Perhaps the paramount thing in my mind when I began this haphazard discussion (this column) of what it means to understand and be exposed to a culture, was my experience with 1970s pop music in Japan. I have no hesitation in saying that the strongest link that I constructed with Japanese culture in my childhood, was through this genre of music.

When I was little, my mom would play a dark grey cassette that contained hit songs from the 70s, to which I can remember dancing and singing to (remember, I was a kid) in our living room. We would also watch recordings of music shows and recaps of retro hits that my aunt would send us via VCR, and these were the songs that latched themselves onto my soul for the rest of my life.

These are not only some of my first memories, but also one of the first things I could touch and feel as I groped in the dark to try to understand (as one can when they’re a kid) this culture that I knew was different from the one I lived in, but of which I was somehow a part.

Many of the songs from the 70s, much like our own hits from the 70s in America, still hold a prominent place in music culture even now. You will still see shows that reminisce about the cultural importance of these hit songs, what they meant then, and what they mean  now.

The 70s have been hailed as the Golden Age of popular music in Japan. It witnessed the rise of the pop star, the conflagration of a specific form of pop called kayokyoku, and the emergence of Nyu Myujikku (literally “New Music”) which featured singer-songwriters, one of which was Southern All Stars.

These songs marked a decade of hope and aspirations, a call to be strong and look to the future, a reassertion of confidence, and the passing of a former generation.  And now let me list a few of my favorites, and a few objective hits.

1) Kamome ga Tonda Hi by Watanabe Machiko

This was one of those songs on that cassette tape I mentioned earlier. The title means “the day the gull flew away,” and tells of how a woman’s lover decided to leave her. Back in the day I just liked the melody (which I still think is awesome) but the lyrics are also neat, blending the protagonist’s sorrow with the marine scenery before her, and a noncommittal man between.

2) Mata Au Hi Made by Ozaki Kiyohiko

This. Is. A classic. It was Ozaki’s shooting star moment—he ruptured the sky one second, but it was the only time he shone. This remains one of the greatest classics in Japanese music history. Titled “Until We Meet Again,” it centers around a couple agreeing to separate until they, well, meet again. This song was also Aku Yu (the lyricist)’s subtle way of shifting the tide in lyric-writing. Until the 70s, women in song lyrics were almost always passive beings—they were abandoned, left, pining for the man that they lost, with an implication that life “ended,” in a way, after the tearing up of a relationship. Aku diverged from this trend. In this song, the sentiment to break up was mutual—what is crucial in the lyrics is futari (both of us) and (o)tagai (each other), which places both parties of the relationship on the same ground. No one is left, and both have a say.

3) UFO by Pink Lady (but basically all of their songs)

Mii and Kei, a dynamic duo, took Japan by storm and even encroached into America with their catchy songs and flashy costumes. Call it corny, call it what you will, but their songs took over the radio and, oddly enough, captured children’s imaginations. You could see little kids reproducing Pink Lady’s iconic dances on the sidewalk back in the day. I came along twenty years too late, but it still managed to become a part of my childhood.

4)  “Kita no Yado kara” by Miyako Harumi

Miyako Harumi is one of the most iconic enka artists, enka being a more hybrid version of traditional music and the blues. This epic song blasted off in 1976, fueled by a great melody, melancholy but subtly gutsy lyrics, and Miyako Harumi’s unequaled vocals. Lit. “From the Inn in the North” is a perfect song for a winter afternoon.

4b) If I’m going to talk about winter enka songs, I cannot leave out “Tsugaru kaikyo fuyugeshiki” (Winter scenery; the Tsugaru Strait), by Ishikawa Sayuri. She first performed this at 19 years of age, a beautiful song written again by Aku Yu about a woman leaving a lover and hopping on a ship back to the north. It gives me goosebumps every time.

5) “Minato no Yoko Yokohama Yokosuka” by the Downtown Boogie Woogie Band

The 70s was also a friendly battle site between lyricists. Aku Yu, a giant of this musical era, wrote that he was pretty much blasted off his chair by this song, produced by Aki Yoko and Uzaki Ryudo (also the lead singer), a husband-wife duo. Yoko would herself become a very influential lyricist from hereon. Aku admitted that he was almost envious because he hadn’t thought of writing a song like this, in all its gutsy glory and bravado, first.

6) “Champion” by Alice

A rock band trio produced this classic in 1978, an anthem that would leave its deep, visceral mark on the music scene. It’s fiery, following a boxing fighter into the ring and out of it, a champion–a champion that didn’t win the match, but a champion nonetheless, who whispers to himself that now he can go back to being “an ordinary man.”

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And this article might help you get out of your musical rut.

Recently a friend and I rediscovered the many marvelous hits of Japanese popular music in the 1990s and early 2000s when music was big, charismatic, and all-out. Here are a few of my favorites.

1) Southern All Stars

This band has been rocking it since the 1970s as part of a movement called “New Music” (which centered around singer-songwriters) and continues to produce awesome, soulful hits even today, with its lead singer, Kuwata Keisuke, occasionally producing these hits on his own. They’re known for their potentially wacky and playful songs and Kuwata’s bluesy voice, both of which resonate wonderfully with the summer months. A recent hit of theirs is the theme song for Sora Tobu Taiya, a film that came out this past summer. Perhaps one of their most successful hits is tsunami, one of their slower songs; my favorites are Itoshi no Ellie, Hotaru, and Tsunami.

2) Mr. Children

Here’s another band for you, with a vibe that is all their own. The lead singer Sakurai Kazutoshi, like Kuwata, is one of the few popular singers in the past thirty years with a unique, catchy voice, paired with songs (that alwaysss make the top 20) known for their very deep lyrics.

One of their breakthroughs was Tomorrow Never Knows with its epic video of Sakurai standing on the edge of a windy cliff and belting out this epic song. Other awesome hits are Innocent World and Shirushi.

3) Hamasaki Ayumi

She was the queen of Japanese pop and rock in the ‘90s and ‘00s, churning out huge, catchy hits, like Evolution, Bluebird, Song for xx, and Marionette. She is considered the best-selling solo artist of all time in Japan. The neat combination of her commanding stage persona and her deep, introspective lyrics has roped in a huge following.

4) Gackt

Hopefully you have already heard of this artist, who is considered one of (if not the) most successful solo male artists in recent Japanese music history. His medium is rock, and he is known for his bronzy baritone voice and an unforgettable, almost other-worldly aura.

Outside of music, he has also attained success as an actor (for instance, he played Uesugi Kenshin in the drama Furin Kazan) and film producer (his first film being Moon Child). My favorite of his songs is Returner, but Ghost, and Lu:na are also especially recommendable.

5) 米米 CLUB (kome kome club)

Another staple of the ‘90s in Japan was the band called 米米CLUB, who whipped out some awesome songs. With hits like Shake Hip and Kimi Ga Irudakede, they brought funky vibes and fresh air to the pop-rock scene, producing an irreplaceable sound that, once it has graced your ears, will never leave your existence. Now, this may not be something you want to listen to on an everyday basis (that is up to you), but definitely something that you want to be exposed to once before you die.

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Temples are a sort of neighborhood oasis — perfect for when you want to escape the stress, concrete and traffic of everyday life.

When I studied abroad in Japan, my two big goals were 1) to take advantage of my cultural and academic experience in Tokyo and all that great stuff, and 2) to find temples.

After my purposeful and accidental temple wanderings, I was not only able to see the various functions temples hold in everyday life, but also to catch the different faces these sites show at different times of day.

It doesn’t matter where you’re from or how you made your way to temples — they share a sense of calm and belonging that transcends pretty much everything. My fondest memories of Japan during my brief travels there as a kid were walking to the temples in my grandparents’ neighborhood and looking at the trees, listening to the crows, and watching people walk up to the temple to throw coins and ring the bell rope.

Temples have the silent ability of taking a location and making it yours.

The original function of many temples was a protective one. They were a place to protect your “village” or “town.” As a sort of communal center, they also served as the hubbub of annual festivals, such as ennichi or matsuri, most often held during the dog days of summer and beginnings of fall.

At New Years, many visit their local temples for the first shrine visit of the year (a hatsumoude). In the spring, the temple grounds burst into color during cherry blossom season.

When not in the center of action, temples receive daily meanderers. Some (like me) visit for a nice walk/detour from commute. Others wander through to offer a prayer of success, hope, or grief.

I would often stand off to the side, or sit on a bench, and watch the successive visitors as they walked up to the altar, and wonder what it was they were praying about.

Click here to see this in motion. (video taken by author)

During my walks, I also found the many different faces a temple will show throughout the day. The starkest difference, I think, was at night. Once in the summer, I came home later than I usually did, walking out of the train station right when it began to grow dark. It coincided with the onset of the intense heat that was to take over Japan in July and August—and so I was quite sweaty and tired.

After walking past the little restaurants and shops that had their warm, yellow neon lights lit, I glanced over at the temple to see it aglow as well. Little lantern posts lined up along the walkway, leading to two large lanterns on either side of the front of the temple, which I had never noticed before.

Instead of going straight to my grandparents’ house, I took a little detour to another temple close by, and saw a similar sight—several series of stairs lit by rather ghostly lanterns. Because the dark obstructed most of my sight, and the birds were asleep, I heard and felt things I could not during the day. You could almost feel the place breathe. It felt alive.

See night temple magic in motion. (video taken by author)

Whenever you find yourself in Japan, I recommend you search out these neighborhood delights, and see what surprises you will stumble upon in your adventures. Japan shows its beauty and life in unexpected places.

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As he began to settle down in Edo, Ieyasu decided that he needed a regular supply of fish (an understandable priority). He thus summoned a group of professional fishermen from Tsukudamura, Osaka, in 1590, as the official fish suppliers to Edo castle.

These fishermen made use of what was left over from their transaction with the royal castle and distributed them to more regular customers around the town, accelerating a very healthy business. The Nihonbashi fish market was established soon after, until it was destroyed in the great Kanto earthquake. The fish market then moved to its present-day location in Tsukiji in 1935. That is, until this year.

Saturday, October 6^th saw the last tuna auction at Tsukiji, before the big move to Toyosu (a location closer to Tokyo Bay). A sad day.

Why the big move? The main cited reason is that the Tsukiji market is showing signs of serious age and wear, heightened this summer when the air cooling units malfunctioned during the horrific heat wave.

So it’s about time the fish market got a fresh start. However, there remains an element that the property the market is currently sitting on could be utilized for the Tokyo Olympics of 2020. And so the market is in the way of possibly brilliant plans for the Big Event in 2020. But that is all just talk, of course.

Regardless, we are currently witnessing a change in eras, if you measure eras by fish markets. Tsukiji has long been the axle of the fishing and culinary scene in Tokyo. It vestiges the strong integration of fish and society, the professional and passionate relationship between fishermen, fish, and culinary artist, and the artful juxtaposition of the old and the new in Tokyo.

When I was abroad in Tokyo this spring/summer, I stumbled on Tsukiji during my rambles around Ginza. I remember walking from the high-end business district and suddenly noticing rusty buildings across a busy intersection. It was after crossing the intersection that I realized I had walked in on the Tsukiji turf itself.

It was one of the most exhilarating experiences I’ve ever had, and one of the few times I fell in love with a location in the first five minutes.

Small vendors yelling advertisements of their wares spread out on makeshift tables, melted ice thrown into street corners, buyers and wanderers from all over the world just being passionate about fish and fish culture.

All of this took place beneath rusted buildings and gutters filled with grass that silently told of years’ past. Here you could feel the collapsed distance between source and destination.

Tsukiji has an elemental nature to it, one of unadorned enthusiasm for contact with food, source, and people. It’s an atmosphere that no one takes for granted.

Though this transition between fish markets is a rather sad development, I believe this is one of the fundamental characteristics of Tokyo. It is a mobile, fluid city; change and transition is part of its stability and identity.

And now the market has begun a new life in Toyosu — which I cannot wait to check out for myself someday.

The post Matcha, Manga, and Mayonnaise: Ode to Tsukiji appeared first on KRUI Radio.

The Englert’s dark stage, dimly lit by trippy cerulean blue lights, featured a lineup of brilliant young writers. Each owning the stage in their turn and in their own way, they read a selection from their creative work, ranging from poetry to novels to nonfiction.

What was particularly amazing right off the bat about the performers (especially for me) was where they were at in their lives this night. For instance, the first performer, Aimee Frederickson, is a fourth-year undergrad at the UI, a writer featured in Earthwords.

I would never dream of the possibility of even stepping foot on the Englert stage, or any sizable stage for that matter, reading my own creative work at this point in my life. And yet there I watched a fellow classmate rocking the stage with electric poetry and a different take on the first dog in space.

Reflecting on their achievements, it’s natural to ponder one’s own potential in such a setting. Many, like myself, may find it daunting to imagine stepping onto a grand stage and sharing their creative work.

However, with the advent of an AI book writer, there emerges a new avenue for aspiring writers to explore and develop their craft. Through innovative platforms like Youbooks, writers can harness the power of AI to create compelling narratives and explore new storytelling possibilities, regardless of their current stage in life.

Just as the young performers at the Englert captivated audiences with their artistry, AI book writers offer a promising path for individuals to express themselves creatively and share their stories with the world.

This event was also impressive in the number of readers it featured. The plurality of performers reminded me more of an open mic than a reading, which added a raw and rich quality to the event.

It also left me gasping for time to digest everything that I had seen by the end of the event (and which I still haven’t quite done). Each performer brought currents of ideas, thoughts, languages, and experiences that swirled in thought vortexes towards the audience.

There was also the element of seeing the future in the making. MFA candidate Bruna Dantas Lobatos, for example, read from her novel-in-progress. It was a scene describing a phone call between a daughter and her mother, and the distortion of distance, intimacy, and visualization.

This made the second time I have been able to listen to/ be exposed to a novel in progress, and it is an experience that I absolutely love. Novels bear a greater image of a “finished product,” and being able to be exposed to it when it is still in process gives the idea of a novel and writing a greater sense of tactility that I really value.

The night also featured incredibly magnetic performances. Leon Pan, an MFA student

at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, read one poem. It was short. How short, I have no idea.

His poem and his performance held you in an uncertain limbo, tasting the words and wanting to unravel the compactness to see the depth beneath, and then stopping so that you suddenly fell from the suspension you were held in. I hope I am able to meet this poem again somewhere because I didn’t have enough of it.

This reading opened a brief, whirling portal into writing in its fibrous, tactile, and pliant form. It’s an opportunity you can only really get in an environment that brings art to you in the raw–an environment called Iowa City.

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Bascaljon is a brilliant scholar and author of Eastern Iowa, having also been an instructor at the UI. He also leads the event “Coffee with Dan,” a panel/discussion held at Pointdexter Coffee.

The topic of this workshop centered around the presence and use of “space” in creative work. I must say that workshops are not always a comfortable space for me, but Dan did a wonderful job making this one quite cozy and relaxed. He was aided by the presence of coffee and pastries from Java, which rescued us participants from early morning sleepiness.

Seated around a round-ish table in one of MERGE’s spacy conference rooms, we began by discussing answers to Bascaljon’s warm-up questions about what space actually is, and what it means to make space.

I think it’s safe to say that a lot of us tend to think of space in physical terms — rooms, elevators, cars. At least, that was what I first thought of in response to this question. But it initiated answers including physical movement, meditation, and marginalized voices as “definitions” or conceptions of space. Music was particularly interesting, as both inherently and actively spatial.

One way of visualizing space is as a sculpture. And instead of viewing it as a sort of void to be filled, we could see it as a block with endless possibilities, to be shaped, molded, and sculpted to its great potential.

And thus, music, if we view it as an agent, could thus be seen as something that shapes space.

And what about spaces that we ourselves inhabit? Participants also discussed what spaces felt comfortable or uncomfortable. Are we innately agoraphobic? Or is it that not space itself, but the way in which it leaves us vulnerable to other people who inhabit that space, which makes it disagreeable?

Bascaljon then took this discussion to focus on three main points, each with its own little homework assignment for each of u

First, he posited that writers, artists, creative people, etc., need to make space for themselves in order to reach their full potential and create their own space. This meant making space for yourself in both the mental and physical sense–“being ok with space and silence,” and knowing “what to take in and what to leave out” of your physical creative space (where you create).

Second, he gave us three examples of making space in literature, which he drew (and read out loud, which was awesome) from 19th century literature. This included “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, “I Saw No Way” by Emily Dickinson, and “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allan Poe.

Now, I am sold whenever somebody brings up Poe. And I am not ashamed to say that his discussion of how Poe uses space in his work made. my. day. Rant over.

Finally, Bascaljon brought up creating spaces for your audience. I felt like this was the most complex topic of the workshop, and so I have slight difficulty reproducing the discussion here. But the takeaway was that how you create space in your creative work does affect your audience, in including some and excluding others, to some extent. There are several ways one can accomplish this, including alienating everybody as a form of shock, or trying to be inclusive to a specific target audience.

Bascaljon was a wonderful mediator, re-processing everybody’s ideas into more digestable forms, and mixing in a lot of humor and passion, which made everything better.

What I especially liked about this workshop, was its divergence from the other workshops that I am used to. (Again, I can only speak for myself.) What I don’t like about workshops is how they make you feel slightly exasperated about your own work, and somehow manage to lower your self-esteem when you come out of them. I always leave thinking “Well, rats, what am I doing wrong?”

But Bascaljon did a masterful job of maintaining a sense of hope and practicality, and ensured that we came out with positivity and (realistic) optimism, with the tools that we needed to rely on ourselves and achieve our creative goals.

Be sure to check out the rest of the Saturday lineup!

The post Witching Hour: Making Space @ MERGE 10/13/2018 appeared first on KRUI Radio.

And so, considering just how awesome an experience it was for me, I thought I would devote a post to touch on how to get on the right track towards study abroad. Study abroad is like that iceberg meme—much focus is placed on when you get there; but this long-anticipated moment is the result of a LOT of hard work. So I thought I would bring up a few points to keep in mind, if you are thinking about starting or have already started the process to study abroad, first study your options of places and languages, for example studying in israel in english is a possibility and one of a great options.

1) Do a little ~Introspection~

A vital question to ask yourself is “why do I want to study abroad?” It’s one of those sentences that your mind automatically answers with “Uh, because I want to?” while glossing over study abroad pamphlets. But it is a serious and valid question that must be addressed before even choosing your program. It can validate, critique, or instigate your plans. Why are you studying abroad? And why this country or program? Is it just because your friends did and you want to follow suit? Do you want experience, or a chance to step out of your comfort zone? Do you see it as a challenge, or a way to discover yourself? As for me, I wanted to study and experience a culture and people that have been a large part of my life and my identity as a biracial person, and to pursue academic areas (such as linguistics and translation) that are part of my career goals, and to study abroad is the best decision you can make,  to study abroad, first study your options of places and languages, for example studying in israel in english is a possibility and one of a great options.. And believe me, this introspection is going to do wonders when you’re doing applications and statements of purpose (just saying).

2) Money Money Money

A more logistical concern surrounds finance. You really want to go abroad, but then you see a cost sheet for your program, or remember your tight financial situation. The thing to remember, however, is that there are always opportunities to help finance your experience, but this also requires the initiative to seek them out and pursue them. A lot of the scholarships and grants that you will find may give you the “There’s no way I’ll be able to get that” mental flinch. But go for them anyway. I applied for the Benjamin Gilman scholarship—applying to a big program like this was a first for me—because there was an opportunity staring at me in the face (and people had recommended it), that I had to take a shot at. And I got it. That, together with other scholarships from my university, made my experience possible.

3) Tick-Tock Goes the Clock

DON’T PROCRASTINATE. Says I, someone so articulate in procrastination that I should have a professional degree in it. But the fact remains that you’re dealing with deadlines that will usually be as hard as the sidewalks you walk on. You are working with (and hope to actually be with) institutions that are working with who-knows-how-many prospective applicants. You will also be working with two different governments (again, depending on your program) to get visas, passports, airplane tickets; and this is not including potential duties that may need to be done abroad (I had to deal with tonnnnns of paperwork in Japan too).

It may help to think of this article as a memoir of things I needed to remember when I was preparing to study abroad, during which I learned important lessons about time management, responsibility, and a bold use of opportunities.

The post Matcha, Manga, and Mayonnaise: Study Abroad appeared first on KRUI Radio.

1) Ohtani Shohei

He’s 24 years old. 6’4” and a southpaw. He has been heralded as the second Babe Ruth in the history of baseball. I’m talking about Ohtani Shohei, the rookie hitter + pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels pro baseball team. He is the first successful player to both hit and pitch since the American legend Babe Ruth, and has already gathered a devoted fan base, who chant and display the unofficial slogan “Sho-time” in anticipation of his great feats.

Ohtani, as you might imagine, has entered major league baseball at a pretty young age. But he was also the second baseball player in Japanese history to be drafted into a Japanese professional baseball team right out of high school (the first time this happened was in 1951). He recorded the fastest pitch in Japanese high school baseball, and was the first in all Japanese history to start with the dual-role of pitcher and right-fielder. So yes, he’s done a lot of “historical”-range things already, and his career is just starting.

His popularity stems not only from his rare skill, but also the fact that he 1) decided to enter the MLB earlier at the expense of a high salary he would have received if he waited two more years (Ichiro Suzuki and Yu Darvish started at a later age, 28 and 26 respectively), and 2) chose his team (the Angels) based on where he felt he fit in the best. This meant turning down teams like the Yankees, Mariners, and Red Sox.

He showed spitfire baseball this first season, but unfortunately, has had his share of subsequent injuries, which may result in surgery at the end of this season. But he is firmly determined to continue his “two-way” spree in 2020.

2) Osaka Naomi

You have probably heard about the recent debacle surrounding Serena Williams in the US Open tournament. All the fire and smoke from this series of events clouded the champion of the match, Osaka Naomi, representing Japan. It is easy to dwell on how unfortunate all of the circumstances were—Serena gets fined and ogre-ified by people who couldn’t take her awesomeness in the first place. The fiery events dampened Osaka’s long-awaited opportunity to play against a tennis star she respected since childhood, and her victory was soiled, such that she felt a need to apologize for winning.

It is apparent that I have opinions about this whole event. But it is fair to point out that there are many positive things to pluck out of this affair. Osaka is the first Japanese player to win the US Open, and is at the dawn of what will assuredly be a sparkling tennis career.

Furthermore, as a biracial individual (with Japanese and Haitian heritage), she has brought hope and encouragement to many people—people in Japan, people in Haiti, and multi-racial people in general. She has elicited celebration from many and puzzlement from others (they’ll figure things out soon…hopefully) by the fact that her mixed heritage, her appearance, or her linguistic abilities, do not limit her right and validity to represent Japan as a Japanese individual. She has shown that identity is choice.

But I also think she unearths the reality that we still have a lot of improving to do. Many of us have yet to move beyond the need to locate someone ethnically and culturally, and when this does not meet our assumptions, we can’t seem to let this go. And I’m glad Osaka is here to smash expectations and be awesome about it.

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Since that rather unfortunate question, I’ve held a decent amount of respect for sumo, though I did not actually start enjoying the sport until about one and a half years ago, while watching twenty-minute clips of sumo highlights on YouTube every tournament with my dad.

And now, being in Japan, I finally got the chance to go watch the sport in the flesh—let me take you through an average day of sumo for your average foreigner.

But first:

What is sumo? At first glance, wrestling. Upon further investigation, an ancient Shinto-based ritual sport drenched in history. In its youth (“youth” meaning before 1000 A.D.), sumo supposedly had a prophetic function for the year’s crops, until it gradually accrued popularity as a pure sport—famous warlord Oda Nobunaga called sumo wrestlers from around the country for tournaments. And then at last sumo became an established entertainment sport during the Edo period (1600-1867), molded into its modern form.

The basics of the game is for two rikishi (wrestlers) to wrestle until one either hits the ground with any body part other than their feet, or steps outside the rope ring. A rikishi can win by several means, or moves, including “force out,” “slap down,” “over-arm throw,” etc.

There are six tournaments, or Basho, per year—one for each season, and two at Nagoya and Kyushu, respectively. The seasonal basho take place at different locations around the country, including Osaka and Tokyo, starting and ending on a Sunday, lasting two weeks.

(for more detailed information, check this out)

The basho that I went to was the Summer Basho, held at the Kokugikan in Tokyo. I had originally wanted to order a good seat online, but Alas! I was too late. And so the only option left was to get “Day Tickets” (toujitsu-ken), about 23 bucks, which you can only acquire by lining up outside the Kokugikan, just a two minute walk from the Ryogoku train station. At dawn.

And so, after boarding a train at 5:40 in the morning and arriving an hour later, I ended up 93^rd in line.

Another hour’s wait later sitting on the sidewalk, it was finally time to purchase our tickets.

The thing about the cheapest tickets is that, though they require the most effort, they get you seats the farthest away from the main arena. It’s a flavorful mixture of extremes—but it also makes for a great experience.

You get in at about 8:00, the prominent rikishi don’t wrestle until 3:30, and so you have

about seven hours to kill by watching rookies, exploring the Kokugikan, eating, or sleeping (I did it all). I definitely recommend the eating. The food vendors boast a delectable box of yakitori (chicken kabobs), a variety of lunchboxes, ice cream, and other snacks/meals to keep you nourished and entertained throughout the day.

At about 2, you can get out of the building and line up around one of the gated entrances to watch the top rikishi come in with their attendants. After many long minutes of standing among other sweaty people, handkerchiefs on their heads, fans flapping, and camera at the ready, you finally get to see the sumo wrestlers begin to saunter in, clad in yukata and

sandals, stoically gazing ahead as fans shout their names (“Endo!” “Tochinoshin!”), and non-fans ignore them. Then it is time to return back to the arena.

When the arena is the fullest, and excitement is at its apex, and people are furiously munching at their French fries, the bouts between the top rikishi begin.

The neat thing about sitting all the way in the back, is that you can see the variety of people that come to watch. Foreigners, couples, families, old men, middle-aged women, and bands of middle-schoolers there for a school trip. Perhaps one

of the things I’ll probably remember the most is how the different middle schoolers had a competition trying to cheer for their rikishi the loudest.

Two hours later, you’ve finally seen the Yokozuna (the top of the top) finish their bouts, and then it is time to go home.

Perhaps the next best thing to watching sumo in person, was watching the people who came. I was surprised to see how popular sumo is still to people of all ages and countries, to form a rather cozy little community for the day within the Kokugikan.

All photos were taken by author

The post Matcha, Manga, and Mayonnaise: Sumo appeared first on KRUI Radio.

Yes, cherry blossoms. Or sakura in Japanese. The symbol of transient beauty. Ahh.

Neighborhoods turn pink, the air feels fluffy, and all seems right with the world.

Time stops, but only to remind you of its presence as you watch the pink petals fall.

Sakura season is the ultimate experience, from the time the buds form until the trees shed their blossoms. And after finally experiencing sakura season for myself, I thought I would share with you the three main stages of this wonderful season.

The first stage is mostly one of anticipation—seeing the buds form. After weeks of damp cold and wind and wet snow, the appearance of the buds is that wonderful, warm sign of the coming of spring. These are by no means the first buds you’ve seen—the hardier plum trees have already bloomed at this point, as a sort of preview of what is to come. People are still wearing their scarves and heavy coats, waiting for that one warm day in which the buds will burst and signal winter to finally take its vacation.

Then the cherry blossoms bloom. There being multiple varieties, they don’t bloom at once but pop up in various shades of pink, salmon, and white. And it is so sudden that one morning on your usual walk to the local train station, you will suddenly notice monstrous pink clouds hovering over the street and people stopping for two minutes to take pictures before hurrying to the morning train.

Despite these pretty sights in the neighborhoods and little parks, many “go” to see the cherry blossoms in sakura hot-spots like Inogashira park, Ueno Park, the Sumida River, etc. Some just trek it, others go early in the morning to reserve spots for hanami, basically sakura-viewing parties. I went to Yasukuni Shrine and the neighboring Kitano Maru Park, that flanks the imperial palace.

The cherry blossoms were beautiful, of course. But I also enjoyed watching the people. People on lunch break, couples young and old, families, and friends, all took a break from their daily lives to look at the flowers and maybe sit for half an hour to eat lunch under the canopy of pink.

There is a word in Japanese (hitoiki) that roughly translates to “a breath”—and as you would expect, it means to stop and take a moment, often associated with a cup of tea. And I felt like sakura season is a particularly opportune time to take the moment to watch others take a moment. Everyone is united by one objective–to take a detour from life and enjoy the flowers.

The last stage, which rivals the second stage in beauty, is when the petals fall. Back home I never really appreciated flowers after they fell. Perhaps it’s common for us to associate the fall of the flowers as signal of the end. A bit like taking off Christmas decorations.

But here I noticed how much magic remains during and even after all the petals have fallen. Streams of pink run down the street. Blankets of petals flow down the rivers and pool up in eddies. Big trucks and bicycles pick up clouds of petals and send them swirling for a time in the air. Young couples and children try to catch the falling petals.

One morning, I happened to wander to a neighboring park and saw a bunch of kindergartners on recess, who were picking up big handfuls of petals, throwing them in the air, and stuffing them into little Ziploc bags provided by their teachers. It may just be my favorite sakura season memory.

Sakura season almost felt a bit like our Christmas—sublime, surreal, and short, ending before you’ve actually soaked everything in.

All photos taken by author

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