into our hands. Later, we stopped at an underground food kingdom, beneath the Shibuya station, and found a bakery selling bread with sweet beans (like kidney beans) baked in. Finally, we actually sat down at an izakaya in Sangenjaya, a kind of tapas place, and had a variety of foods from spring rolls to gobo, fried burdoch root, and each tried a grapefruit sour, made with the very light (don't worry, Ma) Japanese liquor called shochu.

From there, C and I hit a punk/hardcore show, one of her top priorities while here. It was at a place called Heaven's Door, and featured a band called Crispy Nuts. Though she is a major hardcore veteran, I'm definitely a newcomer to this scene, and loved every second. She was particularly intrigued by the number of women at the show-- considerably more than at American shows. As we have found everywhere, there was a lot of English, on signs, in lyrics and on t-shirts. My favorite example was Crispy Nuts' drummer's shirt, which read "Psycho food eaters". I thought it summed up our day incredibly well.

Meiji Shrine, Harajuku and Tokyo Dome

Yesterday began fairly leisurely, with a long conversation with Kayto, one of the women working at Andon Ryokan. She asked us about our plans for the day, and I asked her about one of the components of my meal from the night before-- something that reminded me of crunchy yogurt, with the most amazing runny, yet sticky consistency. She looked pretty confused, and showed me a whole picture book of various food items, and their translations, but we found nothing that looked remotely similar. I'm going to have to look into this one...

We spent the afternoon wandering in the Harajuku section of Tokyo, a little south of where we're staying. We traveled through time, from the Meiji Shrine in Yoyogi Park, built around 1920 in honor of Emperor Meiji and Empress Shoken, to a pedestrian walkway populated entirely by young Japanese sub-culture heroes. We spent at least 4 hours between the two places, and not only learned how to pay appropriate respect at the shrine (though, after the ritual washing, both of us only watched, since we were not convinced of the cultural appropriateness of engaging in such a rite), but also how to dress in a young Japanese style (I bought gray cloth pants that stop mid-calf and look like the ones favored by MC Hammer).

But our day was not done yet-- we were on to Tokyo Dome, for a game between the Giants and the Baystars. The game was the same-- it was the crowd that blew our minds. It can be somewhat captured by what we witnessed in the 7th inning. No stretch, but a woman in uniform who came to the bottom of each aisle with an enormous garbage bag, bowed, and proceeded up the steps, stopping at each to collect all the garbage people had generated during the game. Everyone passed their trash down the row, and she thanked every person, and they thanked her back. By the time she got to the top of the section, the ground was clear, and the bag was full.

Something to introduce to the Yankees?

Rush hour traffic

On our first day in Tokyo, we woke up at 6:45 in order to give ourselves enough time to meet our bus to Mount Fuji, which left from Hamamatsucho Station at 9 am. After a quick and lovely breakfast at our hostel (there was delicious coffee, with milk to add, as a concession to Western taste buds), we set out, retracing our steps from our arrival, back to Ueno Station. This time, though, we found ourselves actually plastered to each other, and to the walls of the train, once we got on. It was rush hour in Tokyo.

From Ueno Station, we took a Japan Rail line out to Hamamatsucho. Once there, we promptly walked in the wrong direction. This ended up being a stroke of luck, actually, since we had to eventually walk against the flow of pedestrian traffic, and so, got the amazing opportunity to people-watch at high volume. White shirts and dark suits were, almost exclusively, the style for men, while women rocked far more exciting styles. Fortunately, there is a well-ordered sense of where to walk in croweded times like this, and everyone respected the small lane on the right side of the long tunnel out of the station, where pedestrian traffic from the less-traveled direction was herded. (Not only that, but when waiting for the JR line, we joined a two-person-wide line that formed exactly where the doors eventually opened, and that immediately parted as the train stopped, allowing people to get out of the traincar.)

We found our bus 15 minutes before it left, giving us time to carefully examine all of the vending machines set up in the bus terminal. Once aboard, we met our guide for the day, Katsu, and headed out of Tokyo, up to Mount Fuji's fifth station, via the visitor center, where we got a beautiful look at the highest mountain in Japan. We proceeded, on the bus, to the Hakone region, where we first ate a Japanese-style lunch (including miso soup, sashimi, rice and various unidentifiable vegetables and other blocks of a variety of colors and consistency), then boarded a boat on Lake Ashi. We finished that part of the day with a funicular ride, and then boarded a bullet train (shinkansen), which brought us back to Tokyo.

We finished with a walk around Ginza, which reminded me of Rockefeller Center in New York, and stopped for another dinner of udon (this time at a Japanese equivalent of a greasy spoon diner) before calling our first day in Japan quits. Back at the ryokan, we fell asleep immediately, feeling extremely pleased with ourselves.

Andon Ryokan

Here we are, in our beautiful ryokan, Andon Ryokan Tokyo. A ryokan is a traditional Japanese-style inn, and though traditional in a lot of ways, there are definitely some modern elements to this place. Our room is probably 8 ft. by 11 ft., and has tatami mat flooring (it looks like woven reeds with a cloth border). There is shelving on the walls, but no furniture other than a tiny folding table. Our futons are rolled up at the back of the room, and we will put them out tonight when we sleep. All this sounds totally minimalist, but the kicker is this: we have remote-controlled air conditioning for our spot.

Everything smells like a sauna, since many of the walls are made of cedar. Green tea is always available at the front desk, and we have been given slippers (thick-soled flip-flops with a felt upper) to wear as we walk around inside.

The trip was amazingly easy, and we were a great team as we navigated Narita airport to find the Keisei Express commuter rail into Tokyo, and then Ueno station to find the subway to Minowa, our local stop. Things got a little more complicated on foot, but after a lot of wandering as we zeroed in on our placed, C spotted the tell-tale willow tree (not a 7-eleven) that indicated where to turn, at last, to find Andon.

Off to find some udon, then to bed, in our snug and beautiful cedar closet.

And we're off!

I am sitting on the floor of C's bedroom, while she is wandering around, hopping my outstretched legs, singing a little made-up song to herself and kind of swaying back and forth. I think she's excited.

As for me, I can't believe that we are actually going to be in Japan in a little more than 24 hours. I printed out all sorts of directions to various places today, including a whole page of Japanese characters that we are advised to show our driver if we want to take a taxi from Kyoto rail station to our hostel, Ikoi-no-Ie. While a week ago I might have imagined this short story to be overkill, I'm beginning to think otherwise.

But before we get to Japan, we first lay-over in another new country for me: Canada. Two birds, one stone.

"[she] becomes virtually helpless in Japan."

I am getting ready to get lost. I certainly do not mind being lost-- a few summers ago, I spent occasional afternoons driving the Connecticut coast, meandering through little villages, and eventually finding Route 9 again. I would choose a different CD for each drive, and would not begin to worry until I heard the first track repeat itself.

But this is something else. One of my books (Japan made easy, Boye Lafayette De Mente...a name implying greater familiarity with another destination) says the following:

No matter how brilliant or accomplished the foreign visitor might be in his own culture, he becomes virtually helpless in Japan...the addressing system in Japan has nothing whatsoever to do with any street the house or building might be on or near. Addresses are based on areas rather than streets. In metropolitan areas these "address areas" start out with the city. Next comes the ku, or ward, then a smaller district called cho, and finally a still smaller section called banchi.

C and I have been looking up directions and maps to our various destinations, and have found one shockingly consistent landmark to use an an indication of cardinal direction, where to turn, or when to stop, recommended by ryokan after guidebook after city planning map...

...the ubiquitous 7-eleven.

What?!

Japlanning

C and I have taken to calling our bi-weekly research and organizing sessions our time to Japlan. But here's something I discovered yesterday for which I have no idea how to plan: when we fly to Tokyo, we will be going so many time zones in reverse, that we will end up in tomorrow when it is still today, here.

This has truly blown my mind.