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August 10, I took the bus home from school, work, whathaveyou. Stopped at the AruPura (also known as AL Plaza) to pick up a disposable camera and the ice cream cone I`d been promising myself for days. Walked to my apartment, assembled a few necessary items in a shoulder bag, and then headed for the train station.
I did have a vague plan in mind. My goal was the Uji Fireworks Festival, but I had little to no idea as to how to get there. The train map told me that the train line Shintanabe Station was on and the train line Uji was on conected in Kyoto Station, so I figured that I would go there, then change lines and go to Uji.
I stood on the platform, surrounded by young people wearing their festival yukata. I followed them onto the train. And then at the next stop (Okubo, if memory serves) I gave myself up to the spirit of adventure and followed them off the train again. And then I followed the small stream of people in yukata three blocks over to the JR station, bought a ticket, and two stations later I was in Uji.
I had been warned that it would be crowded, and it was. Very, very crowded. But the police kept things organized, and eventually we all progressed out of the station and into the crowded streets of the town. Booths were set up everywhere, selling the standard festival foods, hawking the standard festival activities, and selling the standard festival goods. And more besides, everything you can think of and undoubtedly more besides. Meat, vegetables, squid, sausages on skewers, takoyaki, fried chicken and fish and potatoes, grilled corn-on-the-cob, shaved ice and mochi and ice cream and drinks. Children attempted to scoop up fish, baubles, water-filled balloons and bouncing balls. Some booths sold items, bell chimes and masks and balloons, flashing earrings and spiked balls, stuffed animals and video games . . . and everywhere crowds of people, in yukata and in normal clothing, shouting, laughing, buying this and that.
I wandered for a little while, but wandered with a purpose: towards the river where the fireworks would soon begin. In the square before the bridge, people were thickly seated, all facing downstream. There was nowhere to sit there, so I followed my feet, one after the other. They took me onto the bridge over the water, and about midway across I found a gap between people, waiting just for me. I stepped into it and found myself looking upstream. Consulting the map I brought with me, I learned that I was on the Uji Bridge, facing east and upriver towards a small island connected by another, smaller bridge to the shore (and crowded with people, as well). The setting sun provided enough light to see the mountains that the river flowed from, the huge cement torii that headed one of the main streets, and the crowds of people that went back and forth. Somewhere beyond the mountains, clouds billowed and flashed with lightning, as if the gods were having their own fireworks festival on the other side of the sky.
The fireworks started promptly at 7:30. Every 15 minutes they would break, and some sort of announcement would boom out over the speakers. Of course I could only understand a few words, but they repeated "Genji" over and over again. Uji, of course, is famous for its connections with Heian-era culture, and especially because it is the feature location for several of the chapters from the Tale of Genji. So I assume the announcements had something to do with that; perhaps they were readings from the Tale, or information about the city, or some such? I have no way of knowing.
And the fireworks . . . they went on and on. 花火 they`re called in Japanese, hanabi, fire-flowers. And they were, a vast garden of them, irises and lilies and morning glories, chrysanthemums and daisies and roses and peonies, more flowers than I could ever name. I had plenty of time for metaphors as I watched: complex coral-reefs of sparks populated by schools of fire-fish, flocks of singing phoenixes and herds of darting flame-antelopes. Blazing forests, supernovas, heavenly battles, a smithy in the sky . . . there were even fireworks in shapes, faces and stars and a few times pink-and-green sakura blossoms emblazoned in the heavens.
The explosions continued for an hour and a half. I kid you not; supposedly there are more than 7,000 fireworks in total. I was well-situated on the bridge; I could sit and put my back against the railing, and a cool breeze was constantly and refreshingly blowing against my back from upriver. A barrier prevented me from seeing some of the lower fireworks, but the show up top was such that I didn`t mind at all.
I worked my way back without much difficulty, purchasing a container of takoyaki and a skewer of some salty meat for my growling stomach along the way. It was fun to watch the people in yukata, every one different from the one before. There are always more women wearing them than men, but some guys do wear them, or the loose but boldly-patterned linen shirt-and-shorts sets that also seem to be traditional.
Summers in Kyoto-fu are both hot and humid, moreso than at home. You have a choice, though: either you like the heat or you hate it. And if you choose to hate it, there`s nothing for it; you`ll suffer until the all-too-brief autumn.
I have chosen to like it, to enjoy the baking heat, the bright splendor of the sun, the feel of sweat cooling my skin on those rare occasions when the breeze finds its way to me. Certainly I don`t feel it as much as some; when I watch the sports teams practice, the kids are completely soaked. Every time one of the girls on the volleyball team dives for the ball, she leaves a wet streak across the floor.
I used to eat my lunch where I could watch the sports teams at their outdoor practices, the baseball and tennis clubs, at least. But lately I prefer to sit on the steps on the far side of the school, where I can look over the valley below, the cars on the skyway and the rice paddies, the houses and beyond them the mountains, the wide expanse of sky and clouds overhead. There`s a breeze there, sometimes, and an awning over the steps provides shade and shelter if it should happen to rain (a rare enough occurrence, but one never knows). It`s peaceful there. The students don`t go there very much, and the teachers certainly don`t, so I can relax and know that no one is watching me.
Anonymity is a luxury, I`ve learned, one that is denied to a minority group. And I am a minority in Japan, for perhaps the first time in my life. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, I can be fairly certain that someone is going to be watching, and people are more likely remember any action I take.
I am a minority, and with that status come any number of attendant advantages and disadvantages. For instance, any time there is another foreigner present, we are expected to immediately talk to each other (in English), get along, and want to spend time together. When Katayama-san in the main office heard from her friend Scott that he had seen me in the shopping center, she automatically assumed that I had spoken to him, etc. I had seen him, of course-- when you`re a minority, you stand out-- but I hadn`t talked to him. He was with two young children whom he spoke to in Japanese, and so I wasn`t certain if he spoke English or not. After all, not all foreigners do. For all I knew he might be French, or German, or Lithuanian, or Russian, or even Japanese despite the fact that he was obviously Caucasian, and perhaps we would not be able to talk at all.
So I hadn`t spoken to him, and he hadn`t spoken to me, and we both went on about our business. When I said so to Katayama-san, she was very surprised.
I could have talked to him, of course. And in this particular case, my worries were groundless; he was in fact an American, and could speak English and Japanese. By not speaking to him, though, I went outside of what was expected of me as a member of a minority group (an English-speaking foreigner living in Japan). Not that there were any bad consequences to this, of course, but nevertheless. One feels a certain amount of pressure to conform to the popularly-held view of one`s minority group; as soon as I noticed Scott in the shopping center I felt as if I should go over and talk to him. Part of that came from me; I`m a newcomer, a foreigner, I don`t have many (any) friends, and any foreigner is potentially a new friend. But part of it came from outside of me; the people watching, and thinking that if there are two foreigners in one place they are immediately connected and should talk to each other, most likely in English.
I did have a vague plan in mind. My goal was the Uji Fireworks Festival, but I had little to no idea as to how to get there. The train map told me that the train line Shintanabe Station was on and the train line Uji was on conected in Kyoto Station, so I figured that I would go there, then change lines and go to Uji.
I stood on the platform, surrounded by young people wearing their festival yukata. I followed them onto the train. And then at the next stop (Okubo, if memory serves) I gave myself up to the spirit of adventure and followed them off the train again. And then I followed the small stream of people in yukata three blocks over to the JR station, bought a ticket, and two stations later I was in Uji.
I had been warned that it would be crowded, and it was. Very, very crowded. But the police kept things organized, and eventually we all progressed out of the station and into the crowded streets of the town. Booths were set up everywhere, selling the standard festival foods, hawking the standard festival activities, and selling the standard festival goods. And more besides, everything you can think of and undoubtedly more besides. Meat, vegetables, squid, sausages on skewers, takoyaki, fried chicken and fish and potatoes, grilled corn-on-the-cob, shaved ice and mochi and ice cream and drinks. Children attempted to scoop up fish, baubles, water-filled balloons and bouncing balls. Some booths sold items, bell chimes and masks and balloons, flashing earrings and spiked balls, stuffed animals and video games . . . and everywhere crowds of people, in yukata and in normal clothing, shouting, laughing, buying this and that.
I wandered for a little while, but wandered with a purpose: towards the river where the fireworks would soon begin. In the square before the bridge, people were thickly seated, all facing downstream. There was nowhere to sit there, so I followed my feet, one after the other. They took me onto the bridge over the water, and about midway across I found a gap between people, waiting just for me. I stepped into it and found myself looking upstream. Consulting the map I brought with me, I learned that I was on the Uji Bridge, facing east and upriver towards a small island connected by another, smaller bridge to the shore (and crowded with people, as well). The setting sun provided enough light to see the mountains that the river flowed from, the huge cement torii that headed one of the main streets, and the crowds of people that went back and forth. Somewhere beyond the mountains, clouds billowed and flashed with lightning, as if the gods were having their own fireworks festival on the other side of the sky.
The fireworks started promptly at 7:30. Every 15 minutes they would break, and some sort of announcement would boom out over the speakers. Of course I could only understand a few words, but they repeated "Genji" over and over again. Uji, of course, is famous for its connections with Heian-era culture, and especially because it is the feature location for several of the chapters from the Tale of Genji. So I assume the announcements had something to do with that; perhaps they were readings from the Tale, or information about the city, or some such? I have no way of knowing.
And the fireworks . . . they went on and on. 花火 they`re called in Japanese, hanabi, fire-flowers. And they were, a vast garden of them, irises and lilies and morning glories, chrysanthemums and daisies and roses and peonies, more flowers than I could ever name. I had plenty of time for metaphors as I watched: complex coral-reefs of sparks populated by schools of fire-fish, flocks of singing phoenixes and herds of darting flame-antelopes. Blazing forests, supernovas, heavenly battles, a smithy in the sky . . . there were even fireworks in shapes, faces and stars and a few times pink-and-green sakura blossoms emblazoned in the heavens.
The explosions continued for an hour and a half. I kid you not; supposedly there are more than 7,000 fireworks in total. I was well-situated on the bridge; I could sit and put my back against the railing, and a cool breeze was constantly and refreshingly blowing against my back from upriver. A barrier prevented me from seeing some of the lower fireworks, but the show up top was such that I didn`t mind at all.
I worked my way back without much difficulty, purchasing a container of takoyaki and a skewer of some salty meat for my growling stomach along the way. It was fun to watch the people in yukata, every one different from the one before. There are always more women wearing them than men, but some guys do wear them, or the loose but boldly-patterned linen shirt-and-shorts sets that also seem to be traditional.
Summers in Kyoto-fu are both hot and humid, moreso than at home. You have a choice, though: either you like the heat or you hate it. And if you choose to hate it, there`s nothing for it; you`ll suffer until the all-too-brief autumn.
I have chosen to like it, to enjoy the baking heat, the bright splendor of the sun, the feel of sweat cooling my skin on those rare occasions when the breeze finds its way to me. Certainly I don`t feel it as much as some; when I watch the sports teams practice, the kids are completely soaked. Every time one of the girls on the volleyball team dives for the ball, she leaves a wet streak across the floor.
I used to eat my lunch where I could watch the sports teams at their outdoor practices, the baseball and tennis clubs, at least. But lately I prefer to sit on the steps on the far side of the school, where I can look over the valley below, the cars on the skyway and the rice paddies, the houses and beyond them the mountains, the wide expanse of sky and clouds overhead. There`s a breeze there, sometimes, and an awning over the steps provides shade and shelter if it should happen to rain (a rare enough occurrence, but one never knows). It`s peaceful there. The students don`t go there very much, and the teachers certainly don`t, so I can relax and know that no one is watching me.
Anonymity is a luxury, I`ve learned, one that is denied to a minority group. And I am a minority in Japan, for perhaps the first time in my life. No matter where I go, no matter what I do, I can be fairly certain that someone is going to be watching, and people are more likely remember any action I take.
I am a minority, and with that status come any number of attendant advantages and disadvantages. For instance, any time there is another foreigner present, we are expected to immediately talk to each other (in English), get along, and want to spend time together. When Katayama-san in the main office heard from her friend Scott that he had seen me in the shopping center, she automatically assumed that I had spoken to him, etc. I had seen him, of course-- when you`re a minority, you stand out-- but I hadn`t talked to him. He was with two young children whom he spoke to in Japanese, and so I wasn`t certain if he spoke English or not. After all, not all foreigners do. For all I knew he might be French, or German, or Lithuanian, or Russian, or even Japanese despite the fact that he was obviously Caucasian, and perhaps we would not be able to talk at all.
So I hadn`t spoken to him, and he hadn`t spoken to me, and we both went on about our business. When I said so to Katayama-san, she was very surprised.
I could have talked to him, of course. And in this particular case, my worries were groundless; he was in fact an American, and could speak English and Japanese. By not speaking to him, though, I went outside of what was expected of me as a member of a minority group (an English-speaking foreigner living in Japan). Not that there were any bad consequences to this, of course, but nevertheless. One feels a certain amount of pressure to conform to the popularly-held view of one`s minority group; as soon as I noticed Scott in the shopping center I felt as if I should go over and talk to him. Part of that came from me; I`m a newcomer, a foreigner, I don`t have many (any) friends, and any foreigner is potentially a new friend. But part of it came from outside of me; the people watching, and thinking that if there are two foreigners in one place they are immediately connected and should talk to each other, most likely in English.
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I have an inkling as to what you mean about being a minority; walking around Ridgewood, I am often the only Caucasian person in sight, and I am always aware of my physical appearance in a way I never was before. I can only imagine what it must be like there, where it's not just a neighborhood but a country and a continent.