summer / travels

The days have followed a routine these past days, of early morning heat collecting more and more moisture that it returns at night with heavy rain, adding some noise and light in the mix. It's not just that this weather doesn't bother me. I love it, and I can guess how you'll respond--but it has nothing to do with a principle of appreciating imperfection. I tolerate the dry heat of California and dislike it when it hits the high 80s, but I love East Coast summers of the sort we've been having in July (not the steady cold gray rain of June), where the sun fries the days and we walk through dense air that cools with rain. Coming home to a stuffy non-air-conditioned house, I open all the windows and wait, and the water comes down so thick and loud that it's like being outside, hearing the slickness of the roads and the miscellaneous trees and railings interrupting the rain's course.

This is the first time I've been on the East Coast for summer since Cambridge in 2005. I have so, so many moments I hold so close from that summer, of being able to live through the night in summer clothing, of escaping to the river after the stillness of lying in front of the fan in my dorm room, of getting drenched in post-humidity rain. At the same time this summer takes me back to a places nearby, it reminds me of summers faraway. I've been so lucky to have been able to travel the last three summers, the past two in Asia where the humidity allowed me to slip into the foreign surroundings. I'll never forget the calm rain of Japan or those crazy amazing thunderstorms in Vietnam.

People say they love travel, and I would say that too except that I think it's more that I love places. I like transiting too, and the movement, and places may not quite be the same without all that, but mostly I think it's what place has meant to me, whether it's everyday corners or momentary visits. These summers have been Greece in love, Japan in transition, Southeast Asia in adventure, Vietnam in solitude and history, cross country in anticipation, Eastern Europe in relief. I never write cohesively as much as I'd like about these bulks of time, because as always I struggle between wanting to experience so that I may express and finding that experience takes from me the time that a slow one like me needs to write.

I did journal through a lot of it. In college, knowing that I wanted to go there one day, one of my roommates gave me a spiral journal clothed in a red Japanese print. When I went to Vietnam, my best friend from high school gave me a travel journal (it came with a protective plastic bag, perfect to shield from rain). It's funny how there are places you long for, that you still long for after you visit; then there are places you long for, that after you visit you don't imagine in the same way again. Japan preoccupied a part of me for some time, but is a place whose significance for me changed afterwards. My desire to go there developed from images, and now afterwards I can't conjure images the way I can for some places. But I do recall a lot of what I felt there--the struggles of that time period and that trip, understanding and learning (still) to value the tough nitty gritty of connections to my family and friends, the long train rides, how much I appreciated really living with myself.

From that journal more than two years ago, a day in Nara--

So many of the temples, statues and buildings here were destroyed in some way (burned, earthquake, conquered), and then rebuilt. On the train back to Kyoto--walked a great deal today, as the sights in Nara Park are very spread out. A deer bit my shorts and ate my map. The people here are very proud of this ancient capital--Japan's first permanent one, though it was only capital for 74 years, before it was moved to Kyoto for 1000. That endears me to this city, to which the Japanese are so connected to, despite its short life as capital. I like the idea that something like that persists in communal memory. The largest bronze Buddha is in Nara, and I liked the temple it was enclosed in very much--the largest wooden structure (and the original was even bigger). The building had been burnt twice and an earthquake knocked the head off the Buddha and melted it. Yet these were restored and the Japanese are all over the place as a tie to the past. I respect that kind of respect for history and conceptual entities.

It was fairly late after I left the temple and it was a far walk to the last sight I wanted to see, Kasuga Shrine. By the time I got there it was closed but I hadn't planned on seeing the inside anyway. It turned out to be the best part of Nara.

It's tucked away in the woods and contains 3000 stone and bronze lanterns. They went on forever. It was pretty empty since it was early evening/late afternoon but the few wanderers around asked me if I wanted a photograph of myself. Even when people offer it's hard to accept but I appreciate the sentiment. For most of this I was very much alone, and I liked taking my time to walk around. The lanterns were beautiful--I can only imagine how other-worldly they'd be when lit. I'm not sure why they appealed to me so much. Thinking of it now, the simple idea of sources of light is appealing, but also that there's something so heavy and sturdy built to contain a bit of warmth and light--something fragile, really. Also something with a lot of power. Mostly I like the idea of holding and containing and protecting light. The idea that it's a delicate thing which requires defense and protection with bronze and stone. And there were so many.

I like old Japan a lot, even contrasted against all the modernity. It's a refuge, and perhaps will never again feel like the original, not a part of daily culture, but it stands as a backdrop.

Apparently from 768 to 1863, the Kasuga Shrine was torn down and rebuilt every twenty years, based on Shinto beliefs of purity. How funny that rebuilding is both a philosophy, deliberate; and an unplanned necessity.