I Sense a Theme Here...

One last backdated post... just got home a little while ago and now have internet.

I'm really glad I found the little rubber earpiece for my sound-blocking headphones before this trip. They're the part that make the sound-blocking part work. Were it not for these little babies, I'd be subject to the ridiculously loud mobile phone ramblings of the little shit down the car from me. In Italian, of course. I recall saying something about the Italian lack of voice modulation. It was in full force in the compartment on this morning's train, too, with a few strangers having an animated conversation about exactly how many minutes every train they've ever ridden on has been late. Despite the miserable guy visibly trying to sleep in the window seat.

Luckily, I have my trusty laptop as an outlet to write. And luckily, it's still functional. And with me.

In the string of overall rotten luck this trip (not mentioned before: one of my aunts had 100€ stolen out of her handbag her last day in Paris) I have been soaked again, this time after trekking around Torino for a few hours between trains.

The morning train arrived at the Porta Nuova station, where I checked in my backpack at left luggage. However, trusting such services as far as I can throw them, I transfered my laptop and SLR into my shoulder bag. When I travel, they do not leave my side, and they most certainly do not get checked in with anyone.

My load somewhat lightened, I made my way to the city center to do whatever it is that tourists to Torino do. Maybe do some shopping, have a hot chocolate, look at statues... that kind of stuff. I was about to start clicking my shutter at all sorts of neat things until the sky decided to open up. This, of course, meant that every historic seat at every historic café overlooking every historic plaza in Turin was suddenly taken by other tourists seeking shelter from the rain. And thus, I was left with the choice of hanging out in the covered arcades with all the enterprising umbrella salesmen from Africa and the Indian subcontinent, or taking refuge at the American embassy.

So off to McDonald's it was. Finally, I was handed the opportunity to fulfill my goal of poisoning myself at er... trying McDonald's in every country I visit. The menu didn't look very intriguing, so I almost made my way out of the non-line (the Italian disdain for orderly queueing apparently goes beyond bus and train boarding), until something caught my eye: Gamberi mariposi, 3 pezzi. That's right - McDonald's in Italy serves butterfly prawns the same way the corporation sells bits of processed chicken bits elsewhere. SOLD!

Unfortunately, the food is nowhere near as intriguing as it sounds. In fact, I dare say the gamberi were even oilier than at any grease schack in New Orleans... as in... the American South. Really. The rest of the food was just as craptacular as American McDonald's, too, only the beef in my burger was somewhat brown and not grey - a promising sign.

What my meal lacked in pleasure, it more than made up for with entertainment. As I exited McDonald's, a "gentleman" trying to look somewhat non-chalant as he carried a rather feminine-looking shoulder bag was grabbed on the same shoulder by one of those impeccably dressed, regal-looking Italian police officers. As he started to run, he was knocked down, then two more GQ-looking officers popped out from the other side of the sidewalk and picked him up so they could drag him somewhere more open for... god knows what. A crowd gathered and cheered as the resisting purse snatcher was finally shoved into the back of an official police Alfa Romeo. God damn! Even the cops are stylish in Italy. (And very pretty, in many cases...!)

I roamed around central Torino for a couple of hours overall, trying to find diversions and distractions, as well as shelter from the pissy weather. At this point, my shoes were starting to slosh around, and none of the open stores (it's Sunday, after all) sold either saffron cheese or Bialetti espresso makers, either of which I would have gladly snapped up to keep warm with retail therapy.

But I was miserable. Cold, wet, and missing my wife, I made my way back to Porta Nuova train station to collect my backpack. I figured with a few hours to go before my train to Paris, I had plenty of time to make it over to Porta Susa station. It didn't look that far on the map, and the directions aren't at all complicated - from one station to the other, it's simply north on a major street, then west. Forward and left. What could go wrong?

I'll tell you what can go wrong.

Italian street signs are second only to British ones in terms of illegibility. (Actually, British signs are easy to read - finding them is the challenge.)

Sure, it's classy (and classic!) to have them engraved into the sides of buildings in a serif typeface, and very small so as not to be garish and conspicuous. (Because, by god, no one here likes anything that's really visible, right??)

So I happened to miss not one, but TWO streets that lead directly to the station as I headed north, and kept going for, oh, probably 2 km more than I was supposed to. Normally, this would probably be fine since I'd left myself so much time to get to the station.

I knew something was amiss when it started looking less and less city center-like and slightly more suburban-business-area. I decided to make my left at that point, hoping to maybe triangulate upon the station, or at least see road signs pointing to it. (There were none, by the way...)

After a number of blocks of going west, that now oft-mentioned feeling of dread hit me.

Now normally, I have no issue walking through "bad" neighborhoods. I've hung out in South Central LA late at night, the "seedy" parts of Paris don't phase me, and my old neighborhood in San Francisco butted up to the projects where seeing a crackhead taking a dump on the sidewalk was no issue.

So walking through a downtrodden Torinese neighborhood with tons of hoodlums hanging out on the sidewalk isn't really a problem. I'm a big boy and can handle myself.

The thing is, I generally don't walk through these neighborhoods carrying a backpack, a shoulder bag, and a bright red shopping bag. If sharks can smell blood from a mile away, hoodlums can smell "tourist," at least from 20 metres. Now normally, I don't think this way. Hardly ever, in fact. I know the "law of the jungle," and there's generally no reason for anyone to rough me up. That and I'm about twice as wide as your average western European, and much scarier looking. Except for the fact that within three minutes I'd already witnessed two guys getting beat up... and on the same side of the street I was walking, at that!

As luck would have it, the next person I ran into was a young nun walking out of some church-y looking building. "Scusi!" I approached. She started to cower away, until I removed my beanie to show her I was a respectful, god-fearing (ha!) person. "Dov'è Stazionne Porta Susa, per favori?" I asked. The trouble with asking for directions in a language you minimally understand is that you get the answer in that language.

Following are the words I understood: Normally; you; keep; straight; but; left; but; bad; bad; bad; evil neighborhood; leave this street; future tense of "to be"; more safe.

I tried to say "Thank you, thank you very very much, I appreciate it" as I walked off but in my lousy Italian, I could've been saying, "Now can I see what's under your habit?" I think I got it right, though, because despite the storm above, I wasn't struck by lighting, and despite the thuggins around me, I wasn't mugged. And after stopping to orient myself a few times - and ask a few more puzzled passers-by if I could look under their clothes or whatnot - found the station.

Now I find myself less than an hour from Paris, likely developing a case of pneumonia considering how cold and wet it was at the Torino station and that the AC on this train was on for four hours of its nearly six hour run time.

I'm coming home with a likely pulmonary disorder, soggy shoes, much more weight, and far fewer euros. Worst of all, I'm doing it alone. Right now, all I can think about is drawing a bath, then crawling into bed. My big, empty, not-quite-warm-enough-on-the-right-side bed.

But I'm writing with a slight smile on my face. My wife, my mom, and my aunts don't have their last day for another week, and the weather forecast looks good. After all, I'm fairly certain I used up all of their bad travel karma.

Mangia! Mangia! Mangia!

Backdated post due to wonky internet access in Italy...

I've been proud of my successful weight loss for a little while now, but a day in Milan has pretty much blown my waistline back to its former proportions. I don't think I've eaten this much on a trip since the infamous month of eating Japan, and that was a lot.

The thing is, that's who I am and it's what I do. Other people travel to see landmarks and museums and great works of art - which I certainly love. But my preference, first and foremost, is to soak up the culture. And the best way to do it - if you ask me - is via food and drink.

Sure, I've been called the F-word before (uh, that'd be "foodie"), but I'm not a high-falutin' Michelin guide-totin' snob. In fact, while hunting for the elusive internet café this morning, we started the day with a coffee at McDonald's. Yes, in the land of cafés at every corner, we went to McDonald's. Really, it was in hopes of finding some Wi-Fi. In Japan, it was the only reliable place to get online, so I was hoping that might be the case here. No luck. And it was too early for lunch, so there'd be no trying out the Italian version of the menu. And for the record, their espresso was not bad at all.

If you're not too disgusted and have continued reading, you can learn about our next bit of masochism. While doing a little shopping (I finally found the ideal Bialetti espresso maker!) and heading back to our hotel to unload, Alannah and I passed by Caballo Loco which is, you guessed it, a Mexican restaurant!

Now, getting decent Mexican food in Europe is like finding a needle in a haystack - a very dull, rusty needle in a flavorless haystack. But after seeing that their menu included tacos with "prosciutto e formaggio," we knew we had to throw down. We also knew we weren't going to get anything close to Mexican food as a couple of taqueria-veteran Californians would know it. So we were pleasantly surprised by the colorful but not over-the-top atmosphere, complete with cheesedick Latin pop music... not to mention the good tortilla chips and *gasp* hot salsa that didn't taste like ketchup! So the tacos did disappoint - I had the aforementioned prosciutto and cheese and Alannah the chili con carne, both just wrapped in a soft tortilla and nuked with a slice of Kraft cheese on top. On the other hand, the shaved fennel salad on the side (WTF!?) went surprisingly well with guacamole and sour cream.


Having dredged the low end, we headed back toward the Duomo in the center of town and located Peck, the gourmet food hall associated with the Michelin-starred Cracco-Peck restaurant. Having not yet found a way to digest food and shit out money, we decided to just drool over the amazing collection of cheeses, cured meats, luxury goods, and high-end prepared foods to go. I was hoping to find (and try!) a traditional Milanese fritto misto that includes little bits like lamb's lung and whatnot, but no such luck. I'd have to gross out Alannah some other time. We wanted to eat every bit of every thing on display, from the gigantic French-style escargot to the saffron-infused peccorino cheese to the hideously overpriced vegetable flans. I felt completely out of my spending league, but wanted to order one of each. Unfortunately, Peck doesn't offer free samples, so we went upstairs to the tea room to splurge on a "light snack."

The two of us had Peck's signature cocktail - a bitter and tart blend of Campari, aranciata, various liquors, and some awesome little tomatillo-like tropical fruit we keep encountering at European markets. Some day I'll figure it out what it is. The cocktail miraculously paired magnificently with our cheese plate, loaded up with seven types of cow, goat and sheep milk cheeses. The hands down favorite: The very peccorino alla zafferana we'd seen earlier. Ensnared in their trap, it wasn't a difficult decision to go buy a kilo of the ridiculously opulent cheese on the way out.

I further proved my inability to control my gustatory spending by ordering a 14€ kopi luwak coffee to cap off our afternoon tea. Considering they sell the stuff for 457€/kg, I figured having one demi-tasse of the stuff would make me not feel like a complete pauper walking out of the place. "I just bought your saffron cheese AND your coffee whose beans have been shit out by Indonesian pandas," I could say as they sneered at my well-worn jeans, snowboarding jacket, and hiking shoes. But they were actually very nice, and I wasn't followed by security even once.

I rang up my mom, and it turned out she and my aunts were just a few minutes away, so we met up in front of the Duomo before heading back to the hotel. We reviewed what we'd done thus far, and I told my mom about having just had some of the most amazing cheese ever... Now, she loves cheese - probably more than she does myself and my sister. So I knew I could make her happy by promising her a bit of the prize that she loves more than her own flesh and blood. "We bought a kilo of the stuff! We'll totally have some when we get back to Paris!" I think it may have been one of the few moments I've seen my mom pleased with my poorly-formed spending habits.

Back at the hotel, Alannah and I tried to figure where we'd have dinner. It was just the two of us tonight, so I was hoping we might be able to have a romantic evening, providing we find the right venue. I pulled out my trusty maitre d's knife (no European should leave home without it!) and pulled open a bottle of Barolo I'd picked up earlier at the market.

POP!

"Damn, that uncorked like champagne. I hope it's still good," I said as I poured a couple of glasses of the stuff. "Is it just me or is it fizzy?"

Alannah tasted it. "It says frizzante on the bottle. It's supposed to be sparkling."

Now, I've heard of sparkling reds before, but had never bothered to try, figuring it'd be like red wine flavored soda. And for once in my life, I can say I was right. Of course, swinging from low end to high, gravity had to pull us back, and we drank it up.

If red wine soda was an unexpectedly oddball way of starting off our romantic evening together, it was a harbinger of things to come. We hopped on the dodgy Metro line 2 to go to the opposite end of Milan, the canal district near Porto Genova. Because nothing says "romantic" like graffiti-infested subways and dried out canals. But we had a destination in mind: Le Vigne restaurant, a highly-recommended practitioner of Slow Food with an old school Italian atmosphere. What's not to like?

The answer to that question: My navigational skills. Despite having studied the map and pinpointing the location and committing it to memory before leaving, we got to the canals and found nothing. I went to the very roundabout whose shape and orientation I had memorized to the point that I could recognize it through the driving rain - and still, nothing. As the rain grew heavier, we searched the area, and searched, and searched. The more futile our search seemed to become, the more rain-soaked our shoes most certainly became. My once waterproof snowboarding jacket was nearly saturated (and with it the passport in my chest pocket, which now resembles an overcooked blue sheet of lasagne). Things grew even worse when we threw in the towel, headed back to the Metro station and then realized - wait - this isn't the way to the Metro! I started to get the feeling of dread that when traveling can mean a ruined trip. I sensed Alannah becoming frustrated. I knew I'd just fucked up our night, bigtime.

And as I decided to admit that not only would we never find the restaurant, but that we might have to throw the Metro into that same category of despair, we walked right by it. Le Vigne. Nowhere near the point I'd memorized on the map. The warm room and warm hostess welcomed our sorry, rain-drenched asses, and we decided to abandon our earlier plan to just order light starters and a glass of wine - to save money and our waistlines.

In the classic but none too chi-chi atmosphere (hell, there was a big screen in the back room with Sky Tele-Giornale on showing the latest Obama/McCain numbers) we laid waste to a platter of fiore di zucca stuffed with some of the most fantastic riccota cheese to grace the face of the earth. We used our bread - manners be damned - to sop up the freshest pesto this side of Genova. We dove into zucchini wrapped with angler fish wrapped with pancetta sitting in a grape reduction. Some fantastic Milanese rice cake. And, deciding to throw reason out the window, a giant ribeye steak - delightfully bloody and not-so-delightfully priced al'otte (by the 100g). Oh well, at least the local wine we were guzzling was a ridiculous bargain.

Earlier in the day, Alannah and I were a little bummed that we were spending Halloween not doing anything Halloweeny. Sure, there were some youth running around in ghostface "Scream" masks and tons of places had pumpkin decor in their windows, but we lamented not going to any costume parties.

As we ambled toward the Metro (only 50m away, it turned out) after our post-dinner espressos, we forgot about Halloween. Hell, we were in Italy and just ate an insanely amazing dinner. And - as it turns out - a romantic one, at that.

Anyway, it's about midnight and we have to catch a morning train to Liguria. Time for bed!

No, really, to sleep. I've eaten too much today to think about anything else.

Across the Top of Paris

On the last trip, I dragged poor Alannah to cut a diagonal swath across Paris on foot. I promised her I wouldn't subject her to torture like that again, so now that I'm here on my own, I figured I'd continue my quest to carve up the City of Light on foot, like some sort of butcher's diagram.

If Paris is a pig facing left, then I started out in the ham, moved up and across the loin chops, and ended up in the shoulder. Ok, considering the number of halal butcher shops I walked by, maybe the pork allegory isn't appropriate. So here's a map:



It's Sunday, so I knew that other than the tourist spots and crazy department stores, there'd be little that's open. So I figured I'd look to an area where they don't consider Sunday a pesky day of rest: Belleville. Not only is it a huge ethnic enclave and home to Paris' second Chinatown, but it's probably the only area I hadn't visited before.

Most visitors don't wind up in Belleville, and it's a shame. Sure, there's no huge tower or Napoleonic arch or famous museum to speak of. But the bustling streets and overflowing shops are a sure reminder that Paris isn't just a romantic city founded on the artistic merits of Van Gogh and Baudelaire - it's also multicultural collage comprised of Chinese markets, Kosher delis, Arabic take-outs, and all manner of sights and smells.

Unfortunately, my first whiff of Belleville was courtesy of a skanky heroin junkie throwing herself at me when I got out of the Metro. "Please!" she begged. "I'll do anything for a little bit of money." You know, behind the two black eyes, track marked arms, and stink of a week without bathing, she was probably hot to trot. But not only am I faithful to my gal, I'm amazingly discriminating.

Except maybe when it comes to food. Passing by all the roast ducks in windows, freshly grilled meats, and tantalizing deep fried who-knows-what, I walked into... McDonald's.

I can't help it. I'm a total whore to advertising. Ever since I landed, I've been seeing these billboards for le P'tit Indien ("The Li'l Indian"), a new sandwich served under the golden arches of the American Embassy. The ad shows off a little pile of turmeric, some coriander leaves, and cinnamon sticks. And I'm of the firm belief that curry can make anything short of your Aunt Missy's Jell-O ambrosia taste great. And thus, le P'tit Indien is pretty good. Great? No. It's basically a McChicken laced with curry powder. But with a carton of hot fries and a cold Kronenbourg 1664, it's a totally respectable fast food meal. Ok, maybe not respectable. Acceptable, perhaps? Alright, I'm reaching. But I still believe in my curry theory.

Turning north, I walked alongside most of the length of the Canal St. Martin. It's placid and peaceful, lined with some newly trendy eating and drinking establishments. The whole quiet factor is increased manifold by the fact that it's closed to vehicular traffic on Sundays. As the sun came out, I was surrounded by people fishing in the canals, families strolling down the street, and all manner of pretty girls cruising by on their free Vélib rental bikes.

Vélib is amazing, and going by the number of empty dispenser stalls, it's a rousing success. It's a system where you go and check out a bike from one of 300 automated bike racks, and drop it off at any other one. The first 30 minutes of each rental are free, so as long as you drop off your bike as soon as you get to your next destination, you can pedal around the city totally free. Apparently, this program is a lifesaver during the many times the Parisian transit workers go on stirke. I can only wish we had something like this in the San Francisco, so I wouldn't ever have to get on the filthy Muni again. (For more info on Vélib and how it works - check it out here.)

Speaking of strikes, I have the TV on right now, and apparently CNN here plays a French edition of the Daily Show with an intro monologue that's more geared toward folks in France. Here's a bit from Jon Stewart's bit that just played: "As you may know, here in the US, the writers are on strike. Or as those of you in France would call it... EVERY DAY."

Despite it being a gloriously strike-free day, I continued along my march across Paris, following the tree-lined boulevards of La Chapelle, Rochechouart, Pigalle, and Clichy. And yes, that's the stretch that - if you've studied your guidebooks - is considered the seediest, most dangerous strip in Paris. I may have said it on the last trip, but if this is the worst part of Paris, those guidebook writers must be living in some sort of whitewashed ivory tower. Yeah, there's a sex shop or two or ten. Yeah, you've got a few thug types hanging around. But there are just as many parents rollerblading with their kids, old couples strolling hand-in-hand, and more of those pretty girls on bicycles. I don't know - maybe the authors out there are just scared of anything ethnic or a bit more risqué. I know shit's gone down in front of some of the bars and that some people get hassled walking around this area. But this is nothing compared to half the neighborhoods in San Francisco or New York or LA. Then again, maybe I'm just desensitized by America's love for thug life. Who knows?

Although I entertained the idea of walking the rest of the way, my feet were pretty beat by the time I got to Place de Clichy, so I hopped on the Metro and went four stops back to my hotel.

Maybe I should've walked.

The train was packed. Not so much with people, but with their things. What with the soldes going on, people are getting on board with rucksacks, duffel bags, and freakin' suitcases of marked down items they've bought from the department stores. At first I thought there was a sudden influx of tourists on good ol' Ligne 13, but no - I was being packed like a sardine in a tin can full of mass consumerism.

Oh well - at least they use public transit, huh?

Golden Arches

In all the whirlwind of activity yesterday, I forgot all about the highlight of my afternoon... our trip to the American Embassy.

You see, I don't care much (or really at all) for McDonald's at home, but I love trying it in each country I visit, just to see what's different. Blame it on all those years spent as an anthropology major... Or better yet, blame it on my morbid curiosity.

So disappointingly, our Nippon-bound representatives of American culture and foodways don't offer too many items different from what you'd find in, say, Stillwater, Oklahoma. If anything, the menu is much smaller. There's the local variant of McDonald's normal line of food: The Teriyaki Burger. Blah. It's like a regular Mickey D's burger slathered in teriyaki sauce.

Then there's the McPork, which I'm going to have to try. But this time around, I went for the Japanese substitute for the Filet o'Fish, the Ebi Filet-O. Ebi means shrimp, by the way.

At first, things look disappointingly mundane. You open the sandwich up and there's a piece of iceberg lettuce and a golden brown, generic patty that could be anything from chicken to fish to soy-based meat substitute. But tear it in half and there's a beautifully realistic rendering of shrimpy pink color.

And the taste? Oh my god, it actually tastes like honest-to-goodness fried shrimp from your local izakaya. It actually tastes GOOD. I shit you not.

Now readers who know me well may also know that, umm, I'm allergic to shrimp.

Well, it's more complicated like that. I get hives or cystic acne when I eat shrimp that's old, overly processed, or otherwise low in quality. Yeah, even my sensitivity to neurotoxins is all hoity-toity like that. So when I eat shrimp at, say, a cheap dim sum place or some pseudo-Southern fry house, I wind up with big fat zits or nasty hives on my back, either that night or by the next morning, unless I take a fistful of Benadryl.

Well, I forgot the Benadryl last night.

And I woke up this morning and my skin is clear, I'm not itchy, and feeling pretty damn good.

Which makes me think - Holy crap! McDonald's here either uses good, fresh shrimp... or has found a way to make fake shrimp that tastes just like the real deal. I'm thinking it's probably the latter... And I want their formula.

Sushi-ed Out

Maybe it's the fact that I learned McDonald's has my beloved WiFi. Maybe I should've taken it as a sign that I was craving a chicken sandwich this afternoon. Maybe I should've known the deal when Makoto asked me if I was hungry today, and I pointed to some cafe and said, "coffee," meaning I wanted an espresso and a western-style pastry. Which we promptly got, and I didn't care that I was paying $10 for a tiny coffee and equally tiny piece of chocolate capuccino cake. Or whatever the hell they called it.

It seems to happen on a lot of trips. On the fourth or fifth day, I just get sick of the local food. My mouth is screaming for a break. Not that I don't have a sophisticated palate, nor is it that I don't respect the local foodways. I'm just used to the amazing diversity of food in California. And let's face it: Other than fast food joints and hundreds of horrendous looking pseudo-Italian restaurants, the dining is pretty homogenous around here. Just like how in Spain I tired of jamon and queso every day and night for the better part of a week, I think I need a break from raw fish. Or maybe chopsticks, even. Hell, eating my cake today, I felt awkward using a fork for fuck's sake.

I think tonight's dinner was the proverbial straw causing the proverbial breakage of the proverbial camel's proverbial back.

Aunt Hiroko, Makoto and I walked around the corner to the local sushi joint. I knew not to expect anything spectacular, but I was just as happy to be at "the local," enjoying freshly made food provided by an old couple who have been doing this for years. Some Japanese serial drama was on the TV in the corner, the hot sake flowed, and my kinspeople - as soon as I gave them the "nademo-ii" go-ahead - started ordering like potheads with a case of the munchies.

The flaming dish of scallops was awesome. So were the flaming oysters. And my ceviche-like preparation of some white fish was brilliant, whatever the hell the swimming critter may have been before my friendly neighborhood sushi-ya filleted it, doused it in ponzu and spring onion, and put it in a bowl in front of me.

Then I got to my moriawase of sushi and I took pause. Yes, the shrimp was tasty. The toro was to-die-for good. But then I hit a wall. My squid, while fine, bored me. The maguro bored me as well. Even the uni (sea urchin) didn't do anything for me. By the time I got to the tai, I could barely put it down. I was so tired of raw fish flesh that I didn't even want to swallow it. But spitting it out in your napkin isn't an option here. Because there are no napkins. You have the wet handtowel they give you before the meal, but it seems a bit daft to hork up a piece of fish into it.

It's not like I haven't met a piece of sushi I didn't like before. But this wasn't some cheap-ass $2 sushi, or a sushi tray from Safeway's deli section. This was fresh, we-just-pulled-it-out-of-the-ocean-with-our-bare-hands shit.

Luckily, I think this only applies to raw fish. After the feeling of nausea and gastronomic ennui subsided, I avoided subsequent raw fish but went to town on a plate of sea bream head, cheeks, and belly. Cooked, of course.

Still, this doesn't bode well for tomorrow when we head to my mom's hometown. Which is a fishing village. Although I found out during dinner tonight that we'll be pit-stopping for a night in another town on Shikoku, as I have some long-lost relative who's supposedly dying to see me. The good news is that I'll be staying in a hotel for the first time this trip, which means I can stop feeling like I'm imposing on my relatives - whom I have to frikkin' trick into letting me pay for things. The bad news is I'll probably still be without internet, meaning at next login, I'll have to post another two day's worth of stuff.

Too Little, Too Late

I just found out that a particular chain here - as in one every three blocks, or so it seems - has WiFi access.

I went to every Starbucks, Tully's Coffee, Doutour (a Japanese coffeehouse chain), Seattle's Best - you name it - looking for a WiFi sticker on the door. And who has it? The American fucking embassy.

McDonald's that is. Golden arches. Semi-beef hamburgers.


Fuck.


On the other hand, I really don't have much to complain about. Another day in Kyoto is pretty much another day in heaven, as far as I'm concerned. Who cares if I can't get online? (I mean, besides the folks back at the office expecting stuff from me...)

We headed out by train to Fushimi-Inari to check out the shrine of the same name. Keen observers will notice that it contains the word inari, as in the type of sushi that's a fried tofu skin stuffed with rice. (Not to mention porn star Inari Vachs, but as a good little blog reader, you have no idea who she is... right?) Anyway, it's no coincidence that inari is in the name. No, not because they film adult movies here - although it would make a magnificent setting - but because the shrine was originally dedicated to food. Rice and sake, in particular, but regarded as a place to pray for abundance in food - and now business success - in general.

Fushimi-Inari's claim to fame are its thousands upon thousands of torii - those are those shinto shrine archways, here painted bright orange. They're laid one after the other, taking up around 2.5 miles of length up and around the mountainside. It would take two hours just to walk the whole tunnel of torii, but Makoto and I were more than happy to just do the first leg. Of course, he was happy to oblige me the time it took to figure out the settings to shoot in the jacked up, ever-changing light conditions.

Fortunately, once we were about ready to go, the sun came out cooperatively for a good while, including during most of our visit to Higashiyama, particularly the Kiyomizu Dera temple. It's a sprawling, hilly complex - including a nasty vertical ascent to the entrance, but worth all the sweaty footsteps. It contains imagery that's pure Kyoto. Gorgeous temples, breathtaking mountain views, and real people saying real prayers and doing real quirky things.

It's also home to the "Love Temple," where young couples and the hopelessly romantic go to say prayers for the future. It's good for those already in love as well, so I went there and bought a little sumthin' sumthin' for Alannah, with the money going as an offering to whatever gods are responsible. Yeah, I'm sappy like that.

As night fell, we moved on to Kodai-Ji, a gorgeous temple that's all about the gardens surrounding it. At night, it's lit up, and with the colors of the fall foliage it's an almost surreal, otherworldly place to be. From a colorfully lit-up temple to shiny ponds to a striking green bamboo forest, it's a feast for the eyes in much the same way as Kyoto ryori is for the mouth.

Our last thing before hunting down an internet connection was to hunt down geisha. Their primary feeding grounds: Kyoto Gion (old town), whose narrow, lantern-lined streets are their natural habitat. Makoto told me to have my camera ready as he took me down a tiny, seemingly abandoned street, each doorway with a red and white lantern signifying the presence of geishas. I guess it's a red lamp district. Har har. Anyway, we laid in wait, hoping to snap a shot or two of the elusive geisha, but with the rain falling and all, none made an appearance. After I'd put my lens cap back on, I saw what looked like a geisha quickly came out of a door and darted into a dark, narrow alley.

I'm starting to think that geishas are a long-held myth or urban legend, not unlike Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and straight Republican senators. If anyone has any evidence to the contrary, please dish it up.