How often do you cook with a blowtorch? Not canned heat (the fondue pot type), but an industrial grade blowtorch? We have now eaten our way across half of Japan, but tonight we witnessed a new style of Japanese cooking – flame thrower.
We left Nara around 11 AM, and arrived in Osaka in the early afternoon. I am behind in my accounts, but I must again take a side track and tell you about the food. Cassady has a good friend in Osaka, Besu, and we met her for dinner. She wanted us to go to a local takoyaki restaurant, the Pizza Ball House (Takonotetsu). The translation is loose. Trust me, there is no pizza in this cuisine other than melted cheese.
Okonomiyaki by blowtorch
Takoyaki is similar to okonomiyaki in that both consist of mixed vegetables fried in a milk-light batter. Okonomiyaki is a fritter or patty, while the takoyaki is a similar mix molded in a ping pong-sized ball. We cooked these dough balls at our table, carefully turning them in their cast iron mold with a stiletto-like pick. The end result is a crisp doughy outside protecting a moist, vegetable and/or meat laden interior. Scrumptious.
Takoyaki
The restaurant also served okonomiyaki, and I ordered the version with mountain vegetables. I absolutely love mountain vegetables. For those in the U.S. that have not had the pleasure, mountain vegetables consist of the fiddle leaves of ferns, mountain potatoes, wild mushrooms, and a variety of forest stems and leaves that defy description. Cassady and Besu finished off with a pizza okonomiyaki, which is the standard patty drowned in mayonnaise and cheese and then crisped by blowtorch.
Cassady and Besu
Of all of the Japanese cuisine that I have experienced, I like this style the best. Okonomiyaki, like soba and udon, is Japanese soul food. I am not a fan of Japanese curry (another soul food favorite), but otherwise I can’t think of a more satisfying way to spend a relaxing evening than with friends and family, a bottle of cold sake, and okonomiyaki.
Oura Catholic Church, NagasakiToday I am 60. In Japan men wear a red vest on this day (I will make do with a green shirt). Last night we kissed my fifties goodbye, and this morning I am contemplating geezerhood. As a child I thought of my grandfather as being ancient, yet he died at only 64. Last night my granddaughter reminded me that “you are only as old as you feel.” True, except that you are only as old as your body allows you to feel. Age is both body and soul.
We are in Nara, in the Mikasa roykan within the Nara Koen (Park). We are well above the valley that holds the city, surrounded by forest, deer, and silence. Given the tourist bustle of Kyoto, I welcome this peaceful interlude.
Before I regress and try to bring my travel accounts current, I must tell you about last night’s dinner. On this trip I have noticed similarities between Cassady and Virginia. The two share eyes, cheeks, and noses. They love each other’s company, and will spend the day sifting through shop after shop. And, they share laughter.
Cassady and Virginia do not just guffaw. They are choked by diaphragm-paralyzing paroxysms, incapable of communicating to the sober minded what they find so amusing. When they are finally able to breathe and speak again, the joke is a pale imitation of the laughter witnessed. With Cassady and Virginia, the fun is in watching how they react to a joke, not in hearing the joke itself.
Cassady is also like her mother and Japanese grandmother, marrying their dry humor and reserve with the American brashness and bravado of her father. She is a perfect amalgamation of the best of the two countries, and a delight to be around. I treasure the moments we share.
Now to retrace our steps. If you recall, after Okinawa we continued to Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I believe that I delved into the bomb issue in my Nagasaki account, and, to be honest, I have little interest in doing the same with Hiroshima.
Yet the two cities illustrate a challenge that I face in my work. Nagasaki and Hiroshima are known, at least outside of Japan, for one defining moment in their histories. Yet both have complex (and fascinating) histories and cultures that reveal more about Japan than the tragedies of one war. Consider the following.
In the mid-16th century Portuguese missionaries (including Saint Francis Xavier) arrived in Japan and began their missionary work throughout Kyushu. As interest in Christianity grew (along with the arrival of firearms), the feudal lords became increasingly concerned about their restless masses. Christians were publicly crucified in Nagasaki. Christianity became a capital offense, foreigners were expelled, and for over two centuries Japan closed itself to the outside world. Japan became the North Korea of the Victorian age.
Closed, except in Nagasaki. The Japanese ejected the Portuguese, but allowed the Dutch to maintain trade relations since they were far more interested in making money than converts. The Dutch, however, were sequestered on a small island specifically constructed for this purpose in 1636 – Dejima. Only through Dejima did Japan maintain contact with the world. This exclusivity remained intact until 1857 and the opening of Japan and the Meiji Period. Soon other ports eclipsed Dejima in popularity, and by 1902 Nagasaki had reclaimed the island and reconnected Dejima to the mainland.
In 1952, however, Nagasaki began acquiring the private lands in and around Dejima in hopes of restoring the Dutch trading post. By 2001 the land had been acquired, and the restoration began. Now there are ten buildings that have been reconstructed, and visitors can experience what was once the only contact between Japan and the western world.
Next we visited the Koshi-byo, a Confucian temple constructed by the residents of Nagasaki in 1893. The grounds of the temple also house the Chinese History Museum, with an impressive display on loan from the Chinese government. In the museum there is a splendid ivory carving of a Happy Buddha surrounded by children.
We ended the day at Glover Garden. After the reopening of Japan a Scotsman, Thomas Glover, chose Nagasaki as the place to make his fortune. He introduced the steam locomotive to Japan, modernized coal mining, and began the Kirin beer company. This garden contains his former mansion, as well as a number of trade-related buildings from that era. There are statues of both Puccini and Madame Butterfly in the garden, since Puccini set his famous opera in Nagasaki.
Adjacent to the Glover Garden is the Oura Catholic Church, constructed in 1863 to commemorate the 26 Christians crucified in 1597. According to the literature this is the oldest Gothic-styled building in Japan. As I entered the church I found myself curiously at peace, at home. I am certain that Christian traders must have felt the same so far from their homes. One does not have to be particularly religious to feel a connection to kindred spirits while in a foreign land.
How ironic that the one city in Japan where the cultures mingled (Christian, Confucian, Buddhist, Shinto) would be the target of the second atomic bomb. Even more wry (particularly for Nagasaki) is that the US military had chosen Kokura as the primary target, but bad weather forced Bock’s Car (the B-29 carrying the bomb) to a secondary target – Nagasaki.
But isn’t that war?
War is madness. War is a boda de sangre, with victim and victimizer fated to seal the marriage in the final bloodletting. For this reason war must be avoided. Once engaged, sanity, logic, and love fall victim to madness, passion, and hatred.
My opposing war (all war) is neither political nor religious. My opposing war is not naïve (trust me, I sincerely believe that there are bad people in the world). My opposing war is recognizing a fundamental flaw in the human soul. My opposing war is knowing that once unleashed the dogs of war are impossible to cage, and only calm once satiated with the blood of innocents.
Okonomiyaki is among Japan’s gifts to the world (along with soba, udon, ocha, anime, and Godzilla). Translated the word means “fried, your choice.” In practice Okonomiyaki is a fritter-like concoction of whatever is at hand – seafood, vegetables, pork. Hiroshima is famous for its particular style of Okonomiyaki, and we spent an evening in the Okonomimura (Okonomiyaki village) delving into the intricacies of this local cuisine.
Hiroshima Oysters
First, though, let’s start with Hiroshima oysters. Over 30,000 tons of oysters are cultured each year in Hiroshima Bay. and the Japanese travel great distances to enjoy this particular bivalve. Although I eat no meat, I decided to taste the fried version as an appetizer. I grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast, and I have consumed more of these filter feeders than I, or my gut, cares to mention. Hiroshima Fried Oysters
I must state unequivocally, though, that Hiroshima fried oysters are the best that I have tasted anywhere in this world. With a delicate, crispy crust, the encapsulated oysters retain both their moisture and their unique saline character. My suggestion (and hope) would be to attend the annual Hiroshima Oyster Festival in early March. The Japanese have been cultivating oysters here for over 450 years, and no one should miss this aspect of a Hiroshima visit.
Hiroshima Okonomiyaki
After the oysters we dove into our Okonomiyaki. Virginia and I ordered vegetarian (remember: fried, your choice). The Hiroshima Okonomiyaki differs in two ways. Noodles are incorporated into the fritter, and the concoction itself is covered with egg (like an omelet). Downstairs people were cooking their own on a griddle at their tables, as we have done before in Tokyo. Upstairs a cook prepared the cakes. I didn’t miss the thrill of cooking my own. Ours were divine.
Macha Latte
Among America’s gifts to the world is Starbucks. We have yet to visit a city in Japan without one. Cassady’s favorite drink is macha (green tea) latte. We capped off our dinner with a stop at Starbucks. Check out Cassady’s fingernail polish. Both Cassady and Virginia now have nails festooned with glitter and rhinestones. I am definitely the odd man (and only man) out among these fashionistas.
If you are my age you grew up with the bomb. As a child I would peer out the window of my Dad’s Chevrolet as we drove to my grandparent’s home in Paris (Texas) and wonder if any of the summer clouds billowing in the sky signaled an attack (Dad! That one looks like a mushroom!). In October 1962, at Landrum Junior High in Houston, we drilled daily during the Cuban Missile Crisis. The siren would howl, and we would drop under our desks and cover our heads in expectation of the big blast.
During that frightful week the school administration had the bright idea that we would have a drill to test evacuating the school and going home. We were not to actually go home, but to make our way to our transportation of choice (bus, car, bike) and then return to class. My friend Kenny Farris didn’t get the message, and once on his bike he high-tailed it back to the neighborhood.
If you are my age, you grew up with the bomb.
But the bomb never came. We drilled. We feared. We watched Nikita Khrushchev pound his shoe on his desk at the UN and promise that he would bury us. Khrushchev faded, the Soviet Union dissolved, and the bomb never came.
Except there are two cities where the bomb did come, and I am visiting both. In fact, I am sitting in my hotel room tonight, sipping a cold glass of sake in Hiroshima. I am drinking to those who died, to those who fought, and to those who knew (such as Leo Szilard), that once the bomb fell children everywhere would see mushrooms in summer clouds.
I never expected to live to be 30. Now I will be 60 in a few days, and I have a granddaughter who is 21. She is both Japanese and American, and we are, together with her grandmother, trying to grasp the meaning of Nagasaki and Hiroshima within the context of our family. Our family is both victor and vanquished, and this trip is about how we, as a family, reconcile the two.
Reconciliation, for us, began in Nagasaki. We arrived after a two-hour express train ride from Fukuoka, and we settled into one of the famous ryokans in the region, Sakamoto. After years (decades, actually) of traveling in Japan there is no comfort I appreciate more than a traditional ryokan. As Cassady and Virginia shopped, I relaxed in our room and worked on a couple of projects hanging over my head.
My work continued the following morning, but that afternoon we joined a formal bus tour of the sites that we, as a family, wanted to see. This is not a tour for the squeamish. This is a tour for those who want to grab Nagasaki by the neck and throttle it until the truth shakes loose. Like paregoric, the truth is best dosed in a single gulp. The tour began at the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum.
Nothing here is new. In school we were shown the effects of the bomb, watching grainy black-and-white movies with banshee winds sweeping buildings into dust. But being here, at the exact spot where so many suffered and died, is different. Nagasaki is not a movie. Nagasaki is not a myth. Nagasaki is a flesh-and-blood community, an amalgamation of people whose parents and grandparents were victims of the unbridled insanity of war.
Before I move forward, let me make one side comment. I am not questioning Truman’s decision or the morality of the dropping of the atomic bomb. As one then not yet born, that is not my right.
Yet consider the following quotes from two who were. Paul Fussell, the educator and writer, sat in Okinawa in 1945 waiting for what appeared to be the inevitable invasion of mainland Japan. Upon hearing of Hiroshima, Fussell recalled being overcome with the realization that “we were going to live. We were going to grow up to adulthood after all.” Fussell also wrote that the “worst thing about war was the sitting around and wondering what you were doing morally.”
Now consider this quote from Keijiro Matsushima; “I did not come here to blame. You veterans did your job. But at the same time, what you dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki was very horrible. Now, if possible, please, just a drop of your tears, and a prayer that this never happens again.”
We came to Nagasaki to shed tears and to pray that this never happens again, to our family or to yours.
The Nagasaki Atomic Bomb museum is raw, brazen, at times grotesque, and yet sympathetically elegant. As you enter you are confronted with the moment: August 9, 1945, 11:02 AM. In an instant, between 40,000 and 80,000 human beings were irradiated, incinerated, and, in many cases, vaporized. These people, going about their lives as we do ours, were carbonized.
The question of guilt or innocence is moot. Yes, Nagasaki and Hiroshima were military targets in that Mitsubishi operated armament plants in both. Yes, there were around 2000 school age children who were conscripted to work in the Mitsubishi armament plant in Nagasaki who died in the bombing. These children were “conscripts” (as were around 10,000 Koreans), yet they died among the “guilty.” I am assigning no blame. Yet the voices of the dead, the voices of the innocent, deserve a hearing.
The Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum, in part, speaks for the dead. As you enter you hear the tick-tock of a clock, measuring the moments before the blast. The first image is the famous film of the detonation, taken as the American bombers circled Nagasaki before returning to base. Across from the video is a clock from that city, stopped at 11:02. By 11:03 thousands were dead.
The remainder of the museum houses the detritus from that moment, and attempts to explain the process by which Nagasaki came to be the target from the world’s first plutonium bomb – Fat Man. As many of you know, my company is involved in interpretation, the art of communicating these iconic resources and events. I am of the camp that believes that “fair and balanced” is neither. No interpretation is without the biases or opinions of the writer. A simple choice of one word can shade the entire meaning of a story, an article, or an interpretive sign. Words such as “victim,” for example, are loaded. Some words, such as “gay,” have evolved in recent times. What about the word “terrorism?”
Here is another example. In the English language version of the Nagasaki Atomic Bombing Monuments pamphlet, there is this section:
Soil stratum of ground level at the time of the atomic bombing. This soil stratum contains fragments of roof tiles and bricks, scorched soil, melted glass and other objects damaged in the explosion. It is preserved in order the tell of the atrocity of the atomic bombing.
Atrocity? See how one word, perhaps, in this case, a translation glitch, can color the meaning of an entire narrative? Replace atrocity (implying a crime) with tragedy and the message is dramatically changed. Touchy stuff, this interpretation business.
From my perspective, the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum offers a reasonably balanced approach to the event with one glaring exception. There is no discussion of the role of the Japanese military or its leader, Hirohito, in the events that led to August 9, 1945, 11:02 AM. There is a triangular display of all people who had a role in the development and use of the bomb (Roosevelt, Churchill, Einstein, Neils Bohr, Robert Oppenheimer, even Hitler and Stalin), but Hirohito is nowhere to be seen. And what about Yoshio Nishina, a former student of Bohr’s, ordered in April 1941 to establish the Japanese atomic bomb project? Japan, Germany, Britain, Russia, and the United States were all chasing the bomb. Isn’t that part of the Nagasaki story as well?
History is a complex interlacing of conflicting, contradictory, convoluted, and confusing events that shed light, and often shadows, on what we experience today. To apply logic to the past is as nonsensical as trying to apply logic to the present. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the story of war. War is insane. The decisions of governments in war are insane. Honor the dead, celebrate the heroic, yet pray that humankind finds its way past war to loving one’s neighbor.
I came to know Japan through Seth’s wife and family, and now our three grandchildren. I have come to respect the culture, the history of these people, and the incomprehensible faith that allowed them to rebuild after being so totally undone. What has reconciled our family, with fathers and grandfathers once embroiled on opposite sides in a world war, is love.
Let me begin with an apology. You did not expect an article on toilets, I know. But after Nagasaki and Hiroshima, I decided to interject some humor, some levity, before I address issues about which it is impossible to laugh.
The Japanese know high-tech. But of all of their technological contributions, nothing comes close to their bathrooms.
Here is my first example. I travel constantly, and probably spend 100 nights or more annually somewhere in some hotel working on some project. Among my pet peeves is the bathroom mirror that fogs after I shower and before I can shave. Invariably I am scrambling for a dry towel, then trying to wipe away the moisture before it reappears. Of course it fogs again as soon as I place razor on skin.
In Japan, they have developed a bathroom mirror that has a heating element in one corner that prevents the mirror from fogging. No matter how obscured the remainder of the mirror might be, this corner is always fog free. Score one for the Japanese.
And what about a bathtub that fills itself, then plays Jesu’ Joy of Man’s Desiring when ready for you to immerse? Score two for the Japanese.
The Millennium Falcon of Toilets
Yet nothing (NOTHING) approaches the panache of a Japanese toilet. This is the Millennium Falcon of toilets, Hans Solo’s throne. At home I only have to worry about pushing a handle down. In Japan, to use the toilet is as nerve-racking as programming a DVR. These toilets don’t just flush (normally my only concern). They heat, spray, rinse, dry, and buff. A Japanese toilet is a car wash for your derriere.
I would love to take one home, but I would have to completely rewire and replumb my house. Score three for the Japanese and their toilets. They have elevated a simple biological function to high-tech nirvana.
