Going out for Thai.

We returned form our Winter Weekend in Hokkaido on Monday night. Tuesday morning I went to school for a regular work day. I came home and repacked my bag. Heavy clothes out, light clothes in. Without managing a wink of sleep, we left the apartment at 2am, and caught a 2:19 train, the first of a few to Tokyo/Narita Airport. A 9am flight on Air China brought us to Beijing. While Lindsay savored her layover in a new country's airport, I played it cool. I knew that scene. After a couple hours we were on a new plane headed to Bangkok.

Arrived at 6pm, and it was hot. We chose the cool season, but that is really only the slightly-less-hot season. Out front, armed with internet research and guidebook savvy, we approached an official taxi booth. The signage of the booth notified any tourists that these particular taxis were legit, would use their meters, and would not pull any scams. The driver took us to our location, though he did insist to have known a better/cheaper place, and he did take a couple extra laps around our neighborhood to settle at the right place.


We stayed in a colorful, out of the way guesthouse on the south end of Chinatown that we had booked last minute. Much of the trip was actually last minute. I generally cannot get time off from school, but saw an opportunity of a Wednesday holiday followed by tests on Thursday and Friday. I am of no help for tests, and Lindsay is proactive is making travel plans, so a Bangkok we will go!


After dumping the bags and dressing appropriately, we set out to spend our little energy on exploring the neighborhood and finding dinner. Wednesday night, and the street was where everyone should be. There were other tourists, but this was very much a spot for living, and so much for sight seeing. What we saw were colorful buildings and lights, cars speeding and braking, vendors with recognizable animal parts and mysterious fruits. At the end of one street, a group of people gathered around an old film reel projector to watch a movie projected on the side of a building.


Everywhere were people watching, walking, sitting, drinking, and shopping. I was ready to stop and be a part of everything that I saw but did not have the time. For as far as time was concerned, I had come on a budget.
After a couple sweeps of the main drag, we settled on a street corner populated by tables and chairs. The outdoor restaurant specialized in fresh seafood. I know this because I sat alongside the stockpile of crab & friends, on the rocks.


For our first meal we had a mix of sautéed greens and chili peppers. The rice was late in coming, so I did my best to cut the spice with my coconut milk drank from a coconut. The beverage was tasty, but did little to curb the delicious suffering of my meal.
I think Lindsay rather enjoyed documenting my ever-shinier complexion as I did not relent. ...He asked if I wanted spicy. I said yes, and would do so again.

In the morning we had fruit and coffee at the restaurant on top of our building. Then set out to get a better sense of our area. Each neighborhood seemed to have a niche, and Chinatown was scrap metal. Our immediate area especially looked like a chop shop. The sunlight showed what the moon had left alone. Streets full of cars, mostly dead. Some awaited surgery, while others served as impromptu garages. Neat stacks of engines and axels. Large saws taking things apart, and torches putting them back together. It was all so interesting, and yet I felt like a trespasser. I kept walking, and took minimal photos.

It was a working city. Shops kicking out smells, and people pushing carts, wheeling loads far bigger than themselves. After Chinatown, everything seemed a little bigger. We had a map and a mission, but found it quite difficult to deny the back alleys and side streets. Tight, canopied markets, where you had to be willing to rub hips with anyone to get anywhere. Fruits and fabrics transitioned to radios and remote controls. We emerged into the electronics neighborhood. Tents with tables of car stereos and racks of home receivers. Speakers larger than me, sitting on the sidewalk. And everywhere, tables of open circuitry being poked with soldering irons. Had my camera gone missing, this would have been my first place to look. Many items were probably hotter than the sun.


We avoided doing so, but on occasion it was necessary to pull our map out in public. I never like to be the obvious tourist, but maps are especially fatal in Bangkok. Taxis, tuk-tuks, and kind strangers are all aggressive. One kind fellow grabbed our map, told us where we were going was closed for ceremony, and we should go to this other place. He drew all over it (mostly useless information), and played tug-of-war with Lindsay while hailing a tuk-tuk for us. Lindsay recovered the map and we disengaged from the stranger and cab, determined to put the mileage on our sandals.

...As a side note, the tuk-tuks are cheap, common, abundant transportation for the locals. For tourists they can be more of an adventure, including: paying way too much, going to the wrong place, propositioned a jewel scheme, and arguing over agreed upon fare. We abstained from such excitement this time around.

-- Oh gosh, I am getting lengthy. I shall take a pause here, and post more shortly --

Winter Weekend

I have been fortunate, over-stimulated even, to have been raised by four seasons. My adopted climate does not boast this, at least not to my taste. Winter in Shizuoka (Autumn extended), bottoms out at freezing, and even that is sparse. I have had a few opportunities to wear my rain gear, but there will be no snow pants this season.

I have discovered that I am only as tough as my climate, and what once was t-shirt weather, now gives me a chill. To retain identity and jumpstart physical memory, I took a little trip. My winter weekend.

I joined in for a trip organized by some of the prefectural contacts for my program. We flew to Japan’s northernmost island, Hokkaido, for a four day weekend. By no coincidence was it the weekend of Yuki Matsuri, the winter festival in the city of Sapporo. Parks and streets became galleries of snow and ice sculptures. Some of which could fit in a living room, while others could flatten a house. Every year an international crowd of 2 million converge in the city for the occasion.

My time there was winter at its finest. We arrived to find abundant fluffy stuff, and it just kept coming. The temperature hovered just below freezing. For all I know, I was trapped in a snow globe clamped in a paint mixer. Perfect.

Friday night a couple dozen of us met for dinner at the Sapporo Brewery Beer Garden. It was a Genghis Khan, cook your own, all you can eat lamb deal. I passed on the mutton, but found my fill in the vegetables and beer. An excellent snowball fight took place as soon as we got outside. I lost my hat while being on the receiving end of a snow tackle, and then lost a glove in transit home. I love playing in the snow.

The weekend was mostly walking around as a group of individually wrapped, climate controlled, photo snapping bundles. Occasionally we stopped walking to sit and eat. Folks were rather excited to try the ramen and crab, popular winter grub in Hokkaido. With the exception of the hotel’s bountiful breakfast buffet, I was less enthusiastic about the food. A while back I had decided to try veganism for the month of February. And unless a region is particularly vegetarian friendly, it is difficult to stray far from a kitchen. However, Hokkaido is the dominant farming region of Japan, and I would absolutely love to return in the warmer months, perhaps a harvest festival. They fancy themselves makers of cheese. I will be the judge of that.

On Sunday Jackson, Tatyana, Lindsay, and I took a local train to its end and then hopped a bus for another hour to an area in the mountains known for onsens (Japanese hot springs). We walked through the smallish town and decided upon a random onsen that seemed acceptable from the front. The choice proved good. The boys and girls split, and we were able to bathe outdoors alongside the hills and amongst the trees.

There were usually a couple other guys out there with us, but as soon as they were gone, I took my opportunity to climb out of the bath and into a snowbank. I was as civil as a naked man in a snowbank can be, but still opted for discretion because who knows what the locals might think.

I know some folks back home may enjoy packing their winter into a weekend, but such would not be my choice. I want my winter long. I want my winter tough. I want the weather to break just before I do. Then I can feel deserving of the warmth to come.

My winter season began and ended with a plane ride. Back in Shizuoka, I have another month or so until fall shifts into spring.

Fukuoka Yes!

Six hours on the right course, and we arrived in Fukuoka. The proper one. It was noon and we could not check in to the hostel for a few hours, so we did not venture very far with our packs. The city has some nice riverfront through much of the downtown. It reminded me of the revitalized Milwaukee banks. We sat down and watched the coy in the dirty shallow water. We drank a soda, I think it was grape.

Dropping bags and putting up the feet for a minute in the hostel, we then ventured out for dinner. The Lonely Planet guidebook directed us to a pub boasting 1,000 beers, and appropriately named Van Beeru. Sounded too good to be true. It was. After walking the block and then walking it a couple times more, we looked elsewhere for our meal.

As an exercise in decisiveness, we opened the door to a Chinese restaurant and committed to the choice. It was prime eating hours and we were the only patrons. The small kitchen had a man making the food, a woman watching figure skating on TV, and a dog watching both of them from the counter. The food was fine, and the three staff saw us off with a smile.

We found an excellent Irish pub that could fit inside my apartment. After a couple guys at the counter left, we were once again the only customers. The beer selection was a welcome sight, and the proprietor was a friendly fellow. He gave us some recommendations for the city and our future trip to Hokkaido.

Each night we stayed out late, as that was when things were happening. And each night we stayed at a new hostel. The Lonely Planet continued to give great suggestions that did not pan out. This included planning our night around a midnight breakfast in a place that was now a dance club, no thank you, and going across town for a museum closed at an odd time.

The missed midnight breakfast was replaced with a 1:30am dinner at a food cart by the river. Fukuoka, above all, is known for its food carts that set up shop all over town. The carts are dingy shanties on wheels that go up as the sun goes down. Usually there are a few of them together on a corner. Along the river, they stretch for blocks. Some have picnic tables, others have seating at a counter inside. The shanty town food courts look semi-permanent, but they are packed up and wheeled off each morning before sunrise. I cannot remember the proper name, so I just call them “feedpods.”

An amazing number of people were out on a Monday night. I could not imagine a weekend to have more. Seemed every corner had a group of men in suits, swaying side to side. Sidewalks of staggering stumblers. Fukuoka is a great place to roam streets at night, and it is different than other cities I have seen in Japan. Fukuoka has more action, but it has more litter. The homelessness is a bit more apparent. Sidewalks are more likely to be sticky.

It was a few days of heavy walking and late nights. There was consideration of shooting south to Nagasaki, but in the end we were spent. We got our Shinkansen tickets and had a pretty straight forward shot home. We even splurged for reserved seats, so as to avoid battling for a spot in the unreserved cars.

A big tower near the Sea.

Touching the ocean at every opportunity is a must for any Midwesterner.

Where's the Fukuoka?!

Lindsay has now arrived in Japan. For the first few days I gave her the best Shizuoka foot tour I knew how. After feeling that we had exhausted everything of interest within a sneaker’s range, we opted to vacate the city. I had been bouncing around and making inquiries as to different locations to visit over break. We decided to not decide our plans until Lindsay had arrived and caught her breath, fair enough.

We felt cool to both the hot and cold climates. Okinawa would be a mild temp at this time, and we would be visiting Hokkaido in a couple months, so we were not especially tempted by any temperate details. With enough time to cover some distance, but too short of notice to leave the country, we went for distant domestic. By some combination of a Lonely Planet guide book, websites, and a map, we set our sites west, to the modern city of Fukuoka.

Around lunchtime on the 27th of December we strapped on our packs and hoofed down to the JR Station downtown. At the ticket purchasing machine I could not get the price I had found online, so I went to the window. The ticket agent gave me the same price as the machine. Wise as I am, I pulled out my laptop that still had the corresponding webpage queued up. The agent immediately understood, and gave us the proper price.


The train rides were fine. We were headed a little south and a lot west. We set out on the Shinkansen (bullet train), and with three transfers, worked our way down to the lesser, regional trains. Covering so much turf, I loved that we never really left the mountains. We zigged away, but would always zag back. Soon after leaving Shizuoka, the snow caps popped out a little more. As the day of travel progressed, the snow dropped from the summits and into the fields. Suddenly, I was in winter again.

At about 7pm we arrived at Fukuoka Station. We stepped off our small train into a small station. It was cold, and it was snowy. At a loss for any flashing arrows or trail of crumbs to guide us, we approached the one visible being, a lone station agent.

Davin: Fukuoka?

Agent: Hai (yes).

Davin: points to the station on the Lonely Planet map of Fukuoka.

Agent: No Kyushu! …as he says this he crosses forearms to mimic an “X”, a national sign for absolutely no. (I am acquainted with this gesture, as I use it with my students all the time.)

The agent then pulls out a map book and shows us where we want to be, in the city of Fukuoka on the north end of Kyushu Island. He flips a couple of pages to show us where we are, Fukuoka Station in the town of Takaoka, a bit west and well north of where we began. In a quick conference, Lindsay and I determined that we did not pack sufficiently to make this our destination. The Agent then laid out a travel itinerary that would get us to our proper city. We stepped outside, made a snowball, and then back tracked a half hour to a bigger city, Kanazawa.


We were fortunate to find a room in a ryokan, a Japanese style hotel. The place was great, with a wonderful older couple running it, but it would be a brief stop for us. Wandering the city to find dinner, I was rather bummed for my shotty navigation, but Lindsay did well to keep the night upbeat. Kanazawa seemed like an acceptable place to spend a stranded night, but we were worn out, and had to catch a 6:30 bus for a 7am train.


Day one route: brown
Day two route: blue

more to come...

Food: first bite

Obviously one of the greatest changes in moving to Japan, is diet. We have land, they have sea. My appreciation of fish has grown ten fold in the last couple years, so that was one thing I could look forward to. One hang up that I had planned to hang at the door, was my preferences regarding meat. For just over a year now, I have narrowed my carnivorous scope to animals raised humanely. This worked beautifully back home, with the farmer’s market I knew exactly where my meal was coming from.

With my personal restriction designed as a critique of America’s food system, I had never planned to bring my concerns abroad. Yet being here, I find it quite difficult to shift on the matter. I walk a line of desire to try new things, wanting to be a good guest, and concern for the animal’s well being. This is a tough spot to be in, especially here.

In Japan, meat is not on the side. It is inside, on top, underneath, fused to the rest of the meal. You can order something without meat, but it will have meat. You can point out the bacon atop your salad, and they will tell you it is not meat. It is just a flavoring agent.

This is a hefty change for a formerly Buddhist/vegetarian nation. The word, vegetarian, has dropped from their vocabulary. Most people do not understand it, and not because it is English. The concept is just far too foreign. It is like the Inuit tribes with no word for murder. The practice does not exist, so why speak of it? The advice typically given to foreigners in my situation, is to say that I am “allergic” to meat. Allergies have greater universal understanding. While this tactic may work for some, it completely falls short of my purposes. Keeping the undesirable meat off the plate is half the battle, while the process of rejection is the other half.

There is the possibility that the Japanese treat their animals with the utmost care. I do not know of this one way or the other, but in this realm I pair my ignorance with cynicism. It is here that the language barrier is most trying. My greatest desire in learning the language, is to learn a little more about the food. Even then, the story may not change much. It seems to be the case that while the Japanese love food, they have no love for knowledge of food. At least not when it pertains to sourcing.

For all its flaws, America has a growing awareness of food issues, and desire to know where food comes from. Though I think there is much more to accomplish, I see that we are on the right track.

For the first two months, I went with the flow. I did not intentionally purchase meat for my meals, but I did eat what was given me. To be particular, would have been especially difficult for my 1.5 months at the Ikawa mountain school. While there, I ate school lunches with the staff and students, and dormitory dinners with the teachers. Breakfast was usually just fruit. I was also more apt to sample things out and about downtown.

Upon concluding my time at Ikawa, and returning to the heart of the city, I decided to be more proactive with my dietary concerns. Since October I have been a vegetarian in respect to land animals. If by chance, I stumble upon a small farm with some lovely chickens, or a nice slab of bacon, I may be inclined to get some. But until such an instance happens, I do not know where my meal comes from, and thus I shall avoid it all together.

Sourcing from the sea, is another can of worms that I do not wish to open today. I eat the variety of critters that come from the ocean, but even that, only to a limited extent. And less and less so.

It is unfortunate to be limiting my eating experience this year abroad. Though I will have it no other way. I do like to try new things where I can. My job is to share both the English language and western culture. Being an outspoken vegetarian seems to fit under the cultural understanding bit. While I do not preach to the students, I am eager to field their questions as to why I am eating something different. Accept it or not, it is good to know that it exists.