It's not funny. We spend all the time looking at each other and trying to communicate by sign language, like two monkeys. For example, yesterday I was in Yokohama to visit some people at the Tokyo Institute of Technology. When I came back in the afternoon, I found an e-mail by mr. Sato, who wanted to check some details of his work program. His mail began like this: Dear professor C., this is the summary of yesterday conversation. If my reputation is wrong, please correct it.
It is not his reputation to be wrong. It is his english.
Therefore, since I am sad for the imminent departure, and today the spring sun was shining eventually, I took a half day off.
Part of my afternoon was spent in a visit at a forgotten, little museum in Shirokanedai, the Hatakeyama Museum of Fine Art. This is a very special place, around Shinagawa subway station, where there are no tourists (the stupid Lonely Planet doesn't even mention it). The Museum is surrounded by a wonderful japanese garden, with small wooden cabins and two distinct tea houses. The building, in traditional style, is extremely pleasant to llok at and to walk in. Obviously you take off your shoes at the entrance, while a gentle attendant offers you slippers of the right size, and when you are inside that place it seems just impossible that just a few hundred meters away there is that crazy world made of concrete, steel, cars, cables, and the internet. This lovely little museum is a haven of peace and quiet. It hosts a notable collection of pottery, tea ware, utensils, calligraphy, and a few paintings, and while the collection amounts to more than 1,500 pieces, only a few items are on display every season. I would say in this moment there were just about 20 pottery items, 6 or 7 paintings and calligraphy examples, and a few wooden utensils. A true monument to rigor and zen economy of thought! And for just 400Y extra, I could kneel down in the tea house built at the upper floor, and have green matcha and cookies served by an attendant, who seemed to be an experienced tea master.
For the rest of the afternoon I just decided to walk around. I started from Gotanda subway station, and walked to Ebisu. Visited again the Good Day Bookstore looking for my friend Steve and his whisky, but he wasn't there (the other guy from the store was not as friendly). Then I walked back to Shibuya. And then I took on to Meiji dori, and walked up to Jingumae. Since you probably don't know, it's more than 10km walk. I wanted to absorb the atmosphere of the city, stop in some beautiful places (I spent about 20' drawing furniture on my travel booklet at the Cassina IXC Expo store), or funny places (such as that fashionista that sells any kind of printed t-shirts). I wanted to impress things and lights and colors in my memory.
Then I went for dinner to another okonomiyaki place, only to discover that the first one was better. However, this one was not bad either, and moreover I could sit at the bar stools, since I was alone. It was a spectacular lesson in japanese cuisine! I watched for about an hour the cooks preparing the many variations on the theme of eggs, vegetables, meat and fish, stealing recipes, secrets, and tricks of the trade. I took four pages of notes and careful drawings of the cooking techniques, on my booklet, check this out!
highlight of the day: the very intellectual fishermen in Ebisu.
Music for your fish. I already wrote here that wherever you go in Tokyo you can listen to jingles. When you stop at the redlights, you are greeted by a brief music, that changes into something more alert when it's your turn to cross the street. When you enter a public toilet in a shopping mall or in a hotel, there is invariably a kindergarten lullaby to treat your tired ears while you attend to your physiological needs. The most annoying jingles are those in big chain stores, like Bic Camera or Sofmap, which are conceived to stamp their presence in your head long after you are gone. So, this afternoon I was absolutely surprised when I entered a little fish market in Ebisu. I was firstly attracted by the glass window display, where I saw many varieties of dried fish which I didn't know. I walked in, and store after store, there was this gentle music coming from the ceiling speakers... it was one of the sonatas for flute and orchestra by Bach! What a funny and unthinkable contrast! All those weary fishermen and their women, handling racks of shrimps and mackerels, at the rhythm of Bach's baroque music. I could imagine the fat woman with eyeglasses at the first shop dancing gently her minuetto, while wrapping a pink halibut. It was amazing, to think of such music, written four centuries ago in the heart of old Europe and intended to a court of noble aristocrats, being now happily played in a fish market in the farmost Asia, to accompany the choice of your food!
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