Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 2

Day 2
May 1, 2009
Start: Tosa-Iwahara
Finish: Mount Tsurugi
Distance: 75 km (uphill)
Departed: 7:00 a.m.
Arrived: 3:30 p.m.

Today was the day the serious mountain climbing began. My destination, the base of Mount Tsurugi, was only 75 kilometres away but it would be uphill almost the entire way. On roads that resembled coiled intestines.

This was going to be the most physically demanding stage of the entire trip. If I could reach Mount Tsurugi it would be, quite literally, all downhill from there.

I wanted to get an early start. Partly to make the most of the daylight. But mostly because I had to endure another 10 kilometres on terrifying Highway 32 before I could start my ascent up the mountain roads. I wanted to get the highway from hell over with as early as possible. Before it became rammed with 10-tonne trucks traveling at high speeds.

Unenclosed in steel and glass, without airbags and anti-lock brakes, I felt naked and vulnerable on Highway 32. Riding a bicycle on a shoulder-less highway with massive logging trucks bearing down on you makes you realize how pathetically fragile the human body really is. Rear-ended by one of these trucks and I'd be squashed like a bug on a windshield.

I hammered as hard as I could along Route 32 and got it over with in less than half an hour. As soon as I turned off the main highway, the twisting mountain roads leading up to Mount Tsurugi were almost devoid of cars. Routes 439 and 438 were the stuff of dreams. Ribbons of perfect pavement, winding their way up higher and higher into the mountains. Switchback after switchback.


At 6,500 feet, Mt. Tsurugi is the second-highest peak in western Japan. Getting there by bicycle was long and slow. But the scenery along the way was spectacular.






Cycling aficionados looking closely at my pictures will notice that I spent the day in my lowest gear. Using the smallest chainwheel on a triple crank set generally brands you as a pussified rider in cycling circles. But I don't care. I am a big fan of the Granny Gear and I am not ashamed to use it.

Although my spirits were high, my body was beginning to break down. My hands were covered in calluses, my knees were starting to ache and I was developing blisters in places too X-rated to mention. Advil helped. So did frequent stops for ice-cold cans of sweat. Mmm . . . sweat.


I made a deal with myself. If someone stopped to offer me a ride, I would take it. Why not? I had nothing to prove. I'd ridden plenty of mountain passes tougher and steeper than this.

The only wrench in my plan was that no one actually stopped to offer me a ride. I got plenty of smiles and waves and thumbs-up from passing drivers. I would smile and wave and give thumbs-up right back. Maybe I should have tried to look more pathetic and less energetic. Maybe they would have stopped.

It wasn't that bad, though. I took lots of breaks. Chatted with lots of random Japanese people. Everyone seemed impressed that I was planning on cycling to Mount Tsurugi. Wow. That's really tough, they'd say. Be careful! It’s dangerous!

But the thing is, it wasn't really that tough. And it wasn't the least bit dangerous. It was a gradual ascent the whole way. (I'm starting to learn that Japanese people love to exaggerate.)

I was making good time so I decided to take in a tourist attraction along the way. I took a two-hour break in the Iya Valley, stopping for a long lunch and a trek across the area's famous vine bridges.



This thing was just begging me to jump in and ride it. So I did.



Unfortunately, I got stuck halfway across the river. Fortunately, this guy came to my rescue.


I learned one particularly valuable lesson today: Keep your mouth shut. If you ride with your mouth open, bugs will fly into it. And then you will waste precious energy violently gagging and coughing and spitting to rid your mouth of said bugs.

I also learned that rural Japan can be mildly creepy. I passed through ghost town after ghost town. Each one likely abandoned by people seeking work in the cities. There would be long stretches of nothing and then suddenly a few houses and shops strung together. I never saw anyone under the age of 70 in these towns. Sometimes I never saw anyone at all.

At one point, I rounded a corner and saw what looked to be a vibrant town with lots of people out working the fields.


Except when I got closer, I realized they weren't even human. I had wandered into a town populated by stuffed dolls.




What made it even creepier was the fact that I was the only living person around for miles. I took a few photos and got the hell out of there.

By 3:30 p.m., I finally made it to the base of Mount Tsurugi, where I had booked a minshuku for the night. A minshuku is best described as halfway between a hotel and a hostel. Like a hotel, you get your own private room. Like a hostel, the bathrooms are communal. But it's a uniquely Japanese experience. You sleep on a futon in a simple room.


And you get a traditional dinner and breakfast. This was my dinner. I ate all of it. In about five minutes flat.


I was the only foreigner staying at the minshuku. As a result, I attracted a fair bit of attention, especially among three middle-aged Japanese men commandeering the communal dining room. They were very drunk and very loud and they would yell things out at me every time I passed by ("It's the Canadian cyclist!" "Can you eat sushi?" "Oi! Where are you going?"). I spent most of the night hiding in my room to avoid them.

Eight hours earlier, as I was setting off in the morning, I thought about hiking to the top of Mt. Tsurugi if I got there early enough. A good idea in theory. But I didn't realize how tired I would be by the time I arrived. I felt obligated to at least spend a little time on the mountain. So I took the chair lift halfway to the top. And then I rode it back down.



Happy to have made it to Mount Tsurugi, I breathed a sigh of relief knowing the toughest part of the trip was behind me. Or so I thought . . .

Next day | Previous day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle: Day 1

Day 1
April 30, 2009
Start: Sakawa
Finish: Tosa-Iwahara
Distance: 110 km
Departed: 7:30 a.m.
Arrived: 3:00 p.m.

To be honest, I wasn't entirely convinced cycling more than 500 kilometres across rural Shikoku and up through southwestern Honshu was a good idea.

I was about to set off on an epic bike trip in Japan with almost no preparation or training. Up and down mountains twice as high as the ones in Vancouver. On roads that resemble coiled intestines. For five days straight. Solo. On a bike I hadn't ridden in almost two years. The enormity of the challenge in front of me suddenly seemed overwhelming.

I was plagued with self-doubt. Was I in over my head? What if I couldn't make it up the mountains? What if the chain broke? What if my knees gave out? Panic and anxiety were corroding my confidence. I was tempted to call the whole thing off.

The six-hour trip by bus and train from Kyoto to Sakawa didn't help either. I was forced to see exactly how far I had to ride. Five hundred kilometres was no longer just an abstract series of lines on a map. It was a long fucking way.

I spent most of the bus ride feeling both intimidated and exhilarated. I would look at the mountainous terrain outside the window and feel a rush of terror one moment and a shiver of excitement the next. Would I really be able to ride up and down those mountains all the way back to Kyoto?

My starting point was Sakawa, the town where I used to live. I spent the night at my friend Miho's house. She and her husband had organized a small barbeque party to send me off. There was beer and endless bottles of sake. I drank until my jittery nerves were numb.

Yoko popped by to drop off my old bike. I took it for a quick spin around the block. It felt horribly uncomfortable. The handlebars, the pedals, the seat. It was all wrong. This wasn't the same bike I remembered. How was I going to ride this thing all the way back to Kyoto when I could barely ride it around the block? I moved the seat up. And down. And then back up again. Nothing helped.

Back inside the house, Miho was studying my map and shaking her head at my planned route out of Sakawa. I had picked the shortest, most direct route to Tosa-Iwahara, where I would spend the night after the first day of riding.

You shouldn't go that way, she warned. It's too dangerous. The road I had chosen was a major highway that would be rammed with cars and trucks traveling at high speeds.

Miho pored over the map for an hour and finally came up with an alternate route. It would add about 30 kilometres to the trip by taking me on a wide loop west before heading northeast to Otoyo on winding back roads. It would be longer, steeper and harder but safer and relatively car-free.

I was worried about adding 30 kilometres of hilly riding to my first day but in the end decided to scrap my original route and go with the quieter back roads. Anything to get away from the cars.

I spent the night tossing and turning. What had I gotten myself into? I told myself it wasn't too late to back out. I could leave the bike behind in Sakawa and hop on the train back to Kyoto. But I didn't want to give up before I had even begun. It was an adventure. A challenge. As soon as I started pedaling, my fears would melt away. Or at least that's what I told myself.

I managed to fall asleep for a few hours and woke up the next morning tired and hungover. I was feeling too queasy to stomach the huge breakfast Miho had prepared. I only managed to nibble a tomato and sip a bowl of miso soup before hitting the road.

It was only 7:30 a.m. but the sun was already warm. The air was still and there was nothing but blue sky in all directions. Perfect riding conditions. After a few adjustments, I got my bike to fit me exactly right. My anxiety and panic completely disappeared after the first few pedal strokes.

I turned back to see Miho waving goodbye before she grew smaller and finally disappeared. I rode out of town on familiar streets that used to be mine. My confidence returned and my entire body vibrated with excitement. I was really doing this! I wasn't just biking to the grocery store. I was biking all the way to Kyoto.

The route Miho suggested turned out to be great. There were almost no cars. Just me, my bike and the open road. The steep hills she warned me about turned out to be gentle rollers. I got into a good rhythm and really started to enjoy the ride and the scenery.






After a few hours my stomach finally settled down and I stopped for a mid-morning snack at a roadside sushi stand.


Cold beer or hot coffee? You can't go more than 25 feet without running into a vending machine in Japan. Even in the middle of nowhere.



The route was pretty straightforward but at one point there was a major fork in the road and not a single sign in sight. I pulled off to the side of the road and puzzled over the map. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't pinpoint my exact location.

A few minutes later, a woman on a scooter came to a stop beside me. She asked if I needed help. I told her I couldn't figure out whether the main road branched left or right. She asked me where I was going and pointed me in the right direction.

Surprised that I was able to speak Japanese, she ended up asking me a whole bunch of questions. Where was I from? How many days was I planning on riding? Where would I be staying? She told me she thought my plan was amazing. And then she told me to wait for a minute while she rummaged through the trunk of her scooter. She pulled a plastic bag out of the trunk and thrust it in my hands.

"I don't know if you like this sort of food but please take it," she said.

It was her lunch. Two salmon rice balls, an omelet and a strawberry-filled bun. I tried to refuse but she insisted. I thanked her profusely and watched her drive off.

Her lunch, by the way, was delicious.


I was riding light and fast with just a backpack. There was nothing in it but a waterproof shell, a fleece jacket, fleece pants, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, a pump, some food, money and a first-aid kit.

I stored a set of tools, a spare tube and a patch kit in a small bag fastened to the rails under my seat. I kept the map and fuel bottles in my basket for easy access. The only problem was that whenever I hit a bump at high speed, the bottles would launch out of the basket and fly all over the road. I had to stop my bike a few times to recover the airborne bottles. But, generally, it was a system that worked well.


The riding was spectacular all the way to Otoyo. Unfortunately, once I reached Otoyo I had to get off the back roads and ride the main road to Tosa-Iwahara. There was no other option. Tosa-Iwahara was located in a deep river valley carved between the mountains and there was only one way to get there.

I'd have to ride Route 32 for about 17 kilometres. Route 32, as I quickly found out, was a busy two-lane highway with no shoulder. I'd have to ride on the road with trucks and cars whipping past me at high speeds. Making things worse was the fact that the road was winding. This meant I would be practically invisible the whole way. Trucks and cars would have almost no time to react to my presence on the road.

They wouldn't be able to see me until after they whipped around a corner. And then they would have only a few seconds to register and react to the fact that there was a bicycle on the road ahead of them. And because it was a two-lane highway, they couldn't veer too far around me because they'd cross into the path of oncoming traffic.

It was incredibly dangerous. If I were rear-ended here, it wouldn't just be a trip-ending injury; it would be a life-ending injury.

But there was nowhere else to go. I couldn't go back. I could only go forward. Even if I wanted to give up and put my bike on the train, I'd have to ride on Route 32 to get to the train station. I was going to have to ride on the highway whether I wanted to or not.

I took a deep breath and turned left onto the highway. Just put your head down and hammer as hard as you can for the next 17 kilometres, I told myself. My heart leapt into my throat each time I headed around a blind corner. The trucks behind me were hugging the tight turns to avoid the cars in the oncoming lane. I knew they might not have enough time to swerve around me. So I pedaled furiously around each turn.

It was a white-knuckle ride the whole way. I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I finally made it to the turnoff for Tosa-Iwahara. I had to get off my bike and sit down for a few minutes just to calm my rattled nerves.

After my heart rate returned to normal, I made my way to my home for the night. I was staying at an old guest house high up in the mountains. It was run by a pot-smoking Japanese hippie named Teru.

I met Teru outside the tiny Tosa-Iwahara train station. He threw my bike in the back of his pick-up truck and drove me up to his house. During the 15-minute drive, Teru told me he used to live in Kamloops, working as a ski instructor. His eyes shone as he spoke about B.C.

"That was the first time I smoked weed," he said.

He told me about his one-man campaign to legalize pot in Japan. He wasn't having much success.

Originally from Gifu Prefecture, Teru moved to Shikoku 10 years ago. He bought an abandoned house in the mountains, converting one half into a hostel and the other half into his home. When he isn't renting out rooms in his house, he guides rafting tours through the river that snakes its way along Route 32. He uses the money he makes to spend the winters kayaking around the world.

This is Teru's house and the view from Teru's house. If you look closely, you can make out Route 32 winding its way between the mountains.



After a long, hot shower, I cooked up a huge pasta dinner and ate until I was stuffed. I was about to climb into bed when Teru dropped by to invite me to a party at his friend's house. I wanted to go but had to decline. It was only Day 1 of my trip and I was already exhausted.

I needed to conserve my energy for the serious mountain climbing that was about to begin the next day . . .

Next day | Photos

Kochi to Kyoto by bicycle

I'm heading out on an epic 500-kilometre bike trip tomorrow. Up and down mountains twice as high as the ones in Vancouver. On roads that resemble coiled intestines. For five days straight. Solo. On a bike I haven't ridden in two years.

Peter Mansbridge is the spur. He's the reason I'm doing this in the first place. Night after night, all he talks about is how the Canadian economy is spiraling deeper into depression. He has me convinced I will be facing months of uncertainty and instability upon my return home next year.

So, rather than dragging my unemployed ass around in search of jobs that don't exist, I've been toying with the idea of cycling across Canada instead. Why look for work when there is no work to be had? I will hop on my bike and literally ride out the recession.

Besides, cycling across Canada is something I've always wanted to do. I've just never had the time. A year from now, when my stint at Kyoto University is up, I'll be unemployed for the first time in my life. I will have nothing but time. This might be the best chance I get.

But I'm jumping ahead of myself. Let's get back to the bona fide bike trip that's happening two days from now.

I figured I should take a test ride in Japan before committing myself to cycling from Vancouver to St. John's. I've done lots of riding in the past but have never toured longer than three days. I need to find out if I actually like cycling long distances for days on end. There's no point locking myself into a two-month ride if it's just going to be a suffer-fest.

(Although, I have to admit that suffering is half the fun. It's what makes the experience that much more rewarding. The easy stuff fades into the background. But the tough stuff -- those times when you pushed yourself beyond your limits or were left broken and sobbing on your way up a steep mountain pass in driving wind and freezing rain -- that's the stuff that forces you to come face-to-face with your deepest, darkest self. What happens when you hit the pain barrier? What do you do? Push through or back down? The trick with long-distance cycling, and endurance sports in general, is learning how to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. If you can do that, you can tolerate all kinds of misery.)

But I digress . . . I wanted to bike across Canada but not without testing the waters in Japan first. The only hitch was that I didn't have enough money to buy a proper touring bike. What to do? What to do? I was mulling this over when it hit me: Wait a minute! I already have a bike in Japan!

When I left Sakawa two years ago, I lent my mountain bike to my friend Sachi. As far as I knew, she still had it. What if I went back to Sakawa, picked up my bike and rode it back to Kyoto? The more I thought about it, the more excited I became. There was no reason I couldn't do this. Cycling from Sakawa to Kyoto wouldn't require any skill. Just stamina.

I could take the train to Sakawa and then ride my bike all the way across Shikoku. And then when I hit the easternmost point of the island, I could take the ferry to southwestern Honshu and ride up to Kyoto from there.

The more I researched it, the more doable it seemed. The total distance between Sakawa and Kyoto is about 500 kilometres. I figured I could comfortably do it in five days. Golden Week -- a string of four national holidays all occurring around the same time -- was right around the corner. I'd have to skip two days of school to make the trip work, but the timing was perfect.

Sachi gave me the okay to borrow my bike. She even took it to the local bike shop to get it checked out and tuned up. I started buying maps, plotting out a route and booking hostels. This is the route I eventually decided on:



It looks straightforward. But don't let my crude maps fool you. Most of the mountain roads through rural Shikoku resemble coiled intestines. I'll be riding Routes 439 & 438 for three days straight. I suspect I'll be pushing my bike up a lot of these hills. If it gets really bad, I can always throw my bike off a cliff and hop on a bus back to Kyoto.


My limited budget dictated a bare-bones trip. But I decided against camping mainly because I didn't want to spend money to buy stuff I already have (unfortunately, all of my outdoor gear is sitting in a storage locker in Vancouver). I wanted to spend as little money as possible but there were certain things I couldn't scrimp on. A pump, a patch kit, some basic tools, painkillers, gloves, padded bike shorts. (Especially padded bike shorts.)

There were other things I decided I could live without. Leg warmers, arm warmers, an odometer, panniers, bottle cages, booties, clipless pedals, bike shoes.

Yes, this means I will be doing the whole trip in running shoes while wearing a backpack. It's not ideal. But it could be worse. The guys who rode the first Tour de France raced their single-speed bikes on dirt roads without a single stitch of spandex, gortex or coolmax on their backs.

I may not have any fancy equipment but at least I have gears and quick-dry fabrics. Besides, this is just a rehearsal. A prelude to the real thing. If all goes well, it will galvanize my plan to ride across Canada. Or not.

I'm heading out to Sakawa tomorrow and I'll start riding on Thursday. I hope to arrive in Kyoto five days later on Monday night. Adventure awaits . . .

Day 1

One door closes. Another door opens. And so it goes

A couple of weeks ago, I was told I couldn't join Kyoto University's swim team because it was for Japanese only.

I didn't want to fight it but I didn't want to throw in the towel either. So I went back to the sports office to try again. But instead of trying to force my way onto the swim team, I thought I'd ask if I could join the long-distance running team.

The swim team is a varsity club and the long-distance running team is a recreational club so I thought maybe I'd have more luck joining a less competitive club. It was either that or the "life philosophy" club. (Also, they have a "mushroom study" club. How awesome is that?)

When I went to the office to ask about joining the long-distance running team, the same guy who told me the swim team was off limits to foreigners was working behind the desk. He gave me the same frustrating speech about why it would be "difficult" for me to join the team. He didn't tell me outright that I couldn't join the long-distance running team. But he didn't tell me that I could join it either.

Eventually, we came to a compromise. He said he would take down my name, phone number and email address and pass it on to the running club. And then it would be up to them to contact me. I left the sports office not entirely convinced that he hadn't immediately thrown the slip of paper with my contact information on it in the garbage.

But a few days later, I got an email from the running club. The message was written in Japanese but it was filled with smiley faces and exclamation marks. The president of the club invited me to come to a meeting for new members on Monday night. They would be more than happy to have me, he wrote. The club was open to any student at Kyoto University.

"Maybe they read your blog and were too terrified to reject you," my friend Seema joked. Or at least I think she was joking.

Excited about finding a group of people to run with regularly, I went to the meeting on Monday night. The long-distance running team shares a clubhouse with the climbing team in a small portable squeezed between the tennis courts and Building 4 (yes, that's its official name) at the south end of campus.

I showed up at the clubhouse promptly at 6 p.m. I poked my head in the door to see 12 unnaturally skinny guys sitting on the floor around a pair of low tables. Intimidated but unbowed, I stuttered my way through broken Japanese.

"Um . . . I'm here for the meeting? To join the running club? Morita-san emailed me and told me to come? Is it okay?"

A couple of guys immediately jumped up and ushered me in.

"Come in! Sit down!"

I was bombarded with questions. Where are you from? What's your favourite Japanese food? Can you drink alcohol? Do you read manga? What’s your favourite movie? Can you eat raw fish? What do you think about Japan?

I felt like I was on a first date. With 12 Japanese guys. Who were all at least a decade younger than me.

I spent a good hour sitting in the clubhouse answering their questions. When they ran out of questions, they handed me a sheet of paper listing their social events for the next month. Barbeques, parties and (my personal favourite) a 40-kilometre forced march from Nara to Kyoto starting at midnight.

It all sounded great but I was a little confused. I thought this was a running club, not a social club.

"So when do you actually run?" I asked.

"Oh, we don’t have any official practices," one of the guys said. "You can just drop by the clubhouse after class and see if someone is around and wants to run. Otherwise, we just run on our own."

Before I could tell them this wasn't exactly what I was looking for, they offered to treat me to dinner. Who was I to turn down a free meal? And so off we went to the cafeteria.

After dinner, they told me they were having a little party back at the clubhouse and would I care to join them? They offered to buy me drinks. Who was I to turn down free drinks? And so off we went back to the clubhouse.

A few drinks later, I tried to beg off. I had a kanji test the next morning and I needed to study.

"We will help you study!" they declared. Before I knew it, three guys were writing up an impromptu kanji quiz. And so I spent the next hour writing and reading various kanji characters to the delight of my new friends.

They were so nice and so welcoming that I felt like I couldn't back out. I'm the newest member of Kyoto University's long-distance running club whether I want to be or not. I joined the club thinking it would help me stay in shape. Instead, I feel like I'm in a Japanese study group. With beer.

The long-distance running club will be good for my Japanese. But bad for my liver. As for the running, I guess I'm on my own. Oh well. At least I found a club that happily accepts foreigners.

The girl and the construction worker

I'm in love with a geriatric construction worker. Although, describing him as a "worker" might be a bit of a stretch.

His job entails little more than standing in front of a half-finished building, waving a red baton to let drivers and pedestrians know it's safe to pass. It's a completely redundant and unnecessary job. The construction project is taking place on a quiet side road where few cars go.

I've never seen him actually stop traffic. Why would he? All of the work is taking place on a plot of land set back from the mostly deserted street. There's no traffic and nothing to divert it around.

But still. He seems to take his non-job very seriously. He stands in front of the construction site directing the non-existent traffic day after day. He wears a navy blue uniform and a white hardhat. He even wears those ubiquitous white gloves that cover the hands of every taxi driver, train attendant and police officer in Japan.

If I had to guess his age, I'd say he's probably pushing 70. Seventy years old and 100 pounds soaking wet.

I pass him every morning on my way to school. He waits until he catches my eye and then he bows deeply at the waist and wishes me a good morning with a hearty "Ohayo gozaimasu!"

I bow and say “Ohayo gozaimasu” in return. And then we smile at each other. I think he has a grandfatherly crush on me because I've never seen him saying good morning to anyone else walking past the construction site. He simply waves them by with a flick of his baton and a little bow from the neck. He saves the deep bows, the chorus of good mornings and the smiles for me. Maybe this is the Japanese equivalent of catcalls and wolf-whistles.

I have no idea what it is they're building exactly (an office building? an apartment? a house?). It's all hidden under layers of scaffolding and blue tarps. Whatever it is, it's taking forever. Our morning ritual has been going on for more than four months now.

I look forward to seeing him on my way to school. It's the only male attention I get in Kyoto. Not that I'm the kind of girl who bases her self-worth on her attractiveness to men. But when no one looks at you when you walk down the street, you start to feel invisible. Like you don't really exist. Or you exist in a paradox: a strange halfway place where you're highly visible as a foreigner but invisible as a woman.

The only eyes that follow me down the street belong to a 70-year-old construction worker. Who wears thick glasses. And who is probably bored out of his mind. But who somehow manages to make me feel special.

(Has it really come to this? Am I so hard up for male attention that all it takes is a bow and some eye contact from an elderly construction worker to make my heart flutter? Have I become so starved for affection that I'm grateful for any scrap thrown my way?)

Anyway, after months and months of this morning routine, my construction worker friend had a little surprise in store for me on Friday. As usual, he waited until he made eye contact with me before we began our daily exchange. But this time, instead of speaking in Japanese, he said "Good morning!" in English.

It was the first time he had ever greeted me in English. It was such a sweet gesture. I wanted to hug him. It was like he had been practicing it in front of the mirror for weeks before screwing up the courage to finally test it out on me. I couldn't stop thinking about it. And when I thought about it, it made me smile.

One day soon, I'll walk past the construction site and all of the scaffolding and tarps will have been torn down to reveal a shiny new building. The construction crew will have moved on to another project. There will be no old man waiting to shower me with deep bows, a chorus of good mornings and smiles. I'm going to miss him when he's gone.

Going, going, gone

Same tree, different day. The first photo was taken two weeks ago. The second photo was taken two days ago. Fleeting pink has given way to lasting green. Kyoto's cherry blossom season is officially over.

Blindingly beautiful and then gone.

Old-school racism?

I realize what I'm about to say is going to be somewhat controversial and sensitive. So I'm going to write it carefully. And I hope you'll read it carefully too.

I'm not writing this post to single out Japan as a racist country. Racism is alive and well the world over. But the truth is I've had a few brushes with racism in Japan that range from the mildly backwards to the downright ugly.

Before I get into it, I want to stress that living here has been an overwhelmingly positive experience. The vast majority of people I've met have showered me with kindness and generosity. I have Japanese friends who treat me like family. My day-to-day life is generally smooth and uneventful.

But it would be dishonest to only write about the good stuff. The isolation and alienation are just as much a part of the experience as the fun and adventure.

I once wrote that sometimes I feel like my life in Japan has been a lesson in loneliness. As much as you try to fit in, you never really will. You are an outsider living on the fringes of a world you are part of but don't really belong to.

No matter how enmeshed in the community you are, no matter how good your Japanese is, you are constantly being pushed back into the gaijin box. It can be as benign as having no one sit next to you on a crowded train or as blatant as being refused entry into a bar.

It seems counterintuitive but I've experienced more xenophobia in Kyoto than I did when I lived in a small, rural town in the south of Japan. I may have been followed around with stares in rural Japan but I was never once barred from a restaurant or told I couldn't join a club because I wasn't Japanese. Never. I was welcomed into the community with open arms.

It's a different story here in Kyoto. During the last six months, I've had three brushes with blatant racism. It was never a hostile or confrontational experience. It was a calm "this is the way things are and it's not going to change" experience. But this normalcy is what makes it that much more profound.

The first time it happened was in November. My friend Kathleen and I had spent the day taking in the fall colours. That night, we decided a few drinks were in order. We picked a bar at random. We slid the door open and asked the hostess for a table for two. She told us to wait while she conferred with the manager.

The hostess disappeared behind a corner. Kathleen and I heard a male voice asking her if the two women waiting for a table were gaijin. Kathleen and I are far from fluent in Japanese but we both understood that part loud and clear. The hostess confirmed we were foreigners. The manager then said something else neither of us could catch. The hostess came back and told us there were no seats.

No seats in a half-empty bar? Kathleen and I were dumbstruck. I think Kathleen tried to ask if there was a waiting list. But we were told again, adamantly, there were no seats. So we left. Neither of us could believe we had just been banned from a bar because we were foreigners.

"Maybe all of the empty tables are reserved?" I said, holding out hope that we had misread the situation, although we both knew we hadn't.

We eventually found another bar that was more than happy to have us. But, still, it left a bitter taste in both our mouths.

My second brush with racism happened at a travel agency last month. My friend Elena and I were using a Japanese travel agent to book a trip to Hong Kong. The travel agent printed out a quote for the plane fare. A few minutes later, she realized she had made a mistake and had given us the wrong quote.

"Sorry," she apologized. "That price was for Japanese only."

She quickly printed off a second quote, which was $50 more expensive than the original price. Once again, I was dumbstruck. How could there be one price for Japanese people and another (more expensive) price for everyone else? Was that even legal?

Once again, I didn't fight it. I just accepted it. Why take our business elsewhere when every other travel agency in the city probably had the same policy?

My third brush with racism happened last week. I went to the sports centre at Kyoto University to ask about joining the swim team. The guy in charge wasn't affiliated with the swim team itself. He's an office worker at the sports centre, but you have to go through him to get to the sports clubs.

He hummed and hawed.

"The swim team trains very hard," he said. "They swim almost everyday. They are very serious. It's not for fun."

"Yes, that's the point," I replied. "I used to train like that back in Canada and I want to do the same thing here."

Seeing that I wouldn't be easily dissuaded, he broke down and told me the real reason I couldn't join the team.

"It's for Japanese only," he said.

Japanese only? What is this? 1950s America redux?

Once again, I was dumbstruck. I didn't even know what to say. So I said nothing at all. I just left. But I can't stop thinking about it. Should I complain? Or should I just let it be?

Again, I want to stress that these are isolated events and not an everyday occurrence. I don't want to come across as being gratuitously negative. Japan is no more or less racist than any other country.

The thing is, I'm not really that angry or upset. If anything, I feel sorry for Japan. Sorry to see this kind of stuff is still going in 2009. It's all just so stupid.

Cherry blossom fatigue

What I'm about to say probably borders on blasphemy in Japan. But I want the cherry blossoms to hurry up and die already.

It's not that I'm anti-flower. It's just that the cherry blossoms in Kyoto are so blindingly beautiful that you can't not admire them. It's all I've been doing during the past two weeks. I want my life back!

There's no escape from the sakura. The blossoms are absolutely everywhere, turning an already lovely city into a gossamery dreamworld. Even the garbage dump behind my apartment is covered under a canopy of fluttering flowers. Trash has never looked more magical.


Different trees have been blooming at different speeds, so while some petals have already passed their peak, others are just beginning to flower. There's no end in sight!

And the parties. Don't get me started on the parties. There's only so much sake you can drink while contemplating the ephemeral nature of life under a cherry tree. Celebrating all of this fleeting beauty is starting to become monotonous. It feels like there's nothing fleeting about it.





I feel like a kid who has overdosed on candy. The first taste was so sweet and wonderful that I gorged on it to the point of revulsion.

Despite my cherry blossom fatigue, I have agreed to go to two more flower-viewing parties. One tomorrow night, and one that starts at 11 a.m. on Saturday morning and ends never. (I'm not exaggerating. People actually set up tents under the cherry trees and camp out until the last petal falls.)

After Saturday, I'm swearing off cherry blossoms for the rest of the season. No more photos. No more parties. No more gorging on beauty until I feel sick. I can't take it anymore!





As always, you can find the rest of my photos on flickr.