SUN 18 JUL 99

Where’s the Kobe Beef?

Sleep in until 9:00.

Maurice & Lynn are presumably at the Himeji Castle. I lounge around, write, read and run a quick errand. At 11:00 Maurice calls, “Can we meet at around 11:00”.

“OK.” Hmm… His voice sounds too clear to be calling from any distance. Sure enough, they slept in too.

“We’ll be down to leave our bags.”

“OK. Don’t you want to see if you can have your flights changed before packing and hauling the stuff around?”

“No, it’s easier this way.”

“OK.”

It’s 1:00 and the doorbell is ringing. Lynn comes in with some bags, goes back out, and comes back in with some more. “Maurice is downstairs trying to make arrangements for the flight.”

OK. And he’s doing the important stuff while Lynn plays packhorse. How does he do it? So we go down to the Hotel’s business center and hang while the hotel staff try to make arrangements with the airlines (no luck) and the Hilton in Tokyo (much luck).

It’s 2:00 and it’s off to Kobe.

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We take the JR to Sannomiya go south a block and start hoofing it west along the Sannomiya shopping street. This street and the next one we are heading to are covered with high vaulted arcades. The impression is one of moving down the central aisle of an enormous linear cathedral. Teeming throngs of worshippers stream to and fro, not knowing if the altar is before or behind them. They are in search of their souls’ place of perfection. The shops along the way enlighten them and provide tantalizing hints of the glories to come.

At Sannomiya’s end we drop down to the Motomachi arcade, then take the first alley to the south. A short block later we wind up at the east end of Chinatown. Maurice and Lynn have spent over a month traipsing about China, and tell me that this is almost like China, unlike America’s Chinatowns. They say “The only thing missing is all of the people constantly retching and spitting from all of the coal soot in the air.”

OK. Where’s the travel agent? I’m almost gone. Yeah.

We follow the street west for several blocks picking up street food here and there along the line. Beware of the fake steam coming up from some of the bamboo steamers that are set out. It’s more like fog than anything hot. The tell-tale is that it comes up in one spot of the steamer only.

Most people are trying to cool off with bowls of what looks like flan floating in water. It turns out to be almond jelly in fruit syrup. I try some kind of a deep-fried pastry. It sure could use some powdered sugar and some mariachis strolling along the street. Maurice has something that looks like a spinach and pork soft taco. If this is authentic Chinese cuisine, than the genealogists have to accept the theory that Mexicans crossed the Bering Straits during the winter and headed south to settle in China. Viva La Raza!

Up one of the alleys to the north, an erect buxom pig in a pink dress smiles and attracts passersby to enter the souvenir shop beside her. I can’t resist. I buy a little jade horse, probably made from a genuine imitation of fake Beijing plastic.

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We jog back up to Motomachi and continue west. The throngs have thinned out even though the canopy still defines a monumental space. A crew of “charity workers” have dragged out a half-dozen of their wards in wheelchairs. The tragic part is that the ailing and/or handicapped individuals are genuinely in need of help. Unfortunately, the “workers” use them only as a means of getting money for themselves.

As the pitiful cries recede, more and more exclusive shops line the arcade. They deal in antique furniture, antique books and prints, artwork, European clothing and custom tailoring. There is even your friendly local Samurai shop where you can get armor, swords, and all of the hardware needed for going into ancient battle. That oughta’ get you on the diamond lane.

It is approaching 4:00 PM, and all that Maurice has been asking is “Where’s the Harbor Circus”?

Oh, it’s just up ahead, I say. And then we walk another league or so along the Motomachi. Because it curves to the south, the end is not in sight. Finally we are out. In front of us is a small plaza with an arc of glass panes. They are about two meters wide and high. The eight or so panes are separated by mullions as they follow the arc. Within them is water that is swirled by rising jets of water and air bubbles. At a distance it appears like upside down snow, but in waves.

We stop to examine the fractal patterns formed by the spiraling bubbles. “Where’s the Harbor Circus?”

OK, OK.

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We keep walking two blocks west and one south. It has been drizzling since we got off the train. But, since almost the entire walk has been under arcades, this has not presented a problem—until now.

We approach a bus terminal. There are stairs leading down to parking levels below the adjacent office building. On a hunch, I suggest that we head down. The first basement is a dud, a dead-end. So we head down to the second. Success! It connects to the subterranean arcade that heads south only to terminate under the Harbor Circus some three blocks further.

We head up the escalators to the ground floor where the reason for coming here reveals itself. Staring us in the face is the merchandising shop of the Hard Rock. All these years of hard work and sacrifice, of discipline and love, of Oy-veh and Oh, yeah!—and this is what I get. Despite making a good living playing classics on his cello, he’s a Gee-tar Pin Pervert, a cloisonné Stratocaster collector. My son, my son, why hast thou abandoned me?

Ah, well, I count my blessings. The rebellion is material, not spiritual. He’s OK.

We stop to use the second floor facilities on the west side of the Circus. There’s a retailer of nicely designed contemporary furniture for those on a less than extravagant budget. I believe the name is Bo European Furniture. Next to it is a small kiosk selling Caribbean arts and crafts.

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We go across the second floor bridge on the east side over to the Water Gardens complex. As we swing around the corner, we make a mandatory stop at a little bakery window. All that they make are ever so lightly glazed mini-croissants served direct from the oven. They go down in two mouth-watering buttery bites, tops. Incredible.

We first ran across these delicacies in the Daimaru department store next to JR’s Umeda station. As you leave the central exit, descend down the stairs and continue heading south. When you are alongside the Daimaru, enter the west side of the store on your right. The melodious mini-croissants will serenade you like a refrain from Tommy: “Touch me, feel me, eat me”. And you must. And you will.

We munch and gulp on our way down the escalators to the ground floor and continue heading east. Right in front of us is a ball-and-rail contraption about eight feet to the side and some twenty feet high. It uses the striped and solid balls from a pool table to go through Rube Goldberg-esque manipulations. The contraption produces bongs, gongs, rattles, and clangs—all of which enliven the west end of this mall. I stop and reflect that one of these days Shim just might see this before the one at Back to the Future is built.

The Water Gardens is yet another multi-storied shopping mall in this string of public places called Harborland. It centers on a very linear and very vertical space topped out with a running gable of glass. When we get to the east end, we ride up an escalator that has two “landings” along it—because it can. Maurice, who loves roller coasters and simulator rides, becomes visibly nauseous by the time he gets to the top. Go figure.

We continue across yet another bridge to the east to enter the Mosaic complex. This is kind of like a Ports-o-Call outdoor boardwalk that has two stories. Except for one area that is open to the port, the rest of the complex it turned entirely inwards. The restaurants that do flank the courtyard that is open to the port have operable doors across their entire fronts. Unfortunately, they are never opened.

We get ice creams from a shop near the entrance. The flavors range from some of the standards, to uniquely oriental flavorings such as passion fruit, green tea, and some other unpronounceables. Perhaps there’s a Durian among them. I get a cup of what I first think is pineapple, but turns out to be loquat. The fruit forms a refreshing counterpoint for this hot and humid day. I really appreciate napkins as the ice cream rapidly melts and drips down my fingers in the heat. Too bad we didn’t get any. And I forgot to bring my Hilton washcloth.

We look out at the harbor. An excursion boat is in the process of boarding its passengers. There must be several hundred making their way in and up to the three levels inside. We imagine that it will be a dinner cruise out in Osaka Bay. We imagine what it would be like to be on board. We dream of the smell of the ocean spray, the hiss of the surf against the hull, the kiss of the breezes as the ship plows through the water’s surface. And then we see that there are no publicly accessible decks or outdoor areas, and that the windows are all fixed glazing. It’s like inverting the concept of an aquarium—the tank is for the observers while surrounded by the sea and the fish.

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We look for a place to eat. The Sizzler is out. We settle for Hafenburg. The last time I was here, this place was owned by one of the beer producers Kirin. Now it appears to be independent, although it features Sapporo beer. The entrance is through a passage with several turns and bends. Along the way is merchandise ranging from trinkets to antiques that would appear to come from the mid-east or from the steppes of Asia.

The major portion of the dining room is stretched out along the long band of windows overlooking the harbor. The bar backs up to the windows, and bar seating extends along the expanse of glass. The tables furthest from the windows are stepped up to provide excellent views for them as well. The décor suggests anywhere from Morocco to Mongolia. The music is definitely Persian.

The menu ranges from Mongolian, to Korean, to Japanese, to pizza. In the center of the table is a recessed electric grill for barbequing. Maurice and Lynn order two single sets, which wind up being cooked over a flame other than the one in the table. I have pasta with eggplant, tomato sauce, a bit of chili pepper, and a few small pieces of bacon. Everything is reasonably tasty, but it lacks in spectacle for a special occasion. Perhaps if we had ordered that meter of beer in a clear tube there would have been something more memorable, but the young ‘uns tend to drink very little.

Part of the problem is that although the entire menu is presented in pictures, they tend to be small. Compounded for us visiting turistas is that there is virtually no English on the menu. During the course of the meal, we wind up looking at what everybody else got. It looks like the getting can be quite good, if you know what to ask for and how to ask for it.

Yeah.