We spent the entire day Saturday, June 7, getting from Hanoi to Osaka, Japan, including a 5-hour layover in Guangzhou, China, where the Internet is restricted. We arrived at Kanzai airport in Osaka around 10:30 pm after a very dramatic aerial approach to this port city.
Kanzai airport is at least 30 km out of town, so we took the train into the downtown station of Namba, where we caught a cab to our hotel, which was literally around the block: the Metro the 21--yes, that's its name--arriving by midnight. Perhaps it makes more sense to a Japanese. This was my first time in Japan, and it was somewhat of a relief to return to an advanced (rich) country, even though the prices are comparable to or higher than those in New York. But it's a newer country than ours, having rebuilt after the Second World War, and having embraced technology more enthusiastically than we have. It's also more formal and cleaner. So it looked like a vision of the future--something out of Blade Runner, and the streets of Osaka's tourist district only reinforced this impression.
What struck me right away in the airport, though, was that the toilet sets had buttons on them! Yes, four buttons: "shower," "bidet," "intensity," and "stop." Bidet, I figured, must have referred to a jet of water that is position to clean a woman's privates, but shower? I didn't see a shower head above the toilet (as I once did in a very minimal apartment on Rue Mouffetard in Paris in the 70s. You put up the toilet set and balanced yourself on the edges, while running the water, which hopefully drained into the bowl. That's what came to mind, but that was not the case. The toilet at our hotel was a bit more explicit, with a line drawing of a derriere with a spray coming up to it, plus it was called "spray" on our toilet. The French, with their talent for succinct vulgarity, would doubtless call it "un arrose-cul." So it really was a matter of one spray aimed slightly differently. When I tried it, it tickled, then got hot, then I remembered the "stop" button, but I was VERY clean.
This is actually the toilet from our hotel room, but the airport had the same kind of device.
The themes of formality and cleanliness manifested in the taxis, too. The taxi drivers were all wearing blue tuxedos! Plus the passenger seats are covered with a smooth, soft white cloth. Of course, a TV is running, and there's a dispenser of tourist brochures. No gypsy or scam cabs here, as in Vietnam. The initial fee is Y640, or about $6.10, so you pay for the uniform.
Downtown Osaka is like a combination of a giant shopping mall and Bourbon Street, where there are as many bars as there are nail salons on certain streets on the Lower East Side. Has the bar density of Bourbon Street really become the model for the fun districts of the developed world?
The following morning, our last full day on the trip around the world, I headed out for Kyoto. The woman at the front desk gave me some maps to get me on the right local subway to the JR Line that runs to Kyoto, but she said, discouragingly, that getting around Kyoto confuses her. I had picked up a stapled large-format booklet at the airport that looked pretty comprehensive on the city, including detailed maps, so I was fairly sure what I wanted to see.
The bullet train to Kyoto took less than 30 minutes, and I was there by noon. The train stations manifest a level or order unknown to us in the US. You line up on the quai in diagonal rows demarcated by lines, and with stylized footprints in them. The train arrives with its doors precisely in front of each one. You file in, in an orderly manner.
On the way, there wasn't a single break in the urban sprawl. Yes, there were a few rice paddies in what looked like people's yards, but this was the megalopolis; it was crowded and unrelenting.
Luckily cities had parks, and Kyoto was known for them. Upon arrival, I bought myself a subway day pass, and headed up to the Northwest corner of the central city. On the subway a lovely Japanese woman speaking excellent English helped orient me. She had lived in the US, and was traveling with her family. I photographed them in the light of the station stop we both got out at.
I thought I'd hit a few museums first, then explore a park or shrine or two. My first stop was the Kaleidoscope Museum. What a concept! I had to check it out--for Y300. It turned out to be a single room with kaleidoscopes of varying sizes and shapes placed around it. I had seen most of the types before, including the kind that uses a glass sphere that refracts the ambient room as its basis for generating forms. There were liquid ones, and a fruit one; a big desktop one with oculars for both eyes, though the images were not coordinated. Then, 15 minutes after I arrived, they turned off the lights and projected kaleidoscopic images on the upper three feet of all four walls of the room. It reminded me of the Grand Central Terminal winter light show. What I was seeing was an hommage to the Japanese love of pure form, which also manifests itself in the inordinate amount of Japanese art devoted to nature, as born out by my visits to the next three museums.
The next museum, the Museum of Kyoto, was right around the corner. I paid my Y900, which didn't include the fee for the special exhibit on the Japanese artist working in Western style. I wanted to see what imaginative things they did with their own styles. The first floor of exhibits examined the early history of Kyoto, with a stratigraphy dating back to the 8th Century CE. A very helpful attendant/docent helped me understand the displays, whose labels were in Japanese. The same room also had a few fabrics and old ceramics. The next room had a few nature paintings, and the other two floors on my ticket were closed!
I considered lodging a protest, but then decided it would be a waste of time, so I proceeded to my next museum. This was the small Kahisukan Museum of Contemporary Art, about a kilometer away, that featured the work of Rosanjin Kitaoji, a revered Japanese artist who had died 12 years ago. I had never heard of him, but it was highly touted in my guide sheet and not too far away. My route took me through the streets that had been converted into covered shopping malls. When I think of how much I was marketed to on this trip I get a little nauseated. On the other hand, I was fascinated by the art of Japanese food sculpture...
This is real: machine making little cakes.
I reached a major thoroughfare, turned left, walked over a bridge, whose shallow river flowed attractively over large square stones.
On the other side of the river I was amused to find a caricature shop. In the US caricatures are done on the street. Here it was more institutionalized--and they were very good. The sidewalk display placed caricatures next to photos of the subjects and did not rely on celebrity likenesses.
A little farther down was the Kahisukan museum: dark, solemn, respectful of the great artist that Rosanjin Kitaoji was. The entry fee was Y1000. It was interesting that this contemporary artist stayed entirely within the purview of Japanese traditional subject matter, though his style was light and fresh. It was entirely devoted to nature: goldfish placed judiciously about the canvas, cranes, leaves, lotus flowers, tall grass, etc. etc. I heard Keats echoing in my head, "beauty=truth; truth=beauty; that's all you need to know" and thought how foolish this was, how much it leaves out. I mean, this is possibly the most crowded country on the planet, and I hadn't seen a thing about urban conditions or the aesthetics of dense housing; nothing about human conflict or even human interaction. The work was beautiful but took no risks--it stayed deep inside the Bento box. Did this say something significant about life in Japan today, where life is expected to be predictably laid out, one's path from womb to tomb rationally planned--until a tsunami causes a nuclear cataclysm? No photography was allowed.
I decided to check out the National Museum of Modern Art, which was close to a major shrine, a bus ride away. However, a few steps from me, across the street was the Yasaka shrine, so I decided to visit it first. I had seen so many Buddhist temples and shrines of various sorts, that I was not particularly impressed, although I did notice a few distinctly Japanese features. There was an orange Tori gate at the entrance (no entrance fee, unlike China and Vietnam), the was a rectangular basin of water that people ladeled out in the performance of some ritual I didn't understand. A path led up into the park, where there were more shrine buildings, and there were multiple banners hanging vertically near the alters.
I came out and found the bus stop across the street. The buses that stopped there were all numbered with their destinations named in English in Japanese, so it was easy to determine that I neede the 46 bus. While I waited I made friendly contact with a young man who was passing out leaflets for the comedy show that he did. I wished I had understood enough Japanase to see what stand-up is like in this friendly country of great conformism.
My bus finally came. You get on these buses in the middle and, as I found out later, pay as you get off through the door by the driver. I went up to the driver and paid him first, Y200, then sat down to wait for my stop. It came in about 12 minutes. I got out and found my way to the National Museum of Modern Art, which along with the Kyoto Municipal Museum, lay at the foot of a huge orange Tori gate. Note the ominous clouds in the photograph.
The woman at the ticket sale counter accepted my press pass, and I filled out their form. There was also no restriction on photography--at least not up front. None of these museums were large institutions--nothing on the scale of a major New York museum. The work they had was all of excellent quality, all Japanese with one exception: 10 paintings and seven engravings by Marc Chagall! Now that was a surprise. I photographed two of the paintings before I was asked to stop.
Most of the works were on subjects drawn from nature, but there were some significant exceptions: a sensuous nude in the classical style, a clever piece with moveable doors, some distinctly individualistic painting styles, and the inevitable screen with subjects drawn from nature.
Cleveer piece with doors by Ken'ichi Chudo (1921-1991)
Lots of traditional works.
A rare abstract.
Non-traditional, individualistic style...
And to their credit, two walls devoted to Tomoko Sawada , the Japanese Cindy Sherman of the photo booth, whom we have seen in galleries in New York.
Right across the street was the Kyoto Municipal Art Museum. Had to pay the full price, and no photography, but half of the museum was devoted to a contest among Japanese artists, mostly large painting, but some sculpture and ceramics. All the labeling was done by hand and tacked to the wall, and it was all in Japanese. But here, finally, I discovered rich originality: urban scenes, crazy expressionistic party scenes, abstracts, even conceptional pieces. There was one, for example, that showed a row of caricatural women in garrish costumes and hats at some kind of party, with exaggerated lines and textures. A man in the middle sported an eye patch made of multi-colored sequins. This was also the most extensive collection, and I was only admitted to half the museum. The other half had a special single-artist show, and it was closed by the time I emerged from the contest pieces.
Leaving the museum I walked up towards the Heian Jingu shrine. One passes through an elaborate gate then crosses a broad field of beige pebbles. There was a group of young people in traditional costumes lining up for a photograph by one of them. I ran up to them and offered to take it, for which they were very grateful. I directed them a bit, then got on my belly, at which they oohed their approval for my bravado, and then I took a few with my own camera.
They had to be someplace, so they left the shrine grounds, while I proceeded to the main shrine, at which point it started to rain. Once under its roof the rain increased in intensity to the point of being a huge downpour. I took some photos of the rain coming off the roof, but the gardian told me I couldn't take any photos from the Shrine, as well as of the interior of the shrine. I could see the edge of the raincloud in the distance: a horizontal patch of blue sky.
In half an hour the rain had decreased to a light drizzle, and I ventured out. I crossed the pebble field, capturing the gate and its reflection in the standing water, at which point the rain started up again. I ran for cover and found my group of young people in traditional costumes. After taking a few more photos, I exchanged emails with one of them, who was studying political science at a local university. When he hinted he was a bit bored with the subject, I suggested he always ask which way the money is flowing, to seek out the hidden lines of power, and that the game in poli-sci was to gage the distance between the billboarded and publicized motives and principles on one hand, and the real motives on the other.
When the rain finally stopped again I headed for the first food source, since I was absolutely famished. I had just munched on a take-out sushi from a convenience market for lunch, in order not to lose any time. I ducked into a charming little family-run place and ordered their fish curry for Y850--overpriced for what I got: mostly rice with a few crumbs of fish. But it fueled me enough for me to find my way back to the subway, and thence to the train station. I got on the 6:59 rapid train back to Osaka, having made contact with two older men who took me under their wing and made sure I got on the express train. In Japan, people line up on foot silhouettes on the quai, and the train stops with its doors precisely at the head of each line. Subways, too. Everything is in order (inside the Bento box), and the people seem quite happy with it. Seats on trains and subways are upholstered. I'd never seen a more comfortable subway.
Back in Osaka I wandered about trying to figure out the subway line I needed to take. Then I realized that the map the woman at the hotel desk had given me was very clear about it: the Mitsoji (red) line. I followed the signs, then asked someone which direction I should take and got on the right subway. When I got off, I found myself in the Osaka hyper-mall again, this time looking for a sushi restaurant. I found one with a fish tank in the front window on one side and plastic sculptures of their dishes--including three of deliberately exaggerated size--on the other.
Two women next to me were talking Italian, so I introduced myself. It was a mother and daughter traveling together. We talked a bit more, and then I proposed that we dine together. They said they knew of a much better place, one with rotating sushi. I had to see this.
We walked to the main road, turned left, went over the bridge and turned left again. I learned that I was speaking with Lucrecia (the mother) and Melissa, from Rome. I told them about my love of Rome and my experiences there, playing at Club Alexanderplatz opposite Romano Mussolini in 1990, also about my performance that same year at the Jazz Festival of Pompeii, which is not publicized for fear that too large an audience might damage the excavations.
Osaka at night presents the market-driven version of nirvana: the glamour and glitter of a diverse array of shops and bars extending to virtual infinity on every one of the parallel streets that make up this district. It doesn't fail to seduce, and it's so overwhelming that you can easily forget that it leaves out the things that make life truly rich and satisfying: friendship and love, nature, spirituality, insight, memory...
About 200 meters down was Daiki Suisan, home of the rotating sushi. We sat at the bar, where two parades of sushi marched by us at mouth and eye height. The plates were color coded as to price, and there were little standing signs, too, so you knew exactly what you were buying; no need for a menu. A little box contained powdered green tee, and a hot water spigot protruded from the vertical surface in front of us. There was a receptacle for the pickled ginger, and bowls of wasabe doses in plastic were inserted among the sushi plates. It was more exciting than a sushi buffet; you only paid for what you ate; and it was very reasonably priced. I had three dishes for Y200, one for Y150 and two for Y100. My total with tax came to Y1026--amazing for the equivalent of a buffet.
We hugged like old friends after we left the restaurant, and went our separate ways. I had a bit of trouble finding my way back to the hotel, but finally got my directions straight and arrived there by 10:30.
I had drunk too much green tea, so I had trouble falling asleep. But I got up at 7:45 the next morning, got my bags together, had breakfast in the hotel on the 15th floor, said good-bye to Barbara, who was sick, and took a taxi to the Namba train station just a few blocks away--for the cab's minimum. I photographed my driver in his tuxedo, which surprised him (see above). The train ride from Namba station downtown to the airport took 45 minutes, and I arrived at 10:30 with plenty of time for my 1 pm flight. I changed my remaining yen back into dollars--I had spent about 1300 yen and change, about $130 in the day I was there--and this was without shopping.
I had imagined that if the plane left at 1 pm and we got to New York's JFK at about 1 pm local time, that we would follow the sun. But no. We flew into the night and came out at dawn over the Chugash Mountains in southern Alaska, taking the Great Circle route. It was stunningly beautiful, one of the most impressive geological sights of the entire trip, except that the retreat of at least two glaciers up their valleys was very much in evidence. Starting in totally blue pre-dawn light, the sun gingerly peeked up on the opposite side of the plane, illuminating the snow draped summits of the mountains on my side with its rosy-fingered glow. Gradually the color faded, but the mountains remained just as dramatic, until we had passed them by, and a uniform cloud cover took over, which broke up into strato-culumulus as we crossed Canada and headed for the Great Lakes.
Kanzai airport is at least 30 km out of town, so we took the train into the downtown station of Namba, where we caught a cab to our hotel, which was literally around the block: the Metro the 21--yes, that's its name--arriving by midnight. Perhaps it makes more sense to a Japanese. This was my first time in Japan, and it was somewhat of a relief to return to an advanced (rich) country, even though the prices are comparable to or higher than those in New York. But it's a newer country than ours, having rebuilt after the Second World War, and having embraced technology more enthusiastically than we have. It's also more formal and cleaner. So it looked like a vision of the future--something out of Blade Runner, and the streets of Osaka's tourist district only reinforced this impression.
What struck me right away in the airport, though, was that the toilet sets had buttons on them! Yes, four buttons: "shower," "bidet," "intensity," and "stop." Bidet, I figured, must have referred to a jet of water that is position to clean a woman's privates, but shower? I didn't see a shower head above the toilet (as I once did in a very minimal apartment on Rue Mouffetard in Paris in the 70s. You put up the toilet set and balanced yourself on the edges, while running the water, which hopefully drained into the bowl. That's what came to mind, but that was not the case. The toilet at our hotel was a bit more explicit, with a line drawing of a derriere with a spray coming up to it, plus it was called "spray" on our toilet. The French, with their talent for succinct vulgarity, would doubtless call it "un arrose-cul." So it really was a matter of one spray aimed slightly differently. When I tried it, it tickled, then got hot, then I remembered the "stop" button, but I was VERY clean.
This is actually the toilet from our hotel room, but the airport had the same kind of device.
The themes of formality and cleanliness manifested in the taxis, too. The taxi drivers were all wearing blue tuxedos! Plus the passenger seats are covered with a smooth, soft white cloth. Of course, a TV is running, and there's a dispenser of tourist brochures. No gypsy or scam cabs here, as in Vietnam. The initial fee is Y640, or about $6.10, so you pay for the uniform.
Downtown Osaka is like a combination of a giant shopping mall and Bourbon Street, where there are as many bars as there are nail salons on certain streets on the Lower East Side. Has the bar density of Bourbon Street really become the model for the fun districts of the developed world?
The following morning, our last full day on the trip around the world, I headed out for Kyoto. The woman at the front desk gave me some maps to get me on the right local subway to the JR Line that runs to Kyoto, but she said, discouragingly, that getting around Kyoto confuses her. I had picked up a stapled large-format booklet at the airport that looked pretty comprehensive on the city, including detailed maps, so I was fairly sure what I wanted to see.
The bullet train to Kyoto took less than 30 minutes, and I was there by noon. The train stations manifest a level or order unknown to us in the US. You line up on the quai in diagonal rows demarcated by lines, and with stylized footprints in them. The train arrives with its doors precisely in front of each one. You file in, in an orderly manner.
On the way, there wasn't a single break in the urban sprawl. Yes, there were a few rice paddies in what looked like people's yards, but this was the megalopolis; it was crowded and unrelenting.
Luckily cities had parks, and Kyoto was known for them. Upon arrival, I bought myself a subway day pass, and headed up to the Northwest corner of the central city. On the subway a lovely Japanese woman speaking excellent English helped orient me. She had lived in the US, and was traveling with her family. I photographed them in the light of the station stop we both got out at.
I thought I'd hit a few museums first, then explore a park or shrine or two. My first stop was the Kaleidoscope Museum. What a concept! I had to check it out--for Y300. It turned out to be a single room with kaleidoscopes of varying sizes and shapes placed around it. I had seen most of the types before, including the kind that uses a glass sphere that refracts the ambient room as its basis for generating forms. There were liquid ones, and a fruit one; a big desktop one with oculars for both eyes, though the images were not coordinated. Then, 15 minutes after I arrived, they turned off the lights and projected kaleidoscopic images on the upper three feet of all four walls of the room. It reminded me of the Grand Central Terminal winter light show. What I was seeing was an hommage to the Japanese love of pure form, which also manifests itself in the inordinate amount of Japanese art devoted to nature, as born out by my visits to the next three museums.
The next museum, the Museum of Kyoto, was right around the corner. I paid my Y900, which didn't include the fee for the special exhibit on the Japanese artist working in Western style. I wanted to see what imaginative things they did with their own styles. The first floor of exhibits examined the early history of Kyoto, with a stratigraphy dating back to the 8th Century CE. A very helpful attendant/docent helped me understand the displays, whose labels were in Japanese. The same room also had a few fabrics and old ceramics. The next room had a few nature paintings, and the other two floors on my ticket were closed!
I considered lodging a protest, but then decided it would be a waste of time, so I proceeded to my next museum. This was the small Kahisukan Museum of Contemporary Art, about a kilometer away, that featured the work of Rosanjin Kitaoji, a revered Japanese artist who had died 12 years ago. I had never heard of him, but it was highly touted in my guide sheet and not too far away. My route took me through the streets that had been converted into covered shopping malls. When I think of how much I was marketed to on this trip I get a little nauseated. On the other hand, I was fascinated by the art of Japanese food sculpture...
This is real: machine making little cakes.
I reached a major thoroughfare, turned left, walked over a bridge, whose shallow river flowed attractively over large square stones.
On the other side of the river I was amused to find a caricature shop. In the US caricatures are done on the street. Here it was more institutionalized--and they were very good. The sidewalk display placed caricatures next to photos of the subjects and did not rely on celebrity likenesses.
A little farther down was the Kahisukan museum: dark, solemn, respectful of the great artist that Rosanjin Kitaoji was. The entry fee was Y1000. It was interesting that this contemporary artist stayed entirely within the purview of Japanese traditional subject matter, though his style was light and fresh. It was entirely devoted to nature: goldfish placed judiciously about the canvas, cranes, leaves, lotus flowers, tall grass, etc. etc. I heard Keats echoing in my head, "beauty=truth; truth=beauty; that's all you need to know" and thought how foolish this was, how much it leaves out. I mean, this is possibly the most crowded country on the planet, and I hadn't seen a thing about urban conditions or the aesthetics of dense housing; nothing about human conflict or even human interaction. The work was beautiful but took no risks--it stayed deep inside the Bento box. Did this say something significant about life in Japan today, where life is expected to be predictably laid out, one's path from womb to tomb rationally planned--until a tsunami causes a nuclear cataclysm? No photography was allowed.
I decided to check out the National Museum of Modern Art, which was close to a major shrine, a bus ride away. However, a few steps from me, across the street was the Yasaka shrine, so I decided to visit it first. I had seen so many Buddhist temples and shrines of various sorts, that I was not particularly impressed, although I did notice a few distinctly Japanese features. There was an orange Tori gate at the entrance (no entrance fee, unlike China and Vietnam), the was a rectangular basin of water that people ladeled out in the performance of some ritual I didn't understand. A path led up into the park, where there were more shrine buildings, and there were multiple banners hanging vertically near the alters.
I came out and found the bus stop across the street. The buses that stopped there were all numbered with their destinations named in English in Japanese, so it was easy to determine that I neede the 46 bus. While I waited I made friendly contact with a young man who was passing out leaflets for the comedy show that he did. I wished I had understood enough Japanase to see what stand-up is like in this friendly country of great conformism.
My bus finally came. You get on these buses in the middle and, as I found out later, pay as you get off through the door by the driver. I went up to the driver and paid him first, Y200, then sat down to wait for my stop. It came in about 12 minutes. I got out and found my way to the National Museum of Modern Art, which along with the Kyoto Municipal Museum, lay at the foot of a huge orange Tori gate. Note the ominous clouds in the photograph.
The woman at the ticket sale counter accepted my press pass, and I filled out their form. There was also no restriction on photography--at least not up front. None of these museums were large institutions--nothing on the scale of a major New York museum. The work they had was all of excellent quality, all Japanese with one exception: 10 paintings and seven engravings by Marc Chagall! Now that was a surprise. I photographed two of the paintings before I was asked to stop.
Most of the works were on subjects drawn from nature, but there were some significant exceptions: a sensuous nude in the classical style, a clever piece with moveable doors, some distinctly individualistic painting styles, and the inevitable screen with subjects drawn from nature.
Cleveer piece with doors by Ken'ichi Chudo (1921-1991)
Lots of traditional works.
Non-traditional, individualistic style...
And to their credit, two walls devoted to Tomoko Sawada , the Japanese Cindy Sherman of the photo booth, whom we have seen in galleries in New York.
Right across the street was the Kyoto Municipal Art Museum. Had to pay the full price, and no photography, but half of the museum was devoted to a contest among Japanese artists, mostly large painting, but some sculpture and ceramics. All the labeling was done by hand and tacked to the wall, and it was all in Japanese. But here, finally, I discovered rich originality: urban scenes, crazy expressionistic party scenes, abstracts, even conceptional pieces. There was one, for example, that showed a row of caricatural women in garrish costumes and hats at some kind of party, with exaggerated lines and textures. A man in the middle sported an eye patch made of multi-colored sequins. This was also the most extensive collection, and I was only admitted to half the museum. The other half had a special single-artist show, and it was closed by the time I emerged from the contest pieces.
Leaving the museum I walked up towards the Heian Jingu shrine. One passes through an elaborate gate then crosses a broad field of beige pebbles. There was a group of young people in traditional costumes lining up for a photograph by one of them. I ran up to them and offered to take it, for which they were very grateful. I directed them a bit, then got on my belly, at which they oohed their approval for my bravado, and then I took a few with my own camera.
They had to be someplace, so they left the shrine grounds, while I proceeded to the main shrine, at which point it started to rain. Once under its roof the rain increased in intensity to the point of being a huge downpour. I took some photos of the rain coming off the roof, but the gardian told me I couldn't take any photos from the Shrine, as well as of the interior of the shrine. I could see the edge of the raincloud in the distance: a horizontal patch of blue sky.
In half an hour the rain had decreased to a light drizzle, and I ventured out. I crossed the pebble field, capturing the gate and its reflection in the standing water, at which point the rain started up again. I ran for cover and found my group of young people in traditional costumes. After taking a few more photos, I exchanged emails with one of them, who was studying political science at a local university. When he hinted he was a bit bored with the subject, I suggested he always ask which way the money is flowing, to seek out the hidden lines of power, and that the game in poli-sci was to gage the distance between the billboarded and publicized motives and principles on one hand, and the real motives on the other.
When the rain finally stopped again I headed for the first food source, since I was absolutely famished. I had just munched on a take-out sushi from a convenience market for lunch, in order not to lose any time. I ducked into a charming little family-run place and ordered their fish curry for Y850--overpriced for what I got: mostly rice with a few crumbs of fish. But it fueled me enough for me to find my way back to the subway, and thence to the train station. I got on the 6:59 rapid train back to Osaka, having made contact with two older men who took me under their wing and made sure I got on the express train. In Japan, people line up on foot silhouettes on the quai, and the train stops with its doors precisely at the head of each line. Subways, too. Everything is in order (inside the Bento box), and the people seem quite happy with it. Seats on trains and subways are upholstered. I'd never seen a more comfortable subway.
Back in Osaka I wandered about trying to figure out the subway line I needed to take. Then I realized that the map the woman at the hotel desk had given me was very clear about it: the Mitsoji (red) line. I followed the signs, then asked someone which direction I should take and got on the right subway. When I got off, I found myself in the Osaka hyper-mall again, this time looking for a sushi restaurant. I found one with a fish tank in the front window on one side and plastic sculptures of their dishes--including three of deliberately exaggerated size--on the other.
Two women next to me were talking Italian, so I introduced myself. It was a mother and daughter traveling together. We talked a bit more, and then I proposed that we dine together. They said they knew of a much better place, one with rotating sushi. I had to see this.
We walked to the main road, turned left, went over the bridge and turned left again. I learned that I was speaking with Lucrecia (the mother) and Melissa, from Rome. I told them about my love of Rome and my experiences there, playing at Club Alexanderplatz opposite Romano Mussolini in 1990, also about my performance that same year at the Jazz Festival of Pompeii, which is not publicized for fear that too large an audience might damage the excavations.
Osaka at night presents the market-driven version of nirvana: the glamour and glitter of a diverse array of shops and bars extending to virtual infinity on every one of the parallel streets that make up this district. It doesn't fail to seduce, and it's so overwhelming that you can easily forget that it leaves out the things that make life truly rich and satisfying: friendship and love, nature, spirituality, insight, memory...
About 200 meters down was Daiki Suisan, home of the rotating sushi. We sat at the bar, where two parades of sushi marched by us at mouth and eye height. The plates were color coded as to price, and there were little standing signs, too, so you knew exactly what you were buying; no need for a menu. A little box contained powdered green tee, and a hot water spigot protruded from the vertical surface in front of us. There was a receptacle for the pickled ginger, and bowls of wasabe doses in plastic were inserted among the sushi plates. It was more exciting than a sushi buffet; you only paid for what you ate; and it was very reasonably priced. I had three dishes for Y200, one for Y150 and two for Y100. My total with tax came to Y1026--amazing for the equivalent of a buffet.
We hugged like old friends after we left the restaurant, and went our separate ways. I had a bit of trouble finding my way back to the hotel, but finally got my directions straight and arrived there by 10:30.
I had drunk too much green tea, so I had trouble falling asleep. But I got up at 7:45 the next morning, got my bags together, had breakfast in the hotel on the 15th floor, said good-bye to Barbara, who was sick, and took a taxi to the Namba train station just a few blocks away--for the cab's minimum. I photographed my driver in his tuxedo, which surprised him (see above). The train ride from Namba station downtown to the airport took 45 minutes, and I arrived at 10:30 with plenty of time for my 1 pm flight. I changed my remaining yen back into dollars--I had spent about 1300 yen and change, about $130 in the day I was there--and this was without shopping.
I had imagined that if the plane left at 1 pm and we got to New York's JFK at about 1 pm local time, that we would follow the sun. But no. We flew into the night and came out at dawn over the Chugash Mountains in southern Alaska, taking the Great Circle route. It was stunningly beautiful, one of the most impressive geological sights of the entire trip, except that the retreat of at least two glaciers up their valleys was very much in evidence. Starting in totally blue pre-dawn light, the sun gingerly peeked up on the opposite side of the plane, illuminating the snow draped summits of the mountains on my side with its rosy-fingered glow. Gradually the color faded, but the mountains remained just as dramatic, until we had passed them by, and a uniform cloud cover took over, which broke up into strato-culumulus as we crossed Canada and headed for the Great Lakes.
It was my second dawn of June 9, and racing the sun, we arrived at JFK Airport on time a little after 1 pm. Immigration and customs went quickly, and my daughter Nora came to greet me at Jamaica station, where the SkyTrain lets you off. It was a wonderful reunion. I had been gone too long and suffered from trip fatigue towards the end, but I was happy with the work I had done and looked forward to the rest I would take before plunging back into my regular life.
Thank you for reading my blog. Please email me at jssphoto@verizon.net if you would like me to let you know when I publish a book of photos and narratives based on it, which will contain additional tips on traveling in developing countries, plus a different selection of photos based on a comprehensive edit of the 34,758 exposures I made, including 133 panoramics on film.
--Joel Simpson
