This soba making class, sponsored by the non-for profit organisation ‘Study Peers’, will be held on the 20 December 2009. This is the second soba making event this year with one occurring on the 28 November 2009. From all reports – from friends who attended the class – the day was great fun and proved an excellent insight in to traditional Japanese cooking.

Soba is a noodle made from buckwheat flour and is a popular dish in japan. Because of its strong flavour it is predominantly served cold with minimal accompaniments. For more information on Soba check out the wikipedia entry here.

Date: 20 December 2009

Time: 9am ~ 12pm

Fee: 500 yen

Things to bring: Apron, towel and pencils

Instructor: Mr Ikuo Moriyama (Edo Sobalier)

Assistant: Phil Yocham

Deadline for reservation will be one week prior to event.

NOTE: participant numbers are limited to 10 so get in quick.

Reservation: To make a reservation contact English Study Peers (ESP) on 055-963-2582

The Ride

Whooshing gusts threaten to knock us from our bikes. Even the seagulls seek shelter from the weather in the Kano River. What a ridiculous notion it is to go on a riding adventure on such a windy day. However, it is not unusual for me to have ridiculous notions and then, perhaps more ridiculously, carry them out regardless of the weather.

The goal of this particular adventure was to ride with my wife from Numazu City following the Kano River about 10km until it met up with the Izu Hakone line at Nirayama Station. Then we would take the next 5 stations to Shuzenji for lunch and a wander around this pretty little town before back tracking our train journey and then taking a short cut ride back via the Shimoda Highway. Sort of…

Numazu’s stylish stepped river embankment disappears behind us as we make our journey from the walking bridge. My wife and I have ridden this first kilometer or so of the river a dozen times, but it isn’t until now, with my adventure eyes on, that I realize the sheer number of bridges that cross this river. Just in this short stretch alone there are four bridges behind me and two in front. The last bridges large arch peeks around the corner like a rainbow tempting us to the pot of gold.

We journey on. Following the river we wind our way around Mount Kanuki, the beginning of the Numazu Alps. Once we reach the pot of gold we are ejected from the safety of the footpath and onto the busy road for about 600 meters or so. Being Japan, riding on the road is not such a frightening predicament, with drivers ever observant and as respectful of the rider as much as we are of their vehicles.

I sneak down a side road into some suburban streets with my wife trailing. We have been down this way before some years past and could not find a way around the knob of hill that rolls into river. However, this time I have done my homework and Google Maps tells me there is a footpath that can take us around this hill. Secretly I am hoping my wife will tell me that we can not get around the hill so I can quietly boast of my discovery. She does not fail. There is a small path that takes us past an equally small plot of vegetable garden. When first we were here we thought that this might be someone’s house and my wife reminds me of this. This was why we missed this path the first time. We ride down onto the path, my wife skeptical. I am not so sure either but onwards we go and my fear of riding up to some strangers front door is alleviated by a large cemetery resting midway on the hill and path ahead leading up through a darkened coppice of vine and bushes.

Down and out of the coppice and I am met by the sight of the river ahead. On the far bank creamy brown tall grass with its bushels glowing amber in the bright sun roll like flag in the wind. I spy all this through the leafless branches in front of me. They make out a living jigsaw puzzle of the river’s scenery.

A little further, along our path is blocked again; this time by a river. This will happen a few more times along our journey. It seems that this pathway is still under construct. Signs at regular intervals inform us of our distance from the mouth of the river but occasionally the path stops dead waiting for someone to extend it.

Another brief detour off the bank and into the suburbs and then we are again back on the river bank path. I miss the entry path up the bank and turn to see my wife making her way up and waving smugly; just desserts for my earlier gloating. I follow her onto the path and as soon as I breach the top I am almost blown off my bike by the wind. To my left down the bank is a team of teenage baseball player practicing, the hollow ting of their aluminum bat hitting baseballs reminds me of bullfrogs croaking by a stream.

Further along this path we spy scatterings of people play some sort of strange game. My wife posits croquet as an explanation. However, once we ride a little closer we notice that they are playing a type of mini golf. Not the mini golf I would first imagine with the fake lawn, impossible angles and possibly a peeling cracked fiberglass bear through whose legs I must putt the ball. Rather, this game was being played on a miniature 18 hole golf course, its lawns appropriately graded and its tiny greens manicured well. What made my wife predict croquet was the player’s use of large clubs and balls the size of baseballs. As we ride we watch gaggles of elderly players happily play their mini golf along the bank, but just as this 18 hole course leaves us we are again me with a dead end and another hilly thicket.


Recovering from our brief detour onto the busy road, we reach the bank to this time see tiny farming lots down in the bank by the river. We pass late autumn harvests such as cabbage, broccoli and lettuce. This is interrupted midway by a small grove of persimmons, their orange fruit hang in contrast to the dark branches and dying leaves. It is almost a morbid sight, though beautifully so.

Perhaps this sets the mood for this section of the river. We meet another dead end. There is a darkly shaded path to my left leading into another thicket. The way is covered by a few logs. This generally would not deter me and the dirt track looks interesting. I propose to my wife that this path may join to the proper path. She looks at me, looks down at her mama cherry grandma bike, and looks back at me with patient incredulity. I apologize.

Instead I ride down the bank and onto a street while my wife takes some photos. I stop on the corner of a small farm to pee on their tomatoes. I read in a science magazine once that tomatoes thrive with a little bit of pee fertilizer. Luckily for me and the farmer I needed to go. Temporarily distracted by relief, it was some moments until I noticed that I was being watched. Turning my head to the right, I am confronted with the balding pates of four children’s heads, staked at intervals along the garden. Their pale plastic cheeks weather bleached and their vacant blue eyes scanning the garden unappreciative of my efforts to cultivate their tomatoes. A morbid stretch indeed.

Now we must negotiate a small breach between two rocky hills. This is made all the more challenging by vehicles cueing at either end, haphazardly attempting – in a very endearing, courteous Japanese way – to allow each other through the gap. It is the traditional bowing ritual artistically interpreted by cars. Add to this, bouts of driver apprehension and indecisiveness and you have the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the situation and scoot around cars and through the gap and cycle on with ease.

We meet the path along the bank again and enjoy the scenery along the river between threatening gusts of wind. There are so many birds along this section of the river. I notice a kite lazily glide in the wind as a brace of ducks fly further down stream. A murder of crows fight the wind to reach their perch before I run my vocabulary dry of collective nouns.

A once cherry red, now a lipstick chalky pink bridge appears and we cross the river. My wife stops to take a photo of the river, it’s waters rambling over rocks and emanating from the mountains in the distance. Perhaps a sister brace of ducks – surely not the same ones I enjoyed watching fly earlier- fly over the bridge. Just as I think that this would make a great photo for my wife I feel a few drops of liquid hit my ear and head. Instinctively I touch the wet spots and look at my hand; clean but wet. I choose to ignore the origin of the drops and continue on across the river.

My wife is getting tired so I suggest we stop for morning tea. We park our bikes on top of the bank by some steps that provide a little shelter from the wind. The view is not a spectacular of nature, but the backyard of a row of houses. In front of us is a brand new two story place with fake brick walls and safely two meters above the flood line post. Divided by a small stream is a rust darkened tin hovel 30cm above the flood line with every inch of the land covered in vegetable patch. We chat about these common residential contrasts we see in Japan hypothesizing on their nature, while we sip our tea.

Refreshed, though my wife in need of a toilet break, and no tomato bush in sight, we stop at a convenience store. I leave my wife to her business while I scout ahead for the nearest train station. I find the station easily and return to the convenience store just as my wife is exiting. Leading her to my find, I proudly point out the numerous strawberry picking signs I discovered on my earlier reconnaissance. I am suddenly self-conscious, I am like a cat showing off its kill to its owner while purring with self satisfaction. Not surprisingly, my wife responds in kind as a proud cat’s owner seeing the dead finch at its front doorstep.

We ride on a little way and another role play begins. This time, my navigation is challenged once more. My wife had asked the convenience store attendant for directions earlier and apparently our route was contrary to those directions. I bristle at this wifely comment, and with bruised manliness and compensated puffed out chest I confidently reassure her of my navigation ability. With the cliché complete, I direct us straight to the station, chest swelling the closer we get; though my wife chooses not to notice.

To our right is a handsome modern library. This is one of the few modern pieces of government architecture that has not followed the modern era’s prefab cement wall credo. Instead the burnish brickwork and angular design of the building is set amidst small lush gardens in order to break up the lines. Families wander through the gardens to various entrances.

We notice a map in front of the library that suggests Shuzenji is only a few stations away. I keep silent but recall that the Google Map I checked before leaving suggested a few more stations. I also keep silent because the map has encouraged my wife to ride the rest of the way. We will deal with the truth when it is discovered.

Onwards we ride beside the unfenced rail line. On either side of the tracks are plots of farmland some bearing late harvest greens while others are bare corrugated mounds of dark volcanic soil. On my right, large Roma Tomatoes maturing on the vine can be seen through clear plastic domes; no doubt spared the natural fertilizer I gave their cousin earlier.

The path along the track ends and I turn right towards the river again. I am confused by a large tributary temporarily thinking it is the main Kano River. To be safe I emerge onto the Shimoda Highway and follow it until we reach the town of Izuagaoka and meet up again with the Kano River. To be honest on such a clear day it is impossible to get lost with the fluffy white top of Mount Fuji at our back and the arrow pointed valley at our front.

We make an attempt to ride up to the river bank path with my wife in the lead. The chilly wind almost blows her back down. She has had enough. I am proud of her. This is the longest distance she has ever ridden, and on a mama cherry to boot.

Back tracking a little way to Izuagaoka Station, we park our bikes. After a quick toilet break, I return to find my beautiful wife buying some local craft beers. I love my wife. We hop on the train, take a seat and enjoy our beers as the train runs along the tracks that dance with the river. The valley we have been traveling into begins to rapidly close in and become steeper. Only four stations later we arrive in Shuzenji.

Shuzenji

Shuzenji Station is not the town. Until this trip this was something we were disappointingly ignorant about. The sight from the station is like any other town in Japan. Bleak, dirty gray multi-storied buildings filled with restaurants, cafes, snack bars and offices bear down on the station courtyard. We waste little time here and head for the bridge across the river and the older, prettier part of Shuzenji.

Two things strike our interest just before the bridge. The first is a baker’s rack filled with drying freshwater fish, their fins shining bright yellow in the sun. My wife takes a photo before the smell sneaks upon us. The second point of interest is a strange stuffed mammal of anonymous origin wearing a miniature farmers hat with a sake bottle in one hand and the other hand is extended in some spooky carnival welcome. Its weathered pelt and apologetic eyes makes a mockery of the whole scene.


We carry on. The hike to the old part of town is longer than expected, but this gives our knees a chance to un-kink from our ride. Again we are following the Shimoda Highway. We follow the road around a corner and up a slope that parallels the Katsura River, a tributary of the Kano River.

The first sign of town is the classic modern day century post, the convenience store. Beyond this a town emerges with age blackened wooden buildings tenaciously clinging to the banks of the river as though the surrounding mountains threaten to nudge them into the icy flow below. This balancing act is an attraction in itself, and intentionally so. It seems that this town has managed to balance its natural and historical beauty with its need for tourist income. Many of the buildings such as guest houses, restaurant and souvenir shops have been built in the traditional style of the area with dark wooden features white walls and black tiled roofs. When there is a new building, in most cases, it has be built with complimentary taste, rather than some hurried fabrication slapped into place by a greedy careless developer.


The river rushes by us as we continue on. We occasionally stop to take pictures of the river and pretty little bridges that cross it. The early autumn leaves and red parapet bridges pair to contrast with the frothy while and topaz blue of the water making its way down stream.

We finally reach our goal; a foot onsen set in the middle of the river called the Tokko no Yu. This is a relatively recent renovation for the Town and the timbers are still fresh and light in colour. The onsen was based around the original hot spring that was formed, legend has it, by a monk who whacked his club against a rock and hot water came out. I don’t know about you, but I think the geological answer would have been far more fascinating.

We wander down a deck and cross a bridge, our shoes clopping on the wood as we go. This onsen was built upon a man made island of river boulders and cement, creating an attracting natural looking pool . Underneath the pagoda people sit around the hot spring feet dangling in the steamy water as the river churns past on either side.


After a quick lunch in a café nearby, we make our way to Shuzenji Temple. This Buddhist temple founded in the early Heian Period is entered by a stairway lined with yellow flowers. Your eyes are draw to the top of the stairs where the white walls support the main gate. Maple leaves blaze over the walls, their oranges and reds shifting in the wind like raging flames. Passing the gate I note to my left a massive bell set upon a stone wall and a backdrop of bamboo standing like dozens of tuning forks ready to sing to the bells melody.



There are people praying and throwing money into a box at the base of the main temple building. I don’t pray; it’s against my common sense, though I throw a little money into the box as token thanks for the beauty of the well kept grounds.

My favorite part of these temple buildings rest at the base of the roof and below the gables. Intricate wooden carvings depict picture of animals and tell stories of myth. On this temple, there is a dragon, forelegs curled up as if springing from one of the pillars as a crane flies by along a crossbeam. All of this is so intricately carved that I am awed, wonder over the time it would take to make such pieces.

From the main temple and to my right is a boulder with a large carving of a stone face grumbling out to any who would see. Perhaps it is disturbed by my lack of faith. I leave the stone simmering and head out of the temple grounds.

My wife and I cross the river at the Katsura Bridge and make our way to the Chikurin no Komichi. This beautiful little path wanders along the river. On either side of the path rises a bamboo forest that bows over the walkway like a cathedral arch. The bamboo leaves are rustling in the wind, ticking away like thousands of tiny clocks. Through this forest I glimpse the red parapets of a bridge and the motion of the water below it. We reach the bridge and admire the reddening maple leaves hanging over the river. I try to take a photo of the leaves by my camera looses focus with the flowing water below making the shot impossible for my little camera.



Standing on this bridge, elbows leaning on the parapet, I enjoy the scenery. My mind wanders over our day’s adventure, from our ride along the river to our meanderings through Shuzenji. I am distracted from my ruminations by my wife informing me that I have clumsily positioned myself between a photographer and her family. The family stood patiently the whole time while I ignorantly lounged around bridge. My cheeks redden like autumn as my wife takes my hand and leads me off the bridge.

We have run out of time for today, but there is much more to explore here. We take the bus back to the station, and then from Shuzenji station by train back to our bikes. I take us along the Shimoda Highway back through Mishima as a shortcut. The wind is not so bad along this way and we make good time home.

What started as a ridiculous notion turned into a success, regardless of the wind. We had followed two rivers and watched them change and influence their surrounds, the accumulation of which was Shuzenji, with its stilted building paying homage to the waters below. We were wind blown and tired but sometimes it’s the adversity of an adventure that contributes to the fondness of memories as well.

Hey gang sorry for the late post but I had a little trouble with Youtube and Mpeg2. Here is a little taster for tomorrow. Please enjoy and sorry for the sung intro in advance. Sorry I can’t quite work out how to run YouTube as a consecutive playlist on WordPress so please watch these in order until I do.

Well, it is that time again for dancers from far and wide to travel to Numazu for the traditional Yosakoi dance competition. The streets of Numazu, Shizuoka will be filled with dancers competing for the title of best Yosakoi performance.

Yosakoi is a traditional set of dance steps generally carried out in unison by a large group. However, these dances sequences are only a starting point for each dancing teams chorography and ultimately performances can vary greatly. Be sure to check out the college and highschool performances because their divergences are often the most creative.

The dancers’ costume grounds itself in various traditional festival garb of Japan and then deviates to many modern colourful extremes.

This festival is not one to miss.

Yosakoi! Yosakoi! Sore sore sore sore!

In Japanese culture a person’s identity can be traditionally referred to in two forms; Honne, inner truth, and Tatemae, outer display. This can often be frustrating for a foreigner with a western upbringing that encourages the physical display of your true inner emotions. Conversly, a Japanese person may have inner desires and feelings about a person or subject but will display an air of indifference if they feel that their desires and feeling are not socially accepted. But occasionally when trust has developed in a relationship with a Japanese person you are can be honored with a glimpse of Honne.

In Japan, as in the West, restaurants, cafes and bars are a medium for expression; a place where the diner can explore a slice of the inner mind of the proprietor, honne. It seems to me, that in Japan restaurants shyly protect their honne from the outer world in the same way the people do. Allow me to explain; most restaurants in Japan show very little of them selves to the outside world of the bustling street. More often than not the outside, tatemae, of their establishments are very sober in appearance and give away little of what is truly inside. Once entering a restaurant I am often surprised by the level of detail and personality in both the food and decor. To me this is a great bearing of the soul as if as a reward for taking that inquisitive step beyond the outer walls and into the hear of the place. It’s all or nothing.

To carry the metaphor further, restaurants, cafes and bars in Japan rarely position themselves with little thought for the view from the windows of their establishment, often preferring to black out the windows on busy streets to prevent the casual pedestrian from peering into the inner truth of the establishment.

However, like some Japanese people, there are exceptions to the rule. Quite often when honne merges into the open display of tatemae something quite extraordinary can emerge. Riviere – Lounge and Bar in the Tokyu Hotel on Numazu’s south side is one of these beautiful and inspiring exceptions to the rule.

Riviere is a display of 20 century decadence, and it is on show to the world. I approached Riviere from the high ceiling Hotel foyer, supported by elegant pillars. Potted stands of greenery make a bikini’s attempt at modest privacy. I stumble down the few steps to the sunken level of the lounge bar. On first entering all I can do is make the briefest glimpse at the lounge bar before being captivated by the lazy flow of the Kano River and luscious green peeks of the Numazu Alps just beyond the outskirts of town. The massive floor to ceiling bay windows expose the full length of Riviere to the world beyond and in turn the world beyond becomes part of Riviere and you.

A noble looking waiter, with black vest and elegant long black skirt, escorts me to a window seat. Piano sounds playing in a distant hall sooths my ears as I crumple into creamy couch chairs.  Chilled water, hand towel and a menu arrive with barely a notice. I feel exposed with my immediate proximity to the bay windows on my right and the occasional bobbing of heads from guests in the lobby above and to my left. However, this exposure is cathartic in its beauty and rewards you with an atmosphere of honesty and trust.

Drinks and food are not cheap, but nor would you expect them to be in such an establishment. With a cappuccino coming in at around 800yen, a trip to Riviere is a treat, a splurge for your senses.

I order a cappuccino and my wife orders a pot of Earl Grey tea.  We talk quietly as if we are in a library, sharing smiles and recounting old stories. It is as if the openness of Riviere compels you to recount your inner thoughts, your honne.

My chocolate dusted cappuccino arrives, a creamy foam bobs on top. One taste and I am content. I pour my wife’s tea. She adds her sugars and milk, stirs her cup and sips. I see that she has closed her eyes, her shoulders have visibly relaxed and a small moan of pleasure emanates from her. Perhaps for the tenth time we have been to Riviere she tells me this is the best tea she has ever had. I can smell the rich oil of bergamot in her tea. I steal a taste and am pleasantly surprised with the mild orange flavor; a testament of a good Earl Grey.

My wife and I chat for a little longer before two of our friends arrive. They barely see us, captivated as they are by the view beyond the windows. I smile at my wife. She returns a knowing smile. Our friends will be in for a treat and we will be fortunate enough to share it with them.

Locaton: From the south side of the station head directly south along the main road for about 500meters on your right you will see the Tokyu Hotel. Enter the foyer and head up the stairs it will be straight in front of you. For a map check out the link here

Stlye: Cafe and Lounge Bar

English menu: sure did

Picture menu: There are some pictures.

Gaijin friendly: Yes. The hotel is part of an international chain that often receives international guests. English, in varying levels, is spoken by staff.

Phone: 55 952 2411

Address: 100-1, Agetsuchi-cho, Numazu-shi, Shizuoka  410-0802

Link: Tokyu Hotel Numazu

Cost: Cost of a cup of tea came in at 750yen and a cappuccino was 850yen.

I know it’s a bit late for a shout out and this is a little away from the Numazu scene, but there is a big circus arts festival being held on the weekend of 31 October, and just so happens to be Halloween. It is a massive event with dozens of street performances running concurrently through the streets of Shizuoka.

The plan – This year our little community of expats in the Shizuoka area have decided to come as a Zombie horde. But we need your help to boost numbers and put our support behind the circus arts festival.

Fun and games start at 10am. All you need to do is come dressed as a zombie, or something else if that’s your day job, and wander the streets of Shizouka. We will be filming on the day so we can make a montage of the event and get it out there on Youtube. We will probably end up finishing things up by 3pm.

Daidogei circus arts perfomances are held everywhere on the north side of the Shizuoka station just grab a map from out side the station and have a rock good time.

I have also made a shout out to the Tokyo Improv Everywhere Groups to boost our numbers. Everyone is invited.

You can find out more information about Daidogei here:
www.daidogei.com/english/

I will see you there.

Cheers,

Yagisan Atode.

Hey studs and beauties, do you think you can make the earth move for your special someone? Well I am about to give you a chance to let your lover know you can. The best part is that your beloved Numazu will be you wingman or woman for this.

Here is how:

On Saturday the 29 August at 9:30am, an earthquake alarm will sound in Numazu as part of their annual earthquake preparedness drill. Now if you are the lover we have heard you are, you may well be able to time things just right…to inform your partner about what you need to do in case of an earthquake and how best to prepare for it.

There will also be an early warning for the drill that will be broadcasted over the city speakers at 6:50am just to get you in the mood.  And then at 8:30am there will be a warning that the actual earthquake is coming (pun not intended, then revised, self congratulated and fully intended).

After you two love birds have spend the rest of the morning in each others arms under the sheets reading the earth quake preparedness manual to each other, another alarm will sound at 12:00 that all has ended and it is time to make some breakfast before a romantic afternoon shopping for earthquake supplies. Your lover will be so impressed that they will be telling all their friends about you.

Well done you Lotharios and minxes. I knew you could do it!

Scott.

You can find out more about the drill here. And here is the link for the Earthquake Disaster Prevention Guidebook.

Oh and here is a little something to get you in the mood.

It’s festival season time again and the big event in July for Numazu is the Summer Festival (Natsu Matsuri). This massive event runs on the 25^th and  26^th of July. Festivals are generally seen as a socially accepted time for Japanese to let their hair down and cast their conservatism to the wind. The Numazu Summer Festival is no different in this regard.

Numazu’s south side comes alive with row after row and street after street of food and other festival stalls. Elaborate shrines shouldered by chanting locals wearing traditional garb and broad smiles. Just be careful not to look too enthusiastic or you might find yourself being drawn into help shoulder one of the shrines. Drums beat their tattoo up and down the street competing with dancing groups belting out songs and vendors selling their wares.

I also hear on good authority that many of our younger male foreigners like nothing more than to enjoy the sights of pretty women dressed in noble summer kimono’s (known as Yukatas), as they sip cool drinks from the comfort of a café.

Each night ends with a fireworks extravaganza along the crowded Kano River, where your free to walk under and around them to get the best view.

Check it out and catch a glimpse of the inner party animal inside every Japanese person and one of the biggest festivals in Numazu.

Directions: from the south side of the station wander aimlessly through the shoulder to should streets of stalls. If the stalls start to thin out turn around and head towards the music.

It is truly amazing what a friendly smile and a little bit of incense can do to alter your palette. I know that my taste buds were positively biased by the time I sat down at Magic India. No sooner had we walked into the second story Indian restaurant, in the middle of Numazu’s Nakamise, we were greeted by one of the cheery Indian cooks. The two other Indian cooks poked their heads out from the kitchen with another set of sincere smiles while the sweet perfume of Chandan incense and pungent spices from the kitchen curled their way into my nostrils. I was sold before I even sat down.

Our little group was seated by a window that afforded an excellent people watching spot of the Nakamise. The youngest of the cooks greeted us shyly in some words of English and waited patiently for our orders. I ordered the Chicken Masala with Naan bread dinner set for 980 yen (you can choose rice if you want too) and my wife ordered the smaller two curry dinner set, of mushroom and saag curry and butter chicken curry with Naan that set her back a mere 850yen.

As the rest of our group ordered it became evident that the cook’s level of Japanese was limited to restaurant lingo pleasantly interspersed with a few English words. For an expat like me with an equally limited grasp of Japanese, I felt quite at home and I wanted to make him feel as welcome serving us as he was making us feel. He was one of us.

Our meals arrived, trailing steamy vapors enriched with cinnamon and cardamom. Great wedge shaped Naan billowed over our plates as our table became obscured by food. Our conversations ceased, or were muffled, as we dove in.

I tore of a chunk of freshly baked naan and spooned curry onto it. The light, slightly chewy texture of the bread and the creamy curry made for a great combination. The curry was mild but full of flavour that was accentuated by fennel seed, its sourness subdued by the coconut milk.  The first bite of curry laden naan is the best. As you take your first chew through the bread you can feel and then taste the curry pour onto your tongue. The bread sustains the curry’s richness in your mouth longer for your pallet to interpret each nuance of spice. The tastes lingered in the mouth as kudos was dished out to our friend who suggested this eat.

Somewhere along the line one of our party suggested that the naan was so good that they had to order another. I was up for the challenge too and ordered a second naan. Although the cheese naan or the cheese and bacon option looked tempting I was thoroughly enjoy the simplicity of the original bread. This time round I asked one of the cooks if I could catch a glimpse of them baking it. They were more than happy to oblige.

Walking over to the open kitchen I noticed that the cooks were actually using a traditional Indian wood fired clay oven. No wonder the bread tasted so good.  One of the cooks was slapping away at a ball of dough until it made its traditional wedge shape before he palmed it onto the inside walls of the oven. Even before they put the lid back on the oven you could see air pockets starting to rise on the bread through the rippling heat emanating from the coals at the pit of the oven.

Was my opinion of my meal influenced and manipulated by warm smiles of the cooks, the burning incense and the clay oven? Of course it was. Though I imagine I would have had a great meal without these little sensory bonuses, I know that a meal is much more that what you consume. It is your attitude, the company, the aromas and the atmosphere that plays an equally important role in dinning. When the two come together, as they did for me at Magic India, you know you will be in for a treat.

Location: From the south exit of the Numazu Station follow the path right until you get to the entrance of the Nakamise. Head south down the Nakamise. Magic India is two blocks on your left.

Style: Indian

English menu: Some English on the menu.The rest is mostly in Katakana.

Picture menu: Yes some pictures for you to make your selection.

Gaijin Friendly: Sure is. Run and operated by real live Gaijin like you and me.

Phone: 055 962 8202

Hours: 11:00am-11pm

Cost: A dinner set will cost your between 850yen to 1000yen. Lunch comes in cheaper at between 700yen to 850yen. Most side orders start at 250yen.

Numazu’s Port Festival…what can I say…sometimes festivals begin to roll into one big blur of familiarity. The endless stalls of over priced snacks; the mobile shrines atop shoulders as they bounce down the street to the tin and drum of traditional musical instruments; this is the norm for festivals in Japan. I find that after some time this monotony either sends you off to a pub for a beer or sharpens your eye in order to find something new.

The Numazu Port Festival and Kaijinsai was bursting with the same old, same old. However it was also splitting at the seams with a little something else – Seafood. Well not in the sense that people perused stalls of rotting fish, swollen and ready to erupt their putrid juices. What I mean is that when you have a festival to celebrate fish and the folk who provide them then there is bound to be a little something different.

As I was thanking Mr Beret, my wife had already grabbed me by the arm and dragged me towards a craft stall. The idea of doing craft at a festival, or anywhere in public for that matter, used to send me into a cold sweat. I used to justify this with my indignation that these sorts of things were only for kids (kids who probably have their lunch money stolen from them at school). How demeaning and humiliating would it be for me to publicly show my ignorance with a bunch of kids who would no doubt upstage me at every step while we make something I don’t really want.

Meanwhile, my wife fearlessly jumps at these activities, elbowing children out of the way and launching herself at her task with delight and laughter. I timidly follow suit self conscious of the onlookers and my, often, short stature competition． However， I have learnt to go with it because most of the time these activities turn out to be fun. If it wasn’t for my wife I would not have dipped my toes back into my childhood and rediscovered these delights.

This time I was being taken towards some tables with a colourful array of seaweed, a blank post card and a small tub of water. According to our friendly Numazu Port Festival guide, we were about to embark on the not too ancient art of seaweed arranging. It was only the night before that I had watched an Anthony Bourdain No Reservations TV episode where he was in Japan and participating in the art of ikebana, Japanese flower arranging. I was primed and ready to make a masterpiece． I cut and carefully arranged different pieces of seaweed onto my postcard, imagining myself in Bourdain’s shoes, albeit a smellier and slimier Bourdain. When I had finished I looked around at my competition and I felt I could really kick all the other kids butts with my artistic endeavor. No only were they going to get their lunch money stolen but they were getting it handed to them in the craft stall too. Take that, small humans.

With a spring in my step I wandered through the stalls. Slow boiled salmon heads sat on their ends, their delicious cheek flesh tempting passers by. Octopus curled up and rusty red cresting boxes. Dried bonito was being shaved into smokey little flakes packed with flavour and waiting to be taken home and accompany a dish. Giant slabs of fresh tuna look ready to be sliced into and eaten raw off the bone. And then there was the Karaoke competition.

Right in the heart of fabulous seafood was a stage, atop which, was a man droning on while some other gentlemen decided if his was the best drone of the day. The karaoke competition didn’t make sense with the rest of the festival but that just made it all the more an amusing reprieve from the activities of the day.

A twin mast yacht was sailing into port with pirate flag flapping a challenge. Eager passengers were waiting by the dock to be swashbuckled by the silver bearded captain. Other displays were also taking place on the water in the port． One I did manage to glimpse was a sea rescue demonstration that was very efficient and realistic (well my Japanese is not good enough to confirm that this was just a demonstration, but there was a crowd of eager relaxed onlookers so I gather it was.)

In the new fish market sheds, my wife had found a new activity. This time the goal was to stick your hand through a hole in a wooden box and try and fish out as many mini sachets of bonito flakes as you can. From what I could see, old ladies had managed to grow an extra finger just to get another dozen sachets for their hundred yen. After my wife got her fist full of bonito she was already of to see how many fresh baby clams (we call them pippies) she could grab from the nearby stall. The problem of how we were going to get these home before they went bad was solved a little later with the thanks of the chef from the Fishmarket Taproom.

After watching the seal from the local marine centre finish it billionth lap of the day in its tiny portable wading pool, I managed to fight my way through the crowd gathered around the marine display.

Warning. What I am about to explain to you is going to be a little different to what we are used to in the West. If you have strong feelings about the animals of the sea and don’t thing you can get beyond this with an appreciation of cultural differences then it might be best for you to come back in on the next bold type.

The marine display was particularly amazing. Resting on a beach of icecubes was a display of every imaginable sea animal that you accidentally scooped up in your drag net the night before. Coming from Australia it is a little disturbing to see all these dead sea creatures on ice purely for your viewing pleasure. However, for Japanese, where the sea is the most important and accessible forms of protein for their country, this is a respectful and important display reminding them of the origin of their seafood.

From tuna to shark to deep sea crab to sea cucumber, everything is eaten and generally done so from top to tail. If you contrast this to Australia’s consumer diet of choice cuts and excessive food waste, then perhaps we should be the ones recalibrating where our moral high ground should lie.

The port festival was different. It was the seafood that made it so, though it was also something else. Traditionally seafood was the lifeblood of Numazu and continues to strongly influence the city. Perhaps, on some level, it is the respect that the locals have of this industry that made this festival different. Maybe it is because this festival celebrates something tangible. Something people can see, smell, touch and taste. Is it about an education that is blended into activities and performances. I’m not sure． I know I had a good time and I know I came out of the festival feeling a stronger connection with my adopted city. Come along next year and find out for yourself

Junes issue of City Hall’s  Numazu Newsletter has more details on the port area and its history. You can check it out here.