Cold. And dark. So cold that the ink from this pen is not liquid enough to steadily write these words, forcing each thought to be deliberately carved into my paper. So dark that there is not enough light in my alley to glint off the mist which is surely billowing up from my mouth as I plod towards the subway. That's how my Christmas morning begins.
Christmas Eve hadn't been this way. Carols streaming on the laptop, fresh food on white and red paper plates, a tree-shaped candle: it almost had the warmth of family. It was a special evening full of good laughs with good people.
But now it is cold and dark. We're talking white knuckles, Russia at its bleakest. Why am I up before the sun has taken a go at heating up this city? It's not the whimsical hope of catching that glimpse of Santa's boots as he exits through the chimney. It's the 8:30 from Seoul to Osaka.
No, this is not another fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants ticket purchase, though it is already shaping up to be that kind of a weekend. I have been able, from my collection of cards, to procure no more than 30,000￥. I don't know yet what that means as far as purchasing power, but I intend to do my best. I have no Japanese skills, no other access to cash, and no plans except to meet my friend DW tomorrow and eat some of the famed, probably over-rated Kobe beef.
This is a morning of personal firsts, though none of them are yet Japan-specific. I had the pleasure of riding Seoul's new-ish express line this morning, and I flew out of Gimpo International rather than Incheon. The Asiana flight I am on is also a much smaller vessel than I've ever ridden on before. As we descend in on Japan's coast, I am coming to the realization that this equates to feeling the smallest movements of the plane much more dramatically. Making our approach on this windy, winter morning while staring out over Osaka's choppy, grey harbor, I had my first visions of plane crash in many flights.
The hostel is as nice as any I've stayed in. I quickly drop my things and move on to the rest of my Christmas. I take the hostel owner's advice and head over to sample a local delicacy: okonomiyaki.
Granted I'm no stranger to this dish, but Osaka puts a nice twist on it. Rather than the straight cabbage, meat, and batter pancake that I've seen before, the locals here make it double-decker. The second layer? None other than stir-fried udon noodles. A phenomenal lunch that I am simultaneously sad and satisfied to watch disappear.
When I finish, it's time to skip town for the day. Since I'm saving the majority of Osaka's see-ables and do-ables until DW arrives, I get back into the current of public transport and hitch the next train to Kobe.
It's only a thirty minute arc around the bay to what wikitravel dubs "one of Japan's underappreciated cities." There isn't a tourist guidebook, area map, or information counter to be seen, so I start off in a random direction.
It doesn't take long before I've run into the ocean and a whole myriad of activities. There's a tower with a bay view and a handful of ferries if you'd rather witness it up close. There's also a long strip of restaurants and shops which remind me strongly of the Pier 39 area of San Francisco. I spend some time in a memorial park dedicated to preserving the memory of one particularly devastating earthquake. The city has locked a segment of the sidewalk in time by rooting the crooked lampposts to the ground exactly as they are. It provides an almost eerie contrast to the rest of this well-groomed area.
After milling about the docks for a while, I decide it is time to satisfy my ulterior motive: eating the legendary Kobe beef. My journey to a recommended location for said beef, however, leads me through a series of tunnel malls. That is to say, underneath a length of subway rails lies a series of shops called Motoko. Each Motoko was separated from one another only when a perpendicular road needed to cross through. This meant each one was roughly a block long, and they were numbered accordingly.
I started around Motoko 3 and followed the tunnel until Motoko 7. I wouldn't have gone so far, but I was intrigued. What a random collection of stores! There is everything from goofy jewelry to fancy watches, nice clothes to 1970's electronics, action figure collectibles to religious icons, and of course none of it in any particular order. It is a lot like a block party meeting a garage sale.
With no end in sight, I peel myself away from the insanity at 7 to find that I'm tantalizingly close to Christmas dinner at Steak Land. I will eat meat from a cow nurtured with honey and massages. I will taste the sweet flesh of an animal who has lived the high life.
The chef behind the flattop is a presumably 95 year-old man. His wrinkles are deeper than my pockets, and Asians age well too. This dude is an expert at his craft. He effortlessly controls the speed at which the delicate bok choi cooks by shifting it into the exact right amount of heat. He flips multiple pieces of zucchini with a single flick of the wrist. His knife is incredibly accurate. Never once does he cut something misshapenly or in an odd number of pieces.
The vegetables are warm all the way through but still crisp. The scallop rivals the ones I ate in Charleston at a wedding rehearsal dinner, and those had been braised in duck fat. The shrimp he places on the grill was in fact still alive. I watch its tail jerks and legs scramble as its right flank turns pink. And the beef! Marbled and beautiful, I would have eaten it raw (btw try miming "rare"). There is not a piece of gristle to be found. Every bite is succulent, fat and all. It is truly sublime.
Christmas Eve hadn't been this way. Carols streaming on the laptop, fresh food on white and red paper plates, a tree-shaped candle: it almost had the warmth of family. It was a special evening full of good laughs with good people.
But now it is cold and dark. We're talking white knuckles, Russia at its bleakest. Why am I up before the sun has taken a go at heating up this city? It's not the whimsical hope of catching that glimpse of Santa's boots as he exits through the chimney. It's the 8:30 from Seoul to Osaka.
No, this is not another fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants ticket purchase, though it is already shaping up to be that kind of a weekend. I have been able, from my collection of cards, to procure no more than 30,000￥. I don't know yet what that means as far as purchasing power, but I intend to do my best. I have no Japanese skills, no other access to cash, and no plans except to meet my friend DW tomorrow and eat some of the famed, probably over-rated Kobe beef.
This is a morning of personal firsts, though none of them are yet Japan-specific. I had the pleasure of riding Seoul's new-ish express line this morning, and I flew out of Gimpo International rather than Incheon. The Asiana flight I am on is also a much smaller vessel than I've ever ridden on before. As we descend in on Japan's coast, I am coming to the realization that this equates to feeling the smallest movements of the plane much more dramatically. Making our approach on this windy, winter morning while staring out over Osaka's choppy, grey harbor, I had my first visions of plane crash in many flights.
We're low enough that the plane hits the water with most of the passengers unharmed, but the impact snaps the fuselage in half. Those icy grey, Pacific waves lap further up the isle towards me and I wonder whether my flotation device is between the seat cushions, under the seat cushions, or the seat cushions themselves.
* * * * *
Granted I'm no stranger to this dish, but Osaka puts a nice twist on it. Rather than the straight cabbage, meat, and batter pancake that I've seen before, the locals here make it double-decker. The second layer? None other than stir-fried udon noodles. A phenomenal lunch that I am simultaneously sad and satisfied to watch disappear.
When I finish, it's time to skip town for the day. Since I'm saving the majority of Osaka's see-ables and do-ables until DW arrives, I get back into the current of public transport and hitch the next train to Kobe.
* * * * *
It's only a thirty minute arc around the bay to what wikitravel dubs "one of Japan's underappreciated cities." There isn't a tourist guidebook, area map, or information counter to be seen, so I start off in a random direction.It doesn't take long before I've run into the ocean and a whole myriad of activities. There's a tower with a bay view and a handful of ferries if you'd rather witness it up close. There's also a long strip of restaurants and shops which remind me strongly of the Pier 39 area of San Francisco. I spend some time in a memorial park dedicated to preserving the memory of one particularly devastating earthquake. The city has locked a segment of the sidewalk in time by rooting the crooked lampposts to the ground exactly as they are. It provides an almost eerie contrast to the rest of this well-groomed area.
 |
| There was a freak flash snow, so I guess... White Christmas! |
After milling about the docks for a while, I decide it is time to satisfy my ulterior motive: eating the legendary Kobe beef. My journey to a recommended location for said beef, however, leads me through a series of tunnel malls. That is to say, underneath a length of subway rails lies a series of shops called Motoko. Each Motoko was separated from one another only when a perpendicular road needed to cross through. This meant each one was roughly a block long, and they were numbered accordingly.
I started around Motoko 3 and followed the tunnel until Motoko 7. I wouldn't have gone so far, but I was intrigued. What a random collection of stores! There is everything from goofy jewelry to fancy watches, nice clothes to 1970's electronics, action figure collectibles to religious icons, and of course none of it in any particular order. It is a lot like a block party meeting a garage sale.With no end in sight, I peel myself away from the insanity at 7 to find that I'm tantalizingly close to Christmas dinner at Steak Land. I will eat meat from a cow nurtured with honey and massages. I will taste the sweet flesh of an animal who has lived the high life.
The chef behind the flattop is a presumably 95 year-old man. His wrinkles are deeper than my pockets, and Asians age well too. This dude is an expert at his craft. He effortlessly controls the speed at which the delicate bok choi cooks by shifting it into the exact right amount of heat. He flips multiple pieces of zucchini with a single flick of the wrist. His knife is incredibly accurate. Never once does he cut something misshapenly or in an odd number of pieces.
The vegetables are warm all the way through but still crisp. The scallop rivals the ones I ate in Charleston at a wedding rehearsal dinner, and those had been braised in duck fat. The shrimp he places on the grill was in fact still alive. I watch its tail jerks and legs scramble as its right flank turns pink. And the beef! Marbled and beautiful, I would have eaten it raw (btw try miming "rare"). There is not a piece of gristle to be found. Every bite is succulent, fat and all. It is truly sublime.
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