Of parasols and boaters

As the summer sun beats down on Ol’ Hirosh, I have noticed that the Japanese are very vigilant about the harmful beams, more than people Back Home. I’m not sure how much of the general covering up is to prevent nasty melanomas, but I do know that pale unblemished skin is a hallmark of beauty here and many deplore the freckled epidermis (especially for women). So it is that most people are be-hatted. Many women wear long-sleeved shirts on sunny days, and many a boater hat or cloche-style summer hat is worn. Most women equip themselves with a parasol, even for the brief errand at the local FamilyMart convenience store. And many women have a parasol fitted to their bicycles! One can buy a parasol clip from most bike-shops, mount it on their handle-bars and ride about gaily under the protection of their pretty umbrella!

Also everyone whips out a fan from their handbag, briefcase or backpack. Yes – from children, to young men, construction workers and the elderly, everyone has an o-sensu. There is nothing more alluring than a willowy man of elfin face and figure and pixie-cut hair, chatting on his mobile phone with a folded fan sticking out of his back pocket. Kakoi ne!

The Darling Buds of June

Here in Hiroshima, the air is a-tremble with emerging insect life and newborn chickadees that hurl themselves from nests in an attempt to fly. Speeding to school on my little red racer, I have to dodge the abundance of sparrows and little sparrowlings that fossick the paths for food and hop a merry dance under my wheels. Yes, it is a dangerous time of year. Even this morning, on my jittery ride home from the Ladies’ Clinic, I was hit in the head by two massive buzzing insects. The impact was rather like that of tossed pebbles, although furry, and I was nearly knocked off course, but realigned myself in the nick of time, avoiding a collision with the shrubbery.

On my way to the schoolhouse yesterday, I was waiting at the crossroads when a beautiful swallow* swooped and dived at me in an impertinent manner. I looked about me and saw, tucked under a stripy shopfront, a twiggy nest that was wriggling with hissing and chirruping little chicks. Then, on arrival at the schoolhouse, I spotted a sign that warned pedestrians of nearby aggressive, avian parenting styles. Kawaii!

* I have fond memories of swallows dive-bombing the family black labrador, the late Prince, as he lolloped along with his tongue hanging out, completely oblivious to the assault from above.

The Ladies' Clinic

This morn, due to a random ladies’ ailment, Miss Ember found herself making a mad dash to the local clinic for ladies (known back home as the rather grotesque term, “the gyno’s”). And what a malady awaited me there!

After signing in at the reception desk, I was whisked away to the doctor’s rooms by a pretty nurse in crisp, white uniform, and I was ushered to a seat at Doctor Sensei’s desk where four – yes, four! – nurses waited on him like French maids from Maid Café (instead clad in distinctly clinical, but rather fetishist, white nursie outfits). As I explained my symptoms to kind old Doctor Sensei, two nurses flanked the western side and stood erect with sentry-like poise, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall, as I babbled on about cramps and one’s monthlies and the like; they didn’t bat an eyelid. Meanwhile, the other two nurses were preoccupied in the corner, readying rubber gloves & c, and advanced from behind in a swift pincer movement.

The throng of nurses then hastened me into the Undressing Chamber. This compartment was decorated like a Lolita Love Hotel – the walls were fairy-floss pink, the rug of rose-hue and fluffy, and a vanity dresser straight from a girl’s bedroom with elaborate knobs and curly legs. I removed my underthings, took a deep breath then proceeded with the pace of a funeral party into the Examination Room.

Here only one nurse presided over Doctor Sensei’s probings (the others perhaps were making cucumber sandwiches) and I was placed in a chair that was reminiscent of a Round One massage lounge. In it I was flipped back and lay gazing at the ceiling, thinking of England, as the chair manoeuvred my legs into most undignified positions and the machine sang out Japanese instructions to the medical staff in a most unnervingly cheerful voice. A pink curtain was pulled across my tummy so I could not bear witness to any of the proceedings. However, to my horror, this curtain was suspended from a metal bar pinned to the ceiling, and in its reflection I could see Doctor Sensei delving and prodding beyond the curtain. Eek!

For relief from this spectacle, I turned my head to the side, and was confronted by a vision of my ovaries, as projected by one of those new-fangled ultrasound machines. Ye gods! What can one do but look the other way? This I did, only to behold video footage of my cervix to my left! I was hemmed in, surrounded by surreal images of my innards, a bit like the Germans at Stalingrad. Queasy and ready to swoon, I closed my eyes tight and tried to think of fluffy clouds, trees, birds & c. This brief reverie was interrupted by Doctor Sensei, who piped polite civilities from behind the curtain: “Chotto matte kudasai” (it will be just a moment) and “I am very sad for you that Ossotoraria lost the soccer game”. I replied in a querulous voice, “Hai, watashi wa kanashkata des” (yes, I was sad).

After what seemed like aeons I was shepherded back to the doctor’s rooms and Doctor Sensei went over the examination in microscopic detail, with references to diagrams, maps, coordinates and a coloured booklet. At the end of our chat and in front of an audience of nurses, he presented me with my own little photo album, entitled “Woman’s Health Record” (written in elegant, cursive script and decorated with a flowing, embossed border): the contents of which featured images of my cervix and ovaries in a glorious gallery of sepia and colour prints.

This indeed was a most curious souvenir, but less curious was the bill of 17, 400 yen (around $220) (!!!). However, my most generous medical insurer will reimburse me (one prays). And thankfully, all is well on the, er, southern front.

By the way, does anyone know a collective noun for nurses?

... like a dragonfly

Regarding my tattoo ponderings below, a treasure trove of potential designs is that of art nouveau and art deco jewellery, specifically brooches. This is definitely more the style I'm seeking: flowing lines and vintage elegance. I wonder if such a detailed tattoo would bring problems in the future, such as the linework bleeding with age & c.

My other interest, tattoonically speaking, is peacock feathers. I once saw a waitress in old Sydney Town who had delicately detailed peacock feathers (no colour, just ashen greys and blacks) under her shoulder blades, where angel wings would sprout. Note these dragonfly brooches feature eyelet details on the wings which allude to peacock feathers, and if I was to choose colouring, this association could be most overtly flaunted.

Decisions, decisions!

Pin and mount me ...

After a visit to the local tattoo parlour to bear witness to the pain of the needle (I looked on as a friend had a kanji character* etched on her person), I am pondering the world of permanent ink myself.

I desire a dragonfly tattoo on the lower back. However, I am torn between the styles of (a) a realistic dragonfly, of the insect collector's pinned and mounted variety, showing the splendid latticed detail of the wings; (b) a Japanese design - where the dragonfly is a simple, fluttering silhouette, its wings and body filled with black or colour, usually accompanied with water ripples - however, although uncommon back home, this image is everywhere here in the summer, from tatami mats to sweat-towels to miso soup bowls; or (3) a dragonfly in flowing, wispy art nouveau style. I also think I'll have no hue on my little damsel, just simple black or grey tones.

Many of the tattoo sites I have perused have terribly gimmicky, cartoonish - nay, ClipArt-ish - designs of dragonflies. Any suggestions for tattoo-searching? Methinks I'll have to hole up in a library for a month.

I adore this lady dragonfly mirror that is all the rage in the vintage cyber shoppes at the mo - it's sold in a pair with a Lady of the Lake mirror. Apparently, women-dragonfly images were popular in the 20s; I must confess I've only espied the dragonfly in its detached, non-womanly form in brooches and other jewellery. In fact, this very day I snaffled up a dragonfly brooch made from old kimono material.

In other entomological escapades, in Flashy Kyuuki, Sir S writes about the enchantment of the firefly festivals in rural Japan. O, what ethereal beauty!

Sadly, I missed out on the local firefly festival here because I was locked up in the schoolhouse, and friends who attended the festival said they could not even espy a glimmer through the mist of rain. Thankfully, I have already marvelled at fireflies on my India tour of '03, when on a canoe in the Keralan backwaters, the creatures trembled luminous on the air above us as the punters sang songs of the fisherfolk.


* Fear not, this was not the Japanese for "Don't walk on the grass" or "Sod off", but the kanji for "love".

Carping on

On the weekend Y Sensei and her lovely daughters accompanied me to the baseball where we watched Hiroshima Carp triumph over some lesser-known, regional team. Not one for baseball myself, I sat back on the bleachers and enjoyed watching the crowd who are famous for their chants and general raucous cheering. Many people were equipped with red Carp megaphones or plastic bats that they struck and hammered in frenetic beats, or waved in choreographed semaphoring, that took place at 5-minute intervals. In the seventh inning, the spectators inflated sausage-like balloons, fixed with a whistle at the mouth, and unleashed them into the air in a storm of colour. It was most hilarious to watch as the balloons jetted about the stadium making dubious windy noises – whistling “piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”, and then to see them all descend in a rain of shrivelled, bespittled plastic. What larks!

And ye shall quiver!

On matters quiversome, I was ejected from my bed at 5 o’clock on Monday morn by an earthquake that was 6 on the Richter scale. My bed shook with a vigour only seen in The Exorcist and I leapt for the nearest doorframe, clad only in minimal sleeping attire. My little wooden house shook, swayed and trembled for what seemed an eternity, and my suncatcher and bathroom light swung to and fro like a hypnotist’s fob watch. My heart was a-flutter as I contemplated the vision of a collapsed house with only the staircase still standing, and Lady L and her pretty grey cats squished beneath me. Horrors! But the earthquake ceased after about 20 seconds and I peeped outside to see several locals pacing the lane in their dressing gowns. Egads! Have assembled Emergency Earthquake Kit near my bed for future joltage. According to His Edenic Maj, only a few injuries occurred and no damage. The epicentre was apparently in Ooita, Kyushu, but Hirosh copped the worst.

A Morn at the Theatre

Last Monday I put on my best morning suit and cycled to the local theatre for a Noh performance, arranged by the chaps and ladies at the International Centre. Despite having very modern facilities, the stage itself was designed in the traditional Noh style: wooden and topped with a curly Oriental roof, with one simple painted backdrop of pine trees bent in the wind. We watched two plays: The Persimmon Monk and The Groundspider (which was very appropriate, as I’d just had a battle with my first huge, hairy arachnid of the house the previous evening).

The first play was a comic piece where a naughty, famished monk decided to do a bit of thievery in the farmer’s orchard, and scaled a tree to devour some plump persimmons.
The farmer, catching him red-handed, joked, “Lo! What is that monkey doing in my tree? Or wait, is it a bird?”, causing the monk to pathetically imitate a monkey and a bird in an attempt to trick the farmer into thinking that there was no monk in the tree, merely a menagerie of strange monk-looking beasties. As is to be expected, this cunning plan failed, and instead the monk fell out of the tree (when he imitated a bird’s flight) and landed on his head, and thus the farmer abandoned him in a fit of laughter.

The Groundspider was a spooky tale of a spider spirit that entrapped a grand lord in a web of spells and tricks. The spider itself unleashed shooting paper streamers all over the stage which was very impressive, especially when the papery threads snared a few older ladies in the front row. The accompanying booklet to the performance (with manga-like illustrations) had most intriguing captions, such as, after the spider captures the lord, “…the fiend runs off”, and later, “Hitorimusha investigates the trail of blood, having decided to dispatch the beast”. Brilliant!

Regarding the performance, I could not understand any of the Japanese, it being old and delivered in a sing-song operatic voice. The costumes were magnificent, the lords and their retainers being enveloped in the stiff folds of regal kimonos and gowns, immaculately detailed and of hues noble and rich. It was very much a glimpse of ancient Japan and I felt as if an old court painting had been reanimated for my amusement. Bravo!

The Victorian Lav

My lavatory is prettily tiled with zen-style black and white pebbles, and has a Western seat placed upon its squat origins. A quaint tin watering can is to hand for intermittent douching, and a bucket is available when tsunami-level flushing is required. Obviously in this modern age it is not perfect and far from ideal, but so far no serious problems have arisen of the nasal variety. However, the racket made when one uses the lav is rather alarming. As pointed out previously to friends, it’s as if numerous rocks are being tossed down a well. A titch unsettling! I sympathise with my neighbour below, the lovely Lady L, who must surely get a bit jumpy when she hears a bump in the night!

Rooms of One's Own

On my recent birthday, I moved into my new lodgings with the grateful assistance of Y Sensei. I am now comfortably esconced in my new rooms, and I’m as happy as a harem girl in a Turkish bath after a hard night’s debauchery in the cushion room. Yes, living on one’s own is simply marvellous, but especially when one’s abode has charming details and Japanese touches.

The windows in my bedroom and drawing room are frosted with maple leaves, giving the rooms a classic autumnal atmos, whilst the bathroom and kitchen windows are etched with stars. Between my bathroom and bedroom are Japanese-style doors with intersecting wooden frames and squares of glass in between, this time frosted with feathery leaves. It looks so pretty when lit from behind! Leading into the drawing room are a set of traditional Japanese doors - white paper and wooden screens – with streaks of white-silver in the parchment, as is often seen in the quality paper of Asian lettersets.

The previous tenant painted the wooden beams in the bedroom black, set against white walls, which gives the room a European, actually very German, mood. The supplied bed has a wooden bedhead-and-bed-bottom, like a storybook bed, so the room is generally very old-fashioned which is fab. Hence I have decorated this room with all my art deco cards sent from friends and others that I collected in Kyoto. After my planned Tokyo trip in midsummer with Sgt M and the darling Sir S (which I’m madly saving yen for), I intend to further decorate it with the vintage-style Kiki lamp (this one has a glass, belled lampshade with a metal Jiji the cat perched on the base) and Kiki windchimes. Sadly the Ghibli Shoppe is rather too expensive to buy all these things now * sigh * but one can wait.

The desk in the drawing room commands a delightful view of the community vegetable garden, which is flourishing with onions and miscellaneous tubers, as well as leafy bushes and a variety of English cottage garden flowers, such as foxgloves and delphiniums. I have pinned up many of my traditional Japanese postcards sent from friends – including a scene of fireflies at dusk and a willow tree by the river – over my desk, which I can contemplate while click-clacking on my typewriter. I have assembled a hotch-potch futon chaise lounge on which I can drape myself in the stifling summer heat whilst fluttering a fan, or where I can catch up on the misadventures of Flashman or Phryne Fisher. A damaged board on the wall has been cunningly adorned with squares of washi paper, to distract and cover dubious stains.

My house is located on a charming lane. Many people trundle by on their bicycles, walk their dogs or flap about in the early morning in their dressing gowns, esp post-earthquake (see later post). A nefarious gang of feral cats haunt the area, rodgering dainty housebreeds and messing on my front step. I was horrified when I noticed a fishy whiff emanating from the porch, and cursed the blighters when I had to stoop down and scrub the step with a frothy bucket and hardwire brush, fishwife-style. Must add pearl-handled water pistol to shopping list.

More pics to come soon!

Yukata de Mode

Recently the town was in full swing with Toukasan, a yukata festival held in Hiroshima in the first week of June.

As the yukata is more affordable and comfortable than its cold-season cousin - the stiff formal kimono - I set forth into the shops at the earliest opportunity and snaffled up a yukata set, a bargain at around $50. The set included a yukata (summer kimono), obi (belt), pouch-bag, hair pin and getta (wooden sandals), plus a series of complicated and indecipherable instructions for wearing same, accompanied by cute comic-book-style pictures of women getting dressed in their yukata step-by-step.

My yukata was a deep blue with purple-pink flowers (shaped rather like thistles) and water-ripple details. I say, my yukata was one of the more minimalist styles available! Many of the popular patterns were splashed with vivid flowers and emblazoned with large-scale traditional summer motifs of dragonflies and fireworks.

Everyone looked rather spiffing. Women and men graced the main street, Chuodorii, radiant in summery sartorial wares and the pavements were vibrant with the cries of stall-sellers and the clip-clop beat of getta on concrete. Not all men donned the yukata and the men’s version differs quite strongly, in that (a) it is easier to wear and does not include an obi that is so torturously tied and reminiscent of corsetry, as per the women’s gown, and (b) the colours are more subdued with minimal motifs and a generous lashing of simple stripes. Greys, browns, dark blues and blacks were the common hues for men, compared with the women’s array of sunset pinks, violets, oranges, sky blues and egg-yolk yellows. The material for the men’s yukatas was also rougher to the touch, and generally gave the men a rustic, rural look that reminded one of harvest in autumn, whilst the women’s garb was evocative of summer nights in Okinawa.

Sir S did not have time to fix himself in local costume, but looked extremely dapper in a suit and cufflinks. Miss K and Mr J accompanied us – Miss K did a fabulous job dressing her beau and I in our traditional attire, and had adeptly tied our obis with nimble fingerwork, patience and skill. Arigato gonzaimas, Miss K!

Like other festivals I have attended, the streets were lined with stalls selling anime masks, Hello Kitty baked goods, octopus balls, toffee apples and toffee strawberries, plus many games such as the beloved flip-the-fish. Many a child tottered about with their tot-version obis – that is, easy-to-tie-in-a-bow thai-dye scarves - flapping in the breeze as they flicked fishies about with a ricepaper spoon in an effort to claim one as their prize, while their yukata’d grandparents looked on.

We visited the temple to toss in a coin, toll the bell and murmur a prayer, then plucked our fortune from a wooden barrel (good health, say the gods) and admired the rows of red lanterns that were hoisted in a glowing wall around the templegrounds. Later we rendezvoused with Miss Y and Mr M at the illumined temple gate. The company of us set off to J Café for a refreshing drink and to rest our blistered, getta-weary feet in this most fashionable coffee-house, where wicker lanterns cast streaked shadows on the wall and an elegant miniature waterfall tinkled in the background. An absolutely super retreat from the crowds!

Birthday

My June birthday plans changed from Grand Plan 1: Frenchie Night to Grand Plan 2: Koba and Round 1 hijinks. I gathered with numerous friends for a feast of pesto tofu and chilli carbonara at Koba and then onto Round 1 for all-you-can play table tennis, pool, baseball striking and badminton. Most funsome!