It seemed I was in terrible danger.
Whatever happens, I thought, as Death trotted towards me, I won’t regret trying.
Such is the attitude of any kind of exercise. On some t-shirt I once read “‘Boy, I really regret that workout,’ SAID NO ONE EVER.” To me, physical recreation has a purifying effect on the soul.
And as I faced mortal peril deep in the mountains outside Kyoto, I experienced a moment of clarity, remembering the very physically active day I had so far experienced.
Long reigns the Gion Matsuri (literally Gion Festival), a celebration in Kyoto, Japan since 869 A.D. That’s no typo – this tradition has been celebrated annually for 1200 years. Originally founded as a sacred ritual to pray away famine, death, disease and disaster, Japan’s oldest and greatest celebration has morphed from one oppressed religion to another. Today it is a kind of open party, complete with a parade, huge floats, public drinking, carnival games, and food stalls, across the entire city. It is the pride of this archipelago nation, a celebration fit to rival Chinese New Year, or Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Keyword: fit.
Hoko Shrine: The Gion Matsuri, on a side street.
Some of the ancient festival’s parade floats, parked throughout the Gion district in the days before the festival, tower 100 feet above the street. A few even have a dozen men on board, participating in ancient, graceful and mysterious rituals of singing and drum-tapping. The lore of these rituals continues to this day.
This will be a short note. I apologize to my millions of loyal fans, for whom I’m currently working on a new full-size entry about a recent evening in Osaka. But I thought, living in a country virtually demolished by the victorious forces in World War II, I could leave a note on the 70th anniversary of that war’s most pivotal moment.
The year after D-Day was a historical period of extreme cultural exchange, perhaps not seen since First Encounter 450 years earlier. Within weeks, the French farmers and villagers of Northern France, celebrating their liberation, were tasting Coca Cola, trying bubble gum, playing baseball and listening to American music for the first time.
Fast forward to today. I work in Kyoto, Japan, the ancient capital of Japan and perhaps its most culturally valued, historically preserved city.
Walking through Kyoto, one sees a Burger King dominating the city center, a Starbucks filled with youth, two or three McDonalds’ every square mile, Disney movies filling the theaters, “New York” Pizza stands, Facebook users, Instagrammers, even Japanese apps are named in English, the word “vintage” everywhere, English signs everywhere (and I really, really mean everywhere), etc. etc. Irrelevant but ironic is the widespread Japanese glorification of white people with blonde hair.
We’ve brought America to every nation on Earth, and it began on the beaches of Normandy 70 years ago. I’m not sure how to feel about how far it’s come, but cheers to those who got the ball rolling, at high cost, and for the best reasons. USA number one.
-Greg
Today is May 7th, two months to the day since my arrival in Japan. I knew I’d leave behind major comforts in America, yet I wasn’t ready for the blow I received the very first night.
It was March 7th. After an exhausting journey, our trainer Kyle took my co-trainee and me to a grocery store in Osaka, Japan. Looking around at all the food, thinking of the reasonably comfortable hotel room waiting for me, I felt safe at last. Proceeding to the open refrigerator, I grabbed the first plastic container of a beige substance I saw. “Great,” I said. “Hummus. Looks like I have breakfast for tomorrow.”
“Hummus?” repeated Kyle. “Yeah, you won’t find hummus here.”
Horrified, I dropped the sweetened soy-paste.
Won’t find hummus?
I thought this was a metropolitan country. There’s an Italian restaurant on every street here, and there’s not a corner in Italy – or any Mediterranean country for that matter – without a kebab stand selling hummus for an extra euro.
“Japan is different,” explained Kyle. Mercilessly I might add.