My Travel

Tokyo, Here I Am

“You look like a hobo,” my sister said as I emerged from my cocoon of airline-provided blanket, pillow(s) and a sleeping mask with a glorious bedhead. We erupted in laughter at the rear of a very large plane, and I was temporarily blinded by bright sunlight when I yanked the illuminator shade up too quickly. Our breakfast was being served as we neared Tokyo.

Yes, it has been a while since I boarded a long-distance flight. Expecting to be very preoccupied with the duration of the journey from Frankfurt am Main to Japan’s capital (a first-time trip for me and my sibling, by the way), I was surprised by how quickly I settled in my temporary little nest, though I didn’t finish watching Me Before You. Instead I wrote and slept, or attempted to do the latter, and listened to the stewardesses gossiping behind us. When my sister said we had already covered half the distance, I actually worried about having time to finish the second meal and get enough sleep to stave off jet lag for as long as possible upon arrival.

Tokyo greeted us with fabulous, sunny weather and a wave of warmth rolling in from outside. No trace of the typhoons that had been rocking the city for the past few days and not a speck of rain to be seen. The immediate politeness of airport staff and especially the nodding and thanking (I don’t know what I did, but I’m happy if they’re happy) was one of the first things I noticed after disembarking. And I began to worry about seeming rude, with my usual smile, nod or greeting suddenly seeming noncommittal in comparison.

We got on the Airport Limousine bus to get to our hotel and once again I (we) received a bow after a polite poster reminder to fasten our seatbelts. Plenty of fresh-looking green trees caught our eye before we got to the city with its towering skycrapers, many roads, metro trains and cars, but somehow it all made a harmonious impression together and I have always found cityscapes fascinating. Bright logos, giant screens, ads, shops and cafes became more numerous as we neared the Shibuya district, and everything that I had thought, or not thought, about Tokyo began to slowly take shape.

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Finding our hotel did prove to be a bit of a challenge after all. We got halfway and were just puzzling over the directions on Google Maps, when a Japanese gentleman politely asked us if we needed help. Normally I don’t pull a Blanche Dubois and depend on the kindness of strangers, but in this case we trusted our guts and did indeed encounter the Japanese friendliness and willingness to help (clueless) foreigners. I hope that gentleman had a nice day. He also pointed out the 24-hour Maurietus Petit supermarket right near the hotel, and the very street we were searching for en route turned out to be a little gem, dotted with several inviting local eateries and red paper lanterns that lit up as soon as darkness settled.

Tokyo has so far not thrown me off my feet. It’s big, busy and always alive, based on my first impressions, but it also has a cosyness to it, nestled in its side streets full of unexpected discoveries and quintessentially local cafes tucked away so neatly amongst the hustle and bustle of Shibuya, where we are staying, that you have to look twice to pick them out. After a delicious lunch of rice, salad, soup and pork fillet simmering in a mouth-watering mixture of onion and scrambled egs in the Mark City Mall – a convenient stop before you fully get your bearings – we were ready to start taking on our slice of Tokyo. No pun intended.

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We also needed to stay awake until the evening. Yes, jet lag, if that’s you, it has been a while.

My guidebook allowed exactly that which I had been hoping to do – simply walk on and explore. We set off towards the famed Shibuya Crossing, drinking in the sheer multitude of everything around us – buildings, cafes, fast-food restaurants, mini-marts and supermarkets, electronics stores, shops, signs, Japanese letters, pictures, billboards, music, shop staff methodically calling out about promotions, schoolgirls giggling in twos and scrolling through their (very high-tech-looking) phones. The number of people passing through Shibuya’s streets was immediately impressive, especially when viewed from a higher vantage point. Multiple rivers of humans seemed to merge and then part, but it was neither chaotic nor uncoordinated. Not one single case of pushing or tripping, just an elegant, goal-oriented mass of locals going about their business.

On this first afternoon alone I have seen more gorgeous shoes on women’s feet than I could count and more imaginative outfits than I could recreate. Everyone is well-dressed, even those who seem to be wearing simply a T-Shirt and shorts, but if you look closely, the pockets on the shorts are cut in a shape resembling the human eye (an interesting impression should the pockets be positioned on the back of the shorts) and the shirt has an understated, but artsy statement hidden in its hem. So not only well-dressed, but individually dressed. The shopping frenzy in shops marked with the magic word Sale is apparent, but since we are literally big in Japan, we only look.

A quick pre-bedtime stop at the nearest Family Mart yielded this exciting loot. Clearly the fact that even sweets include green tea make them a healthy snack. Oyasuminasai.

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My Travel

Tales from a Loyal Foodie

One of the best parts about coming back to Lloret de Mar for years and years every summer was going to our favorite restaurant, Pizzeria Safari, which I have previously mentioned in this blog. Familiar, homey, welcoming, with excellent, wholesome food and Miguel the owner greeting us every time, it was a staple that made the whole vacation experience feel simply right.

You are, of course, prepared for possible changes, and then you are happy and secretly relieved when they don’t happen. How realistic is it to be able to come back to the same great eating place year after year? And so we wandered over to Safari on our first evening in Lloret, fresh off the bus and hungry…only to see differently set tables, a different menu and none of the familiar staff. The meal was good, but not the same, the service somewhat lackluster compared to what one had become accustomed to. My mind was already going through a rapid filmstrip of nostalgic memories and composing an inner goodbye. Things were going to be different this time, I thought. We would have to pick somewhere new to have lunch every day, which wasn’t too bad, this opportunity to check out what other places in Lloret were affordable and offered tasty food.

But, oh, the drama!

Then one of our party did the obvious and brilliant thing, asking one of the new waiters who was very nice to us during our next visit if he knew what the previous owner of Safari was doing now. We couldn’t believe our luck when we heard he had taken over a new restaurant situated right on Lloret’s main promenade. The evening’s quest was clear. After some googling we set off and lo and behold, there it was. Two areas covered with white tent tops right in the middle of the Passeig Verdaguer composed the Ristorante Pizzeria Milano. It was busy and looked inviting. With mounting excitement we checked the menu and everything was right again. All the dishes I remembered were there, and to top of this wonderful rediscovery, Miguel himself came around the corner and joyous greetings were exchanged. After 26 impressive years at the Pizzeria Safari he had expanded and moved to this location right in front of the beach, and the menu’s dessert and cocktail section had also grown, though as he assured us, the cook was still the same.

The next day, after my first bite of their delicious Seven Seas pizza, I knew that I once again wouldn’t budge from my restaurant choice over the remainder of the vacation. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

 

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My Travel

The Things We Carry with Us

The wave breaks against my legs as I step in to the water, splashing me past my knees. It feels cold, but I know that’s just a first impression, contrasting with the still warm evening sun on my shoulders. It’s the beach vacation in Lloret de Mar once again and my favourite cove seems to be giving its visitors a hug of sorts with the rocks encircling it on either side. But the waves seem faster and harder as they hurry towards the shore.

It’s funny how quickly memory transports us back to certain incidents in our lives, regardless of how much time has passed since. Something triggers the effect and it’s as real to you as it was then. And while you might need some pushing to confront whatever might have been holding you back, forcing yourself is not the same thing, nor is it a good idea.

The root of my quickened heartbeat in this case stretches back to an evening swim several years ago in the same sea, on a beach not far off. I wasn’t far from the shore and had of course turned my back to the open water behind me. The waves were pleasantly mellow and I would occasionally slope along with the water. I stopped swimming for a second to find the sandy bottom I was sure I could already reach with my toes, and in that moment a wave splashed my face. As I spluttered and blinked furiously to get the salt water out of my eyes, another one splashed me over the head from the side. Disoriented, I tried to scramble out of the water, only to be knocked down at the knees by another wave. Suddenly all I could hear was the repeated rush of the water as the waves broke. My parents grabbed my arms and helped me up.

Another wave splashes against my presently firmly sand-planted legs and I realize two things.

One, I haven’t gone for a proper swim whenever I saw slightly choppier waters on the Mediterranean in years. Two, I need to do it now. I just do. So I wade in, lean forward and start swimming in a quieter moment between waves, ignoring the first cold rush and warming up as my body keeps moving. The waves come and I see them, but I catch the right moment to raise myself along with the water, repeating to myself that I can swim. I make myself breathe calmly, and the sea seems to follow. I let myself occasionally bob like a cork and the waves just rock me along with them. The water is warmer now. When I turn around to swim back to shore, little movement is required and I’m being gently pushed back butt first.

In the shallows I once again plant my feet firmly on the bottom and take wider steps, finding my momentum to master the slight slope upwards from the water towards the shore.

Inhaling and exhaling for an extra few seconds I turn around to look at the most translucent shade of azure I ever saw in sea water, right between the wave crest and the foamy edge, gone almost before you can spot it. Whatever I had carried around with me these past years, I have given it back, and it dissolved, leaving a clear path among the waves.

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My Travel

Ondříkovice – a Weekend in the Czech Countryside

“A wedding, I love weddings!” says Jack Sparrow, and the same goes for me, though probably for different reasons than the ones he concluded his statement with. Seven hours on a Eurocity Express from Hamburg to Prague, and then I was picked up by one of the wonderful maids of honour to continue to the wedding location, Statek

I had mostly been to Prague before and it was exciting to see the landscape change to the stuff of those Czech fairytale films I remembered from my childhood. Hilly, green, lush – the busy highway eventually gave way to narrower country roads boardered by fields, grass and occasional forest. I was indeed in a village and we had to ask for directions despite the GPS. But time moved differently here. And when I stepped out of the car and breathed in, it was as if great buckets of something else entirely were being poured straight in to my lungs, making them expand. A city girl I am, through and through, and this air was immediately and completely different. “You don’t go to places like this often, do you?” one of my co-passengers remarked shrewdly.

Located on the edge of what is known in the Czech Republic as the Bohemian Paradise, Statek is a lovingly restored farmhose which combines comfort with features that help retain its original charm, like the wooden furniture and staircase. Flowers spill from windowsills and corners, and it’s all so idyllic I can’t quite believe it. It’s also very warm and summer is simply everywhere. Wide fields surround the property and a spacious courtyard makes for breakfast outside in good weather.

The sounds from the cosily creaking staircase in the lobby mingle with the excited voices of guests running to and fro between rooms as they prepare for the wedding. I step outside on the wooden balcony spanning the second floor and run my hand carefully along the railing, watching stripes of sunlight settle on it. It feels like a happy house.

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My Travel

Disneyland Paris as an Adult, Day 2

I discover that I’m hearing Disney film music buzzing in my ears even when none is playing nearby, or even screams from the more extreme rides in the park.

We make good use of our early access tickets and tick a few more stops at Park Disneyland before proceeding to Walt Disney Studios. We journey along with Pinocchio until he becomes a real boy, with the presence of BABIES reassuring me that this is not a secret breakneck speed type rollercoaster, and we make it out of Snow White’s forest alive – considering most of Disney’s animated features are aimed at children, they sure contain some scary stuff (which I said to avoid using another word). Another mark of the enduring power of these creations if you can still acknowledge that as an adult.

The Pixar short film festival plays throughout the day at the Discoveryland Theater also in Park Disneyland – a very recommendable stop. 4D glasses add to the excitement, as well as some convincing effects. For the Birds was my favourite, points out of ten for moral elements and humour, plus of course anyone who has ever been bullied or felt like they needed to defend their individuality will identify with the story. And something else – this cartoon reminds us that karma sees everything.

At Walt Disney Studios we sit down in another theater and lose ourselves in a multilingual montage of Disney’s animated classics (with particular emphasis on those with French origins or set in France). I am, quite simply and humbly, reminded of what makes Disney Disney. As my sibling points out, we haven’t seen Mufasa die on the big screen since 1994, and I’m just as banged up about it as ever. Scenes of Bambi crying for his mother do not help.

Riding some (almost) magic carpets on an Aladdin-themed carousel afterwards brings a pleasant surprise, I can look down and around me, see it all, “…shining, shimmering, splendid.”

Yes, I was just singing that at the top of my voice. If not here, then where else?

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