A Summer Sunrise : Sunday, 5:28 a.m.

I’ve never really considered myself to be much of a morning person.  But lately, I’m starting to realize that daybreak is my favorite time of day.  I don’t manage to catch it often, but today I was lucky.  I doubt I’m alone in noticing that there’s just something about the dawn of a new day that stirs the senses and calms the soul.  The delicate pastel colors inching up from the horizon and gradually stretching across the sky; the panoply of birdsong echoing in my ears; the smell of woodsmoke tickling my nose; the glisten of dew in the subtle morning light; the feeling of rejuvenation that comes with a fresh beginning – this is what it feels like to breathe life.  There’s something inexplicably vital and comforting in this moment. I am alive and I am awake. 

I don’t regularly stop to appreciate where I am – at least not as often as I should.  Especially now that I’m in Korea, and I know that my time here is temporary, I sometimes need a reminder that this is a beautifully unique place and that it’s pretty freaking cool that I get to experience this.  I’ve watched the sun rise over many landscapes, but this sunrise, and this landscape – this one right here – is one I want to sear into my memory.  To be honest and frank, I don’t always appreciate Korea, and I sometimes tend to think of my time here as a chore, something I must put up with in order to move on to other things.  But moments like this give me pause.  I need to tuck moments like this away in my memory, to call upon later in life when people ask “So, what was Korea like?”

A little more than a year from now, I will leave Korea.  And it is unlikely that I will ever return.  I won’t always be able to look upon these particular hills, or usher in a new day with these particular birds and insects that sound so different from the ones back home.  The sights, smells, and sounds of this moment need to be preserved, because I want to remember them when I’m old.  One of the reasons I travel is to bolster my feeble imagination, so I can turn half-imagined places into real ones in my mind.  Before I came here, Korea was just a fanciful idea to me, a place I’d heard and read about, but nothing more. But now, it’s in my bones.   Dried squid and gochujang; kimchi and sesame oil; neon lights and city buses; taxi horns and electronic dance music; rice paddies and forested hills in a humidity haze – this is Korea. And this sunrise – this sunrise is Korea too.  Decades from now when I want to remember what Asia looks, smells, and sounds like, I want to call upon this moment.  I’ll be able to close my eyes and feel it.

Mornings always put me in this reflective state of mind.  It doesn’t matter where in the world I am.  There’s just something special about this tranquil time of day that forces me to contemplate and appreciate. For this reason, I’m grateful for early summer mornings.  I need more moments like this in my life.  I should really start setting my alarm earlier.

Insadong

I began writing this entry a month ago, but then I got distracted by midterms and out-of-town trips, so I’ve only just now gotten around to finishing it.  But I wanted to make sure to post it, because it covers one of the most interesting and charming parts of Seoul. 

When visiting Korea for the first time, Insadong in Seoul should probably be one of your first stops, but for some reason it took me nearly 8 months to get there.  It’s a great place to sample all things Korean, from traditional tea shops and killer street food to all kinds of hand-made souvenirs, and it’s right in the heart of the capital.  So when a friend suggested a day trip to Seoul on one of the first nice spring weekends, this is where I requested to go.  His way of agreeing was to ask with incredulity, “What do you mean you haven’t been to Insadong yet?”

Jogyesa Temple

We hopped on a train around noon on a Saturday after a hasty kimbap lunch.  Once we arrived in Seoul, our first stop was Jogyesa Temple.  I hate to say it, but after 8 months in Korea the Buddhist temples, beautiful though they are, are starting to lose their novelty for me – meaning, they’re all starting to kind of look the same.  The colors are still stunning, the carved panels along the outside are still impressive, but I’d be lying if I said I still regard them with the same sense of wonder that I had last fall – especially when they’re in the middle of an urbanized area surrounded by the same featureless office towers that pervade every Korean city. 

Close-ups of Jogyesa
Temple decor

At any rate, in contrast to the usual stillness of temples, the courtyard outside Jogyesa was bustling with activity on this Saturday.  This was partly due to there being many visitors like me who were trying to enjoy the nice spring weather.  But there was something else going on, something augmenting the bustle – there were groups of men everywhere, some of them stacking dozens and dozens of large cardboard boxes against the temple, while others were erecting rows of thin metal poles and scaffolds all through the courtyard.  My friend explained to me that they were preparing to decorate the temple for Seokga tansinil, or Buddha’s birthday.  This is a national holiday in Korea (and most other Asian countries), and at the time the date was still over a month away.  I now know that Buddhist temples throughout the country festoon their grounds, buildings, and gardens with colorful paper lotus lanterns for the entire month of the holiday, and if I’d waited just a couple more days before visiting Jogyesa, I would have arrived to a much more vibrant, festive display. 

After concluding our stroll around the temple grounds, we crossed the road and entered Insadong.  If I’d thought the temple was bustling with activity, I was ill prepared for the commotion of Insadong.  The dense crowds that thronged through the streets swept me away, and it was useless to fight against the current.  This place was an assault on the senses.  I was bombarded by all the sights, sounds, and smells (the good and the bad) of Korea, for they all seemed concentrated in this one small neighborhood.  The rank odor of simmering beondegi (silk worm pupa, a popular street food item) mingled with the spicy smell of more palatable Korean food like tteokbokki.  People stood on soapboxes and in store fronts shouting in Korean, some of them with microphones or megaphones – I think this had something to do with the upcoming election, because there were people marching around with large signs as well.  I could be wrong about that though.  The streets were lined with little merchant shops selling their wares – antiques, pottery, porcelain tea sets, intricately decorated wooden boxes, hanji paper, hand-printed cloth wall hangings, etc. etc.  There were men painting and selling paper fans on the sidewalk.

Insadong is popular with locals and foreigners alike, which I’m sure is why it was so crowded on this day, the first true spring-like Saturday after a long, cold winter.  Even though it was once a neighborhood for wealthy government officials, Insadong has been the haunt of artists, especially painters, for hundreds of years.  It was transformed during the Japanese occupation when all the wealthy residents were forced to leave and sell their belongings, turning the area into hotspot for the trading of antiques.  Over time, the area became more and more associated with arts, folk crafts, and cafes.  It supposedly once had a more historic feel than it does today.  Korea sometimes has an upsetting tendency to bulldoze its historical sites in its quest for modernization; this tendency led to the renovation of Insadong at the start of the new millennium.  Still, it has managed to maintain its status as one of the most popular parts of Seoul, especially with foreign visitors. 

Hotteok!

As the crowd carried us down the street, I disengage myself long enough to pop into a few shops to seek out souvenirs for folks back home.  This was like Takayama all over again – after months of failing to find suitable gifts for people, I suddenly found myself surrounded by them, and a minor shopping binge ensued.  The only thing I bought for myself was some hotteok, my favorite street food snack (it’s sort of like a thick fried pancake or biscuit stuffed with brown sugar, cinnamon, and ground peanuts).  We also stopped in a tea house – this one was more modern than traditional – and I had a big steaming cup of the richest, most decadent ginger tea I’ve ever encountered.  At that point, I was satisfied with my Insadong experience and was ready to get away from the crowd for a little while.  On our way out, we got stopped by two separate groups of college-age girls (about 5 or 10 minutes apart) who were trying to interview tourists about Korea’s services and tourist infrastructure.  It wasn’t clear whether this was for their jobs or if it was a class assignment.  Now, I’m not sure if I’m technically a tourist, and I usually don’t stop to talk to clipboard-carrying people who approach me on the street – but what can I say?  I’m a sucker for cute Korean girls, I guess, because I gave each group about 10 minutes of my time.

Tea house in Insadong

Traditional hanok houses in Bukchon

A short walk away from Insadong is Bukchon, a beautiful neighborhood of steep, narrow streets and traditional hanok houses.  Unlike recently-renovated Insadong, this 600-year-old urban environment still manages to capture the atmosphere of the Joseon Dynasty.  It’s also probably among the most photographed places in Seoul – I’d wanted to check this place out ever since seeing some images a friend uploaded to facebook months before.  It’s a place of pretty interesting contrasts.  Very old-meets-new.  The streets are lined with old, quintessentially Asian houses with curving roofs and parallel rows of overlapping shingles; but between the houses one can see the towering, faceless skyscrapers of modern Seoul all around.

By the time we left Bukchon, the daylight was fading.  We appeased our appetites with some typical Korean barbeque and then patjuk for dessert – a hot, sweet red bean porridge.  I know patjuk may not sound very appetizing to some, and to be honest it didn’t sound so great to me either, but it was surprisingly good and I could easily understand why this was considered a winter-time staple.  We then capped the night off the way we do so many Saturday nights in Korea – with a couple bottles of maekju.

Check back soon for some posts about a few other interesting parts of Korea that I’ve recently visited for the first time – such as Gyeongju and Busan.  

Bukchon neighborhood in Seoul

"In Korea" #1: In Korea, people carry umbrellas when it’s sunny.

I’m trying to motivate myself to write for this blog more regularly.  Since I feel like my day-to-day experiences aren’t always blog-worthy, I’ve decided to introduce a new feature to my blog that will, I hope, entertain the reader and also allow for more frequent posting on my part.  I call it my “In Korea” series.  In it, I will write short, bite-sized posts attempting to describe or explain random quirks and idiosyncrasies of Korean society and culture.  A great majority of my readers are Americans who presumably know little about this country – these posts will mostly be for their benefit.  I am aware that I also have some readers here in Korea – for those of you in this latter category, a lot of this stuff will be common knowledge for you, but I encourage you to leave comments if you think there’s something I’ve left out, or if you have some additional insight.  And now, without further ado, on to the first installment:

In Korea, people carry umbrellas when it’s sunny.

Exhibit A

By “people”, I mean mostly ajummas and halmeonis (middle-aged women and grandmothers).  And by “carry”, I don’t mean they just happen to have them handy as a precaution against a possible shower later in the day; I mean they carry them open in the full light of day when there’s not a cloud in the sky.

And if they don’t have an umbrella, ajummas will probably be sporting a comically large sun visor, sometimes accompanied by a scarf or bandana wrapped around the whole thing.  Younger women tend to wear floppy wide-brimmed hats or baseball caps instead.

Exhibit B

All you need for an ajumma Halloween costume
is a visor and a loose-fitting shirt with a floral pattern.

The purpose of all of this is to shield from the sun, and from what I gather, the reason they do it is only partly because of the possibility of sunburn.  They also do it because in Korea a tan is not considered beautiful. Quite the opposite.  The Korean ideal of beauty, among other things, includes milky white skin.  The lighter the better.  Having darker skin carries with it the connotation of being from “the country” – which is something that, in this increasingly modern, urbanized population, is considered common and unglamorous.  In Korea, it’s all about status and appearance.  Heaven forbid someone interpret your tanned skin to mean you’ve been working out in the fields. 

And here I thought superficiality was an obsession more or less confined to western cultures.  

The Cherry Blossoms Cometh.....and goeth pretty quickly

This time, I won’t make any empty apologies about the lapse in blog entries over the last couple months.  I’ve been pretty busy with work, and I’ve also grown a bit weary of chronicling my experiences one after another – especially now that these experiences are no longer new and interesting, but instead common occurrences lacking novelty and intrigue.  Still, I think it’s about time for an update.  My last four entries (posted back in February) were about my Japan trip, so I haven’t written about Korea since January.

I am exceedingly pleased to report that the very long, cold winter abruptly turned to spring a few weeks ago.  As a result, I’m coming out of hibernation and discovering new motivation to get out and see more of Korea – something I did so little of during the winter.  Spring here is really lovely.  Color has returned to the landscape, swiftly sweeping away the dull browns and greys of the cold season.  These days, the sun shines more often than not.  In a matter of two weeks, the temperature went from bitingly cold to tee-shirt-and-shorts weather – skipping right over the mild hoodie-weather stage.  The humidity and mosquitoes that plague the summer months are, at least for the moment, still conspicuously absent.  The result is a near-perfect combination of radiance, warmth, birdsong, and natural rejuvenation.  Too bad I know it can’t last too long.  Monsoon season is just around the corner.

But for now I’m content.  The much anticipated cherry blossom bloom came and went in the blink of an eye – the delicate blossoms don’t linger for more than a week or two, making their brief appearance across the country every spring a major event.  The blossoms bloom first in the south and gradually spread to the north, covering the country in white and pink.  On local news broadcasts, the weather anchors track the progress of the northward bloom on a map the way you’d expect them to cover a slow-moving thundershower.  During those few short weeks, festivals are held all over the country in a hurried attempt to squeeze as much enjoyment and appreciation out of the tiny flowers’ fleeting existence as possible.

I went to one of these festivals.  It was a smaller, lesser-known festival in an out-of-the-way but pretty amazing location on a lake near Jecheon.  I went with some friends on a sunny Sunday, and it was a great way to spend an afternoon.  The festival itself was nothing special – a few streets lined with stalls serving up food, games, souvenirs (some of them rather random) – but the preponderance of cherry blossoms hanging over everything infused the atmosphere with a giddy springy-ness, and it was really quite beautiful.  Really, the thing that made the day fun was spending it with friends, enjoying each other’s company while traveling by trains and buses to a random spot in the mountains where none of us had been before, taking in a change of scenery, enjoying the chance to be outside without shivering.  And experiencing a genuine cherry blossom bloom in east Asia – that was nice too.

The Japan Saga, Part IV: Takayama and the Rest

A river fringed with snow in Takayama

During the night I spent in Yudanaka, a heavy blanket of snow fell on the mountains of central Japan.  In the morning, I had to trudge through deep drifts of the white stuff to get back to the train station.  After such a spectacular day with the snow monkeys, I was sad to be leaving so soon, but I was also pretty psyched about my next destination:  Takayama.  I took the slow local train back to Nagano where I was supposed to catch a connection that would take me to Naoetsu, where I would make another transfer.  This is where my inability to understand Japanese got me into a little trouble.  The heavy snowfall during the night had apparently made the mountain passes between Nagano and Naoetsu impassable; the train would therefore only go as far as Kurohime (a middle of nowhere small village stop).  They made frequent announcements about this change while I was at Nagano station, but of course, I was completely unaware of them.  I unknowingly boarded the train and wondered why it was so empty.  When the train stopped at an open platform and didn’t continue on, there followed several minutes of confusion before I was made to understand (mostly by way of miming) that the pass was closed and I now had two options:  wait for a bus that would take me to Naoetsu (which could take many additional hours, provided the bus could actually navigate the mountain pass), or take the train back to Nagano and try a different route.  I went with the latter – eventually traveling all the way south to Nagoya and transferring to the Hida line to reach Takayama.  This roundabout course took the entire day;  I didn’t arrive in Takayama until well after dark. 

Zenkoji Temple Inn in Takayama

After checking in at my hostel, I spent the rest of the night relaxing in the warmth of my private room and enjoying the free wifi.  I was too tired to do anything else.  In the morning I woke with renewed vigor and began to explore the super fascinating hostel I was staying in.  Zenkoji Temple Inn is actually maintained by and connected to a Buddhist temple.  It was really quiet on this morning and seemed to be empty – I know I wasn’t the only one who slept there the previous night, but it appeared that the other guests had already checked out.  I made myself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and went to check out the snow-covered garden.  This didn’t last long – it was freezing outside.  I decided instead to go investigate the temple.

Since coming to Asia, I’ve been able to get a close look at quite a few Buddhist temples.  But on this morning I was in for a special treat – I was invited to sit in on the morning prayer.  It was short and pretty much what you would expect – slow, throaty chanting interspersed with the ringing of a gong and the lighting of candles.  I just sat there breathing in incense and trying to absorb through osmosis some of the spiritual essence that seemed to permeate the room.  The altar of this temple seemed more elaborately decorative than a lot of the others I’d seen – lots of gold and brass adorning idols and dangling from above.  It was, however, much less colorful than the style of Buddhist altars I’d seen in Korea (see the Wow, I’m really in Asia blog post from last October for an example).

The alter of Zenkoji Buddhist Temple

An even more interesting experience presented itself to me after prayer time.  This particular temple has a certain feature that is pretty rare in Japan.  It’s called Kaidan Meguri, which means “Traversing the Path of Buddha.”  Here’s how it works:  To the right of the altar, there’s a short stairwell descending into total darkness, which leads to an unlit circular passageway that runs under the altar.  One is supposed to enter, and then navigate the passage by sense of touch alone.  The idea is that, with vision removed, one is guided by faith.  The goal is to locate an ancient padlock known as the “Key to Paradise” which locks a door; behind this door is a sacred Buddha statue which no one is permitted to see.  When the lock is found, one is supposed to take a mindful moment to enjoy the fulfillment of locating the key and say a prayer for sins of the past or hopes for the future.  Doing this washes away sins and lays a path to Goku-raku Jodo – the Paradise.  One then continues on, completing the circle and reemerging into the light.  The circuit is a symbol of death and re-birth – and also of Buddhist enlightenment.  One enters as a human with faults, experiences the trials of darkness, attains peace, and returns to the light. 

The stairway leading to Kaidan Meguri

I was permitted to experience Kaidan Meguri for myself.  Apparently anyone who stays at the hostel may have this opportunity, but many don’t take advantage.  I, for one, was fairly certain I wouldn’t get another chance for such an experience.  So I took a plunge into the darkness.  There was something kind of unnerving about being unable to see anything at all and having to find my way by sense of touch.  I think I was on the verge of having flashbacks to those cheap haunted houses I frequented as a middle schooler.  I reminded myself that I was actually in a sacred place that was certainly not in the business of scaring me out of my wits.  Still, I made sure I had my phone with me, just in case I got too freaked out and needed a light.

I found the Key to Paradise with very little trouble, but strangely had a difficult time focusing my thoughts while I stood there.  I took some deep breaths in the cold, close air, but the harder I tried to concentrate, the more mental clarity eluded me.  I eventually made some hasty, vague well wishes and continued through the circuit and out the other side.  Rather than obtaining peace, I mostly felt disappointed in myself for my impoverished spirituality.  At least I didn’t cheat by bringing out my phone.

I spent the rest of the day wandering around Takayama – a place surprisingly easy to navigate on foot.  There are lots of reasons to visit this undeniably charming little town – it’s quaint, quiet, and laid back compared to the hustle and bustle of the cities; it sleeps in the shadow of the beautiful Hida mountains; it’s usually covered by a pristine and frequently replenished layer of snow this time of year; it’s a sake brewing hotspot; and there are countless little artisans’ shops selling locally handmade crafts.  But perhaps the biggest reason this town draws so many historically-minded and city-weary travelers is because of Sanmachi – a very handsome historic district in the center of town featuring Japan’s best preserved specimens of Edo-era (1603-1867) architecture.  More than just about any other place in the country, this is a spot where, with a little imagination, one can get a small glimpse of what Japan looked like in the days of the Samurai.  

The Edo-era architecture of the Sanmachi historic district

When I left the Temple Inn, it was snowing again.  The snowfall intensified into a virtual white out by the time I reached the river.  As I came upon the Sanmachi historic district, I felt as though I had walked onto a movie set.  The arresting sight of old wooden merchant houses, lattice windows adorn with icicles, and narrow lanes framed by the falling snow struck me as singularly enchanting.  This was Japan’s traditional side – I managed to find it, hiding out here in the mountains.  I felt myself a world away from the noise and congested clutter of the cities I’d visited earlier in the week. 

The Edo-era architecture of the Sanmachi historic district

The snow soon began to let up as I ambled aimlessly around the three compact streets that make up Sanmachi.  The old merchant houses have been converted mostly into cafes, boutiques, souvenir shops, and sake breweries.  Since the people who make up this region have been utilizing the surrounding forests for centuries, it’s no surprise that this part of Japan is known for its woodworking.  There were many crafts of this variety on offer – everything from lacquered bowls and jewelry boxes to finely-decorated chopsticks.  It was here that I did the bulk of my souvenir shopping in Japan, finding many unique gifts for friends and family back home. 

Takayama's traditional feel is enhanced by the brilliance of the morning's snowfall

The sun came out, and after snacking on a small lunch of Hida beef (a regional specialty), I made my way out of the historic district to the eastern edge of town, hoping to find some high ground from which to get a view of the entire area.  What I found instead was a forest-enveloped shrine and a cemetery.  Rather than being creeped out by cemeteries, I’ve always rather enjoyed their stillness and serenity.  This one in particular was all powder and loveliness on this now sunny winter’s day.  I was content to stay for a while in the refuge of the soaring evergreens listening to the pitter-patter of snow-melt dripping from the boughs.  Where had this peace of mind been that morning while I stood mind buzzing before the Key to Paradise?  Perhaps it’s a natural outdoor setting that my spirit requires. 

A forested cemetery on a hill east of downtown Takayama

The front of the sake brewery

Later in the afternoon I visited a traditional sake brewery.  No fancy, sterile modern equipment here; everything is done by hand the old-fashioned way.  I was quickly whisked away by a middle-aged Japanese woman who was intent on giving me a tour and explaining the sake making process, even though she spoke no English and could see that I didn’t speak Japanese.  Still, she did her best to convey to me a sense of what goes on here, and she actually did an admirable job by means of some very animated miming.  The tour concluded with a tasting of two different kinds of sake – one hot, one cold.  The whole visit lasted about 20 minutes and was totally free.  Can’t beat that with a baseball bat.

Thus concluded my visit to Takayama.  I returned to Micah’s place in Toyohashi via a 3-hour train ride.  After a solid week on the move, I had decided to spend my few remaining days in Japan taking it easy.  I had originally planned to make one final trip to Tokyo, but ultimately decided against it for a few reasons.  Mainly, I was running low on money and I didn’t want to further infringe upon Micah’s hospitality by asking to borrow more (see Japan Saga: Part I if you missed that story).  Also – I couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to convince myself that Tokyo was worth a visit.  I didn’t have anything in particular that I wanted to see there (maybe the Tsukiji Fish Market, if anything).  I don’t know, it just seems like it’s kind of the conventional wisdom that, if you’re visiting Japan, you’re supposed to see Tokyo.  It’s expected.  But beyond being just another chaotic Asian mega-metropolis, what does it have to offer?  Not even the expats living in Japan could adequately answer that one for me.  I’ve never really been much of a big city person anyway – I tire pretty quickly of concrete and crowds.  So in the end, I decided to skip it. 

A field of yellow flowers is blooming even in January on the Atsumi Peninsula

This is not to say that I was idle for my final couple of days in Japan.  For one, I got to experience the blaring neon madness of a Japanese arcade (complete with a dude in skinny jeans sweating profusely while killing it on Dance Dance Revolution…..sometimes stereotypes turn out to be true).  I also got to enjoy a leisurely afternoon driving around the Atsumi Peninsula with Micah and his friend Nick.  We scrambled around on beach rocks, frolicked in a field of yellow flowers, and enjoyed some fresh oysters and warm sake for lunch.  That night, my trip was capped off with another game of cards with Micah’s expat friends at his apartment.

Micah and Nick exploring a rocky beach on the Atsumi Peninsula

I feel like I should end this four-part series about my travels in Japan with some sort of profound overarching observation about what it all means, about how the real Japan compares with the romanticized movie version I talked about in Part I.  But it isn’t coming to me.  I will say this though – I had a really fantastic time on my trip.  I enjoyed it even more than I thought I would.  I was struck by how it is simultaneously so similar to, yet vastly different from Korea.  I was grateful to be reunited with an old friend.  I was glad to explore a new place and dispel the impression that Asian cultures are more or less the same.  I enjoyed enriching and complicating my notions of history, nationalism, taste, and tradition.  Ultimately, I will say the following about Japan:  No matter what you envision this country to be, be it ultra-modern cities crisscrossed with futuristic bullet trains, or ancient temples nestled on a misty hillside, or sidewalks packed with suit-wearing businessmen gazing with bloodshot eyes at their smartphones, or a kimono-wearing old woman silently pouring you a cup of tea – chances are, you’ll find it here somewhere.  You only have to go for yourself and have a look.  

The Philippine Sea seen from a beach on the Atsumi Peninsula

The Japan Saga, Part III: Snow Monkeys and a Public Bath

What do you get when you combine the following elements:  natural hot springs, a picturesque mountain forest blanketed in clean white snow, and wild Japanese macaques (snow monkeys)?  Answer:  You get the single coolest day of my Japan trip.

Around a decade ago, I saw a film called Baraka.  Maybe you’ve heard of it.  It’s done in a style that’s usually called “pure cinema” – meaning there are no characters, no plot, no storyline or narration.  Instead, themes are explored through the use of vivid imagery accompanied by music.  That’s it.  Anyway, Baraka opens up with a very memorable scene of red-faced primates relaxing (there’s no other word to describe it) in a steaming pool of water surrounded by snow.  The scene is very surreal.  The camera zeros in on a monkey’s face as he closes his eyes and exhales – an uncannily human-like expression of contentment that I found unforgettable.  (See a clip here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YG9P7JWtxhw)

This short scene impressed me deeply at the time, for reasons I can’t fully articulate.  I had never seen images of primates in such surroundings– I was accustomed to seeing them in tropical environments, the jungles of the Amazon or Indonesia, the African bush, etc.  But surrounded by snow?  That was different.  It was easy enough for me to discover that these scenes were filmed at a very specific location in Japan, where a certain population of macaques (the northernmost dwelling primate on Earth, except for humans) is known to frequent a certain hot spring year-round.  When I began planning my itinerary for Japan, this information came back to me, and I decided that this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see with my own eyes a beguiling scene that had lodged itself so firmly in my memory years before.

And so it was that on the day after I visited Hiroshima, I found myself on a rather lengthy train ride to Yudanaka.  Due to the remoteness of the so-called monkey hot springs, this was probably the most ambitious destination of my Japan itinerary.  As well-known as the snow monkeys are, this place is a bit removed from the well-beaten tourist path.  Many of the people who visit Nagano Prefecture do so for the skiing, not for the monkeys.   Yudanaka is therefore not the most easy-to-get-to place.  I had to take a Shinkansen train from Toyohashi to Nagoya, then transfer to the Shinano line bound for Nagano (host of the 1998 winter Olympics).  About 30 minutes before reaching Nagano, the train came out of a tunnel and I was treated to a spectacular view of the city nestled in a snowy valley enclosed by the towering Japanese Alps.  Nice.  Once in Nagano, I had to catch a slow local train (not covered by my rail pass) to Yudanaka Onsen, a small, remote hot spring town near the monkeys. 

I immediately set out in search of my accommodation.  As I walked along the road, I noticed the sound of rushing water.  There were gutters on either side of the street that had natural hot spring water flowing through them.  It also came pouring out of spouts located at seemingly random spots along the road, generating plumes of steam everywhere.  After a short walk, I found the place I was looking for.  I had booked a room at Shimaya Ryokan – a traditional Japanese inn.  When I arrived, I was greeted by the energetic, animated owner, Ichiro-san Yumoto.  He bombarded me with questions about where I’m from, where I’ve been in Japan, where else I plan to go.  He informed me that, though I had requested accommodation in the male dorm, another guest had requested to rent out the entire dorm for his group.  I therefore got bumped up to a private room at no additional cost.  I love when things just happen to work out in my favor like this.

My private room at Shimaya Ryokan

My room was beautiful and cozy --   a tatami-matted floor, a low table with a tea set, and a paper-partition sliding door concealing a sort of “breakfast nook” and a balcony.  After taking a quick look around, I dropped my luggage on the mattress and headed back downstairs to the lobby.

One of the reasons I had chosen to stay at this place, other than for the traditional ryokan experience, was because Mr. Yumoto offered a free shuttle to the monkey park – which otherwise would’ve been much more difficult to reach by way of public buses.  We hopped in his van, just the two of us, and he drove me through Yudanaka and the adjacent Shibu Onsen (pointing out various places of interest along the way) before eventually turning up a steep mountain road.  Before long, we came to a massive sign reading “Jigokudani Yaen Koen.”  This was the entrance to the monkey hot spring.  It’s not possible to drive all the way up to the spot where the monkeys are, so I had the pleasure of walking 1.6 km on a pretty forest path in the light of a fading afternoon. 

Wild macaque sighting!

As I neared the onsen, I started spotting monkeys from a distance.  They were numerous, dotting the hillside, the river bank, and the trail ahead.  I couldn’t believe how many there were.  Suddenly, I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a macaque scurrying toward me on the rail that ran along this part of the trail.  I stood still and held my breath as he got nearer.  He paused briefly by my side and graciously allowed me to snap a quick photo before continuing on his way.  This was my first personal encounter with a wild primate – an item checked off my bucket list.

It’s a rare experience in life to have something that you’ve subconsciously treated with so much anticipation to actually exceed expectations.  But this was one of those times.  The hot spring, while small, looked every bit as striking and picturesque as I remembered from the scene in Baraka.   Steam rose from the surface; snow fell softly all around; the monkeys lounged languid and idle in their soak.  There were no barriers, nothing to prevent me from getting up close and personal with them.  They generally ignored me and the small number of other humans that were around, going about their business of bathing, playing, foraging for food, posturing and screaming at each other.  There were intimidating big ones.  There were adorable babies.  They ran wildly around chasing each other, brushing against my legs in the process.  It was truly an amazing and unique experience. 

A rare sight:  wild Japanese macaques soaking in a natural onsen.

Not even in a zoo have I ever been able to observe primates at such close proximity.  I was transfixed by their dexterous hands, their human-like facial expressions.  I began to discern distinct personalities.  This one is bold and mischievous; this one is timid and demure; this one is aggressive and short-tempered, an alpha male perhaps.  I can’t begin to describe my level of fascination as I walked among them, studying their behavior, taking their pictures.  The word “surreal” is insufficient. 

I’m not sure how long I stayed there – at least an hour.  Maybe two.  It started to grow dark, and I had to reluctantly return to the trailhead to meet Mr. Yumoto for my ride back into town.  As we pulled up to the ryokan some time later, Mr. Yumoto turned to me with a proposition.  “Soon, I will drive two guests to Tominoyu roten-buro.  It is outdoor hot spring bath with nice view.  Old Japanese tradition, very relaxing.  Will you go?”

 Sure.  Why not.

The two other guests accompanying me to the roten-buro were ethnic Japanese guys from New Zealand.  Those of you who know me personally undoubtedly also know that I’ve had a small obsession with NZ ever since I studied there in 2006.  So I had plenty to talk with them about on the 6 km drive.  (“You lived in Dunedin?  Must’ve been cold.”  “Why is that always the first thing people mention when Dunedin comes up?”)  Once we arrive at the roten-buro, we put money into a ticket-machine (600 yen) and selected what kind of experience we wanted.  We could choose between a public bath or, for quadruple the cost, a private bath.  I opted for the public, as did my kiwi Japanese companions.  I entered the locker room alone as they hung back to smoke cigarettes in the waiting area.

I walked into a locker room filled with stark naked Japanese guys amicably laughing and chatting with each other as they dressed.  They were young – close to my own age, as far as I could tell.  They gave me curious looks as I entered, apparently unaccustomed to seeing a foreigner here.  It was a little odd at first.  In the West, we still tend to view nudity as a private, even shameful thing – a relic notion left over from the Victorian age, or maybe it comes from our Puritanical roots – who knows?  Typically, western men are especially insecure and awkward with their nakedness in the presence of other males.  But these Japanese guys, on the other hand, seemed so comfortable joking with each other with their dangly bits hanging out to air dry.  No shame.  No insecurity.  And why should there be?  Really, none of us had anything that the others hadn’t seen before.  It was actually kind of refreshing how free they were in their nakedness. 

I quickly stripped down and strode unclad into the adjacent washroom.  It was empty.  Along the opposite wall there was a row of removable shower heads, mirrors, a low shelf with soap and shampoo, and several plastic stools.  To the right was a small sauna room.  To the left was the door leading out to the onsen.  Fortunately, I knew what to do because Mr. Yumoto had given me a quick run-down of the routine and told me how to observe proper onsen etiquette.  I sat on one of the stools, washed, and rinsed thoroughly – it’s supposedly unacceptable to enter an onsen while dirty or with traces of soap on your body. 

The next step was to enter the sauna, which was also empty.  Beside the door there was a small hourglass fixed to the wall.  The idea is that you’re supposed to turn the hourglass over when you enter, then exit the sauna once it’s run its course.  I spread out my small towel on the lowest bench (another etiquette thing) and lay down.  After becoming adjusted to the heat, I rose to a sitting position and moved to the top bench, where the heat is more intense.  I couldn’t have been in the sauna for more than 5 or 10 minutes, but it was long enough for my body to go from wet to dry to sweating. 

After the intense heat of the sauna, the cooler air of the washroom felt very refreshing.  By this time, my new kiwi Japanese friends were there going through their shower routine.  The next step for me was to rinse off the sauna sweat with cold water.  I wasn’t too enthused about the cold water part, but Mr. Yumoto insisted that using cold water has therapeutic and health benefits, so I just gritted my teeth and got it over with as quickly as possible.

Stepping through the doorway into the freezing night sucked the air right out of my lungs.  This loss of breath was augmented by the breath-taking view of the twinkling lights of Yudanaka, which could be seen in the valley below from the onsen’s prominent perch on the mountainside.  The bath was dimly lit and quite large, made to look very nature-y with roughly-hewn stones, landscaping, and a waterfall.  Snow lay all around.  The heat of the pool fought an elemental battle with the frigid air, producing huge wafts of steam that swayed and danced fiercely in the breeze. 

There were two men in the pool already – an elderly man submerged chest-deep at the far end, and a young man sitting on the near edge with just his legs dangling in the water.  Neither gave me more than a passing glance as I walked over to a more secluded part of the pool.

At first, the water was excruciatingly hot.  It was almost intolerable.  I had to ease myself in very slowly, and even then it took a while before it became bearable.  Shortly after I entered the pool, the other two bathers left and returned to the shower room.  This allowed me several precious minutes of alone time with the steam and the beautiful view.  I closed my eyes and let the onsen take its effect on my body and mind.  I paid attention to the sound of the wind, the gurgling of the waterfall, the occasional giggles and snippets of hushed conversation coming from the other side of a tall wooden fence where the female bath was located.  I understood why the Japanese had been doing this for centuries – I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed and at peace.  I was so absorbed that I hadn’t even notice that the kiwi travelers had exited the washroom and slipped wordlessly into the other end of the pool.

As relaxing as the experience was, the temperature of the water was still just a tad too hot for my taste.  I found it was best to try to remain as still as possible – movement seemed to magnify the heat.  After a while, I raised myself half-way out of the water.  The breeze, which had earlier felt so uncomfortably cold, now felt incredibly good.  I sat that way for a while – my lower half submerged in the hot water, my torso and head exposed to the freezing air.  It began to snow, completing the perfect picture.  In this position, I couldn’t actually feel just how cold that cold breeze really was – it was quite a surprise when I went to run my hand through my hair and discovered that my hair had frozen into icicles. 

Tominoyu roten-buro, with a nighttime view of Yudanaka

I soaked in the bath for around 45 minutes before I climbed out and went inside.  I bypassed the washroom this time – you’re supposed to let the nutrients and minerals of the hot spring water to dry on your skin.  While I was dressing, my two kiwi Japanese companions exited the bath as well.  I took advantage of the onsen being empty to run back out with my camera and snap a photo.  I’m not sure if this was a breach of the rules of etiquette or not.  But I’m glad I was able to capture the scene.

Once exiting the locker room, you’re supposed to sit and relax for a while in a post-bath waiting room.  The waiting room at this onsen facility provided us with drinks (for rehydration) and electric massage chairs.  I sat in one of these chairs with a cup of tea and my ipod, listened to some Sigur Ros, and was lulled into a pleasantly sleepy stupor while waiting for Mr. Yumoto to come pick us up.

One more blog post to go in the Japan Saga series.  Stay tuned.  It'll be up on the site later this week!

The Japan Saga, Part II: Hiroshima

Tahara, seen from the top of Mt. Zou

On Monday morning I awoke to beautiful clear weather.  Micah and I spent the morning traveling by train to the seaside town of Tahara where we met up with one of Micah’s students – an adult cabbage farmer named Shinobu Hirota who greatly enjoys showing foreigners around.  He took us to an observatory at the top of a small mountain where we could view the surrounding area, taking in a view of everything from ocean to mountains to wind turbines to a Toyota plant.  Afterwards we went to lunch at one of those conveyor belt sushi places where you grab whatever you want off the line as it passes your table.  We proceeded to stuff ourselves – Shinobu kept insisting that I try different things.  To my own surprise, I think my favorite was some kind of eel that was melt-in-your-mouth soft and a little bit grainy.  That afternoon, Micah had to go to work, so I packed an overnight bag and caught a train – the world famous Shinkansen bullet train – bound for Hiroshima. 

The Shinkansen bullet train

I was a little nervous about navigating the train stations on my own.  Japan has many different kinds of trains and lines, which doesn’t make things easy for a non-Japanese speaking newbie like me.  However, I was able to take advantage of the website hyperdia.com, which simplifies things by telling you the name of the train you want, what time it leaves, and which platform it departs from.  I managed to get on the right train and successfully make my transfer in Osaka. 

I had arranged to stay with a couch surfing host in Hiroshima via the website couchsurfing.org.  She was a Scottish single mother named Suzi who was working in Hiroshima as a teacher.  I arrived late in the evening, so there wasn’t any daylight left for sightseeing by the time I reached her flat.  Instead, we just hung out at her place drinking tea while pouring over a map of the city.  She showed me how to get to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and recommended a few other sights I might find interesting.  Eventually, I called it an early night and woke up early the next morning to begin my day.  My first stop would be the main attraction of my Hiroshima itinerary:  The Peace Memorial Museum.

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park

As a long time pacifist, I considered a trip to Hiroshima to be a sort of pilgrimage that I needed to take.  This is, after all, where the nuclear age began, where the single most devastating war-time act in the history of mankind occurred, where thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children were blasted into oblivion by a new technology that to this day remains a very real and potent threat to the future of human civilization.  Since that historic day 67 years ago, Hiroshima has become a global symbol for the horrific consequences of nuclear war.  What many people may not realize is that it is also, and has been since that day, a focal point for the disarmament movement.  Since 1945 every Hiroshima mayor has written a letter of protest to every leader whose country has engaged in some sort of nuclear test – totaling 600 letters and counting (They’re all on display at the museum).  For me, this city embodies so much more than can be put into words.  In the way it has rebuilt itself from the ashes, moved on to become a thriving modern city, and humbly reflected upon itself in a way that has led it to acknowledge its nation’s history while committing itself to an unwavering anti-war stance – these things also make the city a symbol of the desire for peace and of everlasting hope for the future of humanity.  The deepest wish of Hiroshima is for a world free of nuclear weapons and the realization of a genuinely peaceful international community – and no place on Earth has a better reason to wish it.  The Peace Memorial Park, with all its monuments and museums, exists to memorialize the victims of the bombing, to ensure we never forget the horrors of nuclear war, and to advocate world peace.  These are the reasons I wanted to go there.

Don’t worry – I’m not about to get all political on you.  In this blog post, I will seek neither to ethically justify nor condemn the decision to drop the atomic bomb on Hiroshima.  The fact is, it happened.  Whether or not it was the right call is irrelevant.  What I aim to do here is to examine the objective facts of that day, based on my newfound deeper knowledge on the subject thanks to the Peace Memorial Museum, and to share with you my humbling experience of standing in the place where the world’s first nuclear holocaust occurred.  I learned details of the event that were previously unknown to me, and I suspect they may be unknown to many of you as well.  Therefore, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to share some of them with you. 

The US began looking into the possibility of harnessing atomic power to create a mega-weapon as early as 1939.  It wasn’t until 1942 that Roosevelt got serious enough about it to initiate the Manhattan Project;  he did so after receiving a letter from, of all people, Albert Einstein, who suggested that not only was the goal obtainable, but that the Germans were already making headway in the development of such a weapon.  By the time the bomb was successfully tested on July 16, 1945, Germany had already surrendered, which resulted in Japan being put in the crosshairs. 

The US wanted to end the war as quickly as possible.  Japan was already in an extremely weakened position, but they were refusing to surrender unconditionally.  The US had a few options:  invade the Japanese mainland, which it has been estimated would have resulted in millions of casualties to both Americans and Japanese in addition to being costly; enlist the help of the Soviets, who the Americans were already growing wary of; enforce an international blockade and embargo to weaken the Japanese further, a slow and uncertain tactic; or drop the A-bomb on Japan in hopes that it would psychologically cripple the Japanese, leaving them no choice but to submit to the US’s terms for surrender.  It has been said that the US dropped the bomb to spare the lives of American soldiers that would have been lost in an invasion of the mainland.  It has also been said that an even bigger motive was to demonstrate our power to the Soviets and to end the war decisively without their help, thereby restricting their influence during peace negotiations after the war.  In all reality, these were probably all factors in the decision.  At any rate, the development of the bomb had cost billions of dollars, and domestically if the American government wanted to justify the cost, they needed to prove that it was worth it – which they felt they could do if they could use it to end the war with a single catastrophic blow.

So, why Hiroshima?  Even before World War II, Hiroshima was a military city.  It was also rather renowned as a city of higher education.  Unfortunately for its citizens, it perfectly fit the criteria for an ideal target city (the other potential targets were Kokura, Niigata, Kyoto, and as we all know, Nagasaki).  They were looking for a city that had an urban area at least three miles in diameter which also contained significant strategic military targets.  Furthermore, it was believed that the topography of Hiroshima would have the effect of more intensely focusing the bomb’s impact.  Air raids were prohibited on the potential target cities so that the effects of the bomb could be sufficiently studied and assessed after the event.  So while the rest of industrialized Japan was being heavily bombarded, Hiroshima had been spared until the A-bomb was ready.  Hiroshima ended up being the primary target because it was believed to be the only one of the potential targets which did not contain Allied prisoner of war camps.  Its fate was effectively sealed. 

Models of Hiroshima before and after the atomic bombing

On the morning of August 6, 1945 three planes took off from an airbase on the island of Tinian headed for the Japanese mainland.  One carried scientific instrumentation; another carried photography equipment; the third, the now famous Enola Gay, carried the bomb dubbed “Little Boy.”  Skies over Hiroshima were clear – good visibility for the bombardiers –  and the morning commute was in full swing.  As Little Boy fell through the sky, a nuclear reaction of radioactive uranium was set in motion (the Nagasaki bomb used Plutonium, in case you wanted to know).  At 8:15 a.m. the bomb detonated 600 meters above the center of the city with the force of 16,000 tons of high-performance explosive (which was actually less than expected).  The initial shockwave travelled faster than the speed of sound, instantly leveling virtually everything within a mile of the hypocenter.  The shockwave was accompanied by a fireball 370 meters in diameter that exceeded a million degrees Celcius at its core and between 3500 and 5000 degrees Celcius on the surface (remember, the bomb detonated 600 meters in the air).  The heat rays ignited everything in the vicinity. 12 square kilometers (69% of the city’s buildings) were completely destroyed by the blast and the ensuing firestorm.   It is believed that 70,000-80,000 people (30% of Hiroshima’s population) were killed instantly, including over 90% of the city’s doctors and nurses.  In the following months, many thousands more died from burns and other injuries, bringing the death toll up to 140,000 by the end of December.  This number does not include the thousands who died in the years and decades that followed from leukemia and other cancers as a result of radiation poisoning (a black rain fell in Hiroshima 20-30 minutes after detonation, which was loaded with radioactive substances.  Many people who survived the initial blast were badly burned and in dire need of water – they unknowingly drank the black rain as it fell from the sky). 

The singed remnants of a school uniform

Hearing all these facts is horrible enough.  Seeing the effects on display at the Peace Memorial Museum was truly terrifying, bringing the whole thing into a new realm of palpable reality.  Knowing that each displayed article of singed clothing represented a precious human life (many of them children, innocent victims), embodying incalculable human pain and grief, was moving to say the least.  Seeing video footage of burn victims and cancer patients, before and after models of a city destroyed, first-hand accounts by material witnesses of searching for the remains of loved ones amid the wreckage, roofing tiles that had melted and fused together – all this forced upon me a deep appreciation for the terrible and awesome power of human technology.  It’s incredibly scary what we’re capable of. 

In the decades that followed WWII, extensively more powerful hydrogen bombs were developed, and they still exist by the thousands today – around 90% of them are either in the US or Russia.  We all hope that the world will never again come to a point when the use of these deadly weapons is called for – but if it happened once, it’s surely reasonable to believe it could happen again.  Just look how close we came in 1962 with the Cuban missile crisis.  At any rate, even though there is talk of disarmament, no country is really willing to completely give up its nuclear weapons.  What does this say about humanity?  I’m not sure.  But the fact that our species has enough intelligence to develop such complex and powerful weapons, but is still so primitive as to be incapable of overcoming the tendency to war with one another – it’s frightening and confounding.  We’ve become so technologically advanced that we can split atoms and harness their energy, yet when you get down to it, we’re no more advanced than Cain.  Again, I’m not seeking to either support or condemn the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki – I’m merely lamenting the fact that our world ever got to a point where such a thing was considered a necessary evil. If we want to call ourselves civilized, we should commit to the idea that such a tragedy can never be allowed to occur again.  But, alas, human nature is a strange and bewildering beast.  These were the humbling sentiments I took away from my experience at the museum. 

On my way out of the peace museum, I signed my name to a petition calling for an international nuclear weapons convention and nuclear weapon free world by 2020.  I then spent some time in the surrounding park, sitting in quiet reflection before the memorial cenotaph – a saddle shaped monument holding the names of the victims.  I also made a quick pass through the memorial hall, which contains information about the bomb’s victims.  The most impressive part of the memorial hall is the Hall of Remembrance, which features a 360 degree mosaic panorama of the destroyed Hiroshima recreated using 140,000 individual tiles – the estimated number of people who had died as a direct result of the bomb by the end of 1945.  I then strolled over to the iconic structure that was once known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall, but which is now known as the A-bomb dome.  This was the building closest to the hypocenter that was left partially standing, and it has remained in that state to serve as a memorial in its own right.  Unfortunately, at this time it is covered in scaffolding due to its undergoing a routine check for soundness, but it was still cool to actually see this building that is so often featured in black and white photographs taken in the aftermath of the bombing, the lone standing structure adrift in a sea of rubble. 

The A-Bomb Dome

A statue depicting Sadako Sasaki at the Children's

Peace Monument

The last thing I did before leaving the peace park was to pay my respects at Children’s Peace Monument dedicated to the memory of the innocent children that were claimed by the bomb.  At the top of the monument is a statue of a girl with outstretched arms holding up a folded paper crane.  That girl is Sadako Sasaki, and hers is one of the more touching and heart-wrenching stories to come out this event.  There was an entire half-room back in the museum dedicated to her.  Sadako was two years old when the bombing occurred, and she was lucky enough to survive for another decade before radiation-related leukemia began to ravage her body.  She decided to put her faith in the old superstition that said her wishes would come true if she folded 1000 origami paper cranes.  Incredibly, she did this in a month, and when she hit the 1000 mark she kept going.  One of the most impressive things was the extraordinarily small size of many of the cranes on display at the museum – some were smaller than a fingernail.  She lacked paper in the hospital so she used whatever she could get her hands on – medicine wrappings, for example.  She apparently used a needle to fold the smallest ones.  This story, once spread, inspired people the world over, and it’s how the paper crane became a global symbol for hope and peace.  Despite her efforts, Sadako tragically died after an eight-month struggle.  She was 12 years old.  To this day people all over the world (mostly children) fold paper cranes and send them to Hiroshima in her memory. 

Folded paper cranes at the Children's Peace

Monument

At that point, I’d had enough misery for one day and decided to leave the peace park.  It was past lunch time, and I’d had a light breakfast.  There was no question in my mind what I would be having for lunch.  Like every other place in Japan, Hiroshima has a specialty, a certain dish it is known for – here, it’s Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki.  It’s hard to describe, because it’s basically just a jumble of ingredients layered on top of each other, grilled on a hot plate in front of you, pressed into a sort of pancake shape and slathered with okonomiyaki sauce.  After searching around for a bit, I found an okonomiyaki place that I’d read about online.  It was nothing more than a small kitchen with a counter, and when I got there the counter was full -- which is usually a good sign, since it’s typically the case that the quality of the food a place serves is directly proportional to number of people queuing up to eat it.  I squeezed in at the counter between a group of Japanese high school boys and a group of tourists from Hong Kong.  One of the boys spoke English reasonably well, and he really went out of his way to help me go over the options on the menu (I think he was just enjoying the opportunity to practice his language skills).  I told him I wanted the Hiroshima special, so he translated my order for the lady on the other side of the counter.  What I got was a massive pile of food: cabbage, pork, squid, soba noodles, bean sprouts, and egg, all prepared in the way described above.  The Hong Kong tourists also spoke a decent amount of English, so I was able to enjoy my lunch while having a very lively conversation – they even asked me to teach them some Korean phrases, which made me feel all cool and international.  This positive human interaction was a very welcome antidote to the rather heavy morning I’d had at the peace museum. 

Lunch!  Hiroshima-style Okonomiyaki

The reconstructed Hiroshima Castle

Speaking of heavy – I was undoubtedly a few pounds heavier myself by the time I finished that meal.  I had a couple more hours to kill before I was due back at the train station for my return to Toyohashi, so I spent the time doing what I typically do when I’m traveling in a new place – I wandered.  At one point I walked into a 100 yen store, which is like a Japanese version of the dollar store, only they sell stuff that you actually want to buy.  This one was enormous – 8 stories tall.  I bought myself a pair of gloves.  Before arriving at the train station I also chanced upon Hiroshima Castle.  This was a reconstruction – the original structure that had been built in the 1500s was destroyed in the 1945 bombing.  But it was still a nice place to walk around, being set in a large park and surrounded by a mote.

And that was Hiroshima.  Wow, and I’m just now realizing how long this entry is.  I know this blog post was a bit of a bummer, but I think it’s important to acknowledge and remember things like the destruction that occurred here.  I’ll make up for the depressing stuff by talking about nudity and monkeys in my next post.  Promise.