Ippudo Tonkotsu. Ralph Lauren Models Eat Here. Under the spell of the Ginkgo. Orchids You Won't Find at Trader Joe's.

Orchid from show at Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden

First, I would like to brag a bit.  Here's why:  I successfully navigated to the Ippudo Ramen restaurant over in Ebisu on Sunday afternoon. I did this on my own, without getting lost or asking strangers and even created an internal directional compass for myself using an east-west orientation when I left the  train station.  Like I said, I've got bragging rights and now street cred.

Ippudo Ramen has 80 locations throughout Japan, not a lot when you consider there are 127 million people who live here, but evidently good enough Ramen that they have attracted the attention of foodies and travel writers.  The restaurant specializes in Tonkotsu, a creamy, pork-based Ramen, that comes with condiment options on the table so diners can personalize their bowls to suit their tastes.  I don't know about you, but I love condiments.  Give me a set of  containers on a table with stuff in them, and in all likelihood I'll sample every one of them. Doesn't matter what I've ordered.  In the USA, this is not a problem.  In Japan, I worry about making a big culinary faux pas by putting the wrong set of condiments into or on top of my food and, along with looking like the fool that I am, I will l ruin a perfectly good meal.  After all, a container of soy sauce looks very much like a container of Japanese vinegar.   A review of the Japanese' fealty for  establishing systems and  following order, it is vital to observe what others are doing before emptying the condiment containers into your bowl.  It is also good form to remind yourself that the reason the Japanese are so beautifully thin is that their portions are small and so are their condiment containers.  We're not at an Interstate 7-11 taco bar with a giant pump filled with processed melted cheese and bins of jalapeno peppers.  Try to control yourself.

Last week in Kyoto I ordered a side of kim chi with my Ramen.  When the waiter informed me that kim chi was available "free" and pointed to a table where a bowl of it sat, I made a bee line to it. Three trips later, I rested.  So it's not as though I take my own advice.  That's part of the challenge of traveling alone.  There is no one to talk you out of your own follies.  On the other hand, there's no one to watch you either.

The directions to Ippudo warned that there were no English signs on the restaurant.  I knew I had found the right place because the front of the store matched the Google street view photo I had taken on my Iphone before I left my apartment and, of course, there was a line.  Families with children in strollers, couples without children and a bunch of guys.  I queued up at the end of the line to wait. Then an odd thing happened.  The women with the kids in the front of the line turned to look at me and after some conferring amongst themselves,  sent an emissary down my way and, given confirmation that I was just by myself, indicated that I should go to the front of the line.  And so I was led to the proper position and once again, just waited.  Sometimes time is the answer.  Time and nodding and Arigato, arigato.

Shortly after assuming this #1 place in line, the door to the restaurant slid open and a group of six of the most stunning, tall, blonde, extraordinarily beautiful creatures I have ever seen in real life, emerged.  Swedes or Danes or some pure Scandinavian bloodline sporting high cheekbones and skin with no visible pores.   They were straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad.  You know, the ones you see surrounded by dogs and horses and guns, moving in slow motion on PBS right before Downton Abbey.  For a moment, I imagined that Ippudo takes people who look like me and turns them into people who look like that.   It would explain why my new Japanese Ippudo friends were so anxious for me to get on with it.  But, in the end, it seems that the bar inside the restaurant is reserved for single diners and there were stools available,  so there was no reason for me to wait it out behind the groups.  (The Lauren clan quickly disappeared into the street chaos, probably to meet up with other beautiful people from the Viking Cruise line and then off to dinner with Lord and Lady Grantham. )

The hostess ushered me in and I settled into a bar stool, which also faced directly into the kitchen.  What a treat.  The hostess scurried to my side with a small plastic clothes basket to hold my purse.  I sat it on the floor beside me.  Then she handed me the best gift of the day:  an English menu with pictures.

Three cooks--why do all Japanese restaurants that I eat at seem to have three cooks--were producing hot steamy bowls of Ramen and little meat dumpling sides with astonishing speed.

Guidebooks and common sense tell you to order the house speciality.  This time I went against such advice.  I had had Tonkotsu in Kyoto and while it was good, I had my eye on the spicy red Ramen

Condiments for sharing. Try to control yourself.

that, to me, looked more promising.  The kid sitting next to me was already well into his spicy bowl when I sat down.  I also eyed up his set up.  Three little bowls spread out before him, each with the remnants from the condiment containers, so I knew I could condiment my way up the Ramen wazoo.

Why is it that even though the menu is in English and the waitress seems to have a good command of English, I still find myself pointing to a photo and announcing what I want as though I were reading a picture book to a toddler?   One of these, hold up finger, point deliberately to spicy bowl photo.  Point to standard three spice option but think about being brave and going for the eight spice option.  Best in foreign countries to not be quite so brave in the face of escalating spice.  Then point to meat dumpling photo and show waitress four fingers, indicating the smaller side portion and not the eight piece portion. ( I'll bet those tall skinny blonde models shared a four-piece portion. )

Ippudo Spicy Ramen and side of meat dumplings

The Ramen was great.  If I missed something special by not ordering the Tonkotsu, I can live with that.  I was especially thrilled with the little dumplings.  They are best described as miniature pot stickers, but more tender and easier to eat.  The meat filling speaks of pork and ginger, not unlike a potsticker but more subtle.  I ate every noodle, every floating piece of green onion, every bean sprout and pickled something or other from the condiment containers, and then I picked up the bowl and drank it down to empty.

I felt I owed myself this little feast as a reward for having found Ippudo so easily.  Now it was time to head out to the Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, just southwest of the Shinjuku station and not far from the Lost in Translation Hyatt hotel.  An area that I could claim some familiarity with, but wouldn't go so far as to say I knew my way around.  Because, you see, I didn't.  It's great to create a cosmic compass inside your head, but if your cosmic compass is off by, let's say 180 degrees, you are going to have a hard time finding the National Garden.

Ginkgo grove hard to capture 

One of the Ginkgo trees in grove at Shinjuku National Garden

It was later than I had anticipated when I finally arrived at the Garden and the day had lost whatever portion of sunshine was going to make an appearance, but that did not seem to deter the hundreds of people still streaming in.  I paid my 200 Yen (about $2) and followed the crowd.  It was the last day of an orchid show and I wanted to see what the Japanese orchid growers were up to.  In a moment of true arrogance, I had put away my camera for the day, thinking that I had taken enough pretty photos of trees in autumn in Kyoto and how could anything in Tokyo even come close to matching the beauty of the shrines and temple grounds from last week.

Then I saw them:  a grove of old, giant ginkgo trees, still holding on to their foliage.  Below the trees were dozens of people, photographing the leaves, posing beneath the canopy, families on blankets, bystanders just staring and taking it all in.  There was something magical about this grove of ginkgo trees, getting ready for their final shedding.  The light from above and beneath it was warm and glowed with a rich yellow hue that had me suddenly in tears for no apparent reason I could name.  I watched all those families and individuals who were, like me, drawn to this spot that demanded our attention and required us to stay.  I thought about how alone I was here in Tokyo and although I have not wanted for distractions or entertainment at any time, I wanted very much for someone, anyone, everyone I love, to be with me at that one moment, beneath these majestic trees.  I took out my camera and snapped away.


In less than four days, I will leave here.  Seems like I have no time left, yet many people pass through this city with less time and they manage to create memories that last forever.  As Bonnie Raitt has sung so often, "Life gets mighty precious when there's less of it to waste."

So I'm off to make the most of the next  precious few days.  Wish you were here.

Sample of the orchid show in the Summerhouse.  Good timing.  It was their last day on display.  

The Consent, by Howard Nemerov. A poetry moment observed in Kyoto

The Consent

Late in November, on a single night

Not even near to freezing, the ginkgo trees

That stand along the walk drop all their leaves

In one consent, and neither to rain nor to wind

But as though to time alone: the golden and green

Leaves litter the lawn today, that yesterday

Had spread aloft their fluttering fans of light.

Howard Nemerov

Oh-No-Not-in-Kyoto. Conspiracy Theories and the Communists. I Want to Report Naked Women in the Onsen

Kinkakuji, Kyoto's Golden Palace

There are many things you can do in Japan.

$8 worth of sushi from convenience store

You can buy really good sushi at convenience stores.  You can walk safely down the streets at any time of night without fear of being mugged.  You can count on sitting down on a warm toilet seat that 's not necessarily warm because of the person ahead of you.  You can get strangers to help you do all manner of things, from selecting your food to performing simple arithmetic with a handful of what are still strange and exotic coins.  And if you can handle those coins on your own, you can even buy beer out of a vending machine.

But one thing you cannot do in Japan:  you cannot check into a hotel until the check-in time.  Please do not ask.  It produces That Look.  You know That Look.  It's worn on the faces of service people everywhere  when confronted by wretchedness.  If you think you'll just show up at the hotel an hour before check in time in mid-week when hardly anyone else is there,  do not assume they are going to be happy to see you and let you in.  Half of this is true.  They will be happy to see you.  They will not let you in.

Luggage for a mid-week visit to Kyoto

Despite how many Certificates of Excellence  I am certain the desk clerk was awarded during his service training, as I was walking away from the lobby with my backpack stowed in the luggage room but no room key for another hour, I imagined the  internal dialogue that went off inside his head.

"Early check -in!  Mon Dieu!  When will these Americans learn to read? We state it clearly on the website, in the confirming email we send them when they made their reservation, in the warm and sincere welcome-to-our hotel-message from our manager ten minutes later, in the follow up e-mail two days before their stay, in the immediate email the day before they arrive  and  right now, here on the desk in front of them is a sign we paid big Yen for someone to translate into English.  It clearly says, 'Accept -in:  13:00.'  And how many times do I have to  answer their stupid question, 'What time is that in my time?'  If  I have to hear about how only Communist countries measure time with all 24 hours or endure one more insult about how we drive on the wrong side of the road, I may just have to do something disrespectful.  I'm actually thinking about flaring my nostrils or maybe I'll breathe deeply as soon as they're out of hearing distance.  I'm that tired of it.

Do all these Americans get together and decide to torment us with a request for an early check in?  Is there a website somewhere they all subscribe to?   We start letting these Americans go to their rooms early and the next thing you know, those Australians and Brits are going to begin demanding equal treatment.  All that good English must go to their heads.

Why should we let them in their rooms early anyway?   They're not in  their rooms 10 minutes before they start  calling down for more towels and bigger slippers and do we have an XXL size yukata?  What do Americans do with all those towels?  One towel.  One person.  How hard  of a concept is that to grasp?

And to think I wasted a a great bow on this woman.  In fact, it was probably my best bow of the day.  For this I'm still paying off a school loan?


And it's bad enough that when they do finally check in, they start playing around with the operation buttons for the toilet  and it never fails, within 15 minutes someone has to go up and show them how to turn off the sprayers or lower the temperature of the cleansing squirts.  It's not my fault their behinds get burned.   Right there, a big warning, plain as anything in bold face hirgana,  熱制御には触れないでください.  

And didn't anyone teach these Americans how to bathe properly?  They treat the onsen soaking tub like it's filled with water for swimming.  Last week one of the American women guests complained that no one was wearing swimsuits in the soaking pool.  She went in expecting a hot steamy place to lie down in and relax and instead found a dozen naked Japanese women submerged in the water with folded towels balanced on their heads.  I heard about what goes on in hot tubs in America.  Maybe she should go to California before she comes here with her high-minded ideas about wearing swimsuits in the onsen.  My grandmother would laugh her right off the tatami mat.

Oh, I know this sort of thinking is unkind and I need to stop.  OK, I'm stopping now.  I really like Americans.  They always want to know how I know they're American before they even start talking. What else would they be?  Certainly not French.  

I always tell them it's because they are so friendly and so upbeat.  But the truth is far from that little lie:  like we don't get Duck Dynasty in Japan?  Who do they think started Dynasties to begin with.  What sort of country do they think we run here?"

Did I mention the weather in Kyoto was really nice?

  

Icky-Butts-Row. Skirls. Very Salty. Good with Wine and Beer.

Can You Repeat That?
Because Japanese is such an unfamiliar sound to my ears and nothing in the foreign language part of my brain can process it productively, I am very hesitant to ask questions that require me to understand the response.  Oh, sure, I've got pretty good at interpreting how far to walk before making a left or a right--distance is measured by the height of the hand thrust forward, times the number and length of grunts the kind stranger is making.

Audio recordings of each Metro station are announced first in Japanese and then in English.  The name of the station in Japanese never sounds like the English version, which I still don't hear correctly.  Internally, I've Americanized the names of the important stations so that when I see their names crawling across the arrival sign, regardless of what I hear coming out of the speaker, I'm ready for action.  For example,  Omotosando is Oh-no-my-honda;  Shimbashi becomes Shimmy-knees; Asakusa is Ass-kisser;  and my favorite, Ikebukuro to my way of thinking is Icky-butts-row.

Couple my inability to  process the language with the Japanese sensitivity to ensure that all exchanges end with courtesy, grace and perfection and you have a set up that should be avoided for good reasons on both sides.  But there are times when one just wanders into this landscape littered with language barriers and bad hearing.

Gummy Worms Make a Comeback
I happened to stop by one of those upscale supermarkets buried deep in the bottom of the Tokyo Metro Station on my way home yesterday where a very nice man invited me to sample a bite of what I think were salmon eggs.  He promised me they were a "little salty" but very good.  They were. Glorious little salty balls bursting with a hint of whatever ocean, creek or river from whence they came.  Their locavore status probably  matters; but not to me.   At his suggestion, I could take them home, ($15/100 grams) and eat them with beer or wine.  If only  he knew I eat most everything with beer or wine.  If only I knew what 100 grams looked like, I might even have bought some.

Grannies' Alley Gummy worms make a reappearance

Then, suddenly, I saw them.  There, behind the container of little salty salmon eggs that I could eat with beer or wine was a familiar-looking stack of small, pink, worm-like forms that looked suspiciously like the mound of mystery I sampled at Sugamo's Grannies' Alley earlier in my visit.

"What are those?"  I asked, pointing to the slithering pile.


"You want to taste those?"  he inquired, rather incredulously.

 "No, thanks.  I've already tasted them.  I just want to know what they are."

"Oh," he replied rather slowly and cautiously.  "Those are squirrels."

"Squirrels?" I repeated.

"No, skurls," he responded.

"Skurls,"  I tried, mimicking his pronunciation.  Still not there.  One more try, bigger smile.

"Skirls,"  he beamed, certain that I now understood.

So as not to completely ruin his day or allow this exchange to disintegrate any further, I smiled back my biggest smile, nodding as though we had arrived at a break through moment and said, "I didn't like them."

"Oh, very nice.  Salty too.  Good with beer and wine," he added.

"Do you cook them?" I pressed,  knowing I was pretty much nearing the limits of his patience and any further promotional efforts he could provide about skirls.

"Oh, no," he chuckled, as though I had suggested cooking a pan of candy gummy worms.  "You eat just like that.  Very good. A little bit salty.  Good with beer and wine."

No doubt they are.

Thanksgiving in Kyoto
Tomorrow I head off to spend Thanksgiving in Kyoto.  There is no turkey in Tokyo so there is no reason to stay here.  Well, there's turkey but it starts at $85/person over at one of the big hotels in Roppongi  (Rip-on-these), so,  to my way of thinking, there is no turkey.

I don't expect to find turkey in Kyoto either, but my daughter convinced me to ride the Shinkansen (Japan's bullet train that goes 198 miles/hour) because this is probably the only time in my life that I'll ever be in Japan, so if not now, when?  And so I have my round-trip reserved right-side-window seat ticket (the better side for viewing I'm told) and a hotel room for two nights.  I hear Kyoto goes good with beer and wine.

The Tokyo Metro Japanese Ramen Vending Machine Challenge and 10 Reasons to Bring a 10-Year Old to Tokyo

The Ramen vending machine challenge

Monday's Ramen Vending Machine Lunch Adventure
The Japanese love vending machines.  It appeals to their sense of efficiency, economy and service.  You need a snack or a drink?  You are never far from a machine that will quickly, cheaply and without attitude produce a variety of snacks and beverages.  The machines take coins, bills and your pre-filled Metro card, but not likely any of your credit cards.

So when I read about a Ramen shop in the bottom of a Metro station that  required you to order your Ramen from a vending machine, it was too much of a challenge to ignore.

If you have been reading some of my previous blogs about my experiences here in Tokyo, you will probably know that I did three things:
1.  I read and researched [excessively] how to order from the vending machine
2.  I read and researched [excessively] how to find the Ramen shop
3.  I failed at 1. and 2.

Tokyo Metro Ramen Kiosk

But as luck would have it, I stumbled on a random vending machine shop at the basement of the Tokyo Metro Station and although it wasn't the Ramen shop I was looking for, when the unknowing and uninformed travel in Tokyo, one learns to adjust to all sorts of disappointments and failures.  To clarify, you do not make a Ramen selection, feed money into the slot and then wait for the vending machine to produce a cup, some dried noodles and hot water and go on your merry way.  This is a  country of culinary civilization.  The vending machine allows you to select from a wide variety of Ramen options (with pictures), requires you to pay for your selection, then gives you a ticket that you hold on to  until the guy at the counter looks your way. Hand him your ticket.  And now you wait again, but not for long.

Don't know what Ramen this is but can point to photo

Soon, a black tray with a hot, steamy bowl of Ramen from the crowded kitchen kiosk appears and you pick it up and march it to one of the long, high shelves that serves as the communal dining area.

Note that I have taken you very quickly through the process to where we are now enjoying this bowl of Ramen with soba noodles and  have skipped the obvious:  How did I manage to order it?  Answer:  By holding up the line and having someone come to my aid.

In fairness, I stood for quite a while watching the vending selection process and then cross checked the button someone punched with what their bowl of Ramen looked like.  I cannot begin to explain the variety of things one can order, but if you count the buttons on the photo of the vending machine, that will give you some indication of the choices.  Some of the buttons are just toppings; others are bowls that require you to add your favorite toppings. I really thought I had it mastered.  I didn't.  Like all things Japanese, there is a process, an order in which to do things and the first mistake I made was not obeying the order of things.  I wish I could claim that I am wiser now for having gone through yesterday's vending exercise, but were I to return there today--and since that's totally out of the realm of navigational probability--I would still need assistance to successfully order a lousy bowl of Ramen on my own.

I'm not sure how long it would take me to master the art of Tokyo Metro Japanese Ramen vending machine ordering, but at my age, I suspect I don't have that long on earth to find out.  So, as Blanche DuBois has so poignantly observed, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."  I'm guessing none of hers were Japanese.

Ten Reasons to Bring a 10-year Old With You to Tokyo
I'm fairly convinced that the best companion for a Westerner in Tokyo would be a 10-year old.  There are a number of reasons for this which I have begun to catalogue internally, but during yesterday's Ramen lunch, I decided that among the many, many good reasons, the number one reason is this: slurping.

Like so many ordinary behaviors, the Japanese have elevated slurping to an art.  And here's the thing--when eating Ramen, it's compulsory.  And here's the other thing:  I can't do it. Western culture and my mother wiped out my slurping instincts years ago.   But I would bet you a 100 sticks of yakitori that any 10-year old could pull off expert slurping without a hitch.  And he or she would be thrilled to instruct you in perfecting the technique.

Kids are natural slurpers.  What parent has not heard themselves chide a child taking on a bowl of noodle soup with, "Stop that slurping!"  But stand around a group of Japanese addressing their lunchtime bowls of Ramen, and all one hears are loud, sloppy sucking noises.  At first, you may think you have been transported to the middle school cafeteria on spaghetti and meat sauce day.

But the thinking is that, when done correctly, slurping noodles maximizes the experience of the Ramen because it delivers the noodles with the perfect amount of broth into the mouth at the same time.

I have put my lips to a lot of slurping  practice here in Tokyo and rather than that luscious, slightly erotic sound produced by master slurpers,  I dry-squeak like a bad first kiss.  Every mouth muscle in my face is rejecting the movements at the same time my brain is trying to redirect my puckered lips to master the perfect combination of noodle speed and broth inhalation.  Can't do it.  Pass the 10-year old,  dōzo.

Nine more reasons to bring a 10-year old to Tokyo

2)  The ubiquity of the "yuck" factor.  Show me a 10-year old who doesn't have both a highly-developed sensibility for yuckiness and an appreciation for it at the same time and I'll show you a 10-year old who can't sing all the lyric's to Taylor Swift's 1989. 

3)  Drinking out of bowls.  If you don't think this is fun, ask a 10-year old.

4)  Unbridled consumerism.  Ok, that spans a lot of ages, but a 10-year old's ability to blow a wad of your cash is just taking shape.

5)  Japan's respect for rules.  Because  clouds of rebellious hormones have not begun gathering, 10-year old's are still young enough to like knowing the rules and enjoy obeying them.  It's the ultimate in fairness, a topic any 10-year old can hold forth on.

6) Appetite.  Even though many 10-year olds have a good, hearty appetite, consider the economies realized at feeding a kid at 10 over that same kid at 16.

7) Chopsticks.  Ten-year olds like learning new things and then showing off to their friends.  A simple matter of popularity.  A kid who's proficient with chopsticks could usher themselves right to the pick of the prom line when the time comes.

8) The 10,000 Yen.  Give a 10-year old a crisp 10,000 Yen bill (equivalent to about $100) and tell him that's his spending money for the trip and he'll think he's got $10,000.  Don't ever come clean on this.

9)  Japanese school uniforms.  Think:  gratitude.  

Picture any 10-year old you know wearing this hat and uniform

10)  Final reason, and I'm not proud to say this:  Obedience.  You can get them to do anything you want them to do under the veiled threat to leave them alone or, in the case of extreme measures, abandon them in a foreign country.

Have a nice day.

Bonus photo

Last night's dinner from grocery convenience store.  $8.

Try to get it right: Fiji is an island. Fuji is a mountain

Mt. Fuji, not to be confused with Mt. Fiji, which evidently does not exist

According to Wikipedia, Fiji "is an island country in Melanesia in the South Pacific Ocean about 1,100 nautical miles (2,000 km; 1,300 mi) northeast of New Zealand's North Island."

Also according to that website of accumulated knowledge, "Fuji, located on Honshu Island, is the highest mountain in Japan at 3,776.24 m (12,389 ft).^[1] "

Like my mother, I am  a carrier of malaprops and ignorance, which can make for great hilarity, except when it doesn't.  So when I casually mentioned that I was really looking forward to seeing "Mt. Fiji" to one of the very kind individuals who was on Saturday's train excursion to the Hakone area about 2 hours south of Tokyo, I knew from the look on his face that I had ventured into this familiar and compromising arena and suspected that "Fiji" was the source of his confusion.  And, clearly, mine.  In an admirable  display of diplomacy, he responded by delivering a few details about the area and worked "Mt. Fuji" into his response just enough to save me from my ignorant self and him from coming off as a pedantic jerk. Yes, diplomacy has its role in everyday life.  I salute his gifts for such and with that let's move on.

Day Trip to Hakone to see Autumn in the Mountains and Mt. Fuji
In an early move I do not regret, I signed up for a three month membership with an international organization that organizes events for expats.  Yesterday, we journeyed to Hakone for a day of sightseeing and camaraderie.  In the event anyone wants to reenact yesterday's journey, I am going to attempt to explain how to get from Tokyo to Hakone in an accurate way that neither guidebooks nor Google maps will not, dare not and cannot approximate.

1.  Rise at 5 a.m.

2.  Leave apartment by 5:45 a.m., in time to catch Yamamote line from Shibuya to Shinjuku. 

3.  At Shinjuku station, locate Okakyu line and, at gate, try to purchase "FreePass" that is both a round trip ticket to and from Hakone and a discount pass to a number of attractions.  It is not "free."  Despite having studied how to do this on line the night before, you will still screw it up and create a long line of Japanese-appearing-patient, but you know they are thinking, "#@%-this-idiot."  Spend no less than 10  minutes trying, cancel transaction, trying agin, cancel transaction...and so it goes.  Finally, you get  to a screen asking for 51,100 Yen.   Ordinarily, such an amount would be a reason to pause, but it's not real money to you anyway.  Deposit what you think is 60,000 Yen and receive back a small black and white ticket and a LOT of 10,000 Yen bills.  Evidently you gave the machine a lot more than you had intended. 

4.  Head to gate.  (Do not make the mistake of  looking back at line of faces as you slink away. The Japanese are good at hiding their emotions, but they're not THAT good.)

5.  Take Yamomote line to Shinjuku.

6.  At Shinjuku station, you have approximately six minutes to find the 6:31 a.m. Odakyu line for the train to Odawara.  Shinjuku is the biggest station in Tokyo. 

7.  Follow as quickly as possible--no running--signs pointing to the Odakyu line.  At Odakyu gate entrance, feed your FreePass into fare slot and proceed to Platform 14.  The train is already there.  You are to meet your group in "Wagon 4" but every sign posted in front of each car has two numbers so you're not sure which one to use.  Scurry along the train until the number 4 begins to appear and then look for anyone who looks familiar. 

8.  Spy a tall white guy up ahead standing on the platform and enter the car.  Wherever two or more people who aren't Japanese are together, that's probably where you need to be.   Smile at your fellow excursioners (10 of them) and settle into a warm seat.  Say prayer of thanksgiving to the Japanese appreciation for temperatures that come in contact with your bottom.  More on that at another time.

9.  At 7:59, train arrives in Odawara.  Exit train, go across platform, enter another train.

10.  In about 15 minutes, at Odawara station, exit train again, go across platform, enter another train for Hakoneyumoto.  (I may be a bit off of these times, but the outcome and process are solid. As per advice in previous posts, follow the crowd.)

11.  In about 40 minutes, exit train again at Hakoneyumoto, go across platform, enter another train to Gora.

12.  Stay on train until you come to an outpost in the middle of no where.  Exit train, enter small gage railway car.

13.  Ride small gage railway car up very, very steep terrain until you come to what the Japanese call "rope cars."  We call them gondola's. 

14.  Have I mentioned how increasingly crowded the stations and trains are becoming?

Gondola bound for mountaintop

15.  Get in line for gondola.  It's Japan.  Expect lines.  Get used to them.  Get over your American self.  Ride gondola up beautiful mountain side, eventually crossing over very deep pit filled with loud machinery and spewing heavy sulfur mist from naturally occurring sulfur hot springs,  to arrive at top where gift shops, restaurants, convenience stores, overlooks and did I mention gift shops, await you.  No one can tell you what they are doing down below in the pit. You suspect it is a Japanese version of fracking but you do not say this out loud.

Sulfur hot springs erupting 

Mt. Fuji in background of sulfur fumes

16.  Orient yourself to the beautiful view of Mt. Fuji and enjoy the mystical fog from the sulfur hot springs. (Yes,  it smells like sulfur.)

17.  Wander up to a higher level of elevation and investigate a small market selling eggs cooked in the sulfur hot springs' waters.  The chemical reaction between the egg's shell and the water turns the eggs black.  People everywhere are eating them.  One inquires, "Does cooking in the sulfur water change the egg's flavor?"  The answer is, "No.  They taste just like a hard boiled egg."  One is left admiring the enterprising mind that discovered this phenomenon and then created a business model selling black cooked eggs to tourists.  Try to imagine this being allowed in America.

18.  Enjoy rest of day with a companionable group of ten other international expats.  Discover wonderful young woman who now lives near your daughter in Cambridge, MA,  but once lived just across the freeway from you in San Francisco.  

19. Talk to a guy from Poland who recalls his favorite mountain climb eight years ago in the Rockies near your Denver, CO daughter.   

20. Meet a tall, very handsome German in his mid-40's who tells you that the best time of his life was as a 23-year old attending UCLA.  

21.  Trade British comedy show tips with a Brit.

22.  Accept one of the black eggs from a sweet Irish girl who bought a half dozen because, "The sign said that you turn back 10 years of your life for every egg you eat."  You take it home with uncertain intent.

23. Take the advice of a gay couple who tell you where to find good bread, excellent cheese and a decent wine store  in Tokyo.  Don't mention you've been buying wine mostly at the 7-11 because they carry some French cabs for around $8.  You've bought all of them and they have not been restocked in the past week.  You are getting nervous. 

24.  Be grateful to the kind and generous spirit of Nils, the gifted organizer of this fine and memorable day in Hakone, under the shadow of Mt. Fuji/Fiji.  

A couple more photos, just for fun.

Sign on wall in gift shop

Needs no explanation

I so wish I could do this

A gift for sleeping on the trains

  

It's Rainin' Ramen and the Lone Un- Monk Makes another Cameo, Nov 19, 2014

Business Opportunity:  Inquire within

Let's get right to the food. The monk can wait.  Spoiler alert:  I was right about the monk.

Today's breakfast Ramen

You know that food thing that kicks in when you're on vacation and you have a really great meal someplace and instead of continuing to try out other restaurants, you keep going back to the place where you had the really great meal?  For three days in a row, I have eaten at the Ramen stand I discovered on Monday.  But rather than allowing this practice to narrow my options, I have redesigned my day so that I have a Ramen breakfast there, followed by whatever  street food speaks to me whenever I see it.  Today what spoke to me was another bowl of Ramen.  But in a different location.

On the third day, I added meat dumplings to the breakfast menu

It happened, like all things happen here, by accident.  Admittedly, I don't know a lot about Ramen except that everyone swoons when you say it.  I'm not entirely sure that before coming to Tokyo, I had ever really had authentic Ramen, except if you call those styrofoam cups with the dried noodles that used to be 3/$1 "Ramen," then yes, I've had it.  (My friend, Brian B.  the very best cook I know, carries these rattle-y containers with him when we travel together for reasons I am not entirely clear.)

I spent a good part of the early morning researching Ramen on-line.  I even read what Wikipedia had to say about Ramen.  I learned about straight noodles, curly noodles and flat noodles; I read about oily rich, milky-looking pork broth that gets cut with chicken or fish stock and even some history of how those little floating doughy balls we think might be matzo-- but  are always some off-tasting fishy mess --found their way into an otherwise perfectly good bowl of Ramen.   I Googled Ramen + Tokyo and places nearby in so many iterations that I eventually clicked my way out of Ramen restaurant reviews with Google maps and ended up reading recipes on how to make it.

Here's  the real truth of what I was really looking for:  How do you know a Ramen restaurant if you don't read Japanese and they don't have pictures?  So I studied the hiragana (Japanese alphabet) to see if I could teach myself to recognize a sign for "Ramen" that looks like this:  ラーメン.  Good plan.  I love a plan.  Excessive research could also explain why I haven't been leaving the apartment until very late in the morning.

Another Geography Challenge

Knowing I was going back to the Ueno area for the third consecutive day, I also made a deal with myself to see if I could find--also for the third day in a row-- Izuei Honten, the famous 260-year old  eel restaurant that I keep reading about.  Izuei Honten was recommended to me by a friend who had been there a couple years ago and it's always mentioned in every guidebook and food blog  about Tokyo you care to read.  Even though I had the address and a photo of the Google map on my Iphone, I tried everything I knew to locate this restaurant.  I wanted to do it on my own without asking. I walked around those streets, in and out of alley ways, back to where I began, and then did it all over again.  I failed to find Izuei Honten on Monday.  Ditto Tuesday. There's only so much geographical defeat I can stomach each day and trying to find Izuei Honten had gobbled up all of it.

The elusive 260 year old Izuei Honten eel restaurant

Today, a new resolve fueled by a belly full of breakfast Ramen and meat dumplings, I found it!  Nothing is in English and as far as I'm concerned, a Google map for me in Tokyo translates into:  "It's around here somewhere.  Good luck."   The restaurant had not yet opened for the day, so I ventured on.  Also, it's an expensive proposition and if I'm going to shell out a significant amount of money for a meal, I'd rather do it at the end of the day and then go home.  It's been there for 260 years, so I am assuming it will hold on for another couple of weeks.  Still, victory was mine.

Yanaka Cemetery 

Today's walk found me in Tokyo's massive cemetery, a labyrinth of beautiful small gardens within gardens surrounded by marble monuments,  mourners paying their respects, people riding bikes, an Orthodox memorial service with chanting priests and a robed clergyman really good at swinging an incense pot (he didn't hit anyone, though he came mighty close) and cats.  Lots and lots of cats.

Evidently, the area of Tokyo where the cemetery is located is also home to a hell of a lot of cats.  They are everywhere and the merchants in the area capitalize on it by featuring cats in their  stores and their merchandise.  If you want a cat something, go to Yanaka.

On to lunch

Just seemed like a place to go into

No tables.  Just stand and slurp

There is no good explanation for why I picked the little store front restaurant to eat lunch at today, except that I happened to notice that it had no tables,  only shelfs on two walls where people were eating what appeared to be hot, steamy bowls of Ramen. (In San Francisco, think Tu Lan before the remodel, only much, much smaller and not that nice.)   I saw the noodles, so I was pretty certain I was on to something.  In I went.

I looked at the bowls of Ramen that were given out to the three women ahead of me in line and when it came to my turn, I pointed to theirs and said, "That."  One of the cooks seemed to be game for my being there so he took a bowl, deposited a big serving of noodles into the bottom of it, held it up for my inspection and declared, "Soba!"  I nodded.  Then he passed my bowl to the next guy who indicated that I needed to select from one of the tempura toppings in the case in front of me.  They all looked pretty much the same.  Delicately fried cakes of what I think were either fish or vegetables.  I pointed to one that had some green on it, hoping for the best.  The three cooks were clearly excited that I had wandered into their little place and there was a lot of chatting and nodding my direction and what I think were probably exaggerated moves in preparing my lunch.  It arrived within a minute, steamy and delicate, with my tempura floating on top.  Total cost:  300 yen, or a little less than $3.

My new best friends in Tokyo

The three women who had preceded me into the restaurant now motioned for me to set myself up next to them, as they moved in closer to each other to make room at the counter for the newbie.  One of them indicated that I needed to sprinkle my soup with some red spice from a communal shaker.  I sprinkled.  Just about the time I was ready to dig in, two of the men from the other side of the restaurant left and, as if they were a precision drum and bugle corps, all three of the women turned in unison, picked up their bowls and moved to the now vacated spaces.  I have no idea why.  Still don't.   It was inconceivable, evidently, that I would not follow and so when they turned to see me still in my original location, they once again indicated that I should move to their side.  And so I moved.

We tried a little communication but the best I could do was turn on my Japanese translator app and played them the phrase that says, "This is really good."  And then the next one that asks, "What is this called?"  They told me.  Slowly and repeatedly.  Still don't remember and I never was able to pronounce it either.  They were just as tickled as they could be with my translator.  I played some of my greatest hits for them.  "I'm lost.  Can you help me?"  "Could I have a fork?"  "Do you speak English?"  "What do you recommend?"  "Where's the toilet?"  These pre-recorded inquires really crack up the Japanese.  I entertained my Nagomi family with them a couple weeks ago and I believe it was the highlight of the visit.

Today's $3 Ramen lunch

I slurped and Oiishi-ed my way through the whole delicious bowl.  The tempura was, I think, shrimp and onion. It melted lovingly into the broth. One of my lunch mates brought me a glass of water and all of them waited until I had finished so they could show me what to do with my empty bowl.  We all thanked each other amid bows and hand shakes and, to finish out this multi-cultural diorama, I played them my final Japanese translator app that said, "Take care of yourself."  Off they went, a cacophony of giggles.  World peace and understanding may be just an app away.




I knocked around the historical streets of Yananka, looking at the cat merchandise, the old wooden houses and shrines, paused to eat a chocolate mochi and then headed back towards the cemetery and then on to Ueno Park where something interesting is always happening.  Who should I run into along the route but my three new lady friends who couldn't have been more pleased to see me, and I them.

We showed each other things we bought in our bags and I even pulled one of those moves that I am not proud of:  I flashed them a photo of Charley on my Iphone and indicated that some of the things in my bag were for her.  Such a fun day.

The un-monk comes chasing after me.
Then it was back to Ueno Park.  Just as I was climbing the steps to where I had the interaction yesterday with the phoney  monk, I saw him.  I took a closer look at his dress.  He was wearing black, un-monk leather shoes and a pair of black pants beneath his robe that was little more than what we would consider a men's bathrobe.  He was concluding a transaction with a pair of tourists, so I hurried along and continued up another pair of steps to the next level of the park.  Then it hit me:  I should take a picture of him.  So turned, pointed my camera in his direction and waited for him to move from behind a post that was blocking the shot.  So that he wouldn't see me taking his photo, I aimed my camera beyond where he stood,  while waiting for him to reposition himself.  Lots of Japanese people walked by.  He seemed to size them up fairly quickly. Nothing.  He didn't move. He didn't approach them. Finally, I got  tired of waiting so I gave up, turned back toward the stairs and began climbing.  In about 30 seconds, I heard a voice, "Madam.  Oh, Madam.  A moment for peace," he was right behind me!  Clearly I fit the profile he was looking for and even more obvious, he did not remember our encounter of yesterday.  "No thanks,"  I said, as I moved on, thinking about George Bush's fool-me-once dictum in a way I had never thought possible.

With that, I leave you with my own wish for all of you:

Take care of yourself.自分自身の世話をする。

Jibunjishin'no sewa o suru.