Cruising for a Boozing

 

Nomihodai is present in every Japanese night out. It’s a time and tested tradition where, surrounded by salaryman in ill fitting suits, you knock back as many namabiirus (draft beers) and coca highs (whisky highball) before they ring the bell on your indulgence. With the average price of a 2 hour nomihodai about the same as 3 beers it can either be a cheap start or a dangerous end. Chuck in a bumpy cruise along the Tokyo Bay and it’s looking more like the latter.

Once on the water, the rocking seems to speed up the intoxication process. Bars on every level of the boat each one lines with plastic cups of cheap Japanese beer, being replaced as quickly as their emptied. And there’s no need to smuggle snacks aboard, because tucked conveniently next the dance floor is all the fried chicken and corndogs you could wish for.

Hundreds and hundreds of people; old, young, families, couples ricochet off each other as the boat twists along the bay. You won’t catch a glimpse of the stars, Tokyo lost that ability a long time ago but that doesn’t really matter not when the sky is lit with skyscrapers, beautiful red airplane emergency lights, LED  advertisments and national landmarks. Like sailing through Willy Wonka’s magical tunnel,the lights flicker against the black backdrop the only difference being how our captain wasn’t perpetrating an acid trip.

But it’s not just the outside, the inside of the boat is as weird and wonderful as you’d expect from Tokyo. In the middle of the middle dock is a dance floor. More of a 90’s school disco than a rave men wore their ties around their heads and chaperones made sure we didn’t get too out of control.

Despite all this, it’s the scheduled ‘yukata dances’ that make the cruise what it is. Girls dressed in beautiful yukatas shimmey to P Diddy (Puff Daddy era) and a bit of Ja Rule for good measure. It’s a very peculiar feeling, watching girls in traditional dress body roll and twerk into the hearts and ‘banks’ of the men fangirling at the stage end to the sound of old school MTV.

Tea for Twelve

Tea is quintessentially British. Fell down? Have a brew. Feeling poorly or have a cold? Brew. Been dumped? Brew. Got people round? Brew. The cup of tea is literally the go to for any situation you may come across. There hasn’t been a moment in my very Northern life that hasn’t been made better by having a good brew. Tea is also quintessentially Japanese. Koucha and Ocha, AKA black tea and green are probably the most popular and easiest to come across especially when the choice of green tea is larger than the choice of chocolate. Tea here is a way of life

Making a cup of tea in the UK is a routine. Mug, kettle, teabag (or leaves and a strainer if you’re that way inclined.) Making a cup of tea in Japan is an art. A performance that been taught for hundreds of years. The art of the Tea Ceremony is a  bewitching experience and one that, as a foreigner, can come with a hefty(ish) pricetag; that is unless you happen to stumble across a group of Buddhists outside Osaka castle who take you back to their temple and give you one for free. Women in beautiful kimonos take extremely precise and measured movements in order to create the perfect cup of green tea. Every twist of the shoulders and every flick of the wrist is a pre-determined gesture leaving nothing to chance. The kimonos, as well as being beautiful to look at, double as a uniform, the secrets pockets tucked in the breast provide holding spaces for fans and handkerchiefs. Under the pressure of an audience and a history of other women doing the exact same sign of movements, they show no sign of stress, a completely unflappable performance.

After you watch the demonstration, you get a chance to make your own cup. Closely watched by the eagle-eyed mentors you froth your tea to the perfect level of solidity and stir to the correct amount in the correct direction. Despite how easy they make it look, it’s actually quite difficult, not a time to mess around the concentration is intense.

Surprisingly or not, a tea ceremony isn’t just about the tea. Just as important as the drink itself is the crockery used to drink it from. Taking in  the craftsmanship of the bowl is a big part of accepting the tea. The drinker must twist the bowl around before taking a sip so they can  honour the aesthetics of the piece and appreciate the time and effort that was spent creating it.

The long list of rules and the importance of routine may seem synonymous with the typical Japanese culture, however it creates a sense of calm. Watching the repetition and the ease of the movements seems to slow down the fast-paced life that’s rushing away on the other side of the walls.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

A Tale of Two Titles

Being the walking, talking Northern stereotype that I am, there’s nothing I love more than a cup of tea, a bowl of hash and freezing my insides by standing on the street on a very cold November night watching the fireworks. Christmas coke advert aside, Bonfire night is the real beginning of Christmas. The markets are up, people are happy and chunky knit makes it annual rounds. Japan have a bonfire night (of sorts) only it’s in summer, people wear yukatas and everyone gets drunk on a riverside. Sure there’s no actual bonfire but there are fireworks. Good fireworks. Very good fireworks. Let me introduce you to Hanabi.

The fireworks are usually held over the space of about 2/3 weeks in late July. All local councils will have small displays but it’s the biggies that are really impressive. This is where making the right decision can make or break your experience.

Hanabi Heaven

Not far from Kita Senju is Arakawa river, a huge river with an even huger bank, perfect for the entire population of Saitama to cram onto. Lasting for about an hour, you grab yourself some road/grass/hill, really just any ground available, crack open a few beers and watch the amazing fireworks lighting up the sky. An array of colours and even patterns make it an unforgettable evening. Watch as pink love hearts explode over you; flowers, cutesy cats and perfectly arranged circles seem to break open the starless sky. Without even realising you’re clapping along with the Japanese and you’re doing your best Cheshire Cat impression to anyone to looks your way. You’ll even foolishly attempt to take a million poorly exposed pictures and make a 30 minute video that you’ll watch on the way home and then never again. The smells of yakitori sauce and takoyaki mingle in with the faint smell of smoke and together they create an amazing atmosphere.

 

And beautiful women adorn beautiful yukatas and their most proudest smiles. Heaven.

Hanabi Hell

Having had such an amazing time at the Kita Senju fireworks you might find yourself being convinced to attend the immensely popular Sumida river display. DON’T FALL FOR IT. It’s an amazing experience, thousands upon thousands of people flock from all over Japan to attend the display, both a blessing and a curse. People reserve viewing spots days before, marking their territory with the typical blue tarp every Japanese family seem to own. If you didn’t save yourself a space because, well frankly, you’re not German and this isn’t a Spanish holiday resort you can join the parade. To be more accurate it resembles a school of any number of terrified, generic fish more than that it does a fun parade but you’re not a party pooper so on you struggle.

Cordoned off into sections by the police with bright yellow tape, you’re sheepdogged for what feels like hours down the road at an incredibly slow speed.

This is probably the one time where the Tokyo love for skyscrapers doesn’t come in handy, as they’re all so tall they hide the fireworks. You can hear them, but you can’t see them. Finally you get to the bridge and you’re surrounded by lights as both sides of the bridge have fireworks being lit. As one finishes another begins and it just about starts to make up for the previous hour and then it’s over. You’re back over the bridge and those pesky skyscrapers are back in play. Hell

Ryokan Realness

Japan, being Japan, have everything the west have only they do it slightly differently. Usually their verson is bigger and brighter, weirder and more wonderful. Alternatively it’s an age year old tradition which has had zero evolution. Ryokans, traditional Japanese hotels, are an odd mixture of the two.

No matter what hotel you stay in, no matter what star, the experience isn’t usually that different. Sure, the beds are comfier and the food’s better in the more expensive ones but the standard ‘hotel rules’ are the same. Nobody goes in your room without your say so, you have an instant distrust of maids (thanks to every Bond film ever) and you stash a load of jam packets from your continental breakfast. But trust me, ryokans are a whole different ball game.

Stepping into a ryokan is like stepping into an old timey Japanese film. Out is the plush double bed, the flat screen t.v and your inhibitions. In are communal hot springs and complimentary yukatas. All the furniture looks like it’s been through Jimmy Neutron’s shrink ray, small chairs and tables  with their legs missing sit in the space where the bed should be. Don’t worry though because a small Japanese lady  will pull your futon out from the wall to wall wardrobe (when you’re out, obviously she wouldn’t want to disturb you). Although at first this may seem daunting, I guarantee it’ll be one of the best sleeps you’ll ever have. Like a big sleepover, you’ll get lost in the mass of blankets, pillows and cushioney goodness.

No concrete in sight, everything is made from wood. A light wood that adorns every wall and tatami lines every surface. A short legged table covers a hole in ground, a convenient little square that stops your legs getting cramp from sitting cross legged. It’s just like sitting at a dining table only you’re sat on the floor and the table’s tiny.

 

And that’s just the room, if you’re lucky you’re ryokan will have an onsen on sight. Just slip into your yukata, a long, cotton, dressing gownesque robe with a thick belt and a thick history (instructions provided) and treat yourself to a wander down to the spa area.. The onsens, separated by gender, are a butt naked free for all. Opt for a private onsen if you fancy spending a romantic hour bathing under the stars; surrounded by natural rocks and fairy lights.

Everyone except the staff and newcomers, wear their yukata’s around the hotel. Toddeling to and from the conveniently placed gift shop, the banquet room, the onsen and the free-to-all massage chairs. For the Japanese, it might seem customary to change straight into a yukata on arrival but as a foreigner it’s a very surreal experience. One that you will most definitely want to repeat.

My bearded, flip flop wearing, overly excited chipmunk of a husband.

Kimono experiences are pretty expensive so mixing it with a relaxing stay in a beautiful hotel is a win win.

It’s the Monster Mash

Monsters are big and dangerous, spiky and scaly. They’re not covered in flourescent shades of maribu fur and they don’t have perfectly groomed tails. There are a fair few adjectives you could use to describe monsters yet cute isn’t one. Well it wasn’t until the Kawaii Monster cafe opened up in the forever confusing Harajuku.

A set of huge pink doors face you as you step out of the lift and a ‘monster’ takes your name and party number. And then you’re asked to decide which bizarrely decorated area you want to sit in. 

Not to be outdone by its bubblegum entrance, the inside is just as trippy as Alice’s fall down the hole. A giant, colourful (obviously) carousel stands centre stage surrounded by the different areas.

You’ve got the magic mushroom room; where you sit surrounded by contortioned plastic mushrooms shadowing your table, the spaceage bar; with one side a smokey, ice bar and the other side a row of teacup booths with ants trailing the ceiling, the tea party room; where the delicate afternoon tea tables and chairs are surrounded by fluffy walls and giant lips, and lastly the milkbottle room; a row of uncomfortable looking chairs with giant milk bottles swinging from the ceiling.

Don’t be expecting any ordinary food either because the menu is just as weird as the decor. Fancy a burger? Sure; go ahead but it’s blue, with a face. Want any mayo? Of course, but what colour? Luckily for the indecisive you can always opt for a paint pallate on the side. Red, green, blue, yellow. 

Talk about tasting the rainbow…

So you’ve gone through all this, you just about settled your senses backdown, you’ve bigged yourself up to eat whatever Heston Blumenthal- strange invention you’ve ordered and then the dancing starts. Girls decked in the aforementioned maribu fur, tails, ears, the works bust out their best cutesy thriller moves and jump onto the now moving carousel. 

Although slightly disorientating at first, you’ll soon get right involved… and don’t forget to get yourself some monster chopsticks from the giftshop on the way out! 

Peace in the Park

War memorials have an expected and understandable sombre aura around them, the shadows of what they’re honouring hang like veils. Heads are low, voices are quiet and children are kept to heel. Yet the Hiroshima Peace Park is as far removed from the above as possible. Forgiveness and renewal replace the awkward silences. 

The A-Bomb dome stands, half stone half structure and guarded by fencing, just by the entrance of the park. Its main job, to slow passers-by down just enough that they take the time to read the mass of information, history and facts provided. Folders in all different languages are ready for the curious and they all end with the same heart-breaking letter.

The history of ‘that day’ is written onto statues, more specifically a row of square, metal archs which line the bottom of the park. The word, peace, is artfully carved into every visible surface, over and over again in over 50 different languages. From English to Afrikans to Hebrew, the plea for peace is thundering.

And as you walk through them, tracing the steps of the thousands of people who came before you, you do so quietly and slowly, trying to read every last word. Even though your brain doesn’t understand the words your body understands the meaning. 

What’s is maybe the most surprising are the colours; the reds, blues, oranges and greens. Bright colours, articial and natural, liven the paths and the monuments, and the river that flows through brings calm and tranquility. In particular, the 1000 paper crane memorial, a group of 6-feet glass boxes, is filled with hand-folded origami cranes of all colours and prints, donated by the children and parents from around Hiroshima. They surround a bell, suspended by a statue of two primary school aged children. A beautiful and incredibly colourful display that makes it unable to feel sad.

Hiroshima’s desire for rebirth is evident in the festivals, carnivals and flowers shows it holds for the communities and tourists alike. Competing dance troups and 30ft high flower floats, live music and craft stalls. It’s difficult not to enjoy a trip to the Peace park and as much as you think you shouldn’t, it isn’t a place for sadness and regret it’s a place for reflection and love. 

Of course what happened there will never be forgotten and nor should it be.  The impacts of the bombs, the emotions of the victims and their families can still be felt but the people of Hiroshima should be applauded for their humility and grace and their refusal to let it define their future.

Little ‘Murica

Everyone knows that America, the global police have galliantly defended the rest of world against terrorism, tradition, vegetables and a healthy lifestyle, with Japan being a prime example. Post ww2, Japan hosted America and all its BBQ wing, hamburger, TV and theme park glory with Universal studios, the pinnacle of American amusement, being carbon copied and plonked right in the middle of Osaka.

The giant rotating globe, welcomes you as you stroll past groups of Japanese Minions and young couples styling matching everything from headwear to jeans to shoes. And you step into every one of your favourite childhood films.

 

The rides are cool, undoubtedly, especially when they use real fire and backwards rollercoasters but it’s the place itself; the New York cityscape, the San Fransisco harbour and the Jurassic park island that give the place it’s incredibly addictive atmosphere. With King Kong swinging from walls and Spiderman dangling upside down it’s like everything has jumped straight out of a kids colouring book.

And that’s not even mentioning Harry Potter, an identical replication of Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley and Hogwarts castle itself. You get your little ticket and you wait with a mixture of excitment and nerves, exactly like Harry did may I add. After a quick walk through the Forbidden Forest, which by the way consists of thousands of imported conifer trees, if you’re lucky, you’ll bump into Train conducters as the meander around Hogsmeade and chat casually about this week’s Daily Prophet and last night’s Quidditch match results. Florence and Blotts sells notebooks and quills, Honeydukes sells magic sweets, Zonko’s sells toys and Ollivanders is where you buy your wands.

As difficult as is, with the ground being so unbelievably cool,  don’t forget to look up at the sky every once in a while because Hedwig still lives. Owl trainers have snowy owls and fly them around the castle grounds and occasionally they’ll perch themselves on top of the perfectly decorated, snow covered roofs. Like the chapter in Prisoner of Azkaban where Harry isn’t allowed to go Hogsmeade so being the badass he is, he sneaks out. An eternal November.

The best piece of advice you’ll receive though, is to not fill up on Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans or Honeydukes cupcakes because the Shepards Pie at The Three Broomsticks is the best Shepards pie you’ll have outside of England. And there’s always the house ale or Butterbeer, take you pick. I mean what’s more Northern than eating pie under the glassy stare of a wall-mounted hog, next to a brick, coal fireplace, on uncomfortable benches watching parents struggle to control their unruly offspring. Home away from home.

And then you end the day with a 20 minute trippy as hell ‘Magical Lights’ parade.

As a out and proud Disney fan, it’s hurts me to say that in this instance (and this instance only!) Universal takes the crown.

Angry Bambi and Too Many Crackers

The Japanese have an uncanny knack for making the undesirable desirable; fashions, tweeny pop bands and near-rabid animals to name a few. The typical cute animal is small, fluffy, usually white and docile enough to fit inside a seasonal costume but Japan have found a way to make a few hundred wild deers into loveable real-life bambis.

Everyone has heard of Kyoto and all its historical significance but what everyone  hasn’t heard about is Nara, a town about an hour from Kyoto where deers rule the roads. Huge signs line the streets, paths, duel carriageways and bypasses highlighting the likely possibility of a stray deer holding up traffic. It’s a far(ish) walk from the station but bear with it because it’s definitely worth it. Make sure you don’t fall for the first pools of over-fed, under-exercised, lethargic deer you come across though , they’re reserved for the eager children and tired salarymen dads.

That is until you weave your way through the masses and find your way to the holy grail that is the Todaiji Shrine. A huge orphanage for scraggily deers, it sits surrounded by a  park that stretches for miles. And Bambi and the rest of his crew have free reign. A Daibutsu, giant Budda, is enclosed in a hand built, beautiful, black and white, wooden building, the largest wooden building in the world.

Everything in it from the trees in the parks to the little wooden boat drifting on the lake to the deers themselves, are sacred. The deers are treated with more respect than most people give to their parents. The legend goes if you bow to them, they bow back in return of a cracker. Except this legend really is true, whether it really is because they are religious deities or just very clever animals who’ve realised a little nod here and them there gets them more food, they do bow and not just a flick of the neck. It’s a full Japanese bow, a full lowered neck and a bend at the knee.

Like extremely obedient children, they flaunt their way around the park bowing and eating, bowing and eating. If you’re lucky, or unlucky depending on how you feel about wild deers, you’ll get a relatively strong head butt to the back as they peer pressure you into feeding them. Feed one and they flock around you, usually lead by a matted haired, alpha deer.

It’s a surreal feeling being surrounded by animals that were once thought to be the extra-terrestrial messengers of God, especially when they’re begging for food like very terrestrail ill-cared for animals. But don’t despair, if it comes to it you can always throw your crackers in the opposite direction and run. We did…

 

Nothing Tastes As Good As Skinny Feels

As humans, we’re no strangers to beauty pressures and social norms. In fact, we’re that used to them that most of the time we don’t even realise that our entire self-worth is being manipulated, monitored and usually disregarded by everything we watch, listen to and read. Yet it has become screamingly obvious that Japanese women and men, maybe even all Eastern people, have it much much worse.

Sure, the pressures we’re faced with in the UK are unfair but they’re not wholly unatainable aslong as you’re willing to put the effort in. Want to be skinny? Go on a diet. Darker skin? Buy one of the stack loads of tanning products. Toned body and pert arse? Join a gym, follow a celebrity endorsed workout dvd or download an app. As white people we’re never really faced with having  to fundamentally change our features. Yet this isn’t so true for Japan. Spend five minutes in Shinjuku and it’ll become obvious that the ratio of white models to Asian models is heavily weighted to the Western side. Don’t me wrong there are loads of Japanese models but they’re obviously editted, with doe eyes and snow white skin seeming to be common features. It’s an odd feeling knowing that the majority of beauty idols displayed in the most populated places only really represent holidaygoers. The average Japanese man isn’t 6ft with broad shoulders and the average Japanese women certainly doesn’t have blue eyes, big boobs and long legs. Sure for any Westerner it’s great, you’re rating jumps at least 2 just by stepping onto Japanese soil. 6 in the UK, now an 8, was a 5 now you’re a seven. Big girls are boinkyboink (curvy) and small girls are kawai (cute). It’s a win-win for us and the same rule applies for men too, so don’t worry boys.

Not surprisingly, one of the most popular beauty products for women is eyelid tape. Which is basically sellotape that they use to make their eyes bigger by pulling the skin upwards (kind of like nipple tape for the face.) And if they can’t be bothered with the hassle of taping their eyes in place everyday, they could always just opt for double eye-lid surgery, the most common plastic surgery in Japan. They actively risk blindness just to imitate western eyes.

Some one needs to tell these women to embrace their never-aging skin and thick, shiny hair. I mean who wants big eyes when you can look 23 you’re entire life. Somewhere along the lines, we’ve clearly gotten things muddled up.

Spring Has Sprung

Spring in the UK is undeniably yellow. Armies of daffodils take over the British landscape, while hundreds of daisies as their backup are nestled in between them for good measure.  The BBC goes into nature overdrive as every spring themed, David Attenborough narrated documentary is dragged out from the basement and lambs and baby rabbits are shoved down our throats as Easter madness consumes us. And not forgetting the pastel coloured Easter cards with their hidden Christian agenda that fill the shelves of Card Factory (even though nobody ever actually buys them). Japan is much the same although instead of yellow, it’s pink. Pale pink to fuscia and every shade in between, the entire place turns blush. And it’s the most beautiful thing scene you’ll probably ever see.

The streets are lined with Cherry Blossom trees that burst into life for only about a month a year – highlighting the start of spring. Canopies of pink shadow riversides, canals, small village roads and even dual carriageways, cherry blossms, here,  are a way of life. Sure, people in the UK look forward to seeing their first daffodil bloom but Japanese celebrate spring like we do Christmas. Hanami (which is basically an alcohol fuelled picnic in a public park) is all about sitting under the falling  petals of sakura trees (Japanese for cherry blossom) and taking as many pictures, artsy and selfie alike, as humanly possible. People flock to the big parks to the point where it’s almost too busy to comfortably walk along the path.

 

It’s easy to understamd the frantic nature that surrounds sakura when you manage to find a place that isn’t a hive of foreigners and desperate tourists, and you finally get to sit on a nice bench, looking out at a nice pond as the wind delicately blows the petals. Delicate to the point where they don’t fall to the ground like thoses common autumn leaves they stay animated in the air, dancing the way glitter does  in water. And when they do finally fall, the grey path is transformed into a water colour of pinks, falling continuously that they never age. A constant stream of new petals covering old allows for a sheet of perfect pink to decorate the floor.

And once you’ve gotten your eyes fill of Sakura, of course the next step is to eat and drink it. Starbucks, Pepsi, McDonalds, KFC and any other company tuned into exploiting cultural celebrations for financial gain.

What’s better that sitting under a sakura tree on a sakura patterned blanket, drinking a sakura Pepsi out of a sakura themed glass, eating a sakura cake off a nice and original sakura paper plate.