![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
hedonia_express's journalLog in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more
| You are viewing hedonia_express's journal Log in Create a LiveJournal Account Learn more | Explore LJ: Life Entertainment Music Culture News & Politics Technology |
the hedonia express(no, not the name of some band) |
 |
| About this Journal | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| "I've...seen things...you people wouldn't believe." |
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Apr. 24th, 2005 @ 01:15 am A secret room in Kyoto | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| Most visitors to Kyoto are aware of the Gion, that city’s venerable pleasure quarters, where geisha have been entertaining their clients for centuries. And many of these visitors have seen the famous geisha teahouse where some of the events of the Chushingura incident took place. On weekends, tourists crowd the streets to the south of Shijo-dori Street, checking out the rustic architecture, having their pictures taken in front of the entrances to teahouses, straining for the glimpse of a gekko (as geisha are called in Kyoto) -- or better yet, a maiko -- one of the young apprentice geisha exclusive to Kyoto. Few tourists ever see a gekko, much less a maiko. I had seen a maiko -- at the Meiji Shrine. She was busy having her picture taken by a professional photographer and crew, probably for one of the glossy magazines. But I had respectfully kept my distance, and the setting -- with hundreds of tourists milling around the Shrine’s yard, ogling her -- wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. Paying to be a client wasn’t an option, since maiko are geisha in training, and seldom entertain clients. Plus, to even be a client of a grown-up gekko is pretty much reserved for Japanese men of known status. I needed a more clever way. ( Read more... ) |
| ||
| Apr. 23rd, 2005 @ 02:07 am A souterrain in southern France | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| Some years ago, I was driving south from Amsterdam to the Mediterranean in an old Volkswagen camper. Unlike so many VW campers in the US, this was no Deadhead-mobile, but rather, a functional and discreet example, the color of putty. I had purchased it in Amsterdam from an older Dutch couple, and hadn’t done anything to personalize it; I even left my clothes and other belongings in my suitcase, stowed under the mattress. Utility was what I wanted; utility and not drawing attention to myself as I free-camped at night. Instead of driving on the payage autoroutes directly south to Marseille or Montpellier, I followed my nose along the smaller roads, stopping whenever I was distracted by a ruined stone building or an intriguing view. There were, however, five or six places I had in mind to see. One was Semur-en-Auxois -- an ancient village that hangs on the edges of a gorge over a river in Burgundy. Another was the phenomenal Fosse Dionne, a spring that gushes up in the center of the town of Tonnerre. And I definitely wanted to spend some time in the Rennes-le-Chateau area, near Carcassone. Then there was the tiny village of Antraigues-sur-Volane. I knew nothing of this place other than what I had seen on a picture postcard I found tucked in a book I had purchased from a thrift store, back when I was in college. The book was about traveling in France, and it dated from the 1950s. Curiously, the book never mentioned the village. The postcard showed a craggy of cluster of stone buildings at the top of a grassy hill, with orchards and sheep below. The back of the postcard merely said “Antraigues-sur-Volane”. The image became a touchstone to the Europe I hoped to find once my college studies were over and I could travel there myself. ( Read more... ) |
| ||
| Apr. 20th, 2005 @ 11:48 pm A private museum in Tokyo | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| please note: in the interest of privacy, I've taken the liberty of obscuring some people's names <><><> In a no longer fashionable, but still tidy neighborhood just east of the Sumida River in northeastern Tokyo, there is a narrow, older house on T__-dori Street. From the sidewalk, it looks like it might be the home of some minor bureaucrat, and indeed it was. If you ring the doorbell and you have a letter of introduction, as I did, you may be invited in by Mrs. M____. A short but graceful woman in her early 60s, she inherited the house from her husband's family upon his death a few years ago. She now seems to be its sole occupant. Mrs. M____ gives the impression of someone who is privy to a secret but does not want to burden you with it. That is why, after she has served you tea and you’ve made some small talk, you must ask her directly: “may I see the museum?” She will probably smile and shake her head and say something like “oh, I’m afraid things are such a mess right now; there’s so much to do.” But if you ask again, she will pause and, with a hand outstretched one the side, say “please…” After you rise to your feet, she will guide you from two paces behind you with a series of polite gestures at every turn: along a hallway past five closed doors, over a threshold and through a shoji screen, to the left, and down a long, narrow staircase. There, at the bottom of the stairs, she will unlock a door with a key on a gold tasseled cord. Through that door is the museum of hair. ( Read more... ) |
| ||
| Apr. 20th, 2005 @ 10:41 am Amsterdam--the Rokenboot | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| I first met Dirk last August when I was in Amsterdam for an art opening. He was working at the gallery and was impossible to miss in his black tee shirt with “ART IS ANARCHY” in lurid orange letters on front and back. We gave each other the “I’m hip, you’re hip” acknowledgment look that passes for communication at such events, and I promptly forgot about him. Which is why I was rather surprised to bump into him the very next morning. I was sitting in Dutch Flowers, one of my favorite smoking cafés in town, with Stew, a fellow American and an acquaintance of mine whom I had told about Dutch Flowers. He had just purchased a few grams of Thai weed, and was trying to load his pipe with it while the café’s proprietor harangued him for being a cheap American bastard, because he didn’t buy anything to eat or drink. I nursed my coffee and cake, trying to pretend I didn’t know Stew. Dirk walked over from the bar where he had just purchased a café au lait, and had a pack of Marlboros in his hand. He sat down across the table from me, gave me a brief look of appraisal and asked “American?” I nodded and replied “Yeah, sorry.” He laughed, and said “You’re the only person in here who isn’t smoking. Why not?” “Too early for me; I’m just introducing the café to Stew here”, tilting my head in his direction. “What’s your excuse?” “Saving myself for tonight”, he replied. He then paused and almost conspiratorially asked “Have you ever taken the Rokenboot?” Since he was speaking quietly, he was almost drowned out by the proprietor, who was now cursing Stew out in particularly guttural Dutch. “What’s the ‘Rokenboot’?” I asked. ( Read more... ) |
| ||
| Apr. 19th, 2005 @ 12:01 am Bali -- the twins | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| please note: in the interest of privacy, I've taken the liberty of obscuring some people's names <><><> One of the most interesting things about traveling is the people one meets. Very often, the most fascinating people are not the natives, but rather the émigrés and expatriates. Or perhaps I’m just somehow drawn to those people and their stories. I met Anselm W____, in the unlikely location of the southeastern coast of Bali, near Amlapura. I had been kicking around Bali for just over a week and, with a few days left to go before I had to catch the plane for Singapore, I was comfortably settled into the tropical island mentality; wandering with no fixed objective and few expectations beyond eating and staying dry. I was driving along the poorly-maintained road that connects all the southeastern coastal towns in my little rental car when I happened upon a man sitting on the side of the road with a bicycle in the grass next to him. Nothing unusual in that, but the man was bright blond, in his 60s, and his knee was bleeding rather badly. I stopped, and asked him in English if he was OK. He answered me in good English with a German accent -- “Yes, OK, only a cut.” I stood next to the car and watched as he tried to stand, but halfway up, something gave way, and he fell back into a sitting position. ( Read more... ) |
| ||
| Apr. 18th, 2005 @ 01:39 am The deer refuge of Nara | |||
|---|---|---|---|
| When I was last in the ancient Japanese capital of Nara, I decided to walk up to the Kasauga Shrine. I had been there twice in the past, but never before in autumn, and the momiji trees were just starting to turn color. The Shrine itself is of little interest to me, since it is rebuilt in its entirety every twenty years, and I’m a sucker for the patina and graceful decay that comes from centuries of wear from pilgrims’ feet, and smoky incense and driving rain. But Kasauga has over 3,000 ancient stone lanterns that line both sides of the path to the Shrine, and there are herds of sacred deer that roam the Nara plain and the hillside. And I like deer; all deer are sacred to me. It’s about three miles from Nara Station to the Shrine, and I was glad to finally get out of the rather drab and provincial downtown and into the parklands that lie between the town and the Shrine. Deer were wandering around the groups of tourists and school children, accepting handouts of the deer wafers that vendors sell for that purpose. But I was in “go mode”, so I strode past them. Finally I reached the immense torii that frames the entrance to the Shrine approach. It was already late afternoon, and the slanting sunlight glinted off the tops of the trees. The lanterns stood in rows like stone soldiers, with moss growing over their feet, shoulders and heads. Each slightly different, but all of them with rice paper pasted over the lamp openings, to remain dark until the lighting ceremony in February. By this time, I was quite thirsty and, wanting to buy a bottle of water (or anything liquid) from one of the vending machines that one finds everywhere in Japan, I hurried up the path through the trees, toward the Shrine. To my right, I saw a water spigot. Not normally one to drink out of spigots or hoses, I looked around to make sure that no one would see me. The Japanese can be easily offended by such lapses in etiquette. Satisfied that I was being discreet, I squatted down to drink. As I was drinking out of the dribbling faucet, I noticed a car parked about 20 feet away on a gravel road that paralleled the path. From my position, I could see under the trees and lanterns, with nothing obstructing my direct view. There was a person crouching next to it, with their arms around a large dog. Once my eyes fully focused, I realized that what I thought was a dog was actually a small deer. What the hell?! I wondered if the person was abducting the deer -- perhaps to be eaten! Then the person noticed that I was crouching down, looking at them. We stared at each other for a long moment. Then I heard him call out “Tasukete, kudasai?” ( Read more... ) |
| ||