Kanpai And Other Marvels of Japan

I went to Tokyo last weekend to meet up with Maxwell, a good friend from home.  I left at 10:30pm on Friday night, aboard my first night bus.  It was scheduled to get into Tokyo at 7:30am, but somehow managed to get there just before 6...leaving me tired and wondering if I could just sleep on the bus for the other hour and a half I was expecting to have.  But alas, I wearily gathered my things, hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders, and moseyed down the steps, onto the cold, dark Tokyo streets.  I was freezing, tired, and facing the realization that I had nowhere to go at 5:45 in the morning, but as soon as I lifted my eyes and met them with the skyscrapers around me, I couldn't stop grinning.

I took the train around town, visiting Shibuya, Shinjuku, and Harajuku.  The train stations are humongous and bustling with people.  Though I spent most of the day walking through huge crowds of city dwellers, I found so much solace in being by myself as I strolled past them -- observing the new sites, sounds, smells, and everything else that came with this big city experience.

And as soon as I met up with Maxwell, all the joy of the friendships I have rushed back into me.  We explored, talked, ate, drank, got lost, photographed, laughed, laughed, laughed, envied, observed, and enjoyed.  It was immeasurably good times and left me feeling so, so rejuvenated.

When the time came for me to catch my night bus back home, we went to Tokyo Station where I planned to point at the map on my phone with its location and ask some conductors where it is.  That didn't work so well and time ticked by as we got more and more lost searching for the bus' whereabouts.  With ten minutes before its departure, I ran up to a conductor and asked him the same thing I asked all the other ones.  Only this time, he knew where it was, and though he appeared to be heading somewhere, briefcase in hand, he started leading the way there.  I thought he'd leave us and point us in the right direction once we reached the Station's distant exit, or once we reached the cross walk, or once we walked 3 blocks out of the way.  But he didn't leave our side until my bus was in sight, across the street.  It was so.far.away.  I tried thanking him many times and telling him how kind he was, but he only ever quietly muttered something along the lines of "no problem."  But not in an irritated kind of way...just in the kind of way where you knew it really wasn't a problem to him.  Where you knew he probably spent much of his time going out of his way for people and never needing anything in return.  Where you knew it was second nature to him.  We got to my bus exactly on time.  I was the last one to arrive and as soon as I boarded, it left.  If not for him, I certainly would have missed it.  Sometimes I'm so surprised by how kind people are, though Japan is certainly taking away much of this surprise.

Here are some pictures of my travels last weekend.  I can't wait for my next avenue of explorations.


Camera: Nikon FM10
Film: Portra 800














a mall or a space port...















my weekly calligraphy setup

my sensei




Until next time,
M

My Favorite Poem

Sometimes I repeat that last little stanza in my head when I need inspiration.  I wish I could accurately explain how much I love that stanza and this poem.

“Eleven” by Archibald MacLeish 

1            And summer mornings the mute child, rebellious,

            Stupid, hating the words, the meanings, hating

            The Think now, Think, the Oh but Think! would leave

            On tiptoe the three chairs on the verandah

5            And crossing tree by tree the empty lawn

            Push back the shed door and upon the sill

            Stand pressing out the sunlight from his eyes

            And enter and with outstretched fingers feel

            The grindstone and behind it the bare wall

10            And turn and in the corner on the cool

            Hard earth sit listening. And one by one,

            Out of the dazzled shadow in the room,

            The shapes would gather, the brown plowshares, spades,

            Mattocks, the polished helves of picks, a scythe

15            Hung from rafters, shovels, slender tines

            Glinting across the curve of sickle-shapes

            Older than men were, the wise tools, the iron

            Friendly with earth. And sit there, quiet, breathing

            The harsh dry smell of withered bulbs, the faint

20            Odor of dung, the silence. And outside

            Beyond the half-shut door the blind leaves

            And the corn moving. And at noon would come,

            Up from the garden, his hard crooked hands

            Gentle with earth, his knees still earth-stained, smelling

25            Of sun, of summer, the old gardener, like

            A priest, like an interpreter, and bend

            Over his baskets.

                                                And they would not speak:

            They would say nothing. And the child would sit there

30            Happy as though he had no name, as though

            He had been no one: a leaf, a stem,

            Like a root growing—