A Prelude To Another Midlife Journey?

I have been home from my Japan trip for as long as I was there. I can’t stop thinking about it. The other night, I e,

availed myself to the Taco Tuesday special at Webster Cafe and Diner. (It’s really good!) There, I encountered Robert, one of the regular customers.

“Wearya bin?”

I told him about my trip and showed him a few pictures.  He, a neighborhood “lifer,” told me he’d been to Japan briefly when he was in the Navy. “Then I got sent to the Philippines.” He said he’d thought about going back—“Japan was great,” me exclaimed.

I nodded. “I fell in love with it, especially Kyoto.” Then I tried to describe how I felt, much to my surprise, that I was in the right place and everything felt right even though the culture is as different from any other I’ve experienced as any culture can be, and I don’t speak the language. “Even when I got lost and Google Map directions weren’t making any sense, I felt I was going where I wanted and needed to go, if that makes any sense.”

“You weren’t just taking a vacation. You were on a journey.”

He understands my travel philosophy, exactly! I nodded again.

Then he reverted to his neighborhood lifer voice. “So why the hell did you come back?”

I’ve been asking myself that same question. Marlee: Any time I travel, I miss my cat(s) more than anything else. Friends. My bikes.  And…and..

Four days in Tokyo. Three in Osaka, five in Kyoto and one more in Tokyo. Robert was right: It wasn’t just a trip; it was a journey. Could it have been a prelude to another midlife journey ?

The Scent of a City

 Many years ago, during my second European bike tour, I visited Marseille, France in spite—or, given the kind of person I was, because—some people warned me that it was dirty and dangerous. 

About the “dangerous” part: I had moved back to New York a few months earlier, just as the crack epidemic was unfolding. So I believed, like any true New Yorker (or someone who tries to seem like one) that no place could present greater perils than what Gotham could proffer.

I had no problems in Marseille. Parts of it were gritty, yes, but even they seemed like the Ginza or Avenue Montaigne compared to where I was living.  They did, however, have some pretty dive-y bars and cafes, which isn’t surprising when you consider that it’s a seaport. (Not for nothing was it the “French Connection.”)

Speaking of which:  The city seemed to have its own distinctive odor: a combination of fish and brine, tinged with bits of sisal and smoke. 

On the Shinkansen, I realized that was a reason why Osaka reminded me somewhat of Marseille. Japan’s third largest city seemed to have its own distinctive aroma, everywhere I turned. It wasn’t at all unpleasant, though it made me hungry: I felt that wherever I turned, I could smell food being prepared. Near my hotel, and around the Doutonbori, frying tempura batter, scallions and soy sauce (or something like it) filled the air. Along other streets and byways, I could follow my nose to steaming fish and meats, sizzling takoyaki and bubbling ramen broths.

No wonder I felt hungrier leaving Osaka Castle than any other museum or monument I’ve ever visited! While learning about the castle‘s—and Japan’s—history and art might have been enough to whet my appetite (Is that why people like to have lunch or dinner after museum visits?) the olfactory enticements to eat seemed to be everywhere.

While there are temples and other historic and cultural sites in Osaka, there aren’t quite as many as in Kyoto, which is practically a World Heritage Site or Tokyo, which is a much larger city. One explanation I’ve heard and read is that Osaka had many military-related industries and thus was a major target of Allied bombings during World War II, while Kyoto, which didn’t have those industries, was spared.

But does that account for all of the eateries, street foods and the ever-present aromas of Osaka? Does steam from bowls of udon noodles rise from the smoke (and ashes) of munitions factories?

Sticks, But No Stones

 Well, I just got an answer to a question I never asked:  What would a stick-figure cyclist look like?

I Want To Go Back To Japan—Because Of My Best Ride In New York

 Lighter and fluffier than cotton candy, thin high clouds wisped over beaches not yet crowded with weekend throngs. Those clouds didn’t obscure the sun or sky; rather, they highlighted the almost preternaturally refulgent expanse crowning the unusually calm and blue waters.

If that sounds like a perfect day for a bike ride, your hearing (so to speak, pun intended) is true. And ride I did, on Dee-Lilah, my Mercian Vincitore Special. What better ride than the beautiful bespoke bike I gave myself as a gift on my most recent round-number birthday?

Oh, and the ride could not have gone better. I pedaled into wind (from the southeast, apparently) that at times “gusted” to 20 KPH  (12 MPH) to Point Lookout and let that same wind assist my ride along the ocean to Coney Island and along the Verrazano Narrows, passing under the eponymous bridge, into the Brooklyn neighborhoods of Bay Ridge, Sunset Park and Park Slope to Barclays Center, where I hopped on the D train home after a ride of about 145 kilometers (90 miles).

Even with my best planning (which may not be saying much) I could hardly have had a better ride. Yet…

Nothing could have done more than that ride to make me wish I were still in Japan, particularly in Kyoto. Although the weather was great, I felt good and Dee-Lilah practically sang under me, there is so much I miss already about cycling, and simply being, in the Land of the Rising Sun.

What I am feeling is not the same sort of yearning to be somewhere else I felt through my childhood and early adult life: When I was in high school, I dreamed of going to college, getting a job or doing almost anything else to get out of that school, that town, that state. Then I went to Rutgers where, I can say without exaggeration, everybody—students, faculty, staff—wanted to be somewhere else.(Some years back, someone did a survey to determine which college or university had the most unhappy students. Supposedly, Rutgers came in second, behind Brandeis.) And I had a series of jobs where I wanted to be somewhere else, doing something else.

But my current longing has nothing to do with youthful wanderlust or unresolved psychological issues. Rather, it has to do with having experienced a place where order doesn’t seem like an imposition. Instead, it’s what makes the place beautiful and vibrant—and safe to ride. Drivers aren’t using bike lanes for passing or parking (or, worse, picking up and discharging passengers); I never felt that any driver could kill me if they lost their patience.

For that matter, I never worried that the person standing on line in Family Mart or Lawson would pull out a gun if they were having a bad day.  Or that bumping into someone could lead to a fight. (I was amazed how infrequently people bumped into each other, even on crowded streets in the Ginza district.) Of course, that has to do with being in a country with real firearms regulation. I believe, however, it also has to do with something woven through the culture. 

It was remarkable, to me, that I sensed so little aggression, even among Tokyo business and tech people,who are in just as much of a hurry as their New York counterparts. Whether I rode or walked, I never had the sense that anyone was trying to push me out of the way. Whenever I crossed an intersection, turning cars stopped, even if they had the same green light I had.

Speaking of public spaces: The dirtiest I saw—a stretch near Doutonbori in Osaka—wasn’t as grimy or smelly as most public spaces in New York. People don’t use bike lanes or streets or train stations as trash receptacles or toilets. 

Even though I still have, I believe, a bit of my youthful rebellious streak, I found myself loving the order I saw in public spaces and the consideration people give each other. I am reminded of my first trip to Europe, just after I graduated Rutgers: For all that I professed to hating rules and formality, I really liked entering shops, bakeries, museums or any other public venue, and being greeted with, and greeting whoever worked there, with a light, almost sing-songy “bonjour” and that French, Italian and other European meals had their own protocols and rituals, from what is consumed when (and with what). Part of my love, of course, came simply from being truly away from home (I traveled by myself, on my bike). But I also sensed people’s appreciation for the things, however small, that made them who they are, as individuals and a society. 

I felt that sense on an even deeper level in Japan. Of course, because my stay wasn’t very long, I might be mis-perceiving it. Whatever the case, the general ease I felt in a culture completely unlike any other I’ve known, where I don’t speak the language (I at least knew some some school French and Spanish, and some very situational Italian, when I first went to Europe) made some sense to me after enjoying the gardens and visiting the temples, shrines, castles and other monuments.

The Gion district.

In an earlier post, I mentioned the Nijo Castle in Kyoto, where I learned about the Samurai codes of honor which, I believe, influence Japanese social morés. Interestingly, another experience in Kyoto revealed something about the ways people interact with each other and their surroundings: a visit to Gion, the “Geisha district “ of Kyoto, where I saw geishas on the street and saw a geisha show. There, I learned that, contrary to a common misperception, they are not prostitutes or concubines, but are rather like cultural ambassadors:  They are trained performance artists who dance, sing, have conversations and otherwise provide an elegant atmosphere for visiting dignitaries and guests at banquets and other events. The young women chosen for this profession undergo a process of training and acculturation as lengthy and rigorous as for just about any other profession you can think of. Oh, and while they are maikos—geishas in training—they basically have no contact with their families or anyone outside their okiya (Geisha house), which is strictly controlled by a kind of house mother. 

Oh, and they’re not allowed to have cell phones. Can you imagine any young American signing up for that? And, as long as they’re geishas, they’re not allowed to marry or have boyfriends. They’re “married to the profession.” Hmm…Maybe that has something to do with how diligent Japanese oil people seem to be about their work.

Another insight into what I experienced in Japan came during a visit to the Nonomiya Shrine. One of the exhibits mentioned that in ancient Japanese mythology, all things—even inanimate objects—have souls. I doubt any Japanese person believes that today. But knowing that such a belief was foundational to Japanese culture, I couldn’t help but to wonder whether that is a reason why the Japanese seem to take such good care of everything and keep public spaces so clean.

Or why none of their bike lanes are like the one on 4th Avenue in Sunset Park, Brooklyn—one of the worst in New York, if not all of the United States.

I want to go back to Japan—because of one of the best bike rides I’ve had in New York, not because of youthful wanderlust.

Hiroshima

(For this post, I am invoking my Howard Cosell Rule.)

Having just returned from an amazing trip to Japan, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention this:  On this date 80 years ago, Colonel Paul Tibbets flew a B-29 bomber (named Enola Gay, after his mother) over Hiroshima, where Major Thomas Ferebee dropped what has most likely proven to be the single most influential object of the 20th Century.

 I am talking, of course, about “Little Boy,” a 4400 kilogram (9700 pound) hunk of metal encasing 64 kilograms (141 pounds) of highly enriched uranium.

(That nickname should tell you that any military organization thrives on dark or sick humor precisely because it’s incapable of irony.)

Why do I say it’s the most influential object of the 20th Century? Well, if you will indulge me a cliche, the atomic bomb probably did more than anything else to change the world.

For one thing, the Hiroshima bombing, and that of Nagasaki three days later, underscored a point that only a few influential people seemed to understand after World War I: the human race, for all of its accomplishments, is the only one capable of willfully destroying itself. If one atomic bomb could cause so much death and destruction, multiple uses of nuclear weapons—indeed, the continuation of war itself and everything that enables or results from it—would be the end of us.

(Sometimes I think the leaders of nations, including mine, are doing everything they can to ensure our annihilation.)

Now, minds greater than mine —and people who, I admit, are simply more knowledgeable about the war and military history—argue that the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings hastened the end of the war. While Japanese forces indeed surrendered just days later, it could also be argued that for all of their will, they might not have been able to continue fighting much longer: major cities and industries had already been destroyed and people were deprived, even on the verge of starvation.

Here is something that, to my knowledge, is never mentioned in high school, or even college, history classes and textbooks:  On 8 August —two days after the Hiroshima nuclear attack and the day before the one in Nagasaki—the Soviet Union declared war on Japan and, a day later, invaded Manchuria, the region of northeastern China Japan invaded in 1931.

(A few paragraphs ago, I said military organizations are incapable of irony. But their actions sometimes have ironic consequences.)

Some military historians have argued that this was at least as much of a factor as the bombings in Japan’s surrender. Before the declaration of war against Japan, Soviet forces fought to defend their own country and with the Allies throughout Europe. When the Nazis surrendered on 8 May, the Soviets could turn their attention eastward, as per the Yalta agreement.

The Soviet Union, as badly depleted as it was*, nonetheless effectively doubled the number of troops available to fight their Japanese adversaries. Some have argued that alone would have been enough to bring a quick end to the war, as Japanese forces—many of whom were, by that time, ill-equipped and malnourished—were outnumbered by four or five to one.

Whatever the case may be, the lesson of Hiroshima and Nagasaki is not to repeat them. 

*—The Soviet Union had already lost 20 million people, or about 12 percent of its total population. That would be like the US, with its current population, losing every resident of California.

It Isn’t “Another Asian Country “

 I have never done a “whirlwind “ tour of any country or area I’ve visited. Instead, before taking a trip, I decide on a few places I want to see or experiences I want to have. And I wander, in part to see what most tourists won’t and to experience the “feel” of a place.

Perhaps my philosophy has been shaped by some of my trips being bike tours and by exploring places on rented bikes—as I did during my Japan trip—during other journeys.

So, before heading to the Land of the Rising Sun, I’d planned to go to Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto. I kept to that itinerary, landing in Tokyo on the 16th of July, taking the Shinkansen to Osaka on the 20th, Kyoto on the 23rd and back to Tokyo on the 29th before flying back to JFK on the 30th.

In each city I had planned to take a guided bike tour shortly after arriving and let my choice of sites to visit and places to explore be guided by it.

I followed that plan in Tokyo: I wrote a post about the ride with Sho. I didn’t take such a tour in Osaka because no one seemed to know about them. I also didn’t look for a rental bike because I didn’t want to spend too much of my limited time pursuing it. As it turned out, Osaka was a more compact city than I’d expected. Finally, I didn’t take a guided bike tour in Kyoto because I felt strangely confident about getting around from the moment I rented my bike, shortly after arriving.

Okazaki nishitennocho Shrine

Turns out, my confidence was justified. First of all, mountains border Kyoto on three sides and the Kamo River bisects the city. So, even without Google maps, it’s fairly easy to navigate, especially if you like to use landmarks, as I do.

Without trying, I managed to visit most of the “important “ sites: the Imperial Palace, Nijo Caske, Shimogoyo Shrine and Kinkakujicho (“Golden Palace”), among others, in Kyoto; the Castle and Dotonbori (less than a block from my hotel) in Osaka and the Imperial Palace, Shibuya and Shinjuku Gardens (again, among others) in Tokyo. But the best thing about my trip was feeling the pace, the light and even the sounds of a language I don’t understand. It was also interesting to see how people don’t so much negotiate or navigate close spaces as much as they seem to simply move among each other, as if they’ve been doing it for centuries.

Japan, at least what I experienced of it, is about as different from any other place I’ve visited or lived as any place could be. I can’t even say, after being in Cambodia, Laos and Anatolia, that I was in “another Asian country” as I could say I was in another European country when I was in Greece or the Czech Republic after having lived in France and visited Italy, Spain or Belgium. 

Some of that feeling has to do with cycling and even in the bikes I rode and saw Japanese people riding. I will try to describe more in future posts.

Crossing From The Castle

 So what does Nijo Castle have to do with Japanese road etiquette, specifically between drivers and cyclists?

About the castle: Tokugawa Ieyasu, the first shogun of the Tokugawa shogunate, ordered its construction in 1601. Conceived as a testament to his, and his clan’s power, it served as a stage to many key events in Japanese history, including the transfer of power from the shogunate back to the emperor in 1867, and as an incubator for the codes of honor that governed, not only the samurai, but also Japanese society.

I wasn’t thinking about any of that—indeed, I knew, and still know little about any of it—as I rode my rental bike from the hotel to the castle. But I was still marveling at how drivers making the turn around Omiya Station stopped—and didn’t honk their horns or stare aggressively—as I, two other cyclists and three pedestrians crossed. 

Granted, I have seen such deference in France and other European countries. I have attributed it to the fact (or, at least, my theory) that many of those motorists are also cyclists, or at least have ridden in their recent pasts. The same is probably true for at least some Kyoto drivers:  Indeed, I saw people riding utilitarian bikes like the one I rented who were parking their cars—sometimes BMWs or other luxury or near-luxury vehicles—the day before. I suspect that they use their bikes for errands and other short trips and perhaps take rides with their kids in nearby parks. But the kind of courtesy I experienced there, and even in Tokyo, felt older and thus more ingrained than one conditioned by modes of transportation.

When I left the Castle and found my rental bike exactly where I left it—next to a shop across the street from the Castle’s main entrance—the proverbial light bulb went off in my head. And it grew brighter when I crossed the intersection—again, with drivers stopping to let me go by—it grew brighter.

I don’t know a thing about Kyoto statutes or Japanese laws, but I suspect they include the same prohibitions against stealing from and endangering other people. Such regulations, however, don’t stop people from theft, assault or murder in the United States. Now, some have said that it’s because the US is so diverse and Japan is so orderly because it’s 98 percent Japanese. Frankly, I find that explanation offensive because it’s essentially racist.

In learning about the arrangement of rooms within the Ninomaru Palace and the ceremonies and rituals involved in everything from negotiations between the shoguns and emperors to meals, I realized that there was an even greater degree of shame in violating those rules and morés than in transgressing the unwritten rules, or breaking the laws, of most other societies. It seems that the samurai codes of honor—and the fear of violating them—has become part of the DNA of people whose great-grandparents weren’t born when the last samauri died.

One thing I have learned—and that James Baldwin and others have expressed in ways I never could—is that every person, and every group of people, who has a language and culture that is their own has paid a price for it. (As Caliban tells Prospero in The Tempest: “You have given me language/ And the profit on’t is, I can curse.”) The shoguns were military rulers which means, of course, that their codes had the threat of violence behind them.  So, I believe, it’s fair to ask whether the fact that I could ride without the fear of being victimized by a driver’s “road rage” or that I could leave a bike secured by nothing more than the “Chinese” lock is hereditary, learned or a result of intergenerational trauma. (Nobody is better at inflicting trauma than any military.)

Whatever the answer, I’ll say that I enjoyed the peace of mind I felt while cycling in Japan, even on its busiest roads.

A Midlife Journey

 Many years ago (Yes, I can say that, even though I am in Midlife!) I took my third multi-day bicycle trek, which also happened to be my first trip outside North America. Like many Americans on their first (and for some, only) European adventure, I started in London because Laker Sytrain (Remember them?) and a few other carriers provided flights to Gatwick that even newly-minted college graduates like me could afford. Also, I—again, like many other Americans—felt I could “ease in” to my journey by starting it in a place where people speak my language, more or less.*

After living on my bicycle for three months through four countries, I landed in Paris, where I would spend three years. When I came back to the States, I was convinced that I was a changed person.  Indeed I was, though perhaps not for the reasons I thought I was.

The real difference, I  now realize, between myself and my peers (around 25 years old) wasn’t so much that—as I believed at that I’d become less American or more European. If anything, my journey and stay highlighted the differences between me the people I met. For one thing, although the bike I rode—a Peugeot PX-10 with clincher wheels and tires—was considered good but not exceptional among my riding, training and racing partners and rivals, it seemed like a spaceship compared to most everyday European bikes of the time.  But perhaps more important, even though my command of any language besides English was not rudimentary, to put it charitably, I could sometimes “go stealth” because I am visibly of European heritage. That, of course, is not possible for me or most Americans in any Asian culture.

The way my European sojourn changed me, I realized much later, had more to do with not following the expectations of my family or society: I did not go to graduate school (I would, however, do that later), take an entry-level corporate job or, as my father wanted, become a young military officer. That, in itself, made me more American than I was willing to acknowledge: Even in the most liberal parts of Europe, most young people followed, consciously or not, a proscribed narrative.

As much as I loved Europe—especially France—I knew I had to get to Asia, particularly India and Japan, some day. Back then, I had a vision (though not a real plan) to save money and work, whether by tutoring English or picking grapes, my way across two continents.

So, on the journey from which I just returned, I couldn’t help but to wonder what I would be like had I taken to my version of the Silk Road, whether on bike or by other means, or had I come to Japan for my first non-North American sojourn.

My guess is that what I would have encountered would have been very different from what I witnessed during the past couple of weeks. While I saw many people riding to and from work, school and other places and events in their daily lives, I suspect that Tokyo and other cities didn’t have the kind of bike culture one now finds there and in many European (and a few American) a cities. My bike probably would have stood out even more than it did in Europe.  

(The bikes I rented in Tokyo and Kyoto were similar to machines people ride every day.)

But perhaps more importantly, simply to survive,  I probably would have had to immerse myself in Japanese language and culture to an even greater degree than I had to learn European ways. That is not to say the Japanese are less hospitable; they simply express emotions and relate to their heritage (and that of others) differently from Westerners. Also, I get the impression that breaking away from expectations could result in more ostracism,  and is simply more difficult, than in Western cultures.

Some of what I’ve mentioned may have to do with the Japanese language itself: There seem to be even more rules, implicit as well as explicit, than in say, French, which is less flexible than English. Could that be a reason Japanese pedestrians and cyclists, let alone drivers, do not seem to even think about crossing at red lights—and why Japanese cops don’t seem to have to do much to enforce traffic regulations?

Oh, and while temples, shrines, monuments and other sites are full of tourists, they feel more like little worlds to enter than boxes to check off on an itinerary. Some of that, of course, has to do with the fact that most visitors—Americans, anyway—know little or nothing about, say, the Shoguns but have at least heard of Michelangelo or Leonardo before going to the Uffizi or Louvre. Also, at many Japanese sites—even the non-religious ones—visitors must take off their shoes and even perform some small ritual or make an offering upon entering. This, I believe, delineates the “inner”and “outer” worlds and is a reason (along with hygiene) why Japanese people take off their shoes when entering their, or anyone else’s, home.

Of course I’ll never know what kind of person I’d be had I first visited and cycled in Japan during my youth rather than in midlife. But I am glad I finally got there,  and have more to tell. (I didn’t want to make this post too long!)

*- I think it was George Bernard Shaw who quipped that England and the United States are two countries separated by a common language.

I’m Back And Will Have More To Share

 Last night I returned from Japan. The Boeing 787 was like a time machine: It landed at JFK Airport at almost the exact minute it departed Haneda! The reason, of course, is that Tokyo time is thirteen hours later than New York, and the flight took about 12  1/2 hours. (The flight to Tokyo took about an hour longer because the plane was flying into the prevailing wind.) But I am still living on Japan time; it probably will take me another day to re-calibrate.

When I embarked on this trip I had planned to post on this blog every day, or nearly so. So why didn’t I? I was having such a good time.  But, dear readers, that isn’t to say that I post when I am not having a good time. Rather, I enjoyed—and at times was exhausted by—my days there because I was experiencing so much. 

Also, even though I’d read that most of Japan is very hot in July, I was not prepared for the heat I experienced: Every day the temperature reached 34 to 37C (93 to 98.6 F) and, because the areas of Japan I traveled are further south than New York, the sun was more intense. So at the end of a day of cycling to temples, shrines and other sites, I was exhausted!

Speaking of cycling: I rented bikes in Tokyo and Kyoto. The former has a bike share program but it’s difficult to use if you’re not a resident. I didn’t cycle during the three days I spent in Osaka: No one I asked seemed to know how or where to rent a bike. 

During the next few days I’ll write more about my cycling and other experiences in Japan. I hope the trip I just took won’t be my only one to the Land of the Rising Sun.

A Good Way To Be Tired

 I have been in Japan for ten days.  Every one of them has ended with my falling asleep moments after entering my hotel room,

I could blame some of that fatigue on the heat and humidity: Every one has felt like the steamiest one I experienced in New York, Florida or anywhere else I’ve lived or visited. I don’t recall Cambodia or Laos, which are well within the tropical zone, being so  resembling a sauna. Today I did the trek up Fushima Inari, where ten thousand orange gates frame the trail up the mountain. Every body—including those young enough to be my grandchildren and lithe enough to be ballerinas and marathoners—were sheathed in sweat.

 

 

Were my fatigue a result only of the sweltering conditions, I would feel resigned, perhaps dispirited: The weather just happens. But I am satisfied, even content. I am experiencing so much during my days here, not only from my bike rides and visits to shrines, temples and other sites, but simply from being here.

It’s as if I am “catching up” or “making up for lost time.” At the risk of sounding trite, I wish I’d come here sooner—as in, decades ago. I find myself wondering what I might be like had I immersed myself in a culture where people do their jobs and helpful not because they’re trying to be helpful, but rather because, really, what else can we do? Now I wonder how much I’ve come to see aggression and confrontation as normal as a result of living in New York and, increasingly, the United States.

When I ride the unprotected bike lanes that line some streets, I don’t hear a crescendo of car horns behind and beside me or feel the hostility of drivers who just might run me over if it meant nothing more than a fine and points on their licenses (if indeed they have licenses). And in the sidewalk bike lanes, I don’t get the sense that pedestrians see me as part of an invading hostile force.

Oh, and store clerks don’t stare and sigh when I confuse the two coins with holes in the middle—a 50 vs a 5 yen piece—and explain—or call someone can —when I ask what’s in a package or bottle with a label printed only in Japanese. They have better things to do—namely, their jobs—than to shame or patroniize you.

In short, I don’t think I have ever been in a more civilized place. I wonder what I might now, be like if I’d experienced it earlier in my life. For now, it’s an adjustment—and adjustments tire me out. But I don’t mind this kind of tired.

A Shrine To What Is

 A week in Japan. Three days in Osaka. My twenty-seventh country and—how many cities, monuments and faces have I seen?  Yet I feel I am experiencing everything for the first time.

This has been my first trip to a place I hadn’t previously seen since I went to Greece six summers ago, a few months before COVID changed the world—and me.  (In early 2023 I went to Paris, where I lived years ago and have visited several times since.) Tokyo, Osaka and Japan certainly are different from other places I’ve seen: The qualities of light and color, and even of time and space, are as unlike others I’ve felt as takoyaki is from a jambon-beurre sandwich or a hamburger. Yet I can’t help but to feel that the real differences between what I have known and what I am learning lie within me and sometimes within my body itself.

For one thing, I notice that I am more tired at the end of a day of cycling, walking and sightseeing. Mind you, I have long realized that wanting to end a day of any journey—whether in a place I am seeing for the first time or a place to which I return nearly every day—by laying down my head is usually a good thing:  It means that I have lived that day, if not fully, then at least to the best I could.

The bike I rented in Tokyo.

Of course, some of my fatigue has to do with age: While I am in the middle of my life as long as I don’t know when it will end, I cannot pretend that my body is what it was forty years, or even minutes, ago. That, I realize, is also the reason why I could—and, I admit, do—wish I could have taken this trip earlier in my life, I am glad I am on it, and that it still lies ahead, now.

Then there is the weather: I landed in a heat wave. Or so it seems. Every day I have been here has been as hot as the steamiest days of any summer in New York.  That makes sense when one realizes that Tokyo and Osaka are on the same parallels as the American South. But it seems even hotter here than in Cambodia and Laos, which are undeniably tropical. 

I am not complaining: If everything is exactly as you expected, you aren’t traveling.

Perhaps that previous sentence seems smug or sanctimonious. Perhaps it is. For what it’s worth, it’s something that made sense to me today when I visited the Sumiyoshi Taisha shrine. (Hmm, maybe there is something to those shrines and temples after all!) Yesterday, after touring Osaka Castle, I wandered into NHK World. Not surprisingly, there were screens everywhere showing various Japanese TV programs—and Jaws with Japanese subtitles. I saw that movie the summer it was released and thought back to that movie time when I was pursuing the dreams of my father and a few other adults in my life. I thought that if I hadn’t pursued what they envisioned for me—mainly, their own unfulfilled wishes—my life would have been what it was “supposed to be.” I utterly failed in most of those pursuits because, I was told, I didn’t try or study or Jesus hard enough and that I should just “snap out of “ my “moodiness.”

But today I realize I hadn’t failed, although I couldn’t have known it all of those years ago. If nothing else, I learned that those dreams and goals—such as going to West Point or Annapolis and embarking on a military career, which my father wanted for me—simply weren’t right for me. Perhaps even the dreams I had, like being a marine biologist, were not meant to be even if I blamoed my father and a buddy of his for hijacking them.

As for what any of this has to do with cycling: It’s probably one of the few passions I’ve ever had that nobody could change or destroy.  So here I am, in midlife, cycling in my 27th country.

Anyway, I realized at the shrine that my failure—if indeed there is any—was in believing that my life was “supposed to be” a certain way, whether in line with my own or other people’s wishes. Rather, I need to acknowledge, if not embrace, what is and journey through whatever will be.

Front and side view of one of the shrine’s sanctuaries .

After leaving the shrine, I entered a cafe—“Vie de France”—for a cafe au lait and to use their internet connection. I called Callie, Sam’s significant other, who is looking after Marlee. “I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you too. And Marlee?”

I met her—and “Sam”—just over a year ago, when I moved to the place where I live now.

You Don’t Have To Be A Mischievous Turtle

Yesterday, and the day before, I explored Tokyo by bike. Now I am riding something much faster than I ever could be, or could have been, on two wheels: one of Japan’s fabled “bullet” trains, headed for Osaka.

Yesterday I met Ava, her brother Alex and their mother and grandmother in Shinjuku  Guyoen National Garden. Ava was trying to find a turtle she’d spotted in one of the Japanese formal garden’s pools. I pointed out two fish—giant carp, I believe—I saw. She had already seen them and was determined to find the turtle. “Maybe it’s playing hide-and-seek,” I said.

“He’s being mischievous!,” she exclaimed.

We watched and waited. “Do you like to draw pictures?”

She nodded. “And I like to write stories.”

“Maybe you could make a comic. “The Mischievous Turtle.That would be a great name!”

Her eyes lit up.

She’s eight years old. I think she has a great future. Forget that: I think she has a good present. 

I can’t help but to wonder whether her imagination is stoked by the trips she’s already taken, courtesy of a relative who travels for his job.  Her mother told me they were going to Osaka. “We’re flying,” she explained because of the relative whose business brought them here. I can’t imagine that it’s much faster—or any better—than this train.

For that matter, I don’t believe it beats cycling. While Tokyo is not Amsterdam or Copenhagen, I saw plenty of people pedaling to work, or wherever they were going.  In fact, this morning I saw families riding together—a Sunday morning ritual, perhaps?

One striking similarly I saw with the European havens of everyday cycling is in the bikes people ride: completely utilitarian, almost invariably equipped with fenders, lighting, racks and baskets. Some, mostly young, people were astride lightweight road bikes and I even saw a couple of randonneuses complete with canvas front and rear bags and hammered fenders. But I didn’t see (or perhaps I just didn’t notice) any high-end off-road bikes.

I can’t help but to think that there is so much transportation and recreational cycling in a city as bustling as Tokyo because there is real support for it. While a few bike parking facilities have opened in New York, they are only in “prime” locations. Tokyo, on the other hand, has placed them not only in such spots, but also in underused spaces like those under bridges and overpasses. Moreover, they are convenient for people who, say, want to shop or go to a cafe: Parking is free for one to three hours, depending on the location. 

When the bike is wheeled into the spot, the front wheel is locked in automatically: If you have ever returned a Citibike or other shared bike to its portal, you’ve seen something similar. Each slot is numbered, and to retrieve the bike, you tap in the number. If you have left your bike for more than the allotted time, you will have to pay,100 yen (about $1 at current exchange rates) per hour.

Even where such facilities aren’t available, you can leave a bike and be relatively certain it will be there when you return for it. At the entrances to the Meiji-jingu shrine and Shinjuku, there are designated bike parking areas. The bikes, except for a Cannondale racing machine at Shinjuku, were unlocked. And that bike had only a minimum-security cable wrapped around its top tube.

Perhaps most important of all, I haven’t sensed the same animosity toward cyclists I have experienced in New York and other American locales. Drivers don’t double-park in unprotected bike lanes and where pedestrians and cyclists share sidewalks, each is almost deferential to the other. Perhaps this attitude has to do with the fact that most cyclists are riding practical bikes and wearing their work or everyday clothes. There is also, I believe, simply more of a communal sense: People don’t feel as entitled to, and are therefore less likely to battle for, space.

You don’t have to be a mischievous turtle to cycle here. I have felt comfortable while riding from the moment I went out with Sho and the group on our tour. I only had to remind myself that drivers—and cyclists—travel on the left, like the British.

Taking In Tokyo On Two Wheels

 I have claimed this city for myself.

That is a bold, even bombastic statement, I know. But that is how I feel any time I’ve taken a bike ride after arriving for the first time in some place. That city, town or even country, even if I have experienced only a small part of it, becomes a part of me.

Tokyo is new to me. It doesn’t, however, feel as strange as it did last night when, the closer I came to my hotel, the more lost I became. Is it my imagination, or do Google Maps directions become more vague the closer you come to your destination? 

I had a similar experience this morning when I went to meet a group for a bike tour. When I got off the Metro at Daimon station, I was across the street from the meetup spot. That street is wide—like a “stroad”—and the point of reference wasn’t easy to spot. So I wandered away from it and missed the ride. Fortunately, the folks at Tokyo Rental Bicycle allowed me to join their afternoon tour. In the meantime I wandered around Shiba Park, which includes everything from traditional Japanese gardens and memorials to a modern playground, and fronts this:

Who knew that a flight across the Pacific would land me in Paris? Or that instead of the Champ de Mars and Invalides, I would see it from the Shoguns’ burial site?

Anyway, after seeing that, I entered the Zojoji Temple just as a ceremony was about to begin. I had just enough time to photograph the interior: Although I am not religious, I have enough respect to honor the request not to take pictures during the ritual. I thought it looked new for such an ancient temple. Turns out, it was reconstructed, using both ancient and modern techniques, half a century ago on the site of the Tokugawa Shogun’s family temple. That building stood on the site for centuries before bombing raids leveled it in 1945.

After spending time there, and in the Treasures Gallery, I figured out where the bike tours met and took a ride with Sho,  a young Tokyo native tour guide, a woman and her son from Strasbourg, France (I can’t leave wFrance, can I? and another woman, originally from Spain but living ini Belgium and speaking French (!) as her everyday language.

The first stop on our tour was the Zoiji Temple and the shrines, which I had just visited. I didn’t mind: Sho explained, among other things, the differences between a shrine and a temple (A shrine is usually for Shinto and has a gate delineating it from the rest of the world; the latter is more commonly associated with Buddhism.)and how the role of the royal family has changed. He told us to park our bikes right outside the temple’s entrance—without locking them. As a New Yorker, it amazes me that people leave their bikes unsecured in public places of such a large city!

From there, we rode to the Imperial Palace. Like the Zojoji Temple, it’s a reconstruction of a building destroyed by Allied bombing raids near the end of World War II. The Palace itself isn’t open to the public except on special occasions, but the grounds, which include a moat and fortifications, are nice—and a short from Tokyo Station.

Then we cycled to what Show half-jokingly called “the most expensive Air BnB: Akasaka Palace, where visiting dignitaries stay. From there, we made one of two climbs included in the ride (You have to get your money’s worth, right?) to the National Stadium, built for the “2020” Olympics held a year later due to COVID and, much to the dismay of taxpayers, hasn’t been used and to a Hachiko’s grave. (Yes, there’s also a tombstone for the dog who waited for him!) Sho mentioned that all of the trees in that graveyard, where some of Japan’s wealthiest and most famous people are interred, are cherry blossoms. It made me wish I could have come early in the spring!

As if to show us what a city of contrasts Tokyo is, Show took us to the Aoyama Fashion District and Shibuya Crossing, which makes Times Square seem like an intersection in one of those town’s where there’s only one traffic light. Aoyama and Shibuya epitomize everything you’ve heard about hyper-modern Tokyo.

Now that I’ve taken the Tour, with Show guiding us, I feel more confident and ready to explore a city that I feel is now mine, if in a small way. A bike ride always seems to do that for me.

Our group. Please try not to notice the weight I gained this winter!

I rode this.

Crossing A Line

So where in the world is Justine, a.k.a. the author of Midlife Cycling?

OK, here’s the the first clue:

The sky is overcast, but neither it nor the water are as murky as they appear: I took the photo through a not-so-clear window. We should see a sunrise tomorrow.

Now, here’s another clue:

Hot coffee in a canister.  I can’t find that in my local bodega.

And one doesn’t normally find these on arriving at an American hotel or B&B:

Finally, here’s one more tip-off that you’re definitely not in New York City—or anywhere in the United States:

Even if you couldn’t see the signs, or didn’t notice people’s faces, I think you could tell I wasn’t on the D train.

I am indeed in Tokyo.  After a 13 hour-plus flight, I need some sleep. But tomorrow I’ll be exploring—on bike, I hope.

Watch for this notice at your local post office:  

“WANTED:  Justine Valinotti (alias: the Midlife Cyclist Blogger). For crossing the International Date Line to ride a bicycle.”

On My Way

My next post will be from a  place I haven’t mentioned before. Stay tuned!

Why Do We Call It A Bike?

 When I was growing up, and when I was living as a man, everyone in my family called me by a shortened version of my old name, with an “ee” sound at the end of it. I always hated that nickname even more than my full name. There reasoning was that an uncle and my father shared that name. 

(I hated being a “junior “ even more than my nickname.)

For some reason, however, no one ever called my brother Michael “Mike.”

What got me to thinking about all of that? This: