EPTThese are the last two days of the blog. Thanks to everyone who enjoyed it!
Day 15
I don't care what Newton said about matter being neither created nor destroyed: something as fragile as a vase existing in tangible form for 12,000 years is awe-inspiring. As I wandered through the Tokyo National Museum, my jaw was either dropping or about to drop. Ceramics, porcelains, paintings, journals, calligraphy, sculptures, 1,500-year-old katanas with silver inlays—the museum was a dazzling display of Japanese, Chinese, and Korean cultures. The exhibit on the evolution of medicine was especially fascinating, too. Even 100 years ago, treatment of injuries and diseases was downright cringe-worthy. I spent three hours wandering the massive structure, carefully checking the guide pamphlet to make sure I did not miss anything. Photography was prohibited throughout the museum.
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Taken from the main entrance of the museum.
After leaving, I went on a stroll through the Imperial Palace. The grounds were large and well-kept, with plenty of wide open spaces and interesting landscaping. The dreary weather matched my melancholy mood; I knew I was leaving for home the next day. I had done well, I told myself. I had no problem with the way I had spent my time, but it had all gone by so quickly. I just needed more time—and a few thousand extra dollars. Then I'd really be able to do something with this trip. Everything I had seen and done didn't seen insignificant, just inadequate. It was an odd feeling, a sort of remorse without regret.
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This picture always depresses me.
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With my backpack weighing me down, I went looking for a hotel in the Ueno area. Ueno Station had the most convenient methods of reaching Narita International Airport, and as much as I wanted to miss my plane, I did not want to miss my plane. Lonely Planet recommended numerous hotels in the area, and they appeared to be reasonable in cost. When I arrived at my first choice, however, they had no vacancies. "No problem," I thought, striding off towards the next hotel... which was also full. The third hotel was full, as well. And the fourth. In total, I visited eight hotels over the course of a three hour walk until I found a dump of an establishment that could house me. When I walked into my room, I knew I should never have left the expensive hotel in Shibuya. The room was old and poorly-maintained, with a rusty shower head and threadbare comforter. The lone window opened up against the side of another building, with a metal radiator jutting out from the far wall. There was no air conditioning. Soaked in sweat from my trek through the humidity, I peeled my backpack from my body and climbed into the shower. I wanted to get out of this room, back to the city, and make my last night in Tokyo a pleasant one.
Day 16
It was raining on the morning of my last day in Japan, giving me further incentive to indulge my inner Hemingway. The rain was a metaphor for... for... well, maybe it wasn't a metaphor. Maybe it was a symbol. The rain was a literary device of some sort, damn it! It had to be. There was something significant about the way I strode out into the rain that morning. I did not open my umbrella, preferring to let the precipitation drizzle down my forehead, like an informal baptism performed on a dying man. Ha! I knew I could work in a literary device!
Anyway, my plan had been to visit the Ueno Zoo, but the night prior, over dinner, Kevin and Joe had told me that "they put all the animals away if there's even the slightest bit of rain." So the zoo was not an option. I started wandering aimlessly through the streets until I saw a large archway, something that often signals the entrance to a shopping arcade. But this was so much better. Instead of the usual assortment of clothing and electronic and dollar stores, this was an open-air food market.
Despite the rain, the streets were packed with shoppers. Fresh seafood, meats, fruits, and vegetables were everywhere—pickled, smoked and dried goods, too. Vendors were shouting out to the market, advertising their products against the chatter of the crowd. It was a harmonious cacophony, music to my ears.
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The market.
San Luis Obispo, my current hometown, only has one Asian market, but it is more of a Chinese, Korean, and Thai market. In the months prior to my departure, I had been searching for instant dashi, the staple of Japanese cuisine. Dashi is a broth made by boiling dried bonito flakes and kombu, a type of kelp. Instant dashi is more like bouillon, but still well-regarded. If I couldn't find instant dashi mix here, where could I find it?
I found a likely-looking shop but was turned away by the owner; I think he thought I was hungry for soup, not realizing that I wanted to buy an ingredient. The next shop was staffed by a young woman who spoke English and reeked of fish. I must have spoken to her for ten full minutes as she tried, ever so patiently, to figure out what I wanted. At first, she pointed me to the bonito flakes. "No, no," I said. "Instant, um, powder. Dashi powder."
Next, she directed me to the liquid version of instant dashi. I would have bought it, but I was going to get on a plane in just a few hours; I couldn't bring any liquids with me. "Powder," I repeated, not knowing what other word I could use. Finally, the young woman's eyes lit up. She directed me to a box with a fish on it.
"For dashi?" I asked.
"Yes, yes," she said. "Fast! Make bonito broth."
I was elated. Yes, the box was $22, but such a massive amount of instant dashi had to be good for at least a few gallons of broth. And now I knew exactly what to look for when shopping online. I wandered the streets for another hour before returning to my hotel to get my backpack. The front desk clerk, I knew, spoke excellent English, so I approached her to confirm that I'd purchased the correct product. "Excuse me, I was hoping you could help me with something," I said.
Her face grew momentarily serious. "Yes, sir, how may I assist you?"
I moved my box of instant dashi onto the counter, and she started laughing. "This is instant dashi?" I asked.
"Yes, yes," she said with a smirk on her face. "For... professional taste."
It was my turn to laugh. "Is this as good as dashi made with bonito and kombu?"
The clerk beamed. She seemed so excited that I knew something, anything, about Japanese cuisine. "Close, close," she said, "but very easy. This is no trouble." She showed me the ratio of water to powder on the side of the box.
"How do I make the broth spicy?" I asked.
"Spicy... spicy... oh, spicy!" exclaimed the clerk. "Togarashi, yes, togarashi." I was pretty sure I knew what she was talking about; every noodle house had a spicy red seasoning kept next to the soy sauce and chopsticks. I thanked her profusely and ran off to find some togarashi and some lunch. I found both within an hour.
Content that I could now emulate Japanese soup broth at home, I was ready to leave. It felt good to know that I was bringing a little bit of Japan home with me; I hadn't purchased any other souvenirs during the trip. The dashi felt important. It was a vacation in a box, a little way to relive my experiences over the past couple weeks from the comfort of home. I boarded the train to Narita International Airport and watched out the window as the Tokyo skyline faded into the distance.
![[image loading]](http://photos-b.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs150.snc1/5570_516421740173_64200053_30797177_2634379_n.jpg)
Lunch.
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The very last photo on my camera. It's not even a good picture, but there's something about it that I really like.
