My mecca has been found!

The older I get, the more difficult it seems to find those out there who still have an affinity for those adorable little fur bundles that are seemingly inferior pets to the all-too-common cat and dog. Bunnies make the world go round. They are silent snuggle buddies that know nothing beyond the dimensions of their cage, unless you show them the real love they deserve.
This is why I feel touched by some divine presence that this bunny cafe could exist in the country I now reside! I could've guessed that Japan would be the place that harbors a sweet little cafe with resident rabbits to play with. Their love-for-bunny decor and of course their rabbit shaped cuisine tops of the real treat of getting to indulge in a room full of subdued playmates.

Japanese curry is served in a much desirable form.

Another great feature of this cafe is that it serves the cuddly community of rabbits just as much as those who adore them. Patrons are allowed to bring in their rabbits to "socialize" with the other bunnies who are more accustomed to being exalted by human touch and companionship.
People of all ages are welcome to enter a room that is separate from the cafe area where rabbits run freely and are happy to be held.

For me, it's a dream come true...and a weekend trip to Nagoya. My guess is I will be going alone considering many of my bipedal buddies will opt out of a weekend filled with an often overlooked furry creature of magic and joy. All the more for me!

Dig Deep #10: Just like riding a bicycle

The keys are cold from recent neglect.

I have thoughts swirling about and 10 days of travel to talk about.

All I need is direction and a day off.

Here's a teaser:

A black and white I took while riding the train to Kobe. There is a not-s0-foreign foreigner in the foreground this time.

Tokyo: The Final Frontier

Temples, tempura and Tokyo: the infamous triad that precedes any real notion of Japan. Like a vortex, Tokyo as a city sucks you into it's cold, monolithic grip and spits you out into an infinite abyss of thronged city streets and a post-apocalyptic pit.

Many cities are incomparable to the size and stature of even what a Tokyo cityscape exudes. It is triumphant, overwhelming and completely cannibalistic. The city will devour you with onslaughts of everything. The biggest, and presumptuously the best, Tokyo's reputation can only preface the true dynamism of such a complex organism that seems to have no end and no soul.

Describing Tokyo in general may be a bit much to bite off and chew all at once, especially considering the spice and intense gusto of this monstrously-sized dish. So, consider this merely an overview of thought on a first impression.

The ticket clicked in the sty and the Shinkansen stub was released into Tokyo Station. Sometimes in crowded places, I like to stand perfectly still and sort of let the madness rush by me, as if I were Moses parting the Red Sea; the imaginably huge swells of crimson ocean ascend, as I stand stoic and poised, waiting for silence to break. At Tokyo Station, this silence was never possible. Standing still wasn't possible. There was a line behind every information booth, a swarm of people around every map, and an unfaltering zig zag of corporeal motion that had no origin. I thought briefly if I were a child, how big the world would always seem. And now here, in this nightmarish panic, like last call at a discount bridal shop, I looked at the world as exactly that big.

Everywhere you go in Tokyo there are people. No uninhabited corner to sneak a kiss, no quiet cafe to sip and sit pretending to write poetry, no stone left unturned. It's all happening, it's all here, and it's always right now. If one could describe Tokyo as an illness, I would liken it to a chronic migraine caused by the piercing sound of a jackhammer as heard through earphones. It's grating, coarse and inexhaustible.

Tokyo did have it's pockets of charm. Harajuku and Ebisu were two areas that careened toward a unique Japanese city.

There's no finale to this summary other than the photos I was able to take. Tokyo, like many big international cities, is a metropolis of all things exaggerated. From fashion to food and back again to culture, it's spread across the board as a city with seemingly everything--except an unexampled Japanese allure that I've become so fond of elsewhere in the country. Perhaps a second visit will warm my heart, or at least convince me that it has a hidden grace it has yet to bear.
Wakari Museum of Contemporary Art, Harajuku

Prosciutto, Ebisu
BAPE, clothing store for kids, Harajuku

Kaho, Harajuku
Imperial Palace
Asakusa Temple
Asahi Corporation, Sumida River

Fraction of the Tokyo Skyline from The World Trade Center building

Harajuku

Akihabara, electronics district

Shibuya

Train a la Voyeur

I secretly take pictures of people on trains. 

They don't know that I've turned their unassuming boredom into masterpieces...

Riding With Sun, Akashi

Nails, Sannomiya 
Cold Shoulder, Sannomiya
Peep Hole, Kobe
Yukata for Hannabi, Kobe 

Keep a Close Eye, Amagasaki
Light at the End, Kawanishi 

Patience is a Virtue, Kawanishi

Seaside and Armpit, Akashi 

Dinner at Yoneta's

There's nothing like a home cooked meal, even if that home isn't yours.

Since leaving for college, it seldom happens that this home cooked meal is coming from my true home of origin. On a number of occasions, I have been more than delighted with a surrogate home of sorts. Fortunately, wherever I go in this world, there's a wonderful family to meet and take me in, like the little lost puppy I am.

I have been in many a foreign home, treated like royalty and enlightened to new cultures and table customs. Yet, my Japanese dinner taught me that sometimes sharing the same language isn't always needed for a good time.

My old lady friend invited me for a Japanese feast, which pretty much meant appetizer and assorted salad. Thank goodness for the hearty presence of beer. Her husband cooked goya champu, which includes a kind of bitter melon that they harvest at their farm as well as pork and egg. Simple, strange and somewhat tasty.
An aesthetically pleasing plate of sashimi and a fresh (literally) garden salad adorned the cheap plastic table cloth of muted blues and off-white floral patterning. Everything was simple and straightforward.

I imagined complications and a barrage of unknown customs to follow entering a Japanese home. But, my old lady friend only showed off the finest berating of wife-to-drunkard husband. After a few tall cans and a couple trips to the Japanese/English dictionary to look up words like "constipation" and "menopause", old man drunkard decides he wants to play a game with me where he proceeds to watch me use chopsticks to move single, dry grains of rice from one plate to the next in an attempt to correct my finger position on what I sometimes consider a plainly primitive form of silverware.

I was walked back to the train station, laughs and fresh watermelon in tow. Pleasantly surprised at the communication technique, I learned I could make myself at home wherever I go. And I'm pretty pleased with myself for that.

Kampai!

Gotta love the group. Japan goes all out for a party and drinking among a large congregation of friends is required. 
Izakayas are popular places to start off the night. For a larger group, you are given a set meal and unlimited drink for a limited amount of time. I enjoy the miniature beer glasses and the custom that someone else must pour for you...it always keeps you wondering how much you've drunk. It remains a mystery for the majority of the night. 

I don't know if there's much more to write that these photos don't say for themselves.

Kampai!

Dig Deep #9: New Alarm Clock

I had almost wiped them clean from my memory...and was almost fooled by their song, the way a Siren lured the Argonaunts. In screeching unison, their high frequency buzzing led me to believe there was a fire truck down the street, out of view. But, then as I neared their perch, the sound was clearly coming from the trees. I still couldn't catch a glimpse, but I knew exactly what they were. Cicadas. I stopped for a moment to listen to their "song", which was about as melodic as nails grating on a chalkboard. 

They remind me of my childhood in Texas, when I used to collect their dried carcasses and line them up on the windowsill outside my sister's room. Their rust-colored shell even encases their eyes, leaving the skeleton of their oddly outstretched ocular placement. 

Notoriously pestilent although notably popular, cicadas time their chime like clockwork, and in insect alliance, begin singing exactly 20 minutes before I wake up. 

I guess it's better to rely on a natural means of awaking my from slumber albeit to a dissonant sound and symbol of my merry childhood shenanigans.