Restrooms   I think a further discussion of toilet facilities should catch people’s attention. We already talked about those washlets twice, once in the Japanese hotel in Honolulu and once on arrival in Tokyo. They’ve been in every hotel I’ve been in, and that thin spray of warm water just hits the spot, so to speak. Unfortunately, the washlets also have heated seats (seeing electrical wiring coming out of a toilet seat is off-putting), and the hotel maids seem to get their jollies by leaving the seats turned on, so that on arrival, the term “hotseat” takes on a new meaning. I prefer them turned off.

Traditional Japan from before 1868 remains with us today. Not only do a number of women (and an occasional man) like to dress up in kimonos in public places, especially shrines and monuments, in contrast to Western dress, and not only do Japanese vary between chopsticks and knives and forks, sometimes even in a family group at the same table, and not only do Japanese like their traditional foods as well as Western food, the dichotomy extends to toilets, where both Japanese toilets and Western toilets are available in public places. I assume in private homes one has what one prefers. I also assume that, when moving into a new home, the kind of toilet it has would be another reason to like or dislike it.

The traditional Japanese toilet is a squat toilet, which is also common in areas of the Mediterranean, notably southern Italy, where it can be referred to as a Turkish toilet. Of course, as anyone who’s spent time walking through the woods can attest, squatting is the normal, original way, and very probably works better than sitting. The Japanese version of a squat toilet is a small, stainless steel trench with a raised shield in the front. I assume it’s obvious why the shield is in the front. There are two footprints on the sides to stand on. Although dry when used, it then flushes as normal.

The squat toilet in public places has the big advantage of not having to make contact whatsoever with a public toilet seat. It has the possible disadvantage (but it’s no big deal) that clothing adjustments are advisable.

Most public places have at least two toilets, and they’re usually labeled as being a Japanese toilet or Western toilet, so one has a choice. (I advise, if you’ve never tried it, to go native.) This choice extends to trains, including the Shinkansen.

Perhaps you’ve visited historic buildings which include original period toilets. I visited a Japanese historic government building in Takayama, the Jinya, which had a couple of period Japanese toilets, which were eye-openers. Just as the building is all wood, in the toilet, so were the trench and splashboard. But I didn’t see how it was flushable. Let’s leave it at that.

Well, while we’re talking about toilets, let’s go all the way. On the trains, including the Shinkansen, there is almost always a urinal for men as well, usually coyly labeled in English “Gentlemen”. It’s like a phone booth, and has a single urinal with support bars and a tiny sink. But also like a phone booth, the bifold door is at least half glass, which is one thing that would usually deeply disturb American sensibilities, but not European (or evidently Japanese) ones, which are used to more openness on such matters, where cleaning women regularly clean men’s rooms while they’re being used, and where urinals can sometimes appear in public places. I particularly remember the bright-white new urinals that were being installed in Amsterdam on my last visit there that looked like the top of a large vanilla soft-ice ice cream cone, tall as a person. It was not enclosed whatsoever. There were about three swirls in the “ice-cream” shape, where each user was to stand. I never saw one being used, but was tempted to do so, but unfortunately had no need. Maybe next time.

In any case, public restrooms in Japan are always free of charge. As a matter of fact, so is internet access in every hotel I’ve been in. The Japanese do things right.

Day 15: Takayama I   We now go from the ridiculous to the sublime. Early on a Sunday morning I made subway connections to Kyoto station for the Shinkansen to backtrack to Nagoya. I had wanted to go to Takayama before Kyoto, but hotel reservations didn’t work out. However, it was only a bit more than a half-hour back to Nagoya, where I got the regular train up into the mountains.

The several mountain ranges in this central area of Honshu are often referred to as the Japanese Alps, and are included in Japanese Alps National Park. Therefore, the ride up to Takayama is scenic. The mountains near Takayama (to the east) are the Hida Mountains, and all of the Japanese Alps can reach up to 3000 m / 10,000 ft, and are the tallest in Japan except for Fuji. From my hotel I can see that the view to the west has lower foothills, but to the east, behind the lower foothills are the snow-covered Hidas. This being my second mountain town, I was wondering how Takayama’s altitude compared to Nikko’s 543 m (1781 ft). They are almost the same, with Takayama being officially at 573 m (1879 ft). And, as nice as the tree colors were in low-level Kyoto, I found the autumn tree colors in Takayama as pleasing as in Nikko. I particularly remember a large, totally bright yellow tree in the sun on the river’s edge, and the reds, oranges, and yellows in a number of gardens and on the hillsides, contrasting with the green of the evergreens.

Takayama is a medium-sized town. While Nikko was long and linear, with the road from the station coming past the hotel and on to the Imperial Villa, Takayama is compact, and easily visualized, since everything of interest seems to run north-south; first the rail line with the center of town lying directly to the east of it, then one block east is the street with my hotel, and maybe six blocks further is the river. Just across the river is the historic district with the morning market along it, and one block further is the main historic street.

What seemed to me the best hotel to book in this case was an American one, the Best Western Takayama, which is small and quite comfortable. Only once I was here did it strike me that the name “Best Western” might strike Japanese ears as having a very different meaning, given the ongoing differences between the Japanese and Western ways of doing things.

I arrived on a Sunday afternoon and walked the half-dozen blocks to the river through a cozy, middle-class neighborhood. Takayama was founded in the 16C, and across the river was the San-machi Suji Historic District, where traditional buildings and shops were under preservation status. The first street in from the river and running for three blocks parallel to it was the most interesting one, Sannomachi Street, which consists of old merchant houses and shops. This picture shows a drizzle, but I had bright weather both days, more crowded on Sunday, and like this on Monday. The thing to note on this and other pictures is, aside from the bright orange and vermilion on many temples, the somber, deep brown wooden look that’s so typical of historic Japanese construction on so many palaces, older homes, Kyoto’s geisha district, and streets like this. Note the one- or two-story height, overhanging roofs, and latticed windows. But Takayama streets have a unique feature, the small canals pictured here running down both sides of the street, crossed by stone, and sometimes wooden, “bridges” into the buildings. These are not sewers. They contain swiftly flowing fresh water. Their original purpose was fire prevention, fire being the eternal plague of Japanese buildings, and for dumping winter snows into—and perhaps some laundering as well.

I noticed an automaton along the street and watched it a few times. It was a doll in a Japanese costume that would move its head and then lift with both arms a box from a table, and each time a different item would be revealed. The whole thing was in a glass and wood case right outside a shop. It was a pleasant curiosity, and the kids liked it especially. But after passing it several times, I took a closer look as to what that noise was I heard from down below. Sure enough, the case was positioned over one of the canals, and there was a small waterwheel under it being spun by the rushing water that made the whole thing work. It was a surprise to me, but the several signs in Japanese may have alerted those who could read them about the water wheel.

I looked in the shops, which were really quite modern. Yet, the past was present. First, I saw a salesman using an abacus. When I looked again, he was cross-referencing the result from the abacus with a hand-held calculator. Welcome to Japan.

All along the way, all the food displays offered samples, often Japanese candies or crackers. They do wonderful things with sesame seeds. Also, one shop had a line of people entering where they were giving sample cups of soup, which seemed to be miso, and was very good.

But the first thing I encountered on reaching the street was a little booth in which a woman was preparing a treat. Fortunately, she’d prepared a sign in English, so I was more readily attracted to what she was selling for ￥ 70 per bamboo skewer. They were called Midarashi Dango, and were dumplings, five walnut-sized rice balls lined up on the stick. They were pre-cooked, but then she dipped them into soy sauce, and grilled them until the outside turned brown and crisp. Before the afternoon was over, I’d bought three.

Day 16: Takayama II   For my second day I’d planned three stops. First was the Miyagawa Morning Market, which was directly on the river, one block closer than the historic street. The orange and yellow trees along the river added to the experience. Unlike the Hakodate Morning Market, which was much more commercially oriented and larger, this one was more of a farmers’ market, with little booths offering interesting things to sample. Very tasty was a horse-chestnut cracker, and more of those sesame-seed crackers in several flavors. One woman offered green tea to sample, another had soup. And then a fruit stand had small pieces of apple to sample, which I’m sure were Fuji apples, since they were so large, crisp and sweet. I later checked the background of Fuji apples. They were developed near Aomori (which I’d passed just before the Seikan Tunnel) in the late 1930’s and brought to market in 1962. They’re a cross between two American apple varieties, one of them being the red delicious. They are apparently very popular in Japan, with the Aomori area producing many of them, so popular that few other varieties are imported. Their popularity is also spreading abroad, and I’m sure that that’s the kind of apple I also sampled at the Pike Place Market in Seattle just a year ago. Fuji apples apparently also have a very long shelf life, and when refrigerated can last up to five months.

There were two buildings I wanted to visit in or near the Historic District. To the north was the Kusakabe Heritage House, whose present structure, after earlier fires, now dates from 1879, rebuilt by an architect who carefully followed the style of the Edo Period. It’s directly on the street, with a sliding door to enter. It’s the house of a merchant, built in cypress, in baronial style, with the usual latticework windows, and finished in the usual deep, dark brown paint (or wood stain?) typical of this architecture. But it was here that I learned that the deep dark color was obtained by adding soot to the painting material. As in most houses and buildings, the floor was covered in tatami mats, so one, as ever, removed one’s shoes. Part of the house surrounded an atrium garden with a well, and we visitors were served green tea with a saucer-sized rice cracker on an open courtyard, which I thought was a nice touch that gave the feeling of really visiting a private home. But I was most impressed with the large central Great Room with a cathedral ceiling and open fireplace. I sat for some time admiring the deep browns of this room, only some of which show up well in this picture.

On the south end of the district and just barely back on my side of the river is the historical government house, the Takayama Jinya, which served for 177 years (1692-1868—that fateful year). It is the only period local government office left in Japan. Its layout is like a palace, with about half being original buildings and half reconstructions made in 1996. The business area shows where government officials and petitioners sat on the floor on mats in front of chests to take care of affairs. Part of the complex is living quarters surrounding a beautiful garden with all the autumn colors, especially red and orange. There is also a bonsai exhibit.

I’ve said I don’t buy things when I travel. If I did, I’d have to move out of my house. This trip I just got the kanji reader and a couple of books to read on the train and plane. But walking down the historic Sannomachi Street I did find a shop that had three items that interested me, but not frivolously, since each one had a particular significance for this trip. I bought a lacquered wooden bowl about the size of an open hand. They came in black and even red, but I got one in the deep brown so typical of woodwork here. I found a squat little square bottle about the same size as the bowl that will hold pens and pencils at my desk. It was of two shades of cobalt blue, a favorite color of mine—I have floor tiles at home of this color. When I was on that hillside in Kamakura looking down on the town, I was impressed by two roofs in particular that had cobalt-blue barrel tiles that were quite fetching. Finally, I bought a small leaf tray that was made of real leaves and paper, somehow moistened and pressed together. It’s light as a feather and reminds me of the autumn leaves I’ve been watching. It came in a light brown, which didn’t seem right, and a forest green, which I got. Unfortunately there were no reds or oranges.

Sukiyaki   On arriving the first day in Takayama I passed a small shop on a quiet street (but then, all the streets were quiet) just one block from the hotel. It was right on a corner, and had a sign in English saying it offered Sukiyaki, which I’d never had and decided I wanted to try on my second and last night. But I felt I had to research it first. It’s described as a hot-pot style of meal, which would have made it similar to shabu-shabu; but that was done in just hot water, and you added your own items. Sukiyaki turned out to be much better.

It can be made with vegetables or tofu, but the usual is beef sukiyaki, which includes the other two items. The items come already cooking in a shallow iron pot in a mixture of sugar, soy sauce, and mirin (similar to sake, usually used for cooking purposes). But Wikipedia warned that it also comes with a small bowl of raw, beaten egg on the side, into which all the items are dipped before eating, the hot food sort of cooking the egg a bit as you eat it. I also noted that Sukiyaki is a meal usually reserved for colder days. This Sukiyaki service is set for several people, and you see the egg dip. This different closeup of Sukiyaki more clearly shows the beef, tofu, and vegetables.

So I set off that evening ready for my adventure. It was great fun, but turned out differently from what I’d expected, which made it even more fun. I envisioned going into a restaurant of reasonable size, being seated by a hostess, and ordering sukiyaki while others ate different things. But that’s not what happened.

I got to that street corner a block away and stopped in front of the restaurant, eventually figuring out where the sliding door was, and went in. But I found myself in front of a counter with about six plush stools in front of it, and also I was the only customer (on a Monday night). The part of the restaurant that bent around the corner was her kitchen. I say “her” because the proprietor was a beaming-faced woman who seemed glad to see me in her cozy—and tiny—shop. When I reviewed the laminated dual-language menu I finally realized that this was a sukiyaki specialty ship. You could have sukiyaki in various combinations and with various side dishes, but that was it. So by pure chance I’d found a sukiyaki specialty shop! She immediately assumed, quite correctly, that I wanted the beef sukiyaki, and went off to the kitchen to get things started.

I’d been having beer most of the time (Kirin, Asahi, Sapporo), but it was appropriate to finally order sake this time. I’d had it before, and it’s pleasant enough, although not a favorite. It came either cold or warm, and I took the warm, partially because I’d never had warm sake before, but also because there was a chill in the evening Takayama mountain air and the shop was so cozy, making it even more conducive to warm sake. It came in a small ceramic container, which filled the little cup several times.

First came a tiny appetizer dish of what looked like julienned carrot and cucumber strips in a spicy sauce. As always, there were also Japanese pickles, which come in many varieties. There were chopsticks and no other silverware (although she might have had some hidden away if someone asked).

As teenagers, my cousin Gary and I taught ourselves to use chopsticks whenever we went to Chinatown in New York, and Beverly picked it up as well in no time. It is NOT difficult. I use chopsticks exclusively anytime I’m in any restaurant serving Asian food. However, this trip was the first time I’d ever been in a country where chopsticks were the norm (or one of the norms). So it’s been fun. Now she eyed me eating my appetizer and pickles with chopsticks and didn’t say anything. But then she put the unbeaten egg in a small dish in front of me while she was fussing with the ingredients in the iron pot, to which I saw her add a couple of large spoonfuls of sugar and a healthy pour of soy sauce. Now an unbeaten egg makes no sense, and anyway, I’d read that it was supposed to be beaten, so I took my chopsticks (held together as one) picked up the egg dish, and started beating. Well, this delighted the lady. She clapped her hands and gave me a stream of Japanese, which I can only presume was complementary.

Then, when I plunged into my sukiyaki, she just watched me eat with chopsticks for a while with a big smile on her face, before disappearing into the kitchen. But I had noticed that her brief menu also had plum liqueur on it, which Beverly and I always used to like, so when the sake was gone, I called her back and got a nice big pour of that. Delicious.

After I paid and turned to the door (immediately behind me in the cozy space), I laid on one of my Western bows (my mother raised polite kids) and she reciprocated with a deep Japanese bow from behind the counter.

Now throughout the session we kept on thanking each other for everything. All I had was a sickly “arigato” to offer, but she had something longer, which presumably included “very much”. And then at the end, she said something with a definite SH in it I hadn’t heard before. Well, I couldn’t leave it at that, so I looked it up online. I found a website that tells you how to thank people in several hundred languages, and what I found for Japanese was this. Arigato is fine by itself, but it can be extended in two ways, which already piqued my interest, since something special like this has a cultural context as well. It depends on whether or not the thanking is ongoing, or final. If you’re in the middle of thanking someone, as she had been during the meal, you can say “arigato gozaimasu”, but if the visit is over, as it was as I was leaving, you then vary it to “arigato gozaimashita”, which had that SH I’d heard. You learn these things best by living them.

Day 17: Train Day   I purposely left Takayama in the wrong direction. It was a little longer to my destination to go north to the west coast of Japan, but worth it to see new territory and not to backtrack back through Nagoya again. I changed trains in Toyama, and on that ride, passed not too far from the city of Obama, which continues to celebrate the election of Barack Obama as though there were some real connection. On these local trains, conductors do check tickets, but I noticed that when he reached the beginning of the car, he first bowed to everyone. I then changed trains in Kyoto for Nara.

Original Haikus   I have found that the various encounters with nature here and the demonstrations of the passing of time allow haikus to write themselves. Japanese history in Tokyo:

The current season:

In the North:

And this one actually wrote itself while I was sitting on a bench contemplating the Great Room of the Kusakabe Heritage House: