Pieces of Japan: Day 11 - No Man is an Island

29th December 2009

Matsushima Bay, Tohoku, Japan

The famous saying goes that "No man is an Island", supposedly hinting at how desolate a man if left in a state of isolation; and yet, as I peered out into the sea and saw a spread of beautiful little islands that sprinkled the glistering blue waters, I couldn't help but find a little irony in it all.

Hailed as one of the "Three Sights of Japan"(日本三景, Nihon Sankei), as recognized by the poet Hayashi Razen in the 1600s based on his travels throughout Japan, short-listing breath-taking views across the land and arriving at the most awe-inspiring three, Matsushima Bay lives up well to its legacy and reputation, with a breath-taking 260 islands scattered over the span of the bay (also famous for her flavourful oysters).

Mostly comprising of coniferous pines which dressed the little islands in shades of light green that provided a pleasing visual complement to the sparkling blue waters, the sunny setting provided a sharp contrast to the rainy climb up Yamadera and the harsh snows of the Hokkaido region that we had just experienced a mere days before. In fact, the sunny weather reminded us a bit of our tropical home, as Winter seemed like nothing more than a tinge at the back of our minds, as we stood at the rear of the Cruise Boat staring up into the clear blue sky, with the wind in our hair.

Squint Hard and the Monk might Stare back at You

Cruises on different routes are readily available hourly at Matsushima Bay, as we settled for 50-minute one (after some convincing, on my part) that made a short round around the bay, highlighting most of her essential sights. Almost each and every island had a name, mostly historically-named based on their resemblance to certain people or objects. The most famous of which are Niōjima, which was named for resembling the head-shape of an old monk (squint hard at the photo and you'll notice), and Senganjima, Masamune Date's favourite island, which he joked about bringing back to his palace to his men while coasting the bay.

Seagulls followed the wake of the boat tirelessly, as they were probably conditioned to understand that a moving boat equates to a free meal, as the locals and tourists alike bought packets of prawn crackers and threw them skyward, only to be quickly swooped up by the agility of the following gulls. The flock of white slowly turned to brown, as the ratio between hawks and seagulls inversed as we moved further and further out to sea, eventually evolving into a cloud of brown with specks of white, before reverting to its original form as we returned to shallow waters.

And yet, the double irony of it all is thatthe admiration of the beauty and that each of these lonesome little islands provided when standing proudly on their amidst the wavering sea-waves, my inner reflections were more akin towards the beauty of their unity, patterns and spreads, reminding me on a conscious level, of the appreciation I had for the company more than surrounded me moreso than the beauty of isolation.

Creeping up on a Sleeping Duck, exactly what I mean

Through the last 11 days, though we've shared our ups and downs, our blames and shames; braved panic attacks, emotional mood swings, constant weariness and  the freezing cold; more than that, we had built many more unforgettable memories together, and while there is a joy to be had in travelling alone (which I was to validate in the months ahead), some things are simply better shared, and some experiences were amplified simply due to the presence of another - regardless of how distracted she could sometimes be, lost in her own world taking her photos, and just wandering off randomly. But more than that, the squeals of delight and the constant sense of wonder and amazement, or sometimes, just simply the knowing of her presence, definitely added much to the experience of travelling.

A long red bridge stood before us, sharply contrasting the clear blue waters that lay underneath. A splash of green lay at the other end, beckoning to us with its oriental bonsai-like shapes and luscious green leaves. Leading to Fukuura Island, one of the few islands in Matsushima that is open to the public, the local myth is that crossing the bridge with a partner in tow will eventually lead to a breakup. Fortunately, we were not local, hardly superstitious (at least not me), but most important, very much igonrant of this fact until very much later.

A fan of bridges, she was more excited about being on and crossing the bridge than anything else. I, on the other hand - while enjoying the salty sea-breeze in my hair, and  the change in pace of the foot-bound pilgrimage, as compared to our ship-lead expedition earlier -was my usual forward-looking self and sought the treasures that awaited us on the other end of the bridge.

And true enough, the memorial-treasures that awaited us on the other end were abundant enough for our long journey and much beyond that. Walking quietly around the island, sometimes off the beaten path, bathed in the golden sunlight seeping through the rustling tree leaves, the temperate flora and fauna created an impression of land and water unlike any of the typical coconut-laden beaches we had back home, and the sheer peace of the entire scene gave the impression that the island was made nicely just for two.

Sand and water still comprised the primary elements, but with drops of bright luscious green never too far away, and the unique oriental shapes of the darker green trees that presented themselves into the distance - as the islands got nearer and nearer to the horizon, silhouetted against the sun - they created an impression of a wholly different waterside aesthetic.

I walked to the edge of the viewing platform, tired from mapping and identifying the islands that stood in front of me based on the given map-like images; shelving extraneous knowledge aside simply to admire the Zen-like view of greens and blue, a perfect composition of trees, the sand, the waters and the sky singing in perfect visual harmony before my very eyes. Awe-struck and breath-taken, but hardly exaggerated or expressed; but rather, a simple and quiet type of awe that resonated deep within me as I looked on at nothing, and yet everything, clearing my mind and soothing my soul.

Rays of gold fell onto her soft, round face, as I took a moment off the sunset to look at her, with the usual child-like wonder in her eyes; smiling secretly to myself as I felt a sense of thankfulness amidst the entire setting. Reaching out for her hand, we sat there in silence, watching the golden setting sun slowly creep downwards, behind the silhouette of trees and islands that lay in the horizon, below eventually disappearing below it.

Matsushima Bay is said to have 4 different definite views to view the bay from, each supposedly providing a different perspective and aesthetic on the bay. I saw none of them, and yet, I didn't need either to justify or validate the beauty of the visual and mental photograph that I had just taken; an image that would rather surely be etched deeply in the recesses of my memory for a long, long time to come.

As we walked hand-in-hand, back across the bridge and under the pinkish hue of the dusk sky, I turned to look at her through the silence, and saw a silhouette of her face looking back at me, hardly being able to decipher her features within the silhouette, but enough to see warmness of a gentle heart smile smiling back at me. And through the silence, words rang out to me; words of wisdom, an age-old saying, indeed : "No Man is an Island".

Pieces of Japan: Day 10 - Crying Zen

28th December 2009

Yamadera, Yamagata, Japan

The thudding sound of the footsteps through the snow-covered concrete came to a stunning halt, as I stopped short in my tracks. Silence filled the air, save for the sound of a singing winter-bird, singing her lonesome song that added much to the ambience.

Breath-taken and in awe, I stared out at the sight that lay before me. An implicit V-shaped formed by the green canopy of the coniferous trees on the left, and the cliff face of the mountain on the right, while a little red hut standing atop the cliff added a sharp colour contrast to the entire scene, as layers and layers of snow-covered mountains stretched out beyond and into the horizon through the visual-valley between. 

I have always liked mountain-top views, but this was nothing less than a perfect sight of Zen; a view befitting on of the famous mountain-temples in Japan.  

Slice of Zen on the Mountain Top

In fact, the name "Yamadera" itself simply translates directly to "Mountain Temple", probably hinting at its iconic status in the region. An age-old Buddhist temple, Yamadera was built atop and into a mountain, with the temple compound starting at the base of the mountain and stretching all the way to the top - with a view to die for, and a whole lot of Zen to gain - separated by an arduous 1,015 stone steps. It is said that the view that awaits at the end of these 1,015 steps at Godai-dou will make climbers forget about their weary feet, a visual-Nirvana I was determined to verify, as I looked up at the pavilion and knew that I only had a fraction of the ascension left to complete before I attained.

Upper Temple - The Holy Air Up There

There was just one thing left to do before making my final ascent to the peak, and that was to look for my travelling companion, however un-apt the word was for the day thus far. Visually combing the area that lay around me, I finally found her at the opposite end of a winding snow-covered walkway across me, as I saw her walking slowly in my direction. 

Winding Pathway of Death

The ascension had been a torturous one, partially physically - as I willed my feet to go on, one step at a time, watching the scenery around change from a quiet little temple at the bottom, to a quiet snow-covered path through the trees sprinkled with sacred temple monuments and statues, before arriving at the upper temple area, with the structures built into and atop the mountain, with views that would bring a Zen-tear to one's eye.

Yet, the physical toll was the least of my worries, as silence fell between us through the climb, oftentimes with her walking a good distance ahead, and me deliberately slowing down and to keep a sizeable distance between us, but still being able to keep an eye on her.

It was one of those tantrum-days, perhaps where traveller's-fatigue had already set in, and she was at best, non-conversational, and at worst, angry. They say that travelling together is potentially hazardous to a relationship, as arguments are bound to surface, and I guess I could see why.

As she made her way across the winding path towards me one step at a time, her body language indicated something was wrong, as I noticed that her steps were getting increasingly careful, and her arms were spreading out more. I stepped out onto the winding path towards her, hoping to meet her halfway, when I sensed that there was very little traction between my shoes and the snowy path, that almost had an icy-finish atop it.

As I approached her and entered within the radius of her reach, she fell into my arms, body shivering as tears rolled down her face; tears of fear and tears of foolishness - tears that were a result of the fear felt from her imagining herself slipping off the icy path and down the mountain side, perhaps tumbling to her doom. She's always had a more than vivid child-like imagination, and while I was holding her tight and comforting her, at the same time, I was secretly glad that that very same imagination broke the icy silence that fell between us for the last 2 hours of so.

They also say that travelling can help to bring 2 people closer together and strengthen a relationship; and perhaps in this almost-typical scenario of emotional support and dependency, I could see why.  I took her hand, as we walked slowly across the icy path to the base of the wooden pavilion; readying ourselves to scale the final flights of wooden steps to the view that awaited us on top.

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Soba in the Little Town Below

Best.Soba.Ever.

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Sendai: Starlight Pageant

BLU @ Shangri-La Hotel: 3rd Year Anniversary - The Experience

14th September 2010

"Any champagne to start the night, sir?" The waitress asked promptly, after we were firmly rested in our comfortable red seats.

"Two glasses, please," I replied, without batting an eyelid; and more detrimentally, without the slightest clue about the price.

Indeed, the mood of the night was set with that exemplary opening gesture - a night or pure indulgence and bliss, on a sensory and, more significantly, emotional level - as I reached out for her hand.

It all felt so natural by now - and it should afterall; considering that it has been exactly three years since I placed her hand firmly in mine, remembering the caption and the phrase of "holding happiness", from our initial and discreet hand-holding moment immortalized on film.

"Are you ready to order, sir?" The waitress asked politely, as I rested the base of the long champagne glass on the white table cloth, the bitter aftertaste that tore through the sweetness still lingering in my mouth - a delightful sensation. 

"We'll have 'The Experience Menu", I told the waitress. 

"The Experience Menu" - a more than apt word to sum up the dining encounter we had at the Shangri-La as we marked our landmark celebration. 

I've always believed dining to be an art in itself, and more importantly and more essentially, an 'experience' (for the lack of a more suitable word). "The Experience Menu" at the Shangri-La not only reinforces, but utterly validates my point.

Led by Chef Kevin Cherkas, with footprints imprinted on some of the globe's Michelin's Restaurant, his creativity and culinary abilities shone through as we were introduced to the concept of "progressive dining"; which was not only a feast for the stomach, but also one for the eyes and the mind, as we left the restaurant in full appreciation of not only his skills, but also his creative talent and hospitality.

"Foie gras is a must, lobster, beef and if possible, oysters." I recited to the waitress, as she noted my preferences down.

"The Experience Menu" at BLU is a special menu where patrons are asked for specific food preferences, allergies and the like; which is then reported to the chef, who will set customise a menu for the patron based on the patron's preferences, and maybe, a little bit based on the chef's mood on that day. Akin to a degustation menu, except that it is a two-way deal between chef and patron rather than a one-sided affair.

For us, even though the menu was recited to us, the names themselves were inventive and at the same time abstract, sometimes being a little bit difficult to visualize, leaving plenty of room for the chef to surprise us, and indeed, he did with one dish after another.

Looking out of the tall glass window over a quiet stretch that would eventually meander to the much busier Orchard Road, she spoke of how it reminded her of Otaru, or in general, Japan... again. Some things in life probably leave a deep imprint on one's soul, and travelling on a magical getaway is probably one that still thugs at her heartstrings ever so often. Nostalgia is sweet in itself, but perhaps more so for me than her, the memory of sharing special travelling moments with a loved one is more than the icing on the cake, it is the very essence of the Experience; one that can only be fostered over a period of a compromise between a passionate love and a comfortable trust built over a course of time.

Mushroom Bubble

A spoon with an odd-looking bubble-shaped object was placed in front of us, as we were instructed on how to consume it. Placing it on my tongue, I applied pressure from the top of my mouth onto the bubble, causing it to burst and releasing a potpourri of flavours, dominated by those of mushroom and an after-tinge of cranberry sauce.

Analogous to drinking of the potion in Alice in Wonderland, this little bubble only served as our entry point to the more fascinating things to come further down the rabbit hole.

Lobster "Thermidor"

Washing up onto the shores of our journey-towards-gourment-excellence next was the Lobster "Thermidor." A rich dish that served the most succulent bits of the Lobster coupled with a rich lobster-based broth that had roe floating on the surface, pieces that I almost missed completely in my blindness and negligence. The combination of the succulent meat with the mixture of the rich and thick lobster broth brought back memories and inevitable comparisons of the lobsters I had in Boston. 

Memories of a time of difficulty and a time of need, as I remember the lazy Sunday afternoons that I would be sitting in front of the laptop in my dorm room, literally reaching out to touch the face I saw on the monitor in hope of getting just that little bit closer to her, despite knowing an inch wouldn't make a difference to the miles apart, but still did so regardless. 

Stealing more than a Glance

That familiar smell, that beckoning texture; stood right before our eyes, as I uncontrollably used the knife to spread over the top of the slab, just to attest its texture and its firmness. Expectations rose by the millisecond as I dug my knife gently into it, watching it crumble softly, as I raised it to my mouth and pressed my lips tightly closed after putting it in my mouth.

Typical of those of the higher grades, the piece melted slowly in my mouth, emitting an assortment of flavours within my mouth; a tinge of saltiness, the familiar taste and an additional spruce of nuttiness thrown in for good measure, Foiegras@fruits.com (yes, the official name of the dish) quickly rocketed to the top of both our Foie Gras favourites list, sitting very closely to that of Le Saint Julien's, and playing hosts to a whole deluge of memories.

Foiegras@fruits.com (no, you can't click that)

Memories of the different times we shared Foie Gras. Perhaps a mark of luxury and celebration on our part, most major celebrations in our history is somehow always graced with a platter of Foie Gras at the table; and through these different occasions, I think it is safe to say that we have jointly established it as our favourite couple-dish. Mainly because of the taste, but partially for the memories, the numerous candlelights and romantic-slow-burn dinners we've had over the major occasions in the last 3 years closely associated to the taste of the dish.... the smiles, the tears; the birthdays and the kisses.

The Egg Came First, or so states Chef Kevin's witty answer to the age-old question. My retort: it doesn't matter which came first when the egg tastes THIS good. Cutting down the middle to allow for the yolk to soak in and through the thick onion broth, the combination of the inherent sweetness and saltiness from the egg combined with the sting of the onion in its broth was only made more heavenly with the sprinkle of bread crumbs that littered the top of the dish.

The Egg Came First

A refreshing refresher of grape yogurt and soda-infused grape later, our main courses were served. A fresh snapper with vanilla-scented paella for the Lady, simply entitled "Catch", and the manly Wagyu Beef Mustard for the Gentleman.

"Catch"

Well-coloured and even more well garnished, with the brown sauce taking the shape of a perfect diamond, the Wagyu Beef Mustard melted slowly in my mouth, rivalling the texture of the Kobe Beef that I had savoured in Japan a good while back, before the sting of the mustard kicked in to give the meat a sensational after-taste. Passing her a piece, I saw a similar reaction in her eyes as she savoured the meat through the consumption process.

Wagyu Beef Mustard - A Perfect Diamond

My personal belief is that a good relationship changes a person, ideally for the better; as we work towards the notion of becoming more "complete" through our partners. It wasn't too long ago at Morton's that I instigated and tempted her to break her abstinence from beef, never to look back. And while this is highly debateable on whether it is a change for the better or not (in my books, more than definitely), over the months and the years, I can safely say that we've both changed one another.

No more is she the wide-eyed gal with an infinite sense of wonderment, but blossoming into a butterfly of confidence and an opinion to back it up; and no more am I the impatient, self-centred jerk that I used to be, but blossoming into an impatient, and slightly less self-centred jerk now upgraded with enough room for two in my mind, trying my best to consider her thoughts and her feelings along the way alot more (ok, maybe I didn't change THAT much).

"It was still swimming yesterday, so that's super, super, super, SUPER fresh," he said, pointing to the fish. "Not that it makes it any more appetizing, but it makes it a lot healthier."    

A rarity to see the chef outside the kitchen, but yet Chef Kevin made it a point to make personal trips out of the kitchen over the course of the night to play host and explain his creations to the patrons in the small, cosy 40-to-50-seater lined with a traditional, but nonetheless, elegant decor of velvety reds and soft-wooden browns.

The candlelight continued flickering as her unsteady hand tried to capture a shot of our dessert. The Egg proved to be a highly innovative dessert, shaped convincingly like an egg, but tasting nothing like one - but instead, with a mango centre, and coconut white and finished with passion fruit sorbet at the bottom, the combination of flavours was fruity and refreshing, and served as an excellent finish (almost) to our "experience".

Candlelight is perhaps another one of the totems of our relationships, simply because the abundance of candles in the places we've graced, and when you have a predominant-couple-activity of (fine) dining, it is not hard to find the association.

More symbolically, and perhaps more exaggeratingly though, is that this love has indeed proven to be my Light-in-the-dark cliche. But as much as I hate to conform to such, the truth is that, no matter how frivolous and non-committal we wanted to establish it to be at the start, at many a time of darkness and gloom cast upon my career over the last three years, the romantic candle has often remained my source of strength, simply by the virtue of it's presence beside me, and perhaps to much (of her) chagrin, the listening ear to my neverending moping and the little haven for my perpetual brooding.

Customarily, I wrapped up the bill and passed it to her after paying for the dinner, as she picked up the hand-written menu based on our "Experience".

And as we walked out of the doors of the restaurant with happy bellies, I knew deep in my heart, that there was more to the night than that. More so than a Celebration of a Milestone, a Celebration of a Record, a Celebration of History, a Celebration of the Future, a Celebration of Memories, or a Celebration of Love - it was a Celebration of an Experience.

ex·pe·ri·ence (k-spîr-ns)

n.

c.  the totality of a person's perceptions, feelings, and memories