Denniblog

Today was supposed to be an easy spot of sight seeing. Or so I thought.

Nikko was only an hour’s journey away by local train, and I thought that it would be best to leave my backpack at Utsonomiya Station since I’d have to change there for the Shinkansen. There were coin-lockers on every floor, even some that accepted SUICA cards.

The concept is simple: you put in your luggage, push down the lever and press your card to the ‘SUICA’ icon. You then take your numbered ticket.

It’s so simple that even a small child can understand it. Even one that can’t read (Kanji). But not me.
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(Cross-posted to LJ.)

You may not have been able to contact/PM me over the last couple of days or weeks, because Yahoo Mail constantly goes down.

With the company being as bloated as it is, there are no easy explanations, and I couldn’t read the helpdesk reply if there was one since I can’t access my account.

In an attempt to shed light on the problem, I have even joined Yahoo! Answers, but of course it won’t allow me to post a question from either Firefox or IE. I have the option to ‘preview’ or go to ‘previous’ in a never-ending loop.

I have two options open to me: use my Gmail account as my primary account (however reluctantly, after six years on Yahoo) and change over all my contacts/links/sites, or activate my website’s email option and ditto.

Having a personalized email address may actually be cute in an age of universal Gmail/Yahoo. My current host is reliable—dare I say even more so than Yahoo (they deal with actual financial transactions, and I reckon that reliability is in direct correlation with the amount of money that is at stake).

09/09/2007 (cont.)

The trip to Nikko took five hours, so perhaps leaving that afternoon had been the right decision. Then again, perhaps not

Up until now, Japan had been one continuous conurbation. But, gradually, the lights outside the train window grew fewer. When I disembarked, an almost eery silence greeted me. No ruffling of steps, no muttering of crowds, no gonging of gongs.

The station had the feel of a small town. Outside, the air smelled of pine trees

Had it been earlier, I might have tried to catch a bus to the nearby campsite, but by now it was dark and the square in front of the station was deserted. The street lights were subdued, giving the place the feel of an English village lit by sodium lamps.

There were no illuminated signs pointing out hotels or restaurants.

I turned on my heels and took the slow train all the way back to Utsonomiya.

Since Utsonomiya is on the Shinkansen line, it should have a station hotel. And since it is still a way to Tokyo, prices should be affordable.

Hopefully, it would also have restaurants. I noticed that I hadn’t eaten enough today. It’s not easy to eat regularly in a country where munching in the street is frowned upon and where there are few places to sit and have a picnic. Consequently, most people tuck into their bento boxes the minute they step into a train, but I hadn’t been in the mood for bento today.

The lights outside the train window grew more luminous. And as we pulled into Utsonomiya station, I spotted several brightly lit hotels. I was back in the metropolis.

I found a cheap stuffy hotel with no apparent English name (although it turns out to have a website). The windows in my room did not open, there was no aircon and no fan, but there was a heater. I checked it: it was off, but the temperature in the room must have been in the mid-thirties.

It must have been the first time on this trip that I walked into the street to cool off, but I was pleased with my destination. There was a good choice of food places and I settled for an excellent gyōza set.

Somehow, this was exactly what I needed.

Todaiji Buddhist temple in Nara.
Based on a public domain image.

09/09/2007

The train I’d boarded on impulse turned out to be JR after all—the slow train with many additional stops for commuters. The subway uses a different station.

And that was the cause for my troubles.

Today would be the first day in almost a week when I didn’t get to visit at least one World Heritage Site, even though Nara boasts no fewer than eight of them. It does not, however, boast many hotels.

This time, I’d had the foresight to print out a map in the foyer of the excellent Toyoko Inn in Himeji. I didn’t seem to need it as I spotted the ‘Super Hotel’ from the station. It wasn’t open for check-in until 3 p.m., but I could live with that. After all, the Toyoko Inn didn’t open until four. However, the reception wasn’t staffed, and I didn’t want to risk coming back later, only to find it fully booked, with lines of destitute travellers queuing down the street like the homeless in ‘The Pursuit of Happyness’ which I’d watched last night.

So, map in hand, I went to look for alternatives.

Of the five hotels listed in the area between the station and the park, three didn’t seem to exist and the remaining two were too expensive. But the ‘Super Hotel’ wasn’t listed, so the map wasn’t aimed at budget travellers. I would just have to look around.

The sun climbed into the sky. Before long, rivulets of sweat were streaming down my face and into my eyes. By noon, it was as hot as Bangkok.

I was about to give up when I spotted a sign for the tourist information.

***(Long entry—1,500 words—but worth it if you want to read about me making an arse of myself)***
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‘Shin’ doesn’t stand for ‘station’ as I’d mistakenly assumed—unless it refers to ‘Shinkansen station’. This means that Shin-Ōsaka does not equal Ōsaka.

And this is why I couldn’t find the train to Tennoji/Nara.

After circling a few times, I whipped out the phrase book, stared blankly at the transport section for a while, then stepped up to the information counter and said meaningfully: “Nara?”

The poor guy was trying to sink into the ground when he spotted my approach. He ended up scribbling on his pristine timetable, circling Shin-Ōsaka several times with a black ballpoint pen, then drawing a short line to Ōsaka.”Fifteen,” he said pointing at the platform signs. “Fifteen or sixteen.”

He said it in Japanese. I have counted to ten in Japanese for what must be hundreds of times over the years, but trust me not to understand until he scribbled the platform numbers on his timetable as well.

I’m an cretin when it comes to travelling. I constantly get lost. I can’t pick up any phrases unless I’m reading the words at the same time, and if I do pick up a few words, I mis-pronounce them. I’ve given up getting uptight about it and have accepted my role as a gibbering idiot. But I endeavour to do better. Next time.
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So it turns out that the article which may have ended Watson’s career and public standing has been written by a postgraduate student at the Cold Spring Harbour Lab who seems to have a crush on him.

Not content with the damage she has already done (albeit justifiably), she goes on to gush about how ‘his’ scientists wouldn’t be able to function if it wasn’t for their Master’s encouragement, how the war against disease would be lost should Watson not hold their hands in the lab.

If you think I’m exaggerating, read the thing.

The Times Online is a respected source, otherwise I would suspect this to be a hoax. As it is, it must be the first time that I have cringed because of my science background.

Perhaps the Cold Spring Harbour Laboratory should be more discerning in the selection of their postgraduate students. Charlotte Hunt-Grubbe is the proverbial elephant in a china shop. Thankfully, after a brief moment of glory, Google News has moved on.

Choice Quote (but there were many)

“Colleagues expect Watson’s conversations to be peppered with ‘un-PC’ comments. It is part of his character. He wouldn’t be the man he is and have contributed so much to science if he wasn’t a little different to everyone else.”

All I can think of is Rosalind Franklin.

It is time for the nasty old men to go away.

…and I’m not talking about the Rugby.

After the match we huddled around the stove, drawing on our cigarettes as if for warmth. The guys kept feeding logs into the fire but it barely managed to stave off the cold, although we were sitting directly in front of it.

At least it kept our teeth from chattering, so we talked. Being latecomers, John and I mainly listened.

A: “I’ve just moved here from Reading.”

B: “Good for you. Less hassle around here.”

A: “There’s too many Blacks there.”

C: “Wot, you mean Niggers?”

A: “You’re not supposed to say that word any more.”

Me: “You know, I last heard this kind of language when I was hitchhiking in South Africa—in 1984.”

A: “Ohmigod, in 1984 I was—wait—3½!”

What, all year?

Me: “Yeah, I’m old” and wise, I didn’t say.

A: “I shouldn’t even talk like that, ‘cos of me cousin.”

Pregnant pause.

“He’s half-cast. Innit.”

At the time of writing, there are 4 comments underneath the Times Online article.

Looks like 3:1 to the racists, although the first commenter may just have been confused.

EDIT: Hmm, it now stands at 16:13, pretty close to half-and-half. What is alarming is the great proportion of unashamedly racist comments and the number of commenters who are convinced that race has a genetic basis (it doesn’t). Then there are those who think that, just because a Nobel laureate scientists says something, he must be right/must have made a discovery.

Watson making a discovery? Don’t make me laugh. If this mess has shown anything then it’s that there is a time when eminent scientists should announce their retirement. Perhaps they ought to be tested for senility, like old people having to retake their driving tests.

Anyway, in case you thought racism was rare, read the next entry.

All of a sudden, time started to fly. A couple of friendly backpackers had lent me their Lonely Planet (it turns out that Aster Plaza is listed after all), and I ended up with four or five destinations to choose from, discounting Mount Fuji which is neither snow-capped at this time of year, nor visible in the cloudy weather.

After spending the morning Flickring (I have to grab my opportunities where I can), I settled on Himeji first, which the LP describes as a good base for day-trips as hotels are not too expensive there. Apparently most people don’t stop over; the Shinkansen means that everything is within close reach. If there should be no vacancies in Himeji itself, I could press on to Nara. Best of all there was no need to trudge around for hours to seek shelter: I could simply put my pack in a coin locker, see the sights and move on.

What could possibly go wrong?

I was smiling when the train rolled into the station.

Ah, the Shinkansen. Get this: Japan’s super-fast trains run more frequently than the Northern Line. I have never waited longer than ten minutes for one. And you can set your watch by them, except for the one occasion when there was a four-minute delay.

Well, people get sick and accidents happen, but here’s the secret behind Japanese efficiency (aside from expert engineering): there is plenty of staff around to assist with every eventuality. I’ve seen evidence of it in the footage from the Tokyo Typhoon: lights were flashing and the clear-up was underway while the storm was still going on. So if anyone should have a heart attack on a train, help is at hand immediately and no doubt he/she will be whisked away at the next station, speedily and without fuss. That must have been what had happened.

I was in a good mood. I’d received an email from the editor of the Intergalactic Medicine Show that a story of mine is under consideration, one of the ten per cent or so that make it through the slushpile.

Nothing could go wrong today.

My run of luck continued when I spotted the Toyoko Inn from the station. It was more expensive than the LP implied (by about 20%, but then what’s new) and rooms were not available until 4 p.m., but the receptionist offered to look after my luggage so I made a snap decision to stay for the night.

This turned out to be just as well, although by the time I had walked a few hundred paces down the street I began to have my doubts about Himeji’s attractions. It had to be one of the ugliest towns I have seen, and not just on this trip (but read on!).

The whole place had the charm of an industrial park, and while I’m all for urban wildlife, the way it was overgrown was plain ugly. Aside from the weeds that were sprouting from cracks in the pavement and hiding the footpaths and benches in ‘green spaces’ under hip-high growth, the place was almost completely lifeless. This was probably because the residents had closed shop where they could and got the hell out of there for the weekend.

I couldn’t blame them.

By contrast, Himeji is home to the most beautiful castle in all Japan. A must-see for every visitor. If only I could find it.

I had spotted it from the Shinkansen (that was what had made me come back), but it was nowhere visible from street level. So I ended up trudging for hours anyway—in the wrong direction.

That would explain it: as I gaped at a sign I realised that the Toyoko Inn is at the back of the station, not the front, and I had been further confused by another hotel that was called the ‘Castle Hotel’ although it was about as far away from the castle as you can get and still be within Himeji’s city limits.

I had ended up in the equivalent of the ‘burbs.

Once I turned back, things improved rapidly, but it was a two-hour walk before I caught my first glimpse of the castle.

I got there ten minutes before last admissions.

By now the experience began to feel surreal. Since I had stopped rushing around the island trying to find the Daishoin Temple, the magic of the place had a chance to get to me. On the way back to town, I barely blinked when I was faced with a life-like wooden horse staring at me from a shrine.

Nevertheless, it was time for lunch. I couldn’t rule out that dehydration and the lack of food were beginning to have an effect.
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