Expressly Not About 9/11
[Note: this latest missive contains nary a word about the events in New York. Instead, I’m keeping with the standard format of these things, which means assorted minutia about things here and related photos. I have a half-written essay on the subject languishing on my D: drive, but I don’t know where I want to take it anymore. But I will say that my position is firmly pro-peace, and if you want to have a look at a good site that promotes the idea, please visit Friend Lucien’s excellent OssessO Peace Network.]
Summer in Tokyo, fast on the wane. At its worst, the heat is enough to to drop you right there on the street, but the cool evenings make for great relaxation on my swank balcony, and hardy herbs like basil flourish when given the right mix of shade and cool water.
I managed to get out of Japan for a week late in the Summer, but sadly I merely ended up in Singapore, quite possibly the only place in Asia even more hot and humid. I joined my co-workers from around the world for a week of skill-building sessions and maniacal drinking. I know that professional development was the stated goal for the week, but for me the closest thing to growth I experienced was a marked increase in alcohol tolerance.
At the much-anticipated poolside BBQ scheduled for the end of the week I broke my long-standing Avoid Wild Turkey at All Costs rule and drank myself into a coma. Reports vary, but apparently they pulled my unconscious frame from the pool sometime after midnight and I lay there–less-than-gloriously beached–until the last of the revelers roused me for the surreal journey back to the hotel. Now I have a new rule, which reads: Never, ever, try to keep up with Peter Coker when he’s mixing the drinks. The food sure was good, though. If you ever get to Singapore, make it a point to eat something.
I was supposed to be in Texas some weeks ago, visiting family in the teeming metropolis of Sherman. I know a fellow named Sherman here in Tokyo, and as coincidence would have it he also hails from Texas. Sherman is in his fifties. He writes poetry and goes treasure hunting in the park with a metal detector. Sherman has a swell collection of ballcaps.
But then there was New York (okay, this is the only mention of it), and everything got crazy all of a sudden. I cancelled my flight and decided to wait till things calmed down. I wanted very badly to get out of Tokyo, though, and I already had the vacation time booked and everything, so I started looking around for an alternate destination. Thailand and the Philippines were further than I wanted to travel for a mere 4-5 days, so I looked closer in. I considered Guam or Saipan until I realized that no one who’s been there says they liked it. I looked at Okinawa, but they were in the grips of a fierce typhoon. Friend Dan is in Taiwan, and he’s always cajoling me to get down there for a visit, but again, fierce typhoon. With casualties. So Taiwan was out. I opted for Izu instead.
The Izu Peninsula lies South of Tokyo, two to three hours by express train depending on how far down you want to go. I got a tip about a place called Ernest House, situated a few minutes from Ohama Beach near Shimoda, and decided to give it a go. The people who run the place are Japanese hippy-types that apparently make their living running that place and doing web development projects. There’s also a smallish joint out in front called the Paradise Cafe that specializes in sexy counter staff and bad food. But they play good music (a mix of mostly reggae and island tunes) all afternoon that fosters a comfortable There Ya Go, I’m Vacationing kind of atmosphere.
The beach is about three minutes away, and is well-populated with surfers and sunbathers even this far into the off season. Two out of the three days I was there the weather was exceptional all afternoon, and I got more than my share of sun, surf and beach fun. An acquaintance of mine Gerhard, having relocated permanently to Shimoda a couple of years ago, was on-hand to play frisbee, swim and show me around the local beaches. All in all a short three days out of the city, but still just the thing to cure those Too-Long-in-Tokyo Blues.
Still, getting back into town is always nice after a break. I’ve been hanging out at a joint called the Pink Cow in Harajuku more and more, meeting interesting people and enjoying the “Art Cafe/Wine Bar” scene they’ve created there. Kisimari is a self-described narcissist and budding artist who currently has her works on display there. She has a long-standing affair of sorts with Tokyo Tower, a local landmark. Her latest exhibition, Tokyotower Sex, revolves around her fantasies of getting it on with this, the object of her arguably rampant desire.
That and the proliferation of Starbucks coffee shops, plus a few AMs in (ugh) Roppongi, make for real edge-of-your-seat metropolitan living, let me tell you.
I met Slava some weeks back, a chance encounter at Aux Bacchnales where he was sharing a table and some wine with some mutual friends. Slava is a self-proclaimed nomad, and has taken on the arduous task of demonstrating his belief in the validity and importance of the nomadic lifestyle by bicycling around the world. He left his home in Macedonia early this year, crossed the Asian continent, and is now killing time in Tokyo while waiting for a US visa so he can continue his journey. Or that’s the story he gives most people. In actuality he’s desperately hoping that someone will steal his bike so he can call it quits here and now. “I mean, what the hell was I thinking?,” he tells me, exasperated. “It’s surely the most stupid idea ever to come out of my head. Around the world? On a fucking bicycle??” As a consequence he never locks his bike up, anywhere, ever.
We all have our fingers crossed.