My Trip to Japan, Or How I Totally Underrated Sake
On the day that Abe Shinzo resigned, I was plying the waves of the Tsushima Strait in this hydrofoil-equipped jet ferry, making my way from Busan to Fukuoka, Japan, for my one-day, visa-related stop over.
Now, putting aside the purpose of my trip (which was rather banal), there are a number of really interesting things to report. First is simply the fact that I decided, in the face of modern sensibilities, to travel by train and boat rather than airplane, which has become the preferred mode of civilized excursion-taking. I have always thought that trains are the only real way to see a city--or a country side--because they unobtrusively cut through the back allies, along the river banks and through the rice paddies, affording candid views without disturbing or too greatly altering the landscape. Shops, stands and advertisers all put their best face to the street, neglecting to pander to those lucky train-bond souls who are cruising along without agency to stop in and buy something.
Train stations are also the best place to arrive in a city. Whereas airports tend to be air conditioned and antiseptic, not to mention being of necessity greatly removed from the city center, train stations instantly engulf you in the aura of your new environs. The smells coming from the food stalls and the sounds of the main street welcome you without cant. Now, even though the functioning section of the Seoul Station, and the whole of Busan Station, are each younger than me, each has it's own sort of character, as all train stations do. Not unlike the vaulted heights of Grand Central does Seoul Station's glass-and-steel dome rise above the mingling heads of the travelers. Hurrying through the gates (another benefit of train travel: you without fail arrive exactly at your departure time), you pass through a tunnel and cresting the balcony, with all the trains arrayed in front of you, you descend to your platform as if deploying from the safety of the spaceport down to the lifeless stretches of Mars. This feeling might have been due, however, to the fact that when I left for Busan it was not yet 6 in the morning.
Busan's terminal, for it's part, is a giant (also glass-and-steel) Oriental palace, it's sweeping staircase crowded with petitioners seeking an audience with the Emperor. But inside it has the feel of an unplanned arcade, randomly leading you around the gates and dumping you directionlessly out on the street. Arriving at 9 a.m., I hopped into the nearest taxi and shuttled through the back allies to the International Ferry Terminal. If you are ever planning to smuggle some illicit thing between countries, and you're not simply out for the challenge of it, then I highly recommend ferry travel. Barely glanced at in Busan, I was not even passed through a metal detector leaving Fukuoka.
If you're going to travel by ferry, and you are at all prone to seasickness, let me say that you should definitely find one with hydrofoils. As Casey Baldwin, who partnered with Alexander Graham Bell to build the first successful hydrofoil, noted some 100 years ago, it is as smooth as flying. And fast! The ferry I took has a foil-borne cruising speed of 45 knots (or over 50 mph). At these speeds, we crossed from Busan to Fukuoka in under three hours. As the ferry company explains, "[A] jetfoil is a 'flying machine on the sea' that gets its lifting power not from air but from seawater. Because the density of water is about 800 times that of air, a jetfoil is able to fly above the sea with smaller wings than those of an airplane and at a lower speed."
In passing, it is worth noting a little about the respective military histories of Busan and Fukuoka. The area around Busan was the only part of the country not to be overrun by the communists after the start of the Korean War in 1950. It was the last refuge of capitalism in Korea, and in that sense is responsible for all of the success that the South has seen in recent years. From another point of view, it's initial refusal to submit is the reason that the country remains divided today, since otherwise the communists would have held the entire land, just as Ho Chi Min took all of Vietnam. Unlike Seoul, whose "old city" looks to be at most thirty years on, Busan retains some of its old buildings and atmosphere.
Fukuoka, for it's part, was the intended destination of Kublai Khan when, in 1281, he set out to invade Japan, following the same route I took. But, unlike me, his troops were upset at sea by a typhoon, scuttling the invasion. They did not have hydrofoils. That typhoon came to be christened "divine wind" or "kamikaze" by the locals.
One thing to look out for, however, if you decide to travel by hydrofoil, is whales. Check out this incident, in April, in which a ferry boat's foil was shorn off, forcing the boat to crash back into the water and breaking many bones. The best explanation is that the boat hit a surfacing whale. Suffice it to say that the boat, despite it's calamity, was probably better off than the hapless cetacean.
Ferry terminals, while perhaps not occupying space on a city's main drag, are none the less usually much closer to the city center, and in a generally more interesting local, than airports. Arriving at the Hakata port in Fukuoka, which is surrounded by all manner of shipping terminals, I hopped a bus for the Tenjin section of the city. 'Tenjin', which means 'sky deity' is the deified name of Sugawara no Michizane, a court official from the ninth century who was demoted and exiled but who returned after death to vest fires and floods on the capital. Hoping to apease him, the rulers made him a Shinto god, and built a shrine to him at Kitano in Kyoto.
This happened to be the most happening part of town, and after wrapping up my bureaucratic prostrations and making a few acquaintances, I ventured out into the city to find food and drink. We, my acquaintances and I, found a little ramen shop, which, despite the roaches, turned out to be the best thing that happened to my pallet since I had Spotted Cow ale when I was home last month. If you've only ever had Cup-o-Noodles, then you are missing out, my friend. Fukuoka is know for it's ramen, and boy did it deliver. Suspended in a broth of miso were freshly made, never-been-dried noodles, onions, sprouts, mushrooms and a delectable, thinly sliced brisket. Our ramen sensei, a venerable craftsman, ensured that our bowls were perfectly prepared and then left us alone to ponder the complexities of taste he had created.
After this meal and a good wander, we were hungry again, and so we found a kitchy little traditional Japanese place, which, I submit, was not simply a tourist trap since it had neither an English nor a picture menu. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent place, supplanting, in less than six hours, the ramen's position as my pallet's most recent delicacy. The food was unremarkable; what thrilled me was the sake.
Now, I should give here some background on my previous perceptions of sake. I had had it a few times in cheap sushi joints and dorm rooms, and had pretty much dismissed it as a bland product of Oriental stoicism. I had also previously used sake as an example of Japanese pretentiousness, which I opposed to Korean spirited practicality. Sake, I reasoned, was not more delicious than soju, Korea's watered-down ethanol. But, unlike the Koreans, who, workmanlike, down their spirit in order to wash away the workday and the wife as efficiently as possible, the silk-clad Japanese heat their poison and sip it slowly while sitting at neat little tables and reciting poetry or whatever.
Well, I now freely admit that I've been badly mistake. Whereas soju should probably be banned for human consumption, sake is a marvelous drink, which, once heated, gives off the most pleasing aroma and hits your tongue and stomach with such a blissful, grainy sweetness that you could be happy forgoing liberty, love, even ramen, in order to sit and ponder the mysteries of sake forever.
After dinner, the climax of my journey having passed, I was ready for anything. With two friends, I ventured into an odd little bar and chatted with the tenders for a few hours. The language, of course, was English. Around closing time, we felt like dancing, so we recruited one of the guys to take us out to a club. He led us to an upstairs hip-hop club near the harbor. Too bright and full of Japanese guys wearing too baggy jeans and bandannas, it was not the best club I've ever been to. Still, a good time.
The only notable aspects of the next day were another bowl of ramen and "My Neighbor Totoro" on the in-hover movie. I took lots of pictures; will post the best one when I get them developed.
As for me, I'm back in Seoul now, working at Seoul Academy. More updates on my situation to follow.
Now, putting aside the purpose of my trip (which was rather banal), there are a number of really interesting things to report. First is simply the fact that I decided, in the face of modern sensibilities, to travel by train and boat rather than airplane, which has become the preferred mode of civilized excursion-taking. I have always thought that trains are the only real way to see a city--or a country side--because they unobtrusively cut through the back allies, along the river banks and through the rice paddies, affording candid views without disturbing or too greatly altering the landscape. Shops, stands and advertisers all put their best face to the street, neglecting to pander to those lucky train-bond souls who are cruising along without agency to stop in and buy something.
Train stations are also the best place to arrive in a city. Whereas airports tend to be air conditioned and antiseptic, not to mention being of necessity greatly removed from the city center, train stations instantly engulf you in the aura of your new environs. The smells coming from the food stalls and the sounds of the main street welcome you without cant. Now, even though the functioning section of the Seoul Station, and the whole of Busan Station, are each younger than me, each has it's own sort of character, as all train stations do. Not unlike the vaulted heights of Grand Central does Seoul Station's glass-and-steel dome rise above the mingling heads of the travelers. Hurrying through the gates (another benefit of train travel: you without fail arrive exactly at your departure time), you pass through a tunnel and cresting the balcony, with all the trains arrayed in front of you, you descend to your platform as if deploying from the safety of the spaceport down to the lifeless stretches of Mars. This feeling might have been due, however, to the fact that when I left for Busan it was not yet 6 in the morning.
Busan's terminal, for it's part, is a giant (also glass-and-steel) Oriental palace, it's sweeping staircase crowded with petitioners seeking an audience with the Emperor. But inside it has the feel of an unplanned arcade, randomly leading you around the gates and dumping you directionlessly out on the street. Arriving at 9 a.m., I hopped into the nearest taxi and shuttled through the back allies to the International Ferry Terminal. If you are ever planning to smuggle some illicit thing between countries, and you're not simply out for the challenge of it, then I highly recommend ferry travel. Barely glanced at in Busan, I was not even passed through a metal detector leaving Fukuoka.
If you're going to travel by ferry, and you are at all prone to seasickness, let me say that you should definitely find one with hydrofoils. As Casey Baldwin, who partnered with Alexander Graham Bell to build the first successful hydrofoil, noted some 100 years ago, it is as smooth as flying. And fast! The ferry I took has a foil-borne cruising speed of 45 knots (or over 50 mph). At these speeds, we crossed from Busan to Fukuoka in under three hours. As the ferry company explains, "[A] jetfoil is a 'flying machine on the sea' that gets its lifting power not from air but from seawater. Because the density of water is about 800 times that of air, a jetfoil is able to fly above the sea with smaller wings than those of an airplane and at a lower speed."
In passing, it is worth noting a little about the respective military histories of Busan and Fukuoka. The area around Busan was the only part of the country not to be overrun by the communists after the start of the Korean War in 1950. It was the last refuge of capitalism in Korea, and in that sense is responsible for all of the success that the South has seen in recent years. From another point of view, it's initial refusal to submit is the reason that the country remains divided today, since otherwise the communists would have held the entire land, just as Ho Chi Min took all of Vietnam. Unlike Seoul, whose "old city" looks to be at most thirty years on, Busan retains some of its old buildings and atmosphere.
Fukuoka, for it's part, was the intended destination of Kublai Khan when, in 1281, he set out to invade Japan, following the same route I took. But, unlike me, his troops were upset at sea by a typhoon, scuttling the invasion. They did not have hydrofoils. That typhoon came to be christened "divine wind" or "kamikaze" by the locals.
One thing to look out for, however, if you decide to travel by hydrofoil, is whales. Check out this incident, in April, in which a ferry boat's foil was shorn off, forcing the boat to crash back into the water and breaking many bones. The best explanation is that the boat hit a surfacing whale. Suffice it to say that the boat, despite it's calamity, was probably better off than the hapless cetacean.
Ferry terminals, while perhaps not occupying space on a city's main drag, are none the less usually much closer to the city center, and in a generally more interesting local, than airports. Arriving at the Hakata port in Fukuoka, which is surrounded by all manner of shipping terminals, I hopped a bus for the Tenjin section of the city. 'Tenjin', which means 'sky deity' is the deified name of Sugawara no Michizane, a court official from the ninth century who was demoted and exiled but who returned after death to vest fires and floods on the capital. Hoping to apease him, the rulers made him a Shinto god, and built a shrine to him at Kitano in Kyoto.
This happened to be the most happening part of town, and after wrapping up my bureaucratic prostrations and making a few acquaintances, I ventured out into the city to find food and drink. We, my acquaintances and I, found a little ramen shop, which, despite the roaches, turned out to be the best thing that happened to my pallet since I had Spotted Cow ale when I was home last month. If you've only ever had Cup-o-Noodles, then you are missing out, my friend. Fukuoka is know for it's ramen, and boy did it deliver. Suspended in a broth of miso were freshly made, never-been-dried noodles, onions, sprouts, mushrooms and a delectable, thinly sliced brisket. Our ramen sensei, a venerable craftsman, ensured that our bowls were perfectly prepared and then left us alone to ponder the complexities of taste he had created.
After this meal and a good wander, we were hungry again, and so we found a kitchy little traditional Japanese place, which, I submit, was not simply a tourist trap since it had neither an English nor a picture menu. This turned out to be an excellent, excellent place, supplanting, in less than six hours, the ramen's position as my pallet's most recent delicacy. The food was unremarkable; what thrilled me was the sake.
Now, I should give here some background on my previous perceptions of sake. I had had it a few times in cheap sushi joints and dorm rooms, and had pretty much dismissed it as a bland product of Oriental stoicism. I had also previously used sake as an example of Japanese pretentiousness, which I opposed to Korean spirited practicality. Sake, I reasoned, was not more delicious than soju, Korea's watered-down ethanol. But, unlike the Koreans, who, workmanlike, down their spirit in order to wash away the workday and the wife as efficiently as possible, the silk-clad Japanese heat their poison and sip it slowly while sitting at neat little tables and reciting poetry or whatever.
Well, I now freely admit that I've been badly mistake. Whereas soju should probably be banned for human consumption, sake is a marvelous drink, which, once heated, gives off the most pleasing aroma and hits your tongue and stomach with such a blissful, grainy sweetness that you could be happy forgoing liberty, love, even ramen, in order to sit and ponder the mysteries of sake forever.
After dinner, the climax of my journey having passed, I was ready for anything. With two friends, I ventured into an odd little bar and chatted with the tenders for a few hours. The language, of course, was English. Around closing time, we felt like dancing, so we recruited one of the guys to take us out to a club. He led us to an upstairs hip-hop club near the harbor. Too bright and full of Japanese guys wearing too baggy jeans and bandannas, it was not the best club I've ever been to. Still, a good time.
The only notable aspects of the next day were another bowl of ramen and "My Neighbor Totoro" on the in-hover movie. I took lots of pictures; will post the best one when I get them developed.
As for me, I'm back in Seoul now, working at Seoul Academy. More updates on my situation to follow.
posted by Brian at 12:54 AM
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