Tokyo is Sensational

Don’t you love the music of place names in Japanese? Asagaya! Kichijoji! Ogikubo! Those three marvels popped up along the subway line I took on the first day.

On the second evening I was invited to a Tokyo neighborhood called Tsukishima (“Moon Island”!). New and different sensory delights awaited me at a sake bar. It was the kind of bar where you stand at a long chest-high table, and you order the fruity or the dry. The bottle is cerulean blue. It appears huge, bigger than a wine bottle or a whisky bottle, yet also perfectly proportioned. Adding to the exquisiteness is the bottle’s ample label, with its stylish calligraphy.

My friends explained that nobody pours their own sake. You can ask somebody else to pour you some, or somebody else can offer to top you up, or you can do the honors for others (pour until it overflows into the saucer), but it’s rude to just reach out and help yourself.

We tried the fruity. Now I was intrigued. Nothing for it but to move on to the dry. But first… to decipher its brand name. One friend is second-generation Japanese American; the other, Hong Kong Chinese. They both grew up halfheartedly learning kanji characters and now wish they had studied harder. Sometimes his memory of what he learned at Saturday school in New York doesn't match the meaning here in Tokyo. Likewise, there’s a big gap between her Hong Kong teacher’s translations and her Japanese teacher’s. Thus it was fun to listen as they tried to puzzle out signs and menus. He translated the name of the dry as "Green House." She had it as "Eight Fairies." Neither sounded right to me. We asked the waiters but their English wasn’t good enough to break the impasse.

The ballpark offered more curveballs. I joined another baseball fan at Jingu Stadium for an afternoon contest between the Yakult Swallows and the Seibu Lions. No peanuts and Cracker Jack for this crowd. Instead, tempura and sashimi sold well… at least when the fans weren’t busy singing and towel waving and umbrella pumping (under cloudless skies), all in celebration of various local heroes. A wave of grumbling went through the stands when a gaijin pitcher hit a Japanese batter but neglected to bow in apology. The home team’s followers were rewarded in the end by a 5-4 win.

I realize that it's commonplace to discuss Japan's uniqueness. And I admit to arriving on my first-ever visit there in hyper-touristic mode, with all senses tuned to detect the distinctive. Yet I challenge newcomers to feel any other way. An endlessly examinable place!

Pindaya is Polycultural

The hilltop plantations near Pindaya consist of pagodas. Trees there aren’t quite outnumbered by temples, but the count may be close. Pindaya’s polyculture makes this part of Shan State a prime place for photographers with wide-angle lenses.

It’s not just the pinnacles that arrest the eye. Sharply plotted terraces and covered flights of steps civilize their way up the gentle slopes. Varicolored checkerboards extend to the horizon. 

Pindaya is also known for a local legend that explains the existence of the town’s most famous attraction, the Shwe U Min Cave. According to the story, seven bathing princesses were sealed up in the cave by a giant spider, only to be rescued by a passing prince. 

The legend unsettled us as we read it aloud before visiting the cave. We thought the prince hadn’t really done the princesses a favor. Not only did he turn out to be one of those cocky conquerors that you often find in mythology, but he emerged as a womanizer to boot. We liked his personality less than the spider’s.

That mindset even tainted our circuit through the Buddha-filled cave. At first, we thought we were seeing penis heads at the tips of some of the long slender fingers on the images. The light wasn’t perfect, and we didn’t want to stare, but the whole idea made us feel a bit queasy.

I’d gladly have our perceptions corrected. Please write me if you can suggest alternate explanations. Pindaya is too nice a destination to spoil with misunderstandings.

Kalaw is Assorted

Almost immediately, we began to keep a list. Every few minutes along the trail from Kalaw to Inle, our guide stopped us to identify a new plant. From the outset we could tell that he knew his stuff. Agave, Broom, Camphor.

The guide’s name was Robin. His history, as a Nepalese Gurkha born in Myanmar, soon became a separate list. As we learned of specific flowers, herbs, and shrubs, we were also linking them to events from his life. Danson, Eggplant, Fig.

About gooseberries, he asked us, “Would you like to try one? You will not like it. But you will get addicted to it. I eat 20 per day.” By the end of the first morning, we had each made a gooseberry joke. Hazelnut, Jasmine.

Lunch, shared with a family Robin knew along the way, consisted of chapatis and Nepalese curries. Our hosts explained that the Kalaw area has become a major enclave for the "Burmese Nepalese," who now number roughly half a million. Lemon grass. Lentil. Mint. Oak.

Robin pointed out Papaya, Peanut, Pennywort, Potato, and Prickly Pear. He told us of ancestors coming to Burma as soldiers during various waves of British occupations here. His turban made it easy for us to picture him as part of a long line of recruits.

We answered with stories of our own. One of us had hiked this in this area before, although with very different guides. Three of us had been friends more than 35 years. We had walked together on four continents. This time, as we trekked across Shan State, we re-bonded over several striking new species. 

By the end of the three-day walk, our list included 38 items. Of course beans, garlic, ginger, and rice were part of it, along with cauliflower, celery, chili, and coffee. But sesame?! Who even knew how it grew?

Robin called our attention to trees – tamarind, tangerine, tea, and teak – as well as trumpet flower and turmeric. Not to mention datura, fennel, galenga, and hibiscus (“say what?” we said). By the time we came across the watercress, nearly the entire alphabet had been accounted for.