A Journey Between Worlds

 Whenever I mounted the bicycle, a journey began.

The previous sentence popped into my head during my second day in Kyoto. I didn’t stop to write it down because my inner editor said, “too precious, too self-consciously Literary (with a capital L).” Perhaps it is, but I have not been able to let go of it.

I had just arrived at Okazaki, the park adjacent to the  Heian-jingu Shrine. It wasn’t very far from the Shimogamo Shrine, where I’d spent the morning and early afternoon. In fact, as I would soon learn, nothing in Kyoto is very far from anything else in the city, especially if you’re going by bicycle. 

But even though Shimogamo and the Heian Shrine at Okazaki are only a few kilometers apart, and represent early periods of Japanese history, I felt as if I were traveling between worlds as much as I did when I set out from my hotel in a modern section of the city.

Shimogamo is a shrine to Tamayori-hine, “the spirit-inviting maiden” and her father, Kamo Taketsunomi. Experts think it dates to the 6th Century C.E., or more than two centuries before Kyoto began its millennium (794-1868 C.E.) as Japan’s capital.  To put that into context, Shimogamo was built a century or so after the Roman Empire fell and Europe was cast into an era of stagnation. In fact, only a few decades before Kyoto became the imperial capital, Europe nearly became a Muslim monolith.

Anyway, as I pedaled from Shimogamo—where I took a ritual bath—I realized that I couldn’t describe the architecture or other aesthetics, history or purpose in the Eurocentric terms through which I’ve learned whatever I know (which, I admit, isn’t much) and I’ve narrated my experience. That, as it turned out, was an important realization when I arrived at Okazaki. The Heian Shrine there is probably just as important to the Japanese and adherents of Shintoism, even if the buildings are replicas of the ones that originally stood there. What matters about the site is that Emperors Kanmu Ana Kōmei, the first and last of the era when Kyoto was capital, are enshrined there. 

I cannot pretend that I understand Japanese people’s attitudes toward their emperors or their history, except to say that it’s different from how I, as an American, see our history and leaders. Something Soh, the guide for my Tokyo bike tour, made sense, however. At Akusaka Imperial Gardens, he remarked that while fewer and fewer people adhere to Shintoism, ands Japanese people in general have become less religious, learning about the faith and its relationship to Japanese history and culture is still considered an important part of young people’s education.

Again, I can’t claim to understand how the people see their history. But another clue became clearer to me as I left the Heian Shrine: I hadn’t seen a Japanese flag anywhere in Kyoto since arriving the day before, and I saw a few in Tokyo and maybe a couple in Osaka.  In fact, of the other twenty-six countries I’ve visited and the two in which I’ve lived, I can’t think of one in which I saw so few of its national flags. In fact, I have seen more Stars and Stripes fluttering along a single block in New York than I saw Rising Sun flags during my two weeks in Japan.

That, in itself is a kind of journey. While the some of the sites  I visited display depictions of battles and descriptions of fights between clans, none of them seemed to portray those events as steps toward Japan fulfilling some sort of Manifest Destiny. Perhaps I missed it because I don’t understand Japanese and know so little about the culture and history, but I didn’t detect the jingoism that affects so much of how Americans are (mis) educated about our history.

Whenever I mount my bicycle, I am on a journey, whether through geography, history, culture. And as long as I am on a journey, I believe that I am in the middle of my life.

Maybe It Isn’t Abour Infrastructure Or Education

 The other day, I rode La-Vande, my King of Mercia, to Point Lookout. My ride started under a veil of clouds that didn’t entirely block the sun. So the day was bright enough to be cheerful without the sun bearing down on me. 

Later on, though, as the temperature rose,  clouds dissipated and the sea acted like a tanning mirror. That, or my skin is more sensitive than it was in my youth.

The ride was pleasant, except for a stretch of Cross Bay Boulevard near the Gateway National Recreation Area. The bike lane that parallels the Boulevard—really just the shoulder of the road with some green paint—gets turned into a passing lane by impatient motorists, of whom there are many:  The Boulevard is a long, flat road through residential and semi-rural areas that brings out the wannabe NASCAR champions in too many drivers.

Again, I got to thinking about Japan. There are extensive networks of well-marked and -maintained bike lanes. Many streets in Kyoto and Tokyo also have shared lanes for motor vehicles and cyclists. While riding in both cities (I didn’t get to ride in Osaka) I never was “nudged” out of a shared lane, let alone menaced in a lane set aside for cyclists.

I had long thought that the courtesy I experienced from drivers in France, Italy and other European countries had something to do with the fact that many of those motorists are also, or have recently been, cyclists. Such “dual citizens,” if you will, probably make up a larger portion of the population in those countries than in the US. That is one reason why, in earlier posts, I expressed my belief that educating American drivers, and the general public, about cycling —for example, why it’s safer for us to cross an intersection against a red light than to wait for a green if there’s no cross-traffic—would do as much as, or more than, “infrastructure” to make cycling safer and thus encourage more people to see it as a viable transportation option.

But the kind of courtesy, which at times bordered on deference, I experienced in the Land of the Rising Sun went beyond even what I experienced in Europe. It occurs to me that it has much to do with some basic cultural attitudes that, perhaps, can’t be taught in a country where one of the founding principles is individualism. I mean, how else can I account for the fact that the kind of motorist behavior to which I was subjected on Cross Bay Boulevard seems not to even occur to anyone driving along Higashikujo.

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.