Lost and found

Eight hundred-dollar bills and one Smith & Wesson.

One of the advantages of finally going through boxes I packed up 3 1/2 years ago when we moved to Woodland Hills is that I found a few things I'd been wondering about, and some things I didn't know I had.

The eight hundred-dollar bills were spread between 4 envelopes given to Rob and me by my dad.  The cash was what he used to call "WAM" which stood for "Walking-Around Money."  (Funny, until this moment, when I actually had to write out the word "WAM" I thought it was spelled "WHAM" but that doesn't make sense, does it?)

More important, though, than the WAM were the poems that accompanied it.  Each Easter and Christmas, he would write customized poems that he termed "topical."  He would work in whatever events or activities or funny stories that had just happened in our lives.  And the rhyming was painfully and admittedly awful.  I noticed that in his last Christmas poem, he had the audacity to rhyme the name "Johnny Cash" with, yes, the word "cash."  That was his idea of a perfect (meaning funny) rhyme.  I had no idea that any WAM still existed, so that was a nice surprise.  But the poems were the real treasure.  Someday I'll assemble them all into a blog post.

Along with the found WAM was daughter Emily's gun.  This was also a gift from my dad.  For several years, he and Emily attended the Civil War Institute in the summers at Gettysburg.  My dad had loved the Civil War and had, through uncle Jack, befriended the head of the Institute, Gabor Boritt.  It was through this love of the Civil War and of Gettysburg that Em decided to go to college there and eventually she became Gabor's research assistant and also worked for the Institute's summer program.

But I digress.  Back to the gun.  It's a Smith & Wesson Model One and a Half.  A 7 shot 32 rimfire second issue, made around 1868.  We know it's second issue by its round barrel, fluted cylinder, birds head grip, and serial number of 125297.  I googled it to make sure.

Dad bought the gun while he and Emily were in Gettysburg for CWI, with Emily attending on a student scholarship.  She was staying in the dorm.  Dad was in a hotel.  That night, he woke up at 1 AM with a terrifying thought - what if Emily is caught having a gun in the dorm?!!!  He promptly woke up one of the CWI employees who agreed to track Emily down and let her know the problem.  That employee rushed to Em's room.  No Em.

Turns out that Miss Em was participating in a "Ghost Tour" of Gettysburg.  Normally she would have avoided the ghost tour at all costs, just as she would have avoided ghosts.  But evidently she was trying to be a good sport and went along.

The employee had to drive around Gettysburg in the middle of the night to see if he could find the ghost tour's whereabouts.  He eventually found them and walked up to the group and asked if Emily was there.  This, of course, scared her even more than the ghosts ever could.

The employee explained the situation and Emily gave him the key to her room so he could remove the gun and give it to my dad.  For safe-keeping.  The thought of my dad having a gun scared me even more.  I grew up with the story of him finding a gun as a child and playing with it all day while he was sick in bed, only to have it go off and shoot a hole in his bedroom wall.  That story does not fade from this daughter's memory very easily....

Somehow they got the gun from Gettysburg to our family reunion in Vail, Colorado.  I'm grateful that neither of them thought to put it in their carry-ons.  So I guess it rode successfully in their regular bags.  In the lobby of the hotel, dad was telling the story to assorted relatives.  At the end of the story one of them said, so where's the gun now?  Dad said, right here on the coffee table!  It was wrapped in bubble wrap but he had placed it in plain sight in the middle of the coffee table and none of us knew it.  I mentally added up the number of children that had passed by that table in the time we spent there and then tried not to let that number cause me to yell at my dad in public at a family reunion.  Fortunately for all involved, no blood was shed in the lobby that day.

When the gun arrived in the Hummel house, I took one look at it and thought - there's no way I'm letting my 16 year old daughter have this in her room.  So I took it.  For safe-keeping.

I stored it in the back of my dresser, thinking that the drawer was so stuffed with junk that no one would ever find it.  Also, I have to admit that I did consider the gun would definitely come in handy if there was ever an intruder.

Later, during our move, it got packed up, bubble wrap and all.  Frankly, the first time I saw it I was so afraid of it that I barely looked at it.  But when I discovered it the other day, I was amazed at how small it was.  Barely 6 1/2 inches from barrel tip to the end of the birds head grip.  It fits my hand perfectly.  Heavy but not too much so.  I compared its color, rivets, cylinder length, serial number to what I could find online.  I have it sitting next to my computer right now and I can't keep my hands off it.  Though I have to admit, I keep it pointed away from me and those I love.

In googling it, I found myself on all sorts of gun websites and 99.9% of it scares the #%&$ out of me.  But this gun is different.  It was made just a couple of years after the Civil War ended.  It looks like a ladies gun, and I imagine that those were not easy times and a gun might mean the survival of your family.  That this gun might have belonged to a Civil War widow and might have brought her some measure of comfort with her husband gone.  Maybe that widow might have walked the steps of the U.S. Pension Bureau building in Washington DC to plead for the pension money that would have been owed to her dead husband, in the building that now is the National Building Museum where Emily once interned.

That's what I truly adore about this story.  It goes from love to fear (lots of it!) and back to love again.  My dad's love of history led to the gun which then led to my dad's fear of the gun in the dorm.  That fear led to increased fear on the ghost tour, later to fear in a hotel lobby, and then to fear in my own home.  But now I hold that Smith & Wesson Model One and a Half and think only of the love that drew my dad and my daughter together in a shared love of history.  How proud he would be to know that his CWI buddy was acknowledged in two of Gabor's books, was an intern in a Civil War pension building, and later completed her Masters in "public history."

I guess it's time.  Em, you can have your gun back.  You earned it.  Now, if only I could find the cannon ball dad gave to Claire.  It might come in handy if I need to defend myself...

Things I learned from my wedding - Part 3 - ARMPITS

Mom and Dad

As I mentioned in a previous post, I wore my mother's wedding gown for my wedding.  The dress was sewn by my grandmother on her treadle sewing machine.  I grew up worshipping that dress.  Turns out my mom didn't.

I would pour over the photos of my parents' wedding and knew every detail of that dress, from its regally-wired standup collar, to the row of satin buttons down the middle, to the delicate point of the sleeves at the wrist.  Recently, I googled "1950's bridal gown pattern" and, after browsing through a few hundred vintage pattern photos, eventually found out it was Vogue "Special Design" pattern #4171.

When I first started sewing in 7th grade, Vogue patterns were a distant fantasy.  I would never have dreamed that I could sew such a pattern, or even wear anything associated with the Vogue name.  It was the best of the best, and the patterns were the most expensive of all.  I was a McCalls or Simplicity gal through and through.  I eventually worked my way up to Butterick, but I can count on one hand the number of Vogue patterns I've sewn.

So, for my mom to have chosen such a pattern must have been a big deal at the time.  I guess that's why I was shocked to learn that mom didn't love her dress as I did.  Maybe she would have preferred a store-bought dress?  I don't know.  I never asked her.  

After my wedding, mom took the dress home with her.  I assumed she would have it cleaned and boxed up, especially since it was thirty years old at that point.  I assumed wrong.  The dress was hung in a closet as is.  When I found it many years later, it was dangling from the hanger like a weary spider web.  The lace had disintegrated wherever it had come in contact with makeup or lotion or deodorant.  It no longer had armpits.

I rushed the decaying carcass of a gown to the nearest dry cleaner who did his best to clean it, stuff it, and fold it gently into one of those giant wedding gown boxes.  I put the giant wedding gown box in the back of my closet.  

Periodically, usually when in the middle of a marathon closet cleaning session, I'd open the box and peer at what was left of my dress.  It did not take me to a happy place.  In fact, each time I looked at it, it seemed a little more lifeless, until eventually I felt like I was protecting a corpse.  Time to make a decision.  It had to go.

I spread the gown out on the floor.  I looked for the sections that remained unscathed from the ravages of time.  I grabbed my scissors. And I began to cut.  I cut out one small square for Emily.  And one small square for Claire.  And one small square for me.  I included part of the bodice to which we'd added some tiny pearl beads.  The three pieces were carefully folded, slipped inside a carved wooden box, and then placed in a bookshelf next to my bed.

I can honestly say that those three pieces of lace, tucked inside that wooden box, gave me far greater pleasure than the decayed stuffed remains lurking inside the giant wedding gown box.  

There was the lesson.  In trying to do what I thought a good daughter/granddaughter was supposed to do, I was dutifully clinging to something that actually made me sad and resentful.  It wasn't easy making that first cut.  I kept saying to myself, "Who does this?  Who cuts up their mother's wedding gown sewn by their grandmother?"  But as I carefully chose the good bits of lace and trimmed away the bad, I felt more and more confident that I was doing the right thing.  My three small squares of perfect lace gradually buried the memory of rotted lace. 

In deconstructing the dress, I found its real beauty.  The beauty (of course!) was in the idea.  The idea of love that precipitated it, that planned it, that created it, that wore it down the aisle.  And that love could never in a million years decay or disintegrate.  

I had traded my giant wedding gown box of gloom for a carved wooden box filled with freedom, joy, and love.  It was a good trade.  And we had a lot more space in our closet.

Things I learned from my wedding - Part 2 - BIRDSEED

Rob did not have a laundry list of demands about our wedding and reception.  He had one, and that was DO NOT under any circumstance let anyone "decorate" the car.  He arranged for our friend Jim Thurman to be the enforcer.  Jim was given the car keys and the responsibility to keep evil forces away from the Prelude.

That was not to be.  I don't remember exactly how events transpired, but this is what greeted us as we left the reception:

Because Rob did not have a laundry list of demands, and because this was his one and only concern, he was (to put it politely) not a happy camper.  His greatest fear had come upon him and all the assurances in the world from me that everything was going to be all right fell on deaf ears.

The culprit was, not surprisingly, Bram.  Bram was a long time family friend who was married to Rob's cousin, Robin.  He was a notorious prankster at weddings and had evidently outsmarted enforcer, Jim.  There was shaving cream and crepe paper and tin cans.  But the worst was the birdseed.

Bram Johnson, John Fiedler, Rob, Jim Thurman

According to our reconstruction of events, Bram had coated the dash and steering wheel first with vaseline, and then with birdseed.  This, of course, meant that not only was the car coated with those things, but eventually by riding in said car, parts of us and our belongings also became coated with vaseline and birdseed.  

After leaving the reception, our destination was the Del Coronado Hotel in San Diego.  But the few words I could get out of Rob gave the distinct impression that we were going to our apartment first.  To confront Bram, I suspected.  I'm a little fuzzy on details here, but I remember waiting with Robin and her son Jason while Rob and Bram went for a walk.  Not exactly how I had pictured the beginning of my honeymoon, but if you're going to have to wait while your new husband lets off some steam, you could do no better than waiting with the ever-calm Robin.

The boys came back.  There was no blood as far as I could tell.  I think that we all hugged each other.  And we were off in our hastily cleaned up car.

Of course, I thought that mess was now behind us and we could enjoy the start of our life together.  That might have happened if not for Rob turning on the air conditioner which blasted seeds at our faces, cruel reminders of that which were trying to forget.  We opened the moon roof, more seeds.  Glove box, more seeds.

Rob pulled into a Burger King after realizing that neither of us hadn't eaten.  More time to cool off, I thought to myself.  A couple of whoppers later, Rob seemed a little more settled and I no longer feared that he would accidentally drive us off a cliff.

We arrived at the Del Coronado and went to our ocean-view room.  All thoughts of birdseed expunged from the record.  Happiness.  We looked at the ocean and at each other.  More happiness.  Then, we open our suitcases.  We shouldn't have been surprised to find them filled with birdseed.  But we were.  Piece by piece we pulled items out of the suitcases and shook out the seeds.  Then Rob took the cases out on our beautiful balcony and dumped the seeds outside.

The next morning, we had a Hitchcockian moment when we looked out on to the balcony and saw it was covered with what looked like thousands of seagulls, all scrambling for their brunch of wedding seeds.  I think by that time we might have been able to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but to be honest, I don't know that for sure.

The following spring, after a good rain, the ceiling around the moon roof started to leak so Rob took the car in to be repaired.  The mechanics had to take apart the entire roof.  They called Rob to tell him what they'd found - the inside of the roof was filled with sprouts.  Apparently, some of the seeds Bram had put into the moon roof cover had worked their way down into the roof itself, and with a little bit of water, had sprouted.  We had a roof filled with sprouts.  Bram.

 It might have been tempting to hold a grudge against the person who had pulled such a prank, especially after being warned not to.  If the prankster was not Bram, that is.  Instead, as the years went on, Bram steadily and powerfully nurtured our friendship.  We were lucky that L.A. was a part of his travel for FedEx.  He called every time he was in town and we lost track of how many dinners we had together.

The most memorable was when Rob had expressed the feeling that he was stuck in his job at Technicolor and really wanted to move on but couldn't because he had a mortgage and a wife and a baby and and and.  Bram said, "Okay, what if I pay your mortgage for a year.  NOW what are you going to do?"  Together, Rob and Bram came up with a prioritized list of who Rob was going to contact.  And it was from that list that Rob did move on.  And Bram didn't need to spend a dime of his offer.  It was all about setting goals and then achieving those goals.  And no one was spared.  No one within his sphere of influence could escape his questions or his enthusiastic support.  We could do anything we set our hearts on, and even do things we had never thought of doing.  He'd be in the middle of grilling one of us and then turn to someone else and say, "Don't think I'm letting YOU off the hook!  You're next!"  Once when Emily was housesitting for Bram and Robin during her spring break, Bram came back early from a business trip.  The next day he taught her how to drive a stick shift and then took her to shoot skeet.  Just an average day with Bram.

For the rest of the time we owned that car, whenever we turned on the A/C, some random seeds would fly out and yet again hit us in the face.  Each year fewer and fewer seeds, but it only took one to remind us.  Oh, Bram again.  He passed away almost four years ago.  It was one of the biggest shocks of our lives.  Little did we know at the time how deeply Bram had planted seeds in our hearts and souls.  The seeds were not meant to remain as seeds.  The seeds he shared were meant to grow.  Maybe he didn't intend for them to grow inside the roof of our car.  But he did intend for us to water them and watch them sprout and grow in our lives.

This photo shows Bram relaxing at my dad's house in Laguna and me, happy to have him there. We always knew it wasn't easy for him to travel on business and also trek on over to meet us for dinner, especially after long flights and long hours.  But he did it anyway.  And never complained for a second.

So, Bram, thanks for the zillions of seeds - in our car, in our suitcases, in our lives.  We no longer have the car, but that hasn't stopped the seeds from flying in my face at the most unexpected of times, and I say to myself, "Oh, Bram again."  Each time I know it's another reminder to take the seeds we've been given and make sure they aren't gobbled up by the seagulls, but that they sprout and grow and produce other new seeds.  And that seed produces new seed, and the cycle continues... 

I'm not sure anyone could have convinced me on November 28th, 1981, that I would ever be thinking of birdseed with anything other than fear and loathing.  But now I realize it's not all about the seed.  It's more about the sower.  And we were blessed with the best.  Thank you dear Bram.  We love you.

Things I learned from my wedding - Part 1 - EYEBROWS

I never considered my eyebrows until after the wedding.

In our high school years, Nancy Titus and I learned a little about eyebrows from our stint at the William Adrian modeling agency.  Our instructions were: hold a pencil straight up along the inside corner of your eye and that's where your eyebrow should start.  Then hold the pencil along the side of the nose in a diagonal past the outside corner of the eye and that's where your eyebrow should end.  And only pluck underneath.  Never above.

At least that's how Mr. Adrian taught us in 1968.

Thirteen years later, a couple of days before my wedding, someone suggested that it might be "easier" on me to have my makeup done professionally.  Back then, professional makeup was not the standard fare it is for weddings nowadays.  Frankly, the idea had never crossed my mind. But it seemed sensible and smart and so I booked an appointment at a Beverly Hills department store that had a salon.  Done.

Above is a photo of the night before the wedding.  My friends Lee and Maggie spent the night with me.  I'm in a bright red "onesie" (complete with drop drawer in back) that was given to me by the members of Slaveja, the Balkan singing group I was in at the time.  Normally, when someone in the group got engaged, they would receive a piece of sexy lingerie.  But because the group members apparently perceived me as not-the-sexy-lingerie type, they thought the "onesie" was more appropriate.  (Now that I think about it, the leader of our group recently was seen on CNN and BBC wearing a red lace bra, playing a song she wrote about Iran and "boob quake."  Hmmm....   But I digress.)

I loved my wedding and reception (except for the birdseed incident which I will explain in detail in another post).  It was beautiful and fun without being overly done.  I wore my mother's dress which my grandmother had made.  We had small pearls sewn on the bodice in order to add something to make it my own.  My flowers rested on the same Bible that had been carried by my mother in her wedding, covered in the same lace as the dress.  A beaded tiara was hand-made by the parent of one of my students and was attached to the same headpiece worn by my mother.

The ceremony was at the Westwood Hills Christian Church, which was as much like a European church as we could find with the scale that we were looking for.  The church had red carpet so we went all out with loads of red poinsettias, and the bridesmaids wore red moire skirts.  I really paid attention during the ceremony and felt fully present in the moment.  The reception was at the Beverly Wilshire, with the Joe Moshay orchestra playing big band songs.  Joe had this band since 1929, and had been a studio musician as well as playing for countless Academy Governors Balls.  And to top off the day, my fellow Slaveja sisters gathered to sing "Iz dolu ide."

So a few weeks later, when my mom told me that the photo proofs had arrived, I drove down to Laguna, excited for the opportunity to re-live a wonderful day.  I sat down in the living room and eagerly began to sort through the photos.   It didn't take long before I realized that I'd made a terrible mistake.  I had paid attention to everything about my wedding but my own face.  I had asked the beautician for "natural" and instead I got "cheap hooker."  I was shiny.  My eyes were smothered in blue and gold shadow.

But the worst part was, I had someone else's eyebrows.

There were plenty of people around me before the ceremony began.  The dressing room was packed with people I loved.  Not one of them said, "Here, take this washcloth and let's start over again."  Of course there were mirrors and I should have looked in one of them.  But either I didn't look or else I saw only the part of me that wasn't physical - the happiness part.  Bad idea.

So, sitting on my parent's flowered sofa, I discovered the truth - I looked hideous and here was the "proof" (pun intended).  I cried.  I told my mom she could order me a book but I wasn't going to look at it.  When it arrived, I cried some more and told Rob I wasn't going to look at it.  From that moment, it has stayed in the box it came in, tucked deep at the bottom of the deepest darkest drawer in the deepest darkest corner of the deepest darkest room.

Rob and I were going through our storage pods last week and I found the album.  I gingerly opened up the cover and tucked inside I found a photo of the rehearsal dinner.  In that photo, I look totally like myself and how I remember myself.  And I realized that for a brief time (one week?  two?) from my wedding day until the day I opened those proofs long ago on my parents' sofa, this photo is how I saw me.  This is how I imagined I looked on my wedding day.

It took me years to find a way to think back on my wedding with anything other than anger.  Remember, my wedding truly was a joy on that day and the few days following.  But the thought of me looking like someone else at that pivotal moment in my life was more than I could bear.  The image of me that lived within that album completely consumed the image of me in real life and in my head.  The image I had of me enjoying every moment was erased. Priceless memories vanished.  The whole event reduced to this:

So, it was with great trepidation that I opened up the album again.  I'm so used to seeing it inside its protective box that I didn't have any intention of opening it when I found it in the pod.  That wound had healed, thank you, and I didn't really need to shed any more blood over it.

To my great surprise, some of it wasn't as bad as I thought.  The photographer was not our first choice, so his unsympathetic lighting managed to work with my hideous makeup to make the me in the photos look even worse.  But some of the photos are funny and sweet and I'm glad I have them.

On the other hand, there definitely was clear evidence there that a number of people I loved got a good look at my face ahead of time.  Here are my bridesmaids, my mom, and my dad, all with close up views of the wreckage.

And here I am.  Looking in a mirror.  How could I have missed seeing my own face?  Who knows.

In looking through the album, I was completely surprised that other memories of mine seemed as fuzzy as my brows.  When I remember the "Joe Moshay Orchestra" I remember a big band.  But here, it looks like there was a piano and two trumpets.  Was that it?  There must have been a drummer too.  But a four piece band?  I thought it was more like twenty or thirty.  And not only that, in my memory, each band member had his individual stand with "JM" on it.  I guess not.  (Ah, yes, I remember it well...)

So, after almost twenty-nine years of avoiding the painful truth that I hated the way I looked at my wedding, I've decided to grow up and embrace the fact that regardless of what I looked like, it was a perfect wedding.  I loved every moment of it, I ended up with a wonderful partner in life, and we were surrounded by those we loved.  So what if the only thing that wasn't perfect about it was my face?  (Oh, and the birdseed incident...)  I can live with that. I will embrace my wedding face in all its shiny absurdity and know now that I wouldn't change a thing.

I'll end here - with a few photos from the rehearsal.  This is the me I thought walked down the aisle on November 28th, 1981.  This is the me Rob must have thought he was getting hitched to.  And I guess this is the me that was concealed deep beneath my wedding face.  Time to let that girl out of the box and have her finally delight in that grand day of almost twenty-nine years ago.

Speaking for myself...

I came home from the Hummel Family Reunion on Lopez Island with a rock and a piece of algae.  The rock is one I picked out of Hummel Lake, to remember the joy of all of us standing barefoot in the shallows together.  The algae is from the water outside the home we rented.

Each morning I went outside to a white wooden bench beside the shore.  I went there to read, and like clockwork, it didn't take long until my eyes turned to the algae.  It was a brilliant green, especially during low tide, and shifted shades depending on the amount of fog and the time of day.

It looked like a loosely woven shawl, draped over the rocks, providing a walking surface for the birds and a covering for the fish swimming underneath.  At the risk of irreversibly altering the ecosystem, I took a six inch square piece up to house.  I thought I could preserve the memory of the delicate green water shawl I'd grown so fascinated with.  My sister-in-law and I decided that the preservative of choice was hairspray. Extra-extra-hold hairspray.  I sprayed on one coat.  Then another.  Then another.  And so it continued as the days went by.

It looked for a while like I had a successful science project.  But soon it became clear that the green had started to slip past its laquer protective coating.  I don't know how the green was able to manage its escape, and I don't know where it went.  I suppose I could google something about chlorophyll but I don't really want to know.

Well, after comparing "my" algae with the algae outside, it was obvious that this isn't something that I could possess.  It was something to be appreciated in its own lush context.  But out of context, it lost what made it beautiful to begin with.

Isn't that just like material things?  That which makes them remarkable and extraordinary is the "green" - the life they have in them.  The green that absorbs the light shining down on it and miraculously turns that light into energy, into growth.  And all the extra-extra-hold spray in the world isn't going to be able to contain it.

Within the last week, I essentially gave up ownership of my mom and dad's house on the cliff at Crescent Bay in Laguna Beach.  I think my parents both thought that after they died, somehow their kids could preserve the "green."  But no.  Speaking for myself only, the green went out of that place faster than out of my piece of algae.

I don't know where the green from my algae went.  But I know absolutely that when the green from my parents' home left the building, a part of it found its way into every cell of my being.  It's the life, the warmth, the welcoming, the spirit, the laughs, the love that fill me to overflowing each and every minute.

When my dad passed away, my uncle Dick said, "The inheritance has already been distributed."  Whatever was important about my mom and dad is already mine.  The inheritance isn't in a house or in the stuff inside the house.  It's in the life we shared together.  And now that a portion of the green is in me, is a part of me, I have to find my own way with it.  It will certainly emerge as something different than that of my parents.  It will take its own shape and color.  Like the algae on Lopez, it will support the birds or whatever needs its support .  And it will cover the fish or whatever needs its protection.  And it will, of course, be a beautiful, beautiful thing to watch from a white bench on the shoreline.

Japan - Day 3 - Tokyo Tower and an unforgettable dinner

Time to visit the Tokyo Tower. It was Rob's idea. He's not one to suggest going up high in anything, so I guess the sight of the tower every morning over breakfast finally lured him over. Here's the view from the lower platform.

I liked watching people pause next to the glass viewing floor and then gradually work their way to stand on top of it. This did not happen with Rob, however.

He found other things to keep him happy.

Here's the view from the upper observation deck.

The tower mascots are the "Nippon Brothers." Here's Rob making a new friend with one of the brothers.

And here is the tower from down below.

I almost hesitate to put the next part of our day in the same posting with our adventure at the Tower. Dinner with Dr Kitatani and his friend was by far the most remarkable dinner of my life. It was at a restaurant called Daigo. It's on the second floor of a tall tower but when you step inside you're not anywhere but ancient Japan. We took off our shoes and were escorted into our own private room with a view of the dry gardens. The table was a low one and I was happy to discover that I didn't need to sit cross-legged for the evening, as there was a cut out area under the table for legs. Who knew?

This restaurant serves a "shojin-ryori" cuisine which was developed starting in the 12th century. The Buddhist monks were vegetarian but when the shoguns who were funding the operations of the temple came to visit, they needed something substantial to eat. So the monks came up with a sophisticated type of vegetarian cooking that simulated meat dishes, but without meat or eggs.  

I counted the courses when I got home and found there were eleven. We started with a tiny glass of plum wine which tasted more of plums than wine. Then we moved on to a soft, smooth bean curd which was eaten by mixing ginger into the dipping sauce, then scooping up some sauce and then some curd. If Rob and I would have been left on our own, we would have been thoroughly helpless, but each stage was explained by our hosts, which was a great relief. Our host came here last with Quentin Tarentino because "you know how Quentin loves Japanese things."

Next were several different types of vegetarian sushi which were served on a thick stone plate with a leaf cut to look like blades of grass. Unforgettably delicious.

We had three women in kimonos serving us with all the graciousness one would expect.

Next was a combo platter consisting of (starting from upper left and going clockwise): something in a basket that was wonderful but I don't know what it was, a lovely pickled plum tucked inside a chinese lantern flower, marinated hot peppers, corn tempura, sticky potato that's eaten by squeezing it out of its jacket, and in the center a type of soy bean curd made from the part that floats to the top of the pot.

Next was the eggplant grown only in Kyoto. It was round and the way it was presented, looked almost like a pork chop. We scooped out the inside and dipped it in the sauce and it was as lovely as any pork chop I've ever had.

Next was assorted tempura, with a sliver of ginger dipped in something red. On top of it was a delicate branch with small white pieces of puffed rice which looked like tiny flowers. We pulled the pieces of rice out to eat. Since rice is so important to the Japanese diet, presenting it in this way was very symbolic.

Next, cucumber and seaweed marinated in something wonderful.

Next, a ginger soup to cleanse the palate.

Next (we were pretty stuffed by this point) was a gorgeous bowl of noodles and mushrooms.  The tiny  mushrooms (which looked exactly like little hot dogs) grow only in Kyoto.

And then, nearing the finish line, a perfect melon.

A glass of cold black tea, with a cold sweet red bean soup. If I hadn't been there, I wouldn't have believed that a cold sweet red bean soup would be anything to write home about. But it was. Awesomely good.

Our evening ended with a tour of the gardens by the man on the left (below). He carried a paper lantern which he held close to my feet as we negotiated the steps toward the temple. Then he used the lantern to hail us a cab. The word "hospitality" has just been redefined in my book. 

Here's the photo we took earlier that day at the Tower. Little did we know that we would start our day with the Nippon Brothers and end it with a vegetarian lantern-toting monk? I love Japan. 

Japan - Day 2 - Kyoto

Day two - we decided to go to Kyoto. Both Rob and I have been embarrassingly excited about the unbelievable smoothness of the hotel elevators, so we were really worked up about the prospect of trying out the bullet train. In person it's shiny and white and fast and oh yes, just as smooth as our elevator ride.

The countryside mostly went by as if we'd hit the fast-forward button on the remote. And in a couple of hours plus, we were in Kyoto. Here is Astro Boy Rob. This is the last photo you'll see of him for a while because it was so hot and humid that his shirt was dripping wet in minutes and not a good candidate for photos. He may reappear later, after some air conditioning and ice cream.

Kyoto has 17 UNESCO World Heritage sites, 1600 temples, 400 shrines, and loads of gardens. The guidebook says there are so many temples that you have to beware of "temple fatigue." Near the Kyoto station is Higashi Hogan-ji. In the 16th century, a breakaway sect of Buddhism called Jodo was appearing to look like a threat to the shogun in charge. So he just torched their temple and massacred the members. A different approach was taken by a shogun in the 17th century. He just gave them some land to build on. This temple is the 5th incarnation of that Higashi Hogan-ji, this version built in 1895. It is claimed to be the largest wooden structure in the world, but that claim is made by other temples too.  Below is just the temple gate.

Some gorgeous detail from the gate.

I loved the contrast between the old and new. Even the temple has manga-like graphics.

We then went to Dai-ichi Asahi, a little hole-in-the-wall ramen house mentioned in my guidebook. Of course, no one we asked directions of spoke any English, but we eventually found it. They are known for their ramen and it was the best I've ever had. I think that's all they serve. Between that and the good air conditioning, we were happy campers.

We then went to the Teramachi market which is a loooong arcade of shops. We were looking for the Nishiki-koji market and thought that's where we were, but turns out we were off by a block or two. I didn't realize it until I just read through the guide book again tonight. Darn. I wanted the soy milk donuts... Next time....

Next on the list of temples was the Chion-in, head temple of the Jodo sect. The gate (below) is the largest and oldest wooden gate ever made (or so they say), and holds the remains of the master builder and his wife who both committed suicide when construction went over budget. That's me in the middle, to give some idea of the size.

The main temple dates to the 17th century. 

Sometimes, if you poke around enough, and wait patiently, you can find a spot where there's no one there but you and a bunch of lily pads.  

Last but not least was the trek to Kiyomizu-dera. This is the mother of all temples and as we worked our way up the narrow streets leading to it, we were pretty sure we were not the only ones with the idea to visit this particular temple on this particular day. 

Here is the bright orange gate.

The temple itself was built in 1633 on top of 139 wooden pillars, using not a single nail. It is a wonder. Its size and its placement so high above the city, nestled next to the trees, makes it especially magnificent. On top of that, it's known for bestowing good fortune. There were a lot of people looking for a lot of good fortune when we were there.

This is the Jishu Shrine area where there are many opportunities to purchase good luck charms for everything from "new ties" (marriage) to "exam nations" (examinations).

At the shrine, the worshipper bows twice, and then claps twice, and then bows again. There was something happy about hearing those audible signs of worship.

On the walk down, there were little stone figures with red aprons. I have no idea what that's about, but you have to love a religion that dresses up their icons in matching outfits.

Since Japan is all about contrasts, on the way back down the hill, we had to pause to admire the fake food. It is gloriously unappetizing and so thoroughly inauthentic compared to what we'd just seen, but for some reason it just makes you love Japan all the more. From bullet train and Astro Boy, to chanting and clapping, to lucky charms and plastic desserts. We are happy to witness it all. Good fortune, indeed.