174 posts tagged “japan”
Alerted by the Japan controversy, I bought a bottle of this year’s Beaujolais Nouveau when it went on sale last Thursday. I was immediately taken with the price of under 1000 yen--less than half what it usually retails for here--and by the light, durable, plastic (recyclable PET) screw-top bottle that otherwise has every appearance of glass.
And by the wine. I remember Beaujolais Nouveau as a thin beverage, drunk more in the spirit of celebration than appreciation. But his year’s has a nose and flavor verging on robust, and could almost masquerade as the real thing.
Kampai (Cheers) to France, to those who grew and harvested by hand and produced this year’s vintage. To the enterprising importers. And to one more year of the pleasures of the vine.
--Julian
A traditional Japanese house isn’t sealed and centrally heated in winter. The heat is localized in particular rooms. Or even a part of a room, which part might be a table with a quilt covering and an electric heating bulb underneath. This heated table is a kotatsu.
A kotatsu squats on the tatami floor. Seated under it, the lower half of the body becomes deliciously warm, and the warmth moves up through your clothes while your head stays cool and alert. You eat, read, write, watch TV from its womblike environment. And because you are sitting on the floor, at any time you can lie back to relax or nap and still be cocooned in warmth.
During the winter, the kotatsu becomes an intimate focal point for friends and family who spend a lot of time sitting across from each other under it. Not every house has one these days, for there are those who prefer to heat a room to move about in. But I couldn’t imagine the colder months without the simple, intimate pleasure of the kotatsu.
kotatsu
mikan tangerines
a flask of hot sake:
the joys of winter
--Julian
Note: This is one of an occasional series on the simple pleasures of Japan. To find the others, click 2008 in the Archives (right column of this page), type “pleasure” in the “Filter posts by tag” box at the top of the page that appears, and hit the “Go” button. In the series so far: tatami; ofuro (bath); jinja (shrine); sakura (cherry blossom); ocha (green tea), and uchimizu (scattering water in summer).
In the late afternoon after the storm, I looked up from my desk and noticed the house across the road was bathed in pink. Rushing to an upstairs window, I saw the western sky was rivers of crimson. Minutes later--by the time I grabbed a camera--it had faded, and the last of the light disappeared behind distant, cloud-shrouded Fuji.
A gusty wind roars up the valley, twisting the trees and bending the bamboo. The spiders webs under the eaves and in the garden hang in tatters. A fine, dense rain falls, then is whipped and carried by the storm. Clouds barely visible, gray upon gray, scud low and fast. The house sweats and creaks, wind rattling the windows and moaning through the cracks. Every now and then a chorus of frogs croaks in the orchard. Crows, flying at the mercy of the wind, complain.
This is either terrible weather, not fit to be gone out in. Or it’s wrap up and head out to join the excitement.
--Julian
--Julian
I read somewhere that author Dan Brown has an hourglass in which the sand flows for one hour. He uses it when writing to tell him when it’s time to take a break.
Every morning I sit at my desk and get lost in the pleasure of exploring kanji Chinese characters. I knew immediately that a 60-minute hourglass was exactly what I needed as well. I ordered one at the hobby store Tokyu Hands (¥13,500/$150/100 euros/£.90). It arrived recently and has quickly become a fetishised object.
This precision instrument is a thing of simple beauty and perfect utility. When I look up and see that the contents have trickled to the bottom, I know it’s about time to stand up and do something physical before sitting down once again, inverting the glass, and diving back into the Japanese language.
--Julian
In an old part of Tokyo in the late afternoon, I passed a narrow alley. The houses faced each other, almost touching, and pots of flowers and plants filled the available space. The sky behind had turned red, and I felt a sudden and unexpected rush of love for the sheer quantity of human existence; so many lives being led so closely together.
Tokyo at sunset
chaos of humanity
ache of affection
--Julian
