Tokyo: Tsukiji Fish Market

The Tsukiji Fish Market is the largest of its kind in the world.  There are around 60,000 people working there, and it grosses about 6 billion U.S. dollars a year.  It is a must in every guidebook, sight-seeing pamphlet, and travel blog...Which is why I was suprised when I showed up admist a chaotic sea of trucks, men carrying heavy loads, carts being rolled the wrong way down the street and endless forms of machines transporting precariously balanced crates of sea creatures.  The lot was madness--but not from tourists.  From people just working, trying to make their way around you.

To get to the main warehouse full of fish one must cross the actual lot. Nothing about crossing it to get to the warehouse was appealing.  First of all, I assume it's where all 60,000 employees park their car, because it is compact and crowded.  Obviously, the already questionable driving laws of Japan are null and void: there is no safe place to stand.  Still I looked around just in time to see two brave souls crossing it to get to this "tourist" hotspot and decided to try and join them.

I survived, getting to the warehouse all in one piece, but not before I was handed a pink piece of paper by a man in rubber overalls and high boots.  It read: "This is not a tourist spot.  This is a place of business.  Please do not take video or photos unless given permission.  Please do not interupt this workday."

Now aware that I wasn't welcome, I sort of awkwardly bowed my recognition and chose an aisle to go down.  It suprised me how much it didn't suprise me.  Compared to the Noryangjin Fish Market,  the fish were just everyday fish.  Some pieces were very large, but it looked like meat all cut up and skinned.  And it really was a workday: the vendors knew better than to assume I was there to purchase raw seafood, and shouted past me, or rubbed against me with their fish as they travelled through the endless aisles.  I got there around 11 a.m., when the market is just about to start shutting down, with most of their goods sold for the day.  Men smoked cigarettes over the fish, women hacked of heads and brushed them to the floor.  After an hour of wandering around I decided to head back into the fresh air. 

The best piece of sushi.  Ever.

Back across the lot, (where I stopped to try to record the chaos on my phone, and was handed another pink slip), is the wholesale kitchen supplies market.  Unable to cook even grilled cheese correctly, I was uninterested.  I was more concerned with trying to find a cheap sushi place.  



That obviously doesn't exist in Japan, but in the heart of the market was a decent, well-lit, fairly reasonable sushi bar.  I ordered three pieces.  I just want to try it, and I'll get a cheaper meal later I reasoned with myself.  I ordered a tuna sashimi, a crab and avacado roll, and a shrimp roll.  I looked around for some wasabi but saw none.  I saw ginger, but knew better than to put it on my sushi, and use it instead as a pallette cleanser.  So I just ate it with a little bit of soy sauce. I was immediately happy I hadn't added anything.  This is the most stereotypical thing I'll ever say (I promise):  It was amazing.  I ordered more and the chef simply smiled knowingly. It was no longer a cheap meal, but that was more than okay. 

Japan: Yokohama

Of my eight nights in Tokyo, I didn't sleep for four of them.  Not even a little.  The night before I went to Yokohama for the day I had been karaoking with basically my entire hostel.  A Californian native with a Korean background (Clara), a guy from the states, a girl from Australia and I were sitting around the lounge when Noraebongs came up.  In Korean, it literally means "a place of singing".  Karaoke is actually a Japanese word, combining "kara" which means "empty" and "oke" which means "orchestra", literally meaning "empty orchestra". 

We did not have to tell the rest of the hostel this to get them to come.  Two Spaniards, two Dutch guys (Kyle and Steve), two girls who were also teaching in Korea, a teacher from Oregon, and the first guy I met at the hostel--the one who was going to try and get arrested in order to have a place to stay--all went out for some good old-fashioned singing. 

Then it was 5 a.m., and everyone went to bed except me, (of course), Steve, and the girl from Australia.  We stayed up and watched the Olympics, talking about the randomness that is life.  The girl got up to get something and peaked out the window.  "You guys, the sun is up. I'm going to bed," she said and she left the room rushing for her bed, as if going to bed before the sun fully rose would somehow help her avoid the inevitable hangover that awaited her.

Steve's eyebrows went up: "Do you want to walk to the river and watch the sunrise?"

I said yes immediately, which I think surprised him, and we set out.  Thankfully, the hostel is only a short walk, but on the way I managed to make an enemy out of a stray cat.  Happy, a little drunk, and a little delusional from lack of sleep, we began a sort of staring contest in which I most undoubtedly lost: it resulted in my running down a random street in Tokyo and dodging around corners trying to lose something that has been on the streets its whole life, who knows every detail.  I think it realized its advantage because when I gave up and stopped to face my attacker, it merely looked at me in a way only cats can, and slunk away into some well-known escape route.  Unscathed, we made it to the river, and I bought us the only brand of coffee I could find at that hour.  It was awful. Still, the conversation, the talk of culture, (he made me read dutch just so he could laugh at my accent), the river, Tokyo as the sun rose, and the watered-down coffee was my moment.  It's mine, in my life.  Something about that is beautiful.

We made plans to meet at 10 a.m. after a three hour nap and head to Yokohama.  On the way we recruited Clara and Kyle.  A short train ride from Shibuya Station and we were in an entirely different place, a place I was relieved to be in.  Living in New York City, a tiny island of 9 million people, I thought I could handle any sort of crowd.  Escaping Tokyo, however, was like bursting out from under water.  I sucked in the cool air and could see, even as we emerged from the ground, the blue from the ocean peeking out from over the next street. 

First Clara and I decided that we should explore Chinatown, and I sucked down a bubble tea as I wandered through three stories of a panda store, looking at panda key chains, panda fans, panda pillows, panda lighters, and everything in between.  My companions had gotten caught up in the scenery outside, and as I headed back out onto the street, a Japanese girl approached me.  She had pigtails on the sides of her head, with different colored highlights streaming up until they faded at her perfectly black hairlines.  She was wearing white platform boots and an outfit that was entirely metallic gold.  When my eyes finally reached her face, I realized she was wearing pink blush in perfectly round circles and fake eyelashes. 

"Can I take your picture?" she asked.

I was shocked. This real-life doll wanted to take my picture?  Because I couldn't think straight I said yes, and became even more surprised when she held out her hand for my camera.  She wanted to take a picture of me with my camera?  As I computed this I saw her become startled by something behind me.  I followed her gaze across the street, and there was Steve taking a picture of us talking.  I had to calm her down, explain that he was a friend, and that photography was his hobby, to someone who spoke only Japanese.  Like the cat I frightened earlier she scurried away, and with a half-hearted good-bye she was gone.

From there Clara and I figured out how to leave Chinatown and find the park, which was right on the water.  We walked up it, consulting maps as the boys recorded each other doing fancy tricks and running around.  I was intent on finding a certain park I had read about online: the abandoned and broken-down remains of a foreigner's village from when Japan had completely closed it's borders at the beginning of the 20th century.  Something about that was fascinating to me.  Imagine being trapped in a country like Japan, where even their religion--Christianity--was considered crazy.  They picked up the language, and the culture, and adjusted to the seasons while they taught their Japanese neighbors tennis.  What a comfort tennis must have been for them.  Just when I had lost hope we found it.  Finding these dilapidated western buildings was exciting to me.  We could see where the plumbing for the bathroom was, where the living room used to be, and how big their houses were.  The hike was up a significant hill, but well worth it.  At the top were the most stunning views of the city, and we sat there for a long time pointing out the old-styled houses, the modern buildings, the windmills and power plants, the boats and trains and bridges and footpaths.  Looking out, we realized it really was a marriage of old and new.  The traditions and technology weren't competing, but working side by side, creating a new landscape I'd never come close to seeing before.

Starving, we decided to splurge on dinner.  Travelling for a while means budgeting--you can't go out for every meal if your travelling for months.  Travelling in Japan in a whole other story.  It means not going out for meals ever.  The day was perfect, however, and I think the fresh city-free air made us feel like we had escaped it all, and we invested in the first restaurant we saw.  Clara and I ordered beers while the boys had water and juice.  Steve tried a scallop for the first time.  I ate roasted peanuts off of a stick.  We sat there like old friends, talking about our day, planning for the next.  Before I knew it, it was time to get on a bus to Kyoto.  I had just made friends, and it was time to move on.  Steve was heading back home soon, Clara was moving onto yet another country, and I was headed south on a midnight bus, moving onward, towards a brand new city with new people and adventures in store. 

Japan: Tokyo: Where are you going, where have you been?

Lonely Planet writes that Japan basically said, "We'll take you're technology, but we're keeping everything else."  Yes, there are convenience stores stuffed between wooden buildings, and Starbucks next to temples and shrines.  And some shopping areas are so intense you might as well be on Park Avenue.  However--when you really get down to it--Japan in uncannily Japanese.  It's what everyone's been talking about when they tell me they've experienced a "backwards culture".  It's not that there's anything wrong with it at all, it's just truly different than the one you know.  I've been in Korea for almost four months now, and it wasn't until I landed in Tokyo that I was reminded that I was on the other side of the world.  

I already wrote about my first day in Tokyo, and the last day there I took an easy day-trip to Yokohama before heading out to Kyoto on the overnight bus.  Inbetween though, Tokyo truly has everything:  the shopping is truly unlimited, the shops sell just about anything you could ever want, there's sushi, there's sake, and an endless choice of spectacular views.  Needless to say, it's easy to get lost.  In search of one of these views, I got very lost.  I thought at one point I was headed west, but looking at a map I realized I had not even been close.  A man came up in broken English and offered help, and I was so incredibly relieved.  We got to talking--he is a grandfather of two, and visited the states two times.  I told him I lived in Korea.  Moments later I was not back at the subway like he promised but instead in Japan's Koreatown.  He wanted me to help him order food.  In Korean.  After helping him order some kimbab he more or less just shuffled away.  One of the phrases I learned in Japanese was "doko", which means "where", and it was the only word I could muster as I watched him walk away.  Where are you going?  Where have you been?

Still unsure of any direction, I moved on.  I was again approached by a man.  This one was a bit younger, maybe in his late 20's, and had wild hair.  He was holding a plastic bag with plastic things in it, beat up sandals, cut-off sweatpants and a tank top, and I wondered if he was homelesss.  He spoke English really well.  He asked a bunch of questions as he led me to the government building, but he made a lot of sounds too.

"What's uhhhhhhhhhh mm.  What's your, uhm, name-uh? Eh?"

I would answer.

"Okay okay.  Mm. Hap.  This way.  We go mm?"

I would try some encouraging affirmation, to which he would unfailingly reply, "Okay okay."

If I hadn't run into two helpful Germans I'm not sure what he had been expecting of me, but I was able to attach myself to these perfect strangers and enter the building just fine.  He stood waving for a few minutes and although I was glad to be left alone, I was sad I would never see him again, never know where he was coming from, or where he was going with all that plastic.

In my time in Tokyo I tried some odd desserts, I explored some temples, I bought a MarioKart shirt, visited the Tsukiji Fish Market, joined an anti-nukes protest in response to their decision to rebuild the powerplant that had caused a nuclear disaster, and visited the Imperial Palace.   I hyper-ventilated in Shibuya Crossing where 100,000 people cross through every hour. I went karaoking all night with fifteen new friends and watched the sun rise over Tokyo with one good one.  I had really good sushi and really bad coffee.  It was my first time truly travelling alone, and I loved every minute of it.  I was free to try whatever I wanted, to change plans in an instant, and to meet new people with an open heart and mind.  I met some amazing people in Tokyo.  The beauty of meeting other travellers is that they are all open to experience, adventure, and people as well.  Where are you from, where are you going...by the way, how did you get there?  They emphathize with your stories of set-backs and they appreciate and applaud your accomplishments.  I've never completely in my element while in one place, and so it was when I was transient that I really felt at home. 

Japan: Tokyo: Day 1

The night before I was leaving for Japan, a co-worker had a going away party.  I was planning to have a drink then go straight to bed, but before I knew it is was 1 a.m.  I had an early flight for which I had to be up at 5 a.m. for, so I did the responsible thing and decided to recruit people to stay up through the night with me.

One buddy had an 11 a.m. flight to Taiwan, and promptly got us another round to buckle in for the night.  One friend wasn't going anywhere for break, and because of that, had nothing to lose and stayed up along with us.  I have wonderful friends.

After talking, and laughing, and hanging out all night I noticed the time around 5 a.m. and realized I had to actually go home, grab my suitcase, and head to the airport.  The only moment I thought maybe staying up had been a bad idea was when I saw buddy #1 from the bus as it drove away.  He was crossing the street in his sunglasses, some comfortable travel clothes, a rolling suitcase and a over-sized stuffed dinosaur that was bright blue with yellow stripes.  I texted him, advising him as a grown man to not bring a stuffed animal on an international flight and fell asleep against the cold, hard, shaky bus window. 

 

I didn't realize until I was on the flight just what I was in for--the slightly familiar Korean was being announced, followed by Japanese.  There was very little, if not any, English.  I tried to relax and fall asleep, but it's no easy feat on Asiana Airlines.  On a two hour flight you are catered to the entire time, being given drinks, a full meal, and dessert.  Just as they cleared off the last of my coffee we were ready to land in Narita Aiport.

I wish I could tell you how I got to the hostel, but the multitude of the people, the speed of the train, and my lack of sleep resulted in me somehow standing in the lobby of the Khaosan Tokyo Ninja Hotel listening to an abnormally tall Swedish man trying to figure out where to sleep for the night.  I've come to find every hostel has that person--the person who's been travelling too long.  That person who is past comfort, past planning ahead, out of money, and has on some level lost their sense of reality.

"I'm sorry," the girl behind the desk was saying, "we're fully booked for tonight."

"Shit.  Well, I saw a park around the corner.  Maybe I'll stay there."

"Don't sleep in the park.  You'll get arrested."

"Nah, it's fine."

"No really, you shouldn't sleep in the park."

"If they arrest me, hey, at least I'll have a place to sleep."

To this the girl had no response, and she went silent.  I took this opportunity to inch around the man, check-in, leave my bags in the lobby, and just explore.  By pure luck I ended up in Asakusa, which has a famous five-story pagoda, Kaminarimon (Thunder) Gate, and most notably, Senso-Ji, Tokyo's oldest temple.  It was the perfect place to get a taste of Japan.  It's where old met new in imaginative ways I couldn't have dreamed up myself.  Girls were dressed up as geishas with their designer bags hanging from their arms.  Men pulled people in carriages while the subway rumbled from below.  Shops sold generic key chains probably made in China while men demonstrated their artful fan-making skills.  The iconic gate, originally built in 942, stood glaringly wooden and defiant amidst a sea of shiny modern buildings.  I allowed myself to get lost in the crowd, gazing at intricately painted ceilings, tasting different foods I had never seen before, and cleansing myself in both the purifying water and incense smoke. 

After some time the weight of the last 24 hours got to me, so I found a fairly accessible menu and rested.  I ordered some skewered chicken, edamame, and a Sapporo.  Sitting there, enjoying the silence of this little restaurant, I realized two things.

1) This was not Korea.  This was not western.  This was the culture of Japan with technology, and I had better be ready.

2) Japan was going to be expensive.  ($1 = 0.75 yen, while 1 KRW = 0.53 yen)

I paid, and as I was wondering back out into the street I was chased down by my waiter.

"These are for you," he said, handing me three separate bouquets of flowers.  I wanted to ask why. I wanted to talk to him or at least tell him my name.  All I could muster was an "arigato" before he bowed and simply went back inside to the air conditioning.  Despite my exhaustion, I felt a lightness in my step as a went back to the main road.  I looked around, and felt a sense of uneasiness.  Something was different.  I knew where I was and where I had to go.  I saw the bridge all lit up and the people, but nothing was blatantly wrong.  Then it hit me: the people were in the street, and there were no cars.  Tokyo was truly mine.  I joined the crowd, and purposely walked right in the middle of the street, passing through intersections and major roads whimsically.  A girl I had talked to earlier at the temple called to me, and I went back to the sidewalk.

"We're selling beer," she said, less to sell me one and more as a definitive statement.

"What is going on?  Where is everyone going?"

"There's a really popular fireworks festival starting just now.  It lasts, like, two hours."

"Wow."

"Where did you get those flowers?" 

"Here," I said, handing her the purple bouquet, "take them. Aren't they beautiful?"  I looked at her friends and offered them the other two, happy to pass on the happiness I felt.  These flowers were meant to be passed on for no other reason than that, it seems.

"Thank you!  Here, have a beer.  Enjoy the show!"

I spent the night wandering in and out of crowds as we all stood, or sat, or laid right in the street facing the night sky.  I watched buildings turn green, then gold, then purple.  I watched the water as it emulated the colors and shapes above.  I watched friends, and couples, and strangers all gather in the streets in silence and watch the colors move around the night sky.  It was a fitting welcome to Japan.

Boryeong: Mud Festival

One of the wonderful things about Koreans is that they will tell you just about everything is good for you.  Kimchi is good for your body.  Silkworms make your skin whiter.  Ox blood cures hangovers.  Turning to a Korean friend last week I asked, "Is soju good for you, Jae-Min?"  He said he was sure it was.

 

So, it's no surprise that the Boryeong Mud Festival has become what it is now: Koreans largest festival that attracts people from all over the world lasting two weeks.  The mud is supposedly good for your skin.  With this in mind, I was more than excited to experience magically beautiful mud-skin for myself.  Many different groups in Seoul offer a flat price for transportation (a three hour bus ride from Seoul), two nights in a pension, and sometimes even a meal that's a flat free of around 100,000 won.  We picked one, and were on our way.

While I'm glad I went, overall I wouldn't recommend it: it's definitely not a must while in Korea, and certainly not the reason you should come to Korea in the first place.  It's not a beach of mud--there is a beach, which is wonderful, but the mud is contained to an area filled with organized, wholesome fun that costs 5,000 won and requires a wristband. There are one or two obstacle courses, and an interesting pool for dodgeball, but the mud is it's own special brand and nothing about the experience was particularly "genuine", nevermind Korean. Of course, like anything, most people I talked to enjoyed it thoroughly but remember only tidbits.  Listening to Nickelback can be a blast if you're wasted out of your mind.

 

That being said, some highlights:

1) Gretchen and I were making sure we were thoroughly covered in mud when I turn around and there were five cameras clicking away.  I felt like a celebrity and struck a pose, which brought two more cameras towards us.  In a brilliant marketing move, the Mud Festival holds a picture contests where the best photograph wins a considerable amount of money.  So they are everywhere, snapping pictures.  My friends joined me and Gretchen in the middle of our vogue shoot, and soon there were fifteen people taking pictures.  They only stopped when we ran out of poses and ran away.  In the universe somewhere, there are literally hundreds of pictures of my friends and I looking fabulous.

 

2) We happened to be there for opening night, and the most amazing fireworks show went off above the ocean.  Something about seeing fireworks when you don't expect them makes them that more amazing.

3) Lastly there was Rachel and I, and we started swimming as far out into the ocean as we could, trying to talk to China whilst on a high that can only come from pure happiness.  A few weeks before we were in the Sea of Japan, so being in the Sea of China made us unreasonable, ridiculously happy about life. 

So, I guess in the end I had an amazing time (per usual), and should recommend Mud Festival.  Or, I recommend just grabbing some good friends, bringing some soju, buying some fireworks (or maybe not), and finding a beach somewhere.

Soju-Infused Birthday

I've never really had a birthday at home since fourteen.  I was either at a dance camp, or on vacation, or in the city.  Still, I always came home eventually, and whether it was in June or August we always made cake, had a dinner, and my mom pulled out whatever crazy candles she could find and made me forty-three years old one year, fifteen the next. 

This year I wasn't turning any special age--it wasn't twenty-one and it wasn't a nice round number. I have just moved to a new country, I'm single, and was content to teach English all day and maybe grab a drink that night with whoever wanted to tag along.  It turned out to be so much better.

I walked into work and saw a package on my desk.  I look around because even though it was my birthday, my desk is on the end near the door, and it is often used as a table as people grab a drink or use the copy machine.  I looked tentatively at my friend Jamie, a Korean teacher, and I could tell by her face it was for me.  I opened it, and found two copies of "The Little Prince": one in Korean and one in English.  She explained that it was how she learned English so well and how her American boyfriend learned Korean.  Inside it was signed a dated, with a happy birthday wish.  It made me so happy to know that the teachers were noticing and apprecating my efforts to learn the language--it's really so easy not to.  I can't wait until I can say something besides, "Where is the library" and "I have a hat."

My parents and my little sister sent a video with the cake, which said proudly in wax numbers that I was turning thirty-five.  One of my best friends lives in a completely different time zone, but messaged me at exactly midnight on my birthday as it happened in Seoul.  My friend here in South Korea messaged me exactly at midnight as well, which was such a releif that yes, I am finding people who care about me among the drunken nights and wild antics.

Then four of the teachers went out with me to a Japanese restaurant, where we attempted what was still Korean sushi (not so great) and soju-infused pineapple (fantasic).  It was there that they suprised me with a blueberry ice cream cake with actual cheesecake in the middle.  It's like they've know me my entire life.  My birthday was on a Thursday, and that weekend was the Boryeong Mud Festival, and I couldn't have thought of a better way to celebrate it. 

One of the Korean teachers was suprised I still wanted to come to work early and study Korean. 

"Don't you want to do something special for your birthday?"

"Honestly," I said, "I feel like everyday is my birthday." 

It was the cheesiest, dorkiest, most honest thing I've ever said in my life.

Farming on Ganghwa Island (강화도)

I am now a farmer.  Not really, but farming--real farming--was one of those things I'd never realized I hadn't done.  Food is just something I have learned to expect, and to take for granted.  And, being a New Yorker, the word "organic" is just an expected title to bestow on slightly more expensive apples. Not a heavy, expensive, time-consuming burden.

I by no means farmed this weekend--I was on a farm, and I spent all but two hours doing manual labor.  With thirty other people, however, that really gets a lot done.  We had no one idea what we'd be doing--the group I had gone with was not the most organized--and we thought we were on our way to farm potatoes.  Turns out my friends I and were to split up: Rachel went to weed a garden and Gretchen was off to the tomato field.  I got assigned to the lotus plants.  Thinking I was going to be picking beautiful flowers all day, I only remembered that lotuses grow best in mud after coming upon an actual mud pit.  The owner of the farm was explaining how to do the work in Korean, and kicking off his shoes waded into the mud without hesitation.            

               

This was not potato farming.  We looked at eachother for just a second and began our tentative steps in the unknown.  One of the biggest guys, scared of the spiders, went into "oh hell no" mode and shrieked a lot.  One girl, trying her best to keep positive, said that the mud was like a massage for her feet, got literally joyful because of the squishing sounds between her toes, and couldn't stop telling everyone how lucky we were to have this opportunity.
 
Another person kept trying to start cheers to keep the group motivated.  A couple of us, me included, just got lost in the work, like when you're a kid and the only thing in the entire universe on your mind is the sand castle in front of you.  If my hands or back got tired I looked up into the sky, down past the mountains, into the river surrounding us, took a refreshing breath, and continued.  Eventually we formed a line, with the pickers in front passing the weeds to the volunteers to place back on solid ground.  It was so calming, so wholesome, and--despite the mud--clean.  In that moment, the universe made sense.  The people who owned the farm needed help, we were capable.  Something didn't belong and I got rid of it.  There was a problem, and it was solved.

Later, having washed down with a hose, we sat down to dinner.  The lettuce leaves had just been picked, the radishes were harvested a couple of feet away, and the potatoes finally showed up, having been picked the entire time.  A group of Koreans in traditional dance came out and performed with colorful hats, long sleeves, fans, and drums. They were an older group, performing with pure joy on their face for having been helped, having been saved a couple of days of manual labor.   Maybe they were happy to share their culture with others, or maybe they are just happiest performing in traditional Korean dance.  It was all so...clean.  Refreshing.  Pure.  Easy.

After Asia, I think I'll try to go to Europe.  I don't know when, or for how long, or with who, but that's about as specific as I can get.  For now, I'm happy to entertain the idea of exploring the simple life...even of spending a day in the mud picking weeds.  There's a program, WWOOF, where you can live on a farm in a country in exchange for room and board.  If nothing else, I know I would learn how much more I'm capable of not just physically, but in my mental strength as well being outside of a city for once, getting lost in the chore ahead of you, with nothing to distract you from learning about yourself, the only sounds being the ambient sounds of bugs buzzing, the water rushing by, and the keys of my keyboard as I struggle to compile these whistful thoughts into something that can exist on paper.