Two Mountains

I love waking up early.

Maybe I should rephrase that - I love getting up early for a reason. Especially if that reason has to do with (a) travel, or (b) doing something outdoorsy.

Luckily for me, Sunday brought the opportunity to do both. I read an advertisement from a club called the "Wondervogels," (Loyal readers of the blog will note that the theme of odd-sounding names with unclear origins pushes on as strong as ever*), inviting international students on a hiking trip to Okutama, which is the far west part of Tokyo Prefecture. Okutama has about as much in common with Tokyo city as Cooperstown has with New York City, to give you an idea of the vastness of Tokyo Prefecture.

Anyway, to back track for a second, I have heard many times that (the) Mt. Fuji was visible from a number of places in West Tokyo, but I had yet to see it and had passed it off as just a way to make the area seem more interesting.

Early Sunday morning, however, was as clear a day as I had seen in Tokyo, and riding the train out west to Okutama, I noticed a distant and beautiful mountain range surrounding the suburbs which I had yet to see in nearly 2 months of being here. My Japanese friend, after teaching me the word for mountain range, calmly pointed out to me that you could see Mt. Fuji as well.

"MT FUJI?!" I gasped. The Mt. Fuji?

As it turns out, one could see Fuji bright and clear from this normal suburban train that I had taken not a few times. It was in the far distance but one could sense its calm presence even in our airconditioned little compartment.

But more on this later.

Meeting up with the rest of the group in Tachikawa, the last major stop in Western Tokyo, we set out on a slow-moving train to Okutama, the last stop on the Japan Railways East line. I talked to two Japanese students who had been to Israel (seriously), watching as the concrete melange of Tokyo slowly faded into mountains of pine trees, deserted wooden train stations and lonely hilltop houses. One could sense the tension in the air of Tokyo releasing and melting away.

Disembarking at a one-room train station with a number of other climbers, our group leader Yuta-kun told us our climbing order (which we never actually climbed in) and lead us up a paved road to the entrance of Mt. Honita, our challenge for the day.



The mountain was steep - no doubting that. To be honest, I wasn't prepared for the type of hike it turned out to be. Not that I'm a hiker anyway. But our Japanese leaders were as prepared as the most decorated boy scout in town.

I alternated between hiking partners, discussing the difficulties of translating Japanese to English and vice-versa (My Japanese friend from early told me on the way up that someone had asked him "How are you?" and he had no idea how to respond. The phrase simply doesn't exist in Japanese. Even the idea of asking "how" something is doesn't really exist. I taught him to say "I'm fine, how are you?" even in situations in which he is not fine. My only suitable explanation for this was that it's just the way you do it. Not sure I'm going to be an English teacher any time soon.)

After about two and a half hours we reached the summit, where predictably older folks who have a considerable edge on me in the category of years lived sat calmly eating a picnic lunch while I wiped the oceanic amount of sweat from my brow with a bath towel. Japanese old people are superhuman. There's no other explanation. Must be something in the rice.

Anyway, as previously reported, Mt. Fuji was indeed visible from sea level. To my great surprise and delight, however, the top of Mt. Honita offered quite a more dramatic view:



The peak of Mt. Fuji, rising up from the clouds blocking the view of the onlookers below. I cannot describe the feeling this gave me. The mountain was understated, tranquil and beautiful in a very "Japanese" way. I felt peaceful simply looking at it. True, I did not climb it, but to have this privileged view of the peak gave the feeling of having arrived, not in the physical sense but, if you'll allow the mountain to be used as a totally unimaginative metaphor, having overcome some initial obstacles to not just be in Japan to be Living in Japan. I took approximately 2,000 pictures of Fuji, drank in the view some more, and returned to my group.

Often in Japan, one will be engaged in an activity that reminds one of something at home, only to be surprised at the end by a turn of events that seemingly has nothing to do with what had been going on before.

The leaders of the group had brought out portable gas burners, put some pots on top and...made cheese fondue. Oh yes, America. I had cheese fondue on top of a mountain. Before I had ever had it when not on a mountain.



I would suggest not thinking about it for too long. Your head might hurt.

We shuffled down the mountain, using the mountaineering technique known as stuffing your toes into the front of your shoes as you slide down hoping not to slip and fall into a tree, which were plentiful:



One of the down sides of waking up that early, however, was that after I made it back to my train stop, I stood in front of the huge bike parking lot with absolutely no recollection of where I had parked my bike. 15 minutes later...

The next day the group leaders e-mailed me to thank me for coming. Why they were thanking me I do not know. Unfortunately, compared to down here on the ground, the view from the top of that mountain made it a lot easier to find things lost in translation.


*Actually, it's not totally random: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wandervogel . But its still pretty random. (Thanks Judy)

Not-So-Secret Gardens

Part of the fun of Tokyo is the little nooks and crannies that make the traveler forget that they are in a massive, mostly concrete, metropolis of some untold millions of people.

This last weekend, in my pursuit to make it to as many different areas of Tokyo as possible (I've given up on thinking I can get to all of them - it's too big) I went to Meguro, a quiet, up-scale suburb in central Tokyo and home to two oases of nature that are unfortunately rare in this city.

The first garden was formerly the home of Prince Asaka. I'm sure you all remember who he was, so I'll skip the biography, but in short, after his death the park became "public," the $1 entry fee notwithstanding. There's also a French Art Deco house of his on the grounds which serves as a museum of sorts, but my goal for the day was to spend as much time surrounded by green as possible.

The garden was split into three sections, and indeed had a very European feel. On the main lawn of the garden, a young man and woman sat on a blanket and ate snacks from a wicker basket, a father chased after his ecstatic children, and others simply sat with well-worn books, enjoying the soft early autumn sunlight.

Wandering into the western section of the garden, another lawn opened up, dotted with tables and chairs and home to about a dozen amateur artists, mostly senior citizens, calmly painting the garden around them. I walked around, sneaking looks behind their backs as they meticulously added laborious strokes here and there, languidly gazing at the scene they were attempting to recreate. Every once in a while an older woman would walk by, gravel crunching under her feet, to offer a handful of snacks to the painters. It was bucolic to say the least - despite the distant rattle of trucks passing on the street, the main background music consisted of the airy songs of birds.

Moving on, I came to the Japanese garden, complete with a small bridge arched over the murky coi pond like the spine of a threatened cat, a tea house hidden in the bushes, and an enigmatic woman staring into the schisms opened up in one's existence that are only visible in such tranquility. I took a slow-paced walk around the pond, looking for my own such windows. A dragonfly flew over my head, causing me to jump. I hope nobody saw; such was the mood.

Teien Gardens







Luckily for me, right next door is the (say it with me now) Shizenkyoikuen (National Science Museum's Institute for Nature Study). The (let's just call it the) park is a large expanse of land held over from the days before Tokyo was an urban jungle. Upon entering, you get one of 300 ribbons to pin on your shirt, as only that amount are allowed in at one time. Not that space is at a premium - it took me a good hour to saunter around all the paths. Accompanying almost every tree was a little sign stating the species name; signs also stated that one shouldn't pick up the little acorns on the ground, for they are for the animals who also live there. Men with very large cameras walked around with a purpose, and old friends slowly made their way, sharing long held-back stories. It was that kind of place.

Despite the presence of untold amounts of spiders (I hate spiders), I was able to relax in this environment. I took a seat on a bench and watched ripples of water form and disappear in front of an old wooden bridge. Behind me I could hear the grind of gravel under the wheels of a stroller. A butterfly flew in front of my eyes. Again, the sense of tranquility heightened my sense of place, though my surroundings in this place were the opposite of the well-manicured Japanese garden.

I walked across the bridge and around a small pathway with flowers on either side, making sure my feet landed on the withered stepping stones. I saw an enormous spider and nearly fell over. Leaving the grounds back into manic Tokyo, I thought about silence.

Shizenkyoikuen

Housekeeping

Just a quick update with some pictures.

Something I forgot to mention was the address system here in Japan. While my apartment is on a relatively large and busy street, my home address actually doesn't include the street. In fact, only the largest of streets in Tokyo have any names at all. That's correct, most streets don't have names. They're just "street."

So, you might ask, how in the world are you supposed to find anything if the streets have no names? In general, any unfamiliar location one might be tempted to go to comes with a map from those who live there. That, or you go by monuments such as "the 7-11" (they're everywhere), or a school, or something.

So what IS my address?

Tokyo-to, Mitaka-shi, Jindaiji 3-10-3 Angelique 205

I realize this may as well be in hieroglyphics. It kind of still seems like that to me.

In actuality, while Western world addresses generally go from the most specific location to the least (Street address, street name, city, state, country), Japanese addresses go the other direction (the address starts with the most general address [in this case, Tokyo] and ends with the most specific location).


Further, because there are no street names, cities are cut up into blocks. For example, its as if Manhattan's streets did not have their convenient numbered grid, but was officially split up into Upper West, Columbus Circle, Lower East Side, etc, and each of those divisions had subdivisions by location, which would then be divided once more into blocks.


If you need a break, go ahead and take it.

SO

My address (Tokyo-to, Mitaka-shi, Jindaiji 3-10-3 Angelique 205), translated, means:

I live the third building of the 10th block of the third section of Jindaiji, which is in Mitaka city, which is in Tokyo prefecture. My building's name, as previously reported, is Angelique, and I live in room number 205.



Exhale.

So, in conclusion, the only thing more difficult than acquiring this apartment is actually finding it. I think I'll just meet visitors at the train station.

I spent last Saturday in Ueno Park, which is where many of Tokyo's finest museums are, along with a plethora of shrines and temples and where the largest cherry blossom viewing parties are (more on that this spring), and also Asakusa, a famous Tokyo shrine that's a favorite of tourists and locals alike. Yesterday afternoon I went to nearby Inokashira Park, one of the loveliest natural enclaves in Tokyo.


Ueno:



Asakusa:


Inokashira Park:

House Work

I was first driven towards finding a new place to call home when I had more and more trouble sleeping at the dorm I was placed in. Yes, it was the commuter train coming by every few minutes, but it was also the noise of the other people staying there. My room was not a few feet from the bathroom, and the Japanese youth seem to have a habit of clearing their throats so loudly that for a while I was afraid they had accidentally swallowed something alive that was trying very hard to get back out. This was a problem because the amount of time and energy spent simply getting to school should have been enough to knock me out come dusk.

So it was that I was introduced to the army of women working at Pitatto House, a real estate company with bright green offices all over western Tokyo. I went in originally just to look at a few places, and one of the ladies (who spoke no English) showed me around two apartment buildings, both of which were a short walk from school. I immediately liked one of them (the rooms), and told them such the next week.

Thus I entered a process that I'd really prefer not to go through again. Japan is bureaucratic enough as it is (I had to register my bike with the city after I bought it), but the process of finding a place to live was quite remarkable in the amount of paperwork and trips to government offices I made. The following is an abridged list:

Approximately 35 trips to the Citibank ATM to take out enough to pay all the fees in advance (they wanted it in cash!)

Mitaka city office to change the address on my alien registration ID (I'm an alien) and to apply for National Health Insurance in Mitaka

2 Trips to the post office for two different kinds of insurance

5 trips to the student affairs office because they're concerned with my affairs

3 trips to the Japanese bank to open an account (the first I didn't have the correct paperwork, the second they were closed [The lady told me they would be open that day. Alas.], and the third to finally open an account) through which I would pay rent, despite the fact that the first months' rent was in cash. (Don't ask. I don't know.)

Of course, I still had all my stuff at the dorm, which is about a 45 minute journey, so I made a bunch of those as well.

Was it worth it? Absolutely. My Japanese improved significantly, I think, as most of this process was not in English. Vocabulary involving rent, delivering of appliances, bank accounts and furniture have been stored pretty tightly in my head. So if you're ever in the market for a place in Tokyo...

Of course, this left me with an empty apartment. Japanese apartments generally come unfurnished, and when they say unfurnished, they mean no stove, no fridge, no nothing. Totally bare, save the necessary facilities which would have been very difficult to buy (shower, etc).

This then required numerous NUMEROUS trips to local warehouses such as the ironically named J-Mart, and another store that is very popular called "Don Quixote." Again, I don't know why. I also learned that it's a very very bad idea to try to carry a box containing a bookshelf on a bike for more than a mile. On the first day I had my bike. Of course, I repeated this mistake another two times carrying similarly heavy and bulky items, and although I was concentrating on not falling over, I could swear I heard onlookers expressing their confusion as to why an American was on a bike carrying large items that would be much more easily transported on a bus. I guess I'm wondering that now, too.

In any case, after two weeks of organizing, purchasing, and re-organizing, and with absolutely no background in interior design, here's what I came up with:




Sleeping on the floor (not ON the floor but close enough to the floor [on a futon] that it's correct to say on the floor) definitely took (is taking) some getting used to, but in general I love it here. It's also an item in my contract that I cannot wear my shoes inside, so I get this little area for my shoes.



I realize this is probably the most boring picture I've ever taken, but in terms of cultural comparison I think it's necessary. Thanks for bearing with me.

Of course, one of the nicest things (they're all nice, really) about living here is the proximity to school. To give you a visual picture of what I mean, let's have a look at what I had to look at on my way to school before the move and after the move.

Before:



After:




That's the entryway to ICU. Not bad, not bad.