Fasten your seat belts and put the kettle on, this one is a long one; but a summation wouldn't do it justice.
Part I
By the Nishiki River
Uninspired by the thought of spending another weekend sitting in my apartment, and it was a pleasantly mild weathered day, I decided to ride my bicycle to the nearby park and watch the Nishiki river flow by. On my way to the park I stopped at the convenience store to pay my telephone bill, one of the many conveniences Japan offers that the United States ought to adopt. Taking only alleyways and back streets, because these tend to be more interesting than main roads (and significantly less dangerous in Japan), I noticed a small crowd gathering outside a small Japanese style warehouse in a side alley. I quickly flipped a U-turn and rode down the side alley to see. Getting off and walking my bike as I approached, I saw there was an art exhibition displayed in an abandoned warehouse or studio, exactly the kind of place an artist would like to do work. In the back, tools were scattered about, carefully closed off by rows of easels supporting canvas paintings. The paintings were quite good, many inspired by places I had come to consider my neighborhood, places I often rode past. When I noticed the artist had postcard sized prints of this work for sale I remembered my mother tell me how much my Great Aunt Jeanne would appreciate a postcard. I had also yet to send my younger cousin Carson a card, which I had promised to do. I bought three. One for Aunt Jeanne, one for Carson, and one to write an old friend whom I also promised I would write.
Deciding to finish the length of the alley and take the adjacent one back toward the river, I came across a street market. Little commerce was actually occurring, most were milling about their booths talking and laughing, with friends and neighbors I assumed.
Street Market
Walking my bike down the alley, I browsed the goods laid out on tables at a distance far enough so as not to attract attention or conversation. A tall blonde woman in running attire followed by a similarly dressed man came jogging down the narrow street. The conversation did not stop, but it might as well have as everyone turned and watched the outsiders jog by. I felt glad people did not react the same way to my presence. I had nearly finished my walk through the market, keeping my safe distance from the booth, when a young girl, not yet school aged, yelled out “irashaimasen!”, a common phrase that roughly means [Welcome, please shop here]. Her parents were laughing and smiling at me so I walked over and looked over there bakery goods, and sounded out the katakana labels in an attempt to figure what each basket held. Naturally, I could not walk away without buying something after such a bold gesture from such a young salesperson. I bought a カレーパン [curry roll] for lunch, now realizing I had not yet eaten today, and continued in the direction of the river. Parking and locking my bike to a railing, I was about to walk down the short flight of stairs to where I could watch the Nishiki slowly flow past, when a loud group of Japanese tourists caught my ear from across the road. The street sloped down quickly so I could not see them directly but their laughter told me something that direction was worth seeing. Walking across the road to where they stood, I saw they were posing with a samurai statue in front of a long sunken iris garden, their laughter was merely the expression of friends amidst an afternoon out. Curious of the road I had never strolled down I decided to change my river watching plans and take a walk through the park first. I had been to this park many times when I first arrived in Japan, I used to jog through here probably as conspicuously as those Americans I had seen in the street marketplace, but I had since taken to jogging in less mainstream areas and hadn’t been back in months.
Park near my house
Walking through the expansive park, admiring its ponds and fountains and sculpture, I saw a group of American families. As we passed I gave the group an American nod, not to be confused with the Japanese bow, and greeted them with “Hello.” Nothing was returned, as each member of their party took care to look the other way as we passed. I hate tourists, as though acknowledging someone from the same country, of the same native language, somehow makes your visit less “cultural”. Whatever. Let them return to their manufactured homes, drink Singha, eat curry and call themselves cultured.
Continuing through the park I watch turtles bask beside a pond, took a quick stop at a Buddhist temple, and then settled into a Japanese garden on the hillside that clearly saw few annual visitors.
Japanese Garden
Sitting and watching water trickle down the rocks into the pond below, I thought about how isolated I had become. Few people would describe me as a people person, sure I have certain people I like, I few I have even loved, but most would probably move more towards cynical, stolid, or misanthropic before calling me a people person. I enjoy being alone, in the woods and in crowded places. I am usually running from people; running to mountains, running to the basement, or hiding beneath the hood of a car, I enjoy even thrive on solitude, but for perhaps the first extended period in my life, I am lonely.
Alright, time to quit this sentimental bullshit and keep moving, but not back to the crowds seeking cultural enlightenment, instead I followed a trail that led up the mountainside without any real inclination as to where it might lead. Walking up mountainsides I always find peace of mind, neither fully conscious nor fully lost in thought, a happy medium where both states of mind lie in equilibrium; I am always disappointed when I reach the top. Switch-backing through the dense forest I can hear the rumble of the cable car directly overhead, but the bamboo and cedar canopies conceal it from view. In time the trail intersects with a road I had been familiar with when I often ran this way. Following the road to where I formerly would turn right, to Iwakuni Castle, I turned left, I had never gone this way before. The path was an old gravel road that followed the ridge of the mountain, after a mile or so it ended at a staircase. Climbing the staircase, I came to a small wooden tori at the mouth of a clearing. In the clearing was a small building constructed to protect burning candles from the elements.
Wooden Tori at the Clearing
Mindfully circling the structure, behind was a stone staircase framed by stone lanterns that led to a hole in a massive boulder.
A Hole in the Boulder
Crouching and peering up through the hole I could see light and a small platform not far above. Climbing in and navigating the dark tunnel, praying for no snakes, I emerged at the true shrine, a cedar cabinet housing bells and smelling of incense.
Platform Above
I scanned the crevasse I had emerged into and was surprise that my means of entry was the only way in or out of this narrow place.
Shrine in the Crevasse
Making my way down and out of the cave, to the clearing, down the stairs and back to the gravel road, I started down the mountain.
Feeling good on the walk down
Now headed downhill, I walked with big strides and felt good about having gotten out of the house. An older man was on his way up the road, I nodded and said “konichiwa” as we passed, he did the same, glad it really was the stupid American tourists and not me. Continuing down the road I passed another man, “konichiwa” I said, “Hello” he returned.
Part II
A man named Hiro Isobe
Laughing, I turned and asking how he was. Good, just enjoying a walk to the top he explained.
“Where did you go?” he asked
“Oh, just up to the shrine” I said wearily, still uncertain of the etiquette surrounding foreigners visiting places like temples and shrines.
“Did you see the view of Iwakuni city?” he asked.
“No, I couldn’t see the city.”
“You must turn left before the stairs, there is a path that….” He continued to describe the way to the top, but I couldn’t understand his English.
“Are you going that way now, why don’t you show me?”
“Really?”
“Sure, why not?”
Heading back up the mountain, this time with the Japanese man, he asked me to guess his age, Japanese people love that they they look 10 years younger than they are, and told me he had recently retired from a career at Yamaguchi Ginko [Yamaguchi Bank]. He was 65, I guessed 50, some how Japanese people don’t think I would have the sense to guess high because they all look so young, but I humor him. We spend the 30 minute hike talking about what it is like to teach English to young Japanese students and about the history of the nearby shrine. Apparently it was the site of the quarry used to build Iwakuni Castle in 1618, which would explain that huge boulder. At the mountain top, a clearing had been cut out of the dense forest so you could see the entire city, all the way to the inland sea, and some 60 kilometers away the island of Shikoku. It must be a clear day. Pointing at various buildings, I asked what this and that was, just making conversation, he started to tell me the history of the area and again how the stones used to build Iwakuni Castle had come from the quarry that it now a shrine.
“Have you ever been to Iwakuni Castle, it’s just over there” he asked, pointing back down the trail.
“Yes, a month or so ago I went there.”
“Okay, let’s go”
Laughing to myself, “alright, lets go.”
We walked the hidden trail to the road, then followed the ridge back to the junction where I have turned left earlier, but went straight down the right fork and followed the path to the stairs that led to the castle. Sitting on a bench admiring the castle, the Japanese man started to explain the castle’s construction, I interrupted, “my name is Nate, by the way Nate Conroy.”
“I am Hiro Isobe,” he returned, then continued to explain castle construction. I am still never sure which is someone’s first and which is their last name. Generally the Japanese give their family name first, but some switch when speaking English, and I can’t tell the difference by the name alone. There is a fish on top of many Japanese castles, he explained, because so many homes and castles were burned down historically. The significance is that if there is a fish above the home, certainly the home must then be underwater and could not catch fire. “It’s for good luck,” Hiro said. The first thing that came to mind was that many Japanese homes were also historically lost to flooding and that the fish could just as well be perpetuating such ill fate, but I thought it better not to mention. Hiro told me he often fishes on the weekends.
“In the Nishiki River?”
I had seen many people fishing in the river I had planned to watch that afternoon.
“No, in the sea.”
“Really? What kind of fish?”
“Do you know Blacktail?” holding his hands out to describe the size of the fish, about 30cm, “would you like to come?”
“Absolutely, let’s go fishing. When?”
“Soon, there is good tide in November”
“Alright.”
We walked down the mountain, this time via the closed road I used to run up that leads back to the park. Hiro offered me a lift to my bicycle and not wanting to appear rude I accepted the 2 minute ride to my waiting bicycle. I said good bye, thank you, and rode home. Later that evening Hiro emailed me, fishing in 2 weeks, he would prepare a rod and coat for me, I just needed to bring myself.
Part III
Pending Authorship
With Hiro Isobe and my first catch, Sea Bream.
The Day's Take
sea bream, garlic, cheery tomatoes & rosemary
