Koyasan: The Legendary Stuff of Legend

Before we left for our two-week trip to Japan, a friend gifted us David Mitchell's The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, a novel about Dutch people in Japan in the late 1700s (so basically, it was perfect for us). Half way through the book, the story takes a gothic turn when a main character is spirited away to a remote Shinto shrine hidden in the mountains, run by an evil abbot who hides his salacious and murderous plots behind a veneer of religious ritual. I was just reaching the dramatic climax the night we slept at a remote Buddhist temple high in the mountains, surrounded by towering cedars, a sprawling graveyard, and the nocturnal sounds of the forest.

Spending the night on Mt. Koya (Koyasan) was my favorite of favorite experiences in Japan precisely because it was the legendary stuff of legend - the stuff you read about in books but don't expect to experience for yourself. And in turn, every part of our 24 hours in Koyasan was my favorite part, which, when you think about it, is an exceedingly impressive return on travel investment.

Favorite Part #1: Getting to Koyasan.  Osaka, the closest major city to Koyasan, is huge, sprawling, and disorientating to newcomers - the Houston of Japan. Somewhere within the metropolis of Osaka, you switch to Koyasan's private rail line: just two diminutive cars on narrow gage track that winds through increasingly remote farmland (trees weighed down by bright orange persimmons) and then up into the mountains (verdant forests of bamboo and cedar green, filtering the sunlight to a gentle dimness).  In between isolated one-room stations losing their battle with the forest moss, there are sudden vistas of the rolling folds of the mountains, green fading to gray with distance.

Playing chicken on the funicular.

When the train can climb no higher, you switch to a funicular.  The mountainside is so steep here that the rows of seats inside the cable car are nearly vertical.  The short ride tests your faith in the reliability of Japanese engineering.

But that's not all.  After you safely disembark, there is still a bus ride into the heart of Koyasan, down a narrow curving road kept in perpetual darkness by the surrounding forest.  The road opens up into the central intersection of Koyasan, and suddenly everything is white walls and sunshine.

A Japanese Welcome

This is a story about hospitality.

First, some scene-setting: Our first day in Japan, jet lag woke us up at 4:30 in the morning.  That gave us enough time to squeeze three days of activities into one.  By 8:30 that night, we had explored Tokyo's early morning fish market, spent four hours on trains and as many hours hiking around the mountainside shrines of Nikko, and navigated Tokyo's subway system during rush hour to meet someone for drinks in one of city's flashy high-rise districts.  By the time we made it back across the metropolis to our quiet neighborhood, our legs were jelly, our brains were fried, and our old friend jet lag was back with a vengeance.  We also had not yet had dinner.

Problem is, our hotel was in such a traditional neighborhood of the big city, there was no English anywhere in sight.   This was one of the few times in Japan where we had to struggle to decipher Japanese characters, and the hand-drawn map from our innkeeper that marked all his favorite local restaurants was defeating our travel-weary eyes.  Add to this that the Japanese, like the Dutch, tend to eat early - so by 8:30 on a Monday night, many of the noodle shops and family restaurants had already closed.

The Yanaka neighborhood

So there we are, on a poorly lit backstreet in the Yanaka district, looking back and forth from our crumpled little map to the name of an establishment as though it would all suddenly become clear to us, even though it assuredly wouldn't.  We were totally spent.

The Trees of Veenkade

It's been more than a year since we left The Hague: 15 months, in fact.  Since then, we've driven across the United States, settled into Portland, and gotten married - which explains my blog silence for most of 2012 (at some point, I will re-post my Oregon travelogues from the wedding website).  That was followed by two honeymoons to Hawaii and Japan {{awkward throat-clearing and modest blushing at excessive travel indulgence}}.  And then I applied for a job that will take us back to Boston next summer.  Never a dull moment.

In the meantime, in a fit of nostalgia about the Netherlands, I have compiled a year's worth of pictures of the trees that lined our canal in the Hague.  (Veenkade translates loosely to "peat wharf.")  It's the equivalent of posting baby pictures: these mean a lot to me and Jeff, and there's a slight chance that you will find them moderately interesting as well.

At our arrival in October 2010

During the snow storms of December 2010

Midnight on New Year's Eve

January 2011

Biking to work in June 2011

Canal construction in August 2011

September 2011: Instant nostalgia as we leave Veenkade.

Our Hague

Now this makes me nostalgic: a map I started while we were still living in the Hague of all our favorite Haagsche places. It's pretty awesome! I just hope some of these cafes are still in business, nine months later...

View Our Hague in a larger map

A Perfect Day: Krakow, August 2011

It's been nine months, but I really have to post something about Krakow. In reality, our time in Krakow was split up over three or four days, but in my head, we had one perfect day in Krakow. That perfect day went something like this:

From the train station, our short walk to the old town takes us across the planty for the first time. The planty is a park (yes, the plant-y is a park) that encircles the old town where the city's medieval walls once stood. Shade trees line tidy paths; locals watch passersby from the green benches. There is always something to see in the planty. 

Today it is several hundred young scouts from around Poland, looking homogeneous in their militaristic green and beige uniforms and knee-high socks. It's the 50th anniversary of the country's scouting program, and the President is in town for the occasion. Scout leaders try to corral the kids into scraggly lines while the marching band warms up and the flag bearers smugly congregate in front. I can't help but feel like the towheaded youth are about to storm the castle.

From the planty, it's a quick jaunt through the old town to Market Square, the heart of Krakow. We have timed this perfectly. Only during certain summer months, on certain days, between certain hours can you climb the city watch tower next to St. Mary's Basilica. With even greater temporal precision, we emerge at the top of the tower right before 11 a.m. On the hour, the trumpeter on duty (finishing his 24-hour shift) emerges from his little office and circles the wood-beamed room to play the city's famous hejnał four times - once in each direction.

So there we are on a beautiful summer morning, looking out over Krakow's old town and the bustling Market Square, and right next to us is one of Krakow's (and Poland's) greatest symbols, playing the same short melody that has been played here every hour, every day, for centuries. Awesome.

A Polish Week: Hoodwinked

It's all about the marketing.

So the story about Wawel Castle's chakra goes something like this (and I quote from Rick Steves' Eastern Europe):

Adherents to the Hindu concept of chakra believe that a powerful energy field connects all living things. Some believe that, mirroring the seven chakra points on the body (from head to groin) there are seven points on the surface of the earth where the energy is most concentrated: Delhi, Delphi, Jerusalem, Mecca, Rome, Velehrad ... and Wawel Hill -- especially over there in the corner. Look for peaceful people (here or elsewhere on the castle grounds) with their eyes closed. One thing's for sure: They're not thinking of Kazimierz the Great. The smudge marks on the wall are from people pressing up against this corner, trying to absorb some good vibes from this chakra spot. The Wawel administration seems creeped out by all this. They've done what they can to discourage this ritual (such as putting up information boards right where the power is supposedly most focused), but believers still gravitate from far and wide to hug the wall. Give it a try ... and let the Force be with you.

 

Sounds awesome.  Except I'm pretty sure it was dreamed up by some intern in Krakow's office of tourism.

A Polish Week: When History Isn't History

You can't spend time in Poland without running into WWII. 

Being historically minded, and working (at the time) amongst the institutional legacy of the Nuremberg Trials, I knew I knew everything about WWII when we set off for Poland. I was wrong.

If you go to Krakow, you have to go to Auschwitz. Jeff and I were looking forward to this field trip like an overdue visit to the dentist. It's not easy to get to, and the non-discretionary tour exceeds three hours. That's three hours of depressing statistics, more depressing anecdotes, and filing silently through depressing ruins in the hot August sun. Fun.

Three hours have never passed so quickly. (Jeff will attest.) For one thing, I never realized how much of our cultural understanding of the Holocaust is based specifically on Auschwitz: from Arbeit Macht Frei to the use of tattoos to identify prisoners (which our tour guide insisted only happened here).  

But what I really hadn't understood, and the reason I am grateful I went to Auschwitz, was the magnitude of Birkenau, the death camp next door. Birkenau is an atomic wasteland. I swear there are still no birds there, nothing but long grass and weeds covering what little remains of row after row after row of bunk houses. This is where the train tracks to nowhere enter through the red brick prison gates and stretch a mile down the "sorting platform" to the crematoriums. (One of the smartest things the Nazis ever did was to blow up the gas chambers of Birkenau. I couldn't truly picture what had happened there when all I had to look at was a caved-in pile of rubble.)

But more or less, this was all stuff I already knew. What I didn't know was the story of Warsaw. 

A Polish Week: Feasting on a Farthing

Turns out I like Polish food. Like, a lot.

First, there's the pierogi, which even in its most basic form combines four of my favorite food groups (noodles, mashies, cheese, and bacon fat). Of course, the humble pierogi can be fancified, as the menu of this pierogateria attests to: 

 

Then there are gołąbki (pronounced "go-wabki"), cabbage rolls stuffed with minced beef and onions and rice and often topped with tomato or mushroom sauce. These are hearty comfort food, savory and flavorful and with a texture that melts away (what those in the food industry might call a good "mouth feel").

There's a lot of hunks of meat, like the kotlet schabowy (basically wienerschniztel). While in the mountains, we had a fantastic dish of potato pancakes (akin to latkes) topped with a smoky beef goulash. 

Kotlet Schabowy and bigos (stew), with the ubiquitous potatoes and beer.

And the best part is, you can eat well in Poland for about $5 a day.

A Polish Week: We climbed a mountain

A Polish friend recommended we spend some time in Zakopane, a resort town deep in the Tatra Mountains along Poland's southern border. From Krakow, Zakopane is two hours south via one of Poland's ubiquitous "mini-buses" (also known as over-sized vans) -- of which I unfortunately lack a picture.

The main drag of Zakopane is like the Jersey Shore of Poland, a snapshot of domestic Polish tourism. A Polish expat we met over dinner explained that Zakopane is part of the country's cultural heart, a once-idyllic mountain town that inspired poets and musicians and is the gateway to the country's best skiing in the winter and the entire region's best hiking in the summer. Now the town is a mess of cheesy tourist restaurants and toy shops selling local souvenirs made in China.

With one full day in Zakopane, we wanted the prototypical Tatra hiking experience: to climb Kasprowy Wierch.  Most people take the cable car up and hike back down.  This is what the morning line for the cable car looked like:

Of course, being young and fit, we would hike up.

The path at the bottom of the mountain was wide and well-groomed, and meandered through a pine forest of babbling brooks that reminded me of Oregon. "This," I said to Jeff, "this is nothing."

A Polish Week: Introduction

Six months ago, Jeff and I took our last grand European vacation -- to Poland.

Why, our friends in the Netherlands asked (and you may be asking, too), would we take a week-long trip to Poland? Granted, it was not as obvious a choice as, say, the south of France or the Greek Isles. But don't underestimate Poland.

First, a disclaimer: both Jeff and I claim Polish heritage. Indeed, even though I am only a quarter Polish, it's the only real "heritage" I've got (I'm otherwise thoroughly American mongrel). It turns out that Poland is our common denominator.

But Poland is also an important part of America. From our revolution to the fall of their communism, our fates and freedoms have been intertwined. Also, when you walk down the street in Warsaw, every other person looks exactly like someone you know. It's frankly a bit creepy.

And then there's Poland's food, spunk, and gripping past. This is my week to share our varied Polish adventures, from the trivial to the profound. Starting with the day we accidentally climbed a mountain...

Train SpotPadding

After my Berlin escapades with Megan, I endured a solitary eight-hour train trip back to the Hague. Too tired to read, I whiled away the hours playing with Jeff's SpotPad smartphone application. (You'll remember SpotPad from my pintxos-mapping adventures in San Sebastian.) The end result: a stream-of-consciousness map of my train ride!

OK, I do not delude myself that anyone else will find my random thoughts diverting - but I think the final map looks cool. If you are curious about the stream-of-consciousness part, the map is easier to manipulate if you click through to Google Maps. If that seems too strenuous, I have pasted my comments below, after the jump.

View From East to West: My eight-hour train ride from Berlin in a larger map

Berlin is free

I love it when new experiences come free (see, for example, my notes on London). Don't get me wrong, I am more than happy to shell out for awesome museums or tickets to the ballet - but it's like shopping a sale: you love that cashmere sweater all the more when you know you got it for a song.

Berliner Dom

Berlin is like the Filene's Basement of new experiences.

Munich and the Biergarten Time Warp

Thinking about Munich makes me hungry. I suspect this is because all I did with my three days in Munich was eat (and drink).

Sausage. Pretzels. Beer. Repeat. Oh, Munich! How I miss you!

Virtualeinmarkt in August

Trust me, it could happen to you. You think you're going to explore Munich's old town, tour a palace or two - but you never make it past the Viktualeinmarkt. It's a warm August afternoon, the communal tables under the chestnut trees are packed with ruddy-faced men in lederhosen and friends catching up over a shared pretzel, the cold beer makes time slow down and imparts an instant nostalgic glow: next thing you know, it's dusk.

In the midst of the English Garden

You think you're just going to check out Munich's giant English Garden (think Central Park), with its naked sunbathers and babbling brooks, but instead you wile away another afternoon at one of the park's renowned beer gardens. August midday, the famous Chinesischer Turm seems painfully hot and dusty; much more pleasant is the Seehaus, with shaded tables directly on the shore of the Kleinhesseloher See. 

You have every intent of taking a day trip from Munich, but on your way to the train station, you're side-tracked by Augustiner, the largest beer garden in Munich. 

In the courtyard of the Ratshaus

You plan to watch the daily dance of the glockenspiel at the Neues Rathaus (the "new" town hall), but the sea of packed tourists in the Marienplatz rattles you - and instead you veer left, into the courtyard of the town hall for a beer at the Ratskellar. 

You mean to step inside the giant red Frauenkirche cathedral, but the terrace seating of Andechser am Dom is just too dreamy. 

(OK, so these last two are not technically beer gardens - you can't opt to bring in your own food, and it's not self-serve - but MAN. We liked Andescher am Dom so much, we had dinner there twice. Plus I really like Andechs beer.)

Yes, there are museums and palaces in Munich that one might visit. We did spend a morning in the neighborhood just east of the river, poking through shops on Sedanstrasse - but my memory of this is pretty hazy, probably due to sausage-and-pretzel withdrawal. 

Yet despite my unbalanced approach to site-seeing in Munich, I do not think I went wrong. Beer gardens have it all: superior people watching; quality beer; self-serve sausages, sauerkraut, and big doughy pretzels; some sun, some shade, some gentle communing with nature; and absolutely no pretension. What's not to love?

(I recently came across this site, a wiki of Munich beer gardens, which seems worthy of a plug. So many gartens, so little time.)

Three Views of Salzburg

I have learned something from all my travels with Jeff: the value of a good city view. Except that while Jeff insists on climbing things (typically church towers), I prefer to take my views with ice cream or a celebratory beverage.

Luckily I was accompanied to Salzburg with a friend similarly inclined to food, drink and leisure.  Thanks to Rick Steves' Germany (yes, Salzburg is in Austria), we spent most of our one day in Salzburg staring out at three remarkable views.

View #1: If you take the train to Salzburg (as we did), you approach the city from the east side of the river. Before crossing over to the heart of the old town, we paused at the rooftop terrace of the Hotel Stein.  Lounging on wicker couches and shaded by giant umbrellas, we worked our way through multiple rounds of champagne and Italian antipasto while gazing out over a postcard of the city.

View #2: Salzburg does not take long to explore (it's not all that big, after all). After some ornate churches, pretty graveyards, and quaint streets in the midday sun, we knew what we really needed: ice cream. Enter Cafe Tomaselli, a classic ice cream parlor fronting one of Salzburg's main pedestrianized plazas. The ice cream itself was nothing to write home about (nor were the prices), but it was served in fabulous old fashioned sundae glasses, and it came with a fabulous balcony view. The ensuing hour was spent in the blessed shade, nursing our sundaes while watching other tourists struggle through the August heat.

View #3: Salzburg is ringed by rugged, forested hills. On other days, I might have insisted on hiking around the Monchsburg ridge to the old fortress. But not this day. This day, we took the municipal elevator up and wandered for about 10 minutes along the ridge until we reached the hostel Die Stadt Alm, where large, roughly hewed picnic tables were arranged right on the edge of a cliff overlooking the city. Heaven is a giant plate of wienerschnitzel, a cold beer, and Salzburg in the golden hour before sunset. Trust me. It's spectacular.

Waterworld

Here's what I love about Seattle: Water.

There's the water of the sprawling, placid blue lakes. There's the water of the wild grey expanse of the Puget Sound. There are dock yards with giant red cranes and rows of multi-colored shipping containers; steep city streets that dead-end into ferry terminals; real beaches looking out to distant rough-hewn mountains. There are boats on water and houses on water and planes on water and - best of all - sparkling lights reflected on water. Seattle is all about the water.

Sunset in Seattle

There is one particular form of water that is universally and instinctively recognized as high entertainment: boat locks. I have a happy Parisian memory of the mini-locks along the St. Martin canal, of a sunny Saturday morning in May when little children and bicyclists and middle-aged French men out for a stroll all stopped to watch the heavy gates swing shut and swirling white currents of water lift a little boat as though by magic.

Locks in Paris

Seattle has its own set of locks, a scaled-down version of the model used for the Panama Canal. On a recent sunny Saturday, the weather was decidedly crisper, but children, bicyclists and grown men alike still paused to watch as the gates swung shut and the water started to rise. 

Yet despite the inherent appeal of water works and boats, here's what really tickled my inner child on our recent excursion to the Ballard Locks: Seamoor Safety, the Water Safety Sea Serpent.

Coloring courtesy of yours truly.

Seamoor's red bear friend is called "Corker," and his blue bear friend is named "Sinker." Guess which one is used to illustrate what not to do around open water.

I'm not sure which impresses me more: that the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers publishes coloring books, or that they devised a triple pun to name an imaginary sea creature of ambiguous sexuality who demonstrates how to wear a jet ski engine stop lanyard with flair. You might consider visiting www.Bobber.info to print out copies of Corker and Sinker's adventures for your own coloring pleasure.