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September 30th, 2024

Nakagyo Ward, Kyoto, Japan

Yuru was born in Guangzhou thirty-two years ago as part of China’s infamous only-child generation.  After suddenly losing her parents at the age of twenty-six, she found herself utterly alone.  Tonight, grabbing my waist, she sat on the back of my fixed-gear bicycle as I pedaled her around Kyoto.  She whispered in my ear, “My dad used to always ride me around like this.  I haven’t been on the back of a bicycle since he passed away.  In Chinese, we have a word for this: yuen.  It means destiny.  It’s destiny that we met.”  

I met Yuru five days ago, on the Kamo River at sunset.  We were both gingerly skipping from protruding rock to protruding rock, attempting to cross the churning stream, hoping to land on its opposite bank in time to witness a more panoramic westward view of dusk’s fiery colors over Kyoto.  Impulsively, I called out to her, “I love your shoes!”  They looked like cozy socks of purple wool sprouting sturdy rubber soles.  They miraculously evaded the violent splashes of the roaring current underfoot, thanks to Yuru’s nimble agility.  She spread her arms out as she balanced atop a wobbly rock, finding the focus to ratify my compliment with sincere thanks shown through deeply kind eyes.  We pranced back onto dry land and sat side by side, watching the orange sun disappear beneath the roof of an ancient temple.  Our conversation, which persisted well past the sky’s blackening, was immediately intimate.  She told me about her four Pisces ex-boyfriends – the fifth, and most prominent, Pisces man in her life was her late father – and I smiled.  I listened intently as she explained, utilizing knowledge she’d accrued during years of disciplined training, the intricate systems of Traditional Chinese Medicine.  I shared that I’d taken a Tai Chi class that morning and she congratulated me on aligning myself with the Tao.  When we got sleepy, we ventured back across the river with the help of our phones’ flashlights.  I hugged Yuru goodbye, wondering if I’d ever see her again.

Today, I did.  At two in the afternoon, as I emerged from Kyoto’s enormous Gyoen National Garden on bicycle, Yuru was serendipitously emerging from her Japanese school’s graduation ceremony just across the street.  It really was destiny.  From afar, she clocked my unmistakable hair and colorful outfit bobbing above the spinning wheels of my gliding cruiser.  I was busy dancing in rhythmic bounces, pounding my butt against my leather bike seat while “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted in my headphones, which caused me to miss Yuru shouting my name from the opposite sidewalk of the avenue I was speeding down.  So, she chased me, until, out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed her waving frantically at me from behind the cars zooming by.  She wasn’t letting destiny pass her by.  

Before I knew it, I was pedaling us both down narrow Kyoto alleyways.  Yuru’s encouraging words and cunning navigation made pedaling easy.  We celebrated her graduation by splurging on dim sum, Guangzhou’s signature fare.  

She earnestly asked me, “Do you really like hanging out with me?  Everyone at my Japanese school thinks I’m weird because I don’t like talking to anybody.”

“Of course,” I reassured her.  “I think you’re awesome.”

I wasn’t lying.  I hope she knows that.  I hope one day she’ll see herself the way I see her.  

We’re all just mirrors walking each other home.

October 2nd, 2024

Mount Wakakusa, Nara, Japan

Red-furred deer are patiently ambling up the grassy slope of Nara Park’s tallest hill.  Fawns follow their mothers’ paced frolic in close tow.  Some lick scrumptious snack pellets from the palms of delighted tourists.  Us humans sit facing downhill, basking in the rays our sun casts as it disappears behind Nara City.  Bare hooves and shoe-clad feet share this soil as equals.  Everyone bows to the sun.  It’s quiet.  Hushed chatter is only a lapse of distraction from the silence demanded by our fiery sky show.  Below me, a giggling toddler pets and snuggles a loving baby deer.  On the other side of this hill, a bronze Buddha, fifty feet tall, has sat in padmasana for over a thousand years.  A light breeze refreshes me.  My stomach is full of peanuts and bananas.  I can’t help but smile.  We are a forest of life on this slanted lawn.  

October 5th, 2024

Nakagyo Ward, Kyoto, Japan

The Kashaka is a traditional percussion instrument native to West Africa.  It consists of two golf-ball-sized spherical gourds, hollowed and filled with shaker beads, connected by a six-inch rope.  Kashaka players hold one pair in each hand, pinching the ropes between their fingers, and hypnotically construct intricate rhythms, equally auditory and visual, out of the cracks and shuffles these round shakers sound as they orbit around each other and confidently collide.  While most percussion instruments simply require musicians to strike down on a hollow body with open hands or gripped sticks, the Kashaka’s flurry of swinging rope demands a deep understanding of centripetal force.  The complex technique required to perform Kashaka music — with enough tempo and flair to make a crowd dance — has been proven to reliably enlarge the cognitive function of players, bolstering their limb interdependence and polyrhythm comprehension.  

Somehow, this instrument made its way to Japan.  Now, the land of the rising sun has become a global hub of Kashaka, or “Asalato”, as it’s known in this country.  Players from all over the world gather here to jam and duel, but local competitors consistently dominate the field.  In typical Japanese fashion, these native maestros completely rethought this West African invention, developing styles and techniques previously undiscovered.  This nation is full of quirky subcultures, and the Asalato scene is no exception: the musicians flocking to these events pair their instrumental creativity with eccentric costumes and personalities, bringing nuanced depth and endearing humanity to each performance.  

Tonight, I attended Kyoto’s inaugural Asalato tournament, featuring contestants from Texas, Taiwan, and just around the block.  Their energy did not disappoint.  One performer from the night’s first duel emerged onstage donning a full suit of reflective foam armor, displaying a flawless improvisation despite being unable to see from behind his knight helmet.  Needless to say, he won.  Sebastian from Texas, rocking a snapback brim spun to the side, devised a signature move of his own, clicking Asalato balls against his own teeth!  The resulting sound was as resonant and powerful as it was shocking and provocative.  Sadly, Sebastian lost his first duel and was swiftly eliminated.  I saw his heart sink as the judges cast their votes; he’d traveled from Texas to Kyoto strictly for this night, and now his moment in the spotlight had been cut short.  

Sending Sebastian’s disappointment led me to question the necessity of gamifying such an expressive and subjective art form.  Does it really matter who’s the best?  Nobody plays music the same; why rank contributions to an unquantifiable medium?  Were tonight’s competitors performing for themselves, the crowd, or the judges?  Did they care more about going home with the gold or making audience members dance?  I didn’t stick around late enough to see a victor crowned, but every single competitor’s performance surpassed my wildest expectations, so I was beyond satisfied and inspired, indifferent to the outcome.  

My favorite part of the event was its first hour: while the gathering waited for all its contestants to show up, a DJ spun house beats while a dance floor full of Asalato players clicked and shook their instruments along to their swaying hips.  The percussion was but an extension of the dancing, the impromptu jam but a manifestation of wordless universal language.  I even saw primary school children, the next generation of Asalato champions, weaving through the swarm of big people, never ceasing to shake their spinning instruments as they hopped along to the DJ’s music.  Virtuosos were giving them tips, sneaking in quick lessons over the pulsing tunes before the kids’ attention spans waned.  The crowd’s introverts closed their eyes, but their hands fearlessly played along.  I marveled at the vast array of varying identities brought together by this unique instrument.  Without realizing it, I’d infiltrated a secret club!  

Of course, I bought myself an Asalato set at the merch booth before leaving.  The purchase was my initiation into the underground society I’d stumbled upon.  I left the event energized and inspired to master my new ingenious toy, knowing that I’ll always have this community to take refuge in.  

October 6th, 2024

Namba, Osaka, Japan

Moss is Beti’s muse.  As such, she’s spent most of her time in Japan on a bryophyte pilgrimage, visiting temples across the country famous for their fuzzy greenery.  The impassioned words that she spoke about her reverence for these low-profile plants as we sat across the table from each other at a cafe in Osaka’s Namba district, matched with unbroken eye contact that verified her honesty, tickled my sensory organs with a soft yet vibrant texture reminiscent of moss itself.  

Evidently, honoring nature is a pillar of her artistic identity.  As heavy rains poured outside our cafe’s sliding glass door, I leaned closer, listening to Beti speak about the miniature floating islands that she once constructed using garbage she scavenged from her friends’ dumpsters.  Each island, a personal portrait of fashionably-reappropriated waste materials, became a gift to the friend that supplied its construction elements.  The thoughtful project struck me as a gracefully simultaneous expression of platonic love — seeing a friend’s beauty even in their trash — and ecological futurism — imagining landfill as an integral aspect of nature’s complexity.  

Back home in Slovenia, Beti has attracted a sangha of like-minded artistic collaborators.  Here in Japan, she’s foraging for fruits of inspiration to bring back as fuel for their next creative project, entitled, “Do You Speak The Language of Flowers?”  

Between sips from my teacup, I asked her, “Have you found all the inspiration you were looking for?  Or is there something else on your Japan bucket list that still needs crossing off?”

Shyly, she admitted, “There is one thing… Have you heard of Japanese host clubs?”

“No,” I confessed, “What’s that?”

“Well, they’re these bars that some Japanese women go to… Basically, you pay to sit at a table with a cute guy, you buy him drinks, and he listens to you talk, he gives you attention, you know?  But the guys who work there dress like literal anime characters!  It’s all very fantastical and idealist, not very rooted in reality.  Anyway, a lot of girls get deeply addicted to host clubs and end up owing a lot of money to these bars… Some even rack up so much debt that they just end up disappearing.  It’s really creepy, a bit parasocial, but definitely fascinating!  I’m honestly not sure if I even want to go or not.  I’m a bit freaked out by it.  But I’ve gone down deep internet rabbit holes exploring the topic and I’m curious to see, in real life, what it’s all about!”

Of course, I had a million questions.  How much money must these guys have?  How can they knowingly manipulate women into debt and keep showing up to work nevertheless?  Why do they dress up so dramatically?  Why do girls even go there in the first place?  Is the dating scene really that atrocious?  Why don’t we see host clubs, unapologetically out in the open, anywhere else in the world? 

By the time we’d paid our bill and emerged from the cafe, trudging in the intermittent rain of a misty evening twilight, I was still asking questions.  Most, being broad meditations on sociology rather than specific comprehension clarifications, were a mystery to us both.  Despite the eerie darkness engulfing host bars, Beti and I couldn’t stop chuckling as we pontificated on their absurdity.  Although we’re both twenty-two, it felt like we were toddlers loose on a giggly rampage, scurrying Osaka’s streets as mischievous fugitives escaping from straightedge adult society.  The bundle of raw carrots that we gnawed on while pounding down rain-slicked sidewalks certainly didn’t help.  Only the god of whimsical playtime was above us.  

We sought refuge from judgmental eyes at Tennoji Park, a forested sanctuary on the outskirts of town.  Relentless rain shined our twinkling skin as we crossed the garden’s red Guzai bridge.  Koi carp were joyfully jumping out from the lake below us, so we stopped in the middle of the ornamental overpass to watch their celebration, leaning over the crimson railing to bring the rain-rippled water — and the fish disturbing it further — fully into view.   Devising our own rain dance, we shook my asalato beads above our heads, made wishes upon the carrot stems we chucked into the lake, and wobblingly held yoga postures while the slippery tiles we stood on threatened our balance.  

When I struck a Virabhadrasana Three pose, turning my body into a capital T, Beti chuckled, “I love how you just contort your body like that in the middle of our conversation.  How do you get the confidence to move like that while you’re talking to people?”

“Is it confidence?”  I smiled as I came back upright.  “I think it might just be a tic!”  

At that moment, Beti took off her black wool sweater to reveal a Yoshitomo Nara graphic tee she’d been wearing all day.  Its print was a drawing of Nara’s iconic Ramona character furiously strumming guitar strings.  My eyes lit up.  I lifted up my shirt to reveal the twin Ramona tattoos on my belly.  It was no coincidence.  God was winking at us.  We’d both become effortless embodiments of our beloved Japanese painter’s adolescent subject, in all her angsty optimism, creative tenacity, and nonchalant peace. 

Love,

Etai