A Parting

 

The three of us met in an izakaya close to the library. Outside it was sultry, a typical June evening in Fuji. We didn’t eat much, just a few sticks of yakitori, and we drank three or four glasses of beer each. The Australian was in good spirits. He was eager to leave Japan and the city that had served as his home for three months. He had come for the wrong reasons, he told us, although we never found out what those reasons were. He was tired of being broke. Maybe he would have lasted longer if he hadn’t been sent to the back of beyond, but there it was.

Yoshiwara Honcho Station

After dinner we crossed the huge vacant lot opposite Mos Burger in virtual pitch darkness and walked in the direction of Yoshiwara Honcho Station, where cockroaches scurried along the single platform in the heat of summer. The arcaded street was as usual deserted, and we went up some stairs to an empty bar which had been the scene of a few amusing drunken incidents.

In fact, a lot of very funny things had happened in those three months. There was the can of chu-hi he had shotgunned in Mini Stop, the wrestling match with the Japanese guy with bad breath, the eye infection, the dance in the Peruvian restaurant, the short-lived friendship with Three Tooth, the cardboard box which had come to serve as furniture, the empty jar of pasta sauce used for cheap red wine. Now it was over.

After a couple more beers the American and I got up to leave. We said our farewells and I for one felt quite moved. I would miss this Australian. Before we parted he had one final, inevitable, request to make of us.

“Have you got any money? I’m gonna stay for a bit and I haven’t got any cash.”

We both handed over a few thousand yen, and I never saw him again.

The Forbidden City

   I read today that the Forbidden City in Beijing has reopened.

   I went there in the fall of 2007, as it happens. It was perhaps the shortest visit ever made by a tourist to this hallowed site. I wrote some  brief notes about my experience at the time, which I have copied below:

   The approach to the Forbidden City was swarming with folk from the countryside. They brandished guides and maps, and tried to convince passers-by to have their picture taken. Most went about their work half-heartedly, but a few were persistent, grabbing people by the sleeve. 

   Inside the walls groups of Chinese tourists in red caps and shabby clothes jostled and shoved each other and anyone else who got in their way as they sought to look inside the buildings. I felt an urgent desire to get out as fast as I could. 

   After leaving, we walked along the moat that surrounds the Forbidden City, where hardly a soul was to be seen. The willow trees across the water were swaying gently in the breeze.  It was a beautiful and serene setting.

   I have never liked crowds, but looking back I think I overreacted. As the photos show, it wasn't that busy and the vermilion walls look magnificent. Maybe I will return someday. 

   One thing is for sure: I looked better 13 years ago. 

The Dachshund

       

          Many years ago I had the good fortune to visit Miyazaki a number of times. This southern Japanese prefecture must be one of the country’s most beautiful areas. My abiding memories are of palm trees and translucent rivers cutting through gorges.

        One sweaty summer’s evening I was present at a barbecue thrown by my ex-girlfriend’s family. In addition to myself and the family members, there was a down on his luck youth called Takayama (how can I still remember his name?), and he had brought his dog with him. It was a tiny dachshund which Takayama had not trained, and it became clear he was palming off the responsibility for dealing with it onto the hosts.  

My girlfriend’s family had a dog of their own, a shiba-ken which was as aloof and majestic as a beautiful Parisian woman wandering around a chic arrondissement. It hated the dachshund and would snarl at him if he encroached on her space.

My role on the evening in question was very simple. I wasn’t expected to play a part in the conversation – I couldn’t, because my Japanese was so terrible – but every so often I’d be asked if the food was delicious, or if I wanted another beer. As long as I smiled and gave the appropriate response, I was a welcome member of the group.

We all sat outside enjoying the barbecue while the dachshund gambolled around, yelping and relieving itself on the floor every so often. It had also figured out that my girlfriend’s mother was the weak link in the chain, and could be manipulated very easily. When food was ready it would run in her direction and begin humping her leg with abandon, like Ross’s oversexed monkey Marcel in Friends. She invariably gave in, rewarding the mutt with a morcel of delicious meat.

        At one point I went inside to use the facilities and made a faux-pas, forgetting to remove my shoes and put on slippers. My girlfriend’s mother pounced like a cat. ‘Maiku, da-me!’ she told me, before wiping the floor to remove my footmarks.

         After this incident, two thoughts occurred to me. One was positive, for I now understood that I was genuinely considered part of the inner circle. I don’t think I had ever been rebuked by my girlfriend’s mother before, and I realised this meant she was now felt comfortable enough to tell me off.

        The second realisation was less welcome. I now knew my place in the pecking order. To put it bluntly, I was below that intolerable dachshund. It could urinate on the floor and furiously hump someone’s leg without fear of censure. I couldn’t even go inside in a pair of shoes.

Weekly Housing

   While in Japan I lived for about a year and a half in what is known as ‘weekly housing’. As I never organized my own accommodation, I still do not know why it is so named. Perhaps the contract renews on a weekly basis, or you only have to give a week’s notice if you are leaving.

   At any rate, weekly housing has a bad rap. When I told my students at Tokyo City University that I was staying in such a joint, I was met with knowing looks. Can you hear your neighbours? they asked.  

   On March 15, 2011 I was living in weekly housing in Fuji city, feeling very much on edge following the massive earthquake which had struck four days earlier. Suddenly, at about half past ten at night, there was a violent paroxysm of shaking. A quake had struck Fujinomiya, just a few miles to the north. My wife and I bolted downstairs into the darkness.

   The power cables at the end of the car park were swinging from side to side. The few cars, mine included, were rocking like drunks. My left leg practically seized up from the surge of adrenaline that shot through my body.

   Fearing another tremor, we were reluctant to return to our weekly housing, so we stayed in the darkness for about half an hour. A hundred metres away I could see the shadowy bulk of the shinkansen line. No trains passed, the earthquake having triggered an automatic shutdown. It was dead silent and, curiously, most of our fellow residents were nowhere to be seen. Our minds turned to urgent questions: should we load up the car, would our flights leave as scheduled, would there be another tsunami? Eventually we climbed the steps and went indoors.

   Passing beyond the sham wooden door that opened into the living area, the first thing I noticed was the TV. There was another sound in the background, though.  Curious, I hit the mute button. The unmistakable noise was coming from the flat next door. My neighbour was snoring! In true Japanese style, he was utterly exhausted, so much so that he had slept through a terrifying earthquake.  

           

A city in Spain

The marble streets of the Old Town glisten with the yellow lights of the evening, and beautifully dressed women walk past languidly. Sitting outside on a wooden stool, a sherry barrel serving as my dinner table, I dine on fried chorizo and fish. The bar is especially popular with Dutch tourists, for some reason. A drunk beggar missing most of his front teeth appears and begins a mournful ditty. His voice is grating and he stomps and claps, before touring the tables in search of money.

          After I finish my dinner, I wander the streets. Bored waiters amble back and forth outside restaurants, most of which are deserted after 10 o’clock. The illuminated cathedral looks breathtaking, its sole tower seeming to point to the stars and moon. I pass signs of the economic crisis, like the four homeless guys crashed out inside an ATM vestibule on the main drag. On my way back to my hotel, I walk along the pavement above the bone-dry river, which looks dreadful. Four dim figures in hoods sit on the concrete bed, huddled round an invisible game, a small collection of bottles in the vicinity.

          That was Málaga a few years ago. I wonder how long it will be before I have the chance to go back.

Lockdown

   This is my sixth day of lockdown. 

   In some ways, I am reminded of being on a long-haul flight. There's a similar sense of unreality and boredom. I watch movies to pass the time, but often lose interest half way through. The same feelings of restlessness prey upon me. Above all, the highlights of the day are the same: meals and drinks. It brings me pleasure to think about what I will eat and which wine I will drink. Even when I go to bed I feel somewhat excited about the prospect of my first cup of coffee the next morning.

   As on an intercontinental flight, books serve as a lifeline. They are a double-edged sword, however, for in my case at least, they tend to have associations with travel. Yesterday, for instance, I pulled out my copy of The Last Temptation by Nikos Kazantzakis. The pages are yellow with age, and as I ran my fingers over the cover I noticed the word 'Canada' above the price. I remembered then that I had purchased it in Montreal in 2004, which caused a wave of nostalgia to wash over me. Then a journey I had made in Japan six years ago came to mind, when I went looking for a temple written about by Kazantzakis. The book, at least, is as good as I recalled. 

   My companion in this period of isolation is my nineteen year old tabby cat. Her daily routine is unchanged: sleeping in a ball, eating and drinking, lying on the rug twice a day in the hope of being brushed, rubbing her face against hard surfaces and staring into thin air. She seems unfazed by my sudden permanency, but then she does sleep for about twenty hours a day. 

   From my living room window there is a splendid vista. Through the bare branches of the trees I can make out Edinburgh Castle to the south, and beyond it the long dark ridge of the Pentland Hills. On the path beneath my flat, now adorned with startling yellow daffodils, a steady stream of people pass by. Many are dog walkers, but I also see cyclists, joggers, and people apparently just out for a stroll. By and large they make no effort to keep the recommended distance from one another. 

   On the few occasions I have left my building I have done so with the furtiveness of a cat. I open the front door, listen for the sound of people walking past, then scope out the surroundings. Only when I'm sure the coast is clear do I head into the street, where I walk down the middle of the road to avoid my fellow humans. 

   A friend wrote to me a couple of days ago that he was 'going slowly insane'. I don't think I'm there yet, but it does trouble me that I'm already excited about my weekly trip to the supermarket - in four days' time. And given that I'm seriously considering using my bottle of Pol Roger to make an Aperol Spritz, perhaps I have indeed already crossed the threshold into madness. 

A strange museum in Edinburgh

   'There has never been a better time to be alive', a close friend told me last year. I thought of his remark today during a trip to the museum of dentistry inside Surgeons' Hall in Edinburgh, and concluded he had a point. 

   I went to see this rather odd slice of history with some trepidation, for I have the misfortune to require frequent treatment by dentists. And yet, I can say that this is one of the most fascinating museums I have visited.  

   Who knew, for instance, that it was the Chinese who invented the bristle toothbrush, and that Europeans only began using these devices in the late 1700s? As a former resident of Japan, I was also intrigued by the yanagi-yoji on display. These implements, which are about the length of a chopstick,were expertly crafted from willow, with half serving as a toothpick and the opposite end resembling a very bristly paintbrush. 

   I catch myself grimacing several times as I look at the items in the cabinets. There are 'dental keys', corkscrew-like tools with claws at the bottom which were used for pulling out teeth two hundred years ago. Such extraction was 'a primitive and painful operation' prior to the 1840s, I read. No kidding. 

   One object looks thoroughly out of place: an eighteenth century knuckleduster. Reading the inscription, all becomes clear. The owner, an Englishman from Derbyshire, used it 'to defend himself against highwaymen' on his way to his practice. 

   As a history enthusiast, I lap up the details. Dead soldiers were a valued source of replacement teeth, I discover. Indeed, the carnage at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 resulted not merely in the fall of Napoleon, it also had the lesser known consequence of freeing up bucketloads of teeth. These 'supplied the needs of dentistry for many years'. 

   Most striking of all are the centuries-old paintings and mezzotints of individuals having their teeth removed. The practitioners of these rudimentary operations are depicted as evil-looking, sadistic individuals. Given the agony involved, I suppose this is understandable. There is even an ukiyo-e, a Japanese wood-block print, showing a man in a kimono extracting a woman's tooth with a terrifyingly large pair of forceps. 

   Never again will I succumb to self-pity when faced with yet another appointment with the dentist. I will instead lie back and watch the video showing the habits of whales in the Caribbean, and thank my lucky stars I wasn't born two hundred years ago.