Lessons from Chocolate
If you know someone on the inside, you can get quite spoiled in Tokyo.
One morning I stepped out of the spacious Roppongi apartment owned by a generous friend. I walked around the corner for one of Tokyo’s more unusual gourmet experiences - ramen at Ichiran Ramen, which takes a monastic view of the national dish (more of that later). I spent a leisurely afternoon at the nearby Midtown complex, a sprawling and glitzy melange of upmarket hotels, eateries, boutiques and even an art museum, something truly typical Roppongi. I flipped through racks of ubercool fashion, browsed exquisite ukiyo-e prints at the branch of the Suntory Art Museum, and ended off with a cafe glacé and chocolate cake at a minimalist French chocolate boutique.
It was here among ranks of impeccably-dressed people, between mouthfuls of luscious single-origin chocolate cake, that I was brought down to earth. On the wall, above a pair of expensively-dressed matrons, was a flatscreen TV. On it, the French chocolatier himself was shown in a photograph slideshow visiting the farmers that produced the cocoa beans in Madagascar. African men and women, dressed in exuberant colours, did the backbreaking work of planting, harvesting and fermenting the precious beans. They were barefoot, sweating. These people would never get to taste the results of their labours - no mousse cakes for them, or pistachio pralines. And yet they looked happy and fulfilled.
And so, here at the end of my journey from one end of the earth to the other, that I’m reminded of my relatively privileged place in the big scheme of things. Granted, I only visited large cities in my itinerary, but as so often is the case, large urban centres seem to encapsulate the extremes of the human condition, writ large.
In every place I visited, there were the immensely rich and the lucrative industries that cater to their every desire. In New York, there were restaurants in which one could spend a small fortune on oscetria caviar and magnums of champagne. In Tokyo, there were exquisite boutiques with sumptuous window displays of dazzling jewelry and fashionable clothes. And there were the designer restaurants and exclusive clubs in which to wear them and dance the night away.
And there were of course those that such places deliberately excluded: the entire families of indigenous Indians sleeping in filthy piles on the streets of Buenos Aires, the wandering homeless pushing cruddy shopping carts in New York, the mentally disabled poor shuffling aimlessly about the streets of San Francisco.
And so in between these two poles I found myself in between, in the upper middle of this throng. I was free to travel, to have leisure, to occasionally indulge in an expensive meal, and to pursue things other than the business of merely staying alive. I felt guilty about lamenting my lack of funds while pawing through the exquisite bric-a-brac on sale in Tokyo’s Roppongi. I resolved never to complain about not being able to afford that stunning designer jacket again.
I was robbed in Buenos Aires and came face-to-face with the hope-less bureaucracy that comes with petty crimes in such places. But I also found kindness in the most unexpected places - in New York, looking in a hardware shop for a replacement for a screw which had fallen off my bag, when I inquired how much I should pay, the curmudgeonly owner waved me away with typical New Yorker brusqueness - “Geddoudahere”.
If asked what I will remember from this trip, this dream come to fruition, I would say many things. Standing beneath the dome of Hagia Sophia, the silvery light streaking in through the darkness, ancient mosaics glinting dully in the shadows. At a contemporary art gallery opening in New York, hobnobbing with the fashionable crowd a la Carrie Bradshaw. Being invited by an old Japanese master dyer into the back of his old Kyoto workshop where he sat me down on the tatami and showed me his collection of antique fabrics.
I will also remember the conversations with fellow travelers and locals, all of which were enlightening in one way or another. A wealthy Russian couple who bought me sake in a Kyoto restaurant, the French lady who shared her travel dreams with me in between Berlin and Frankfurt, the Japanese ramen seller who engaged me in conversation even when his English wasn’t up to it. Even when one travels alone, you’re never truly alone.
If I have any regrets about what I should have done more, here at the end of my journey, it was perhaps that I should have tried to talk to more people, to make more human connections. I never emerged poorer from any conversation, not even the one I had with the rapacious carpet seller in Istanbul.
Some other things I didn’t regret doing:
1 - Ditch the guidebook and get lost. Sometimes you can become a prisoner of Lonely Planet, tied to its tried itineraries, bound by its reasoning. When I purposely took the path less traveled, I came upon some memorable sights by accident. Like the sprawling buddhist cemetery on the back lane to Kiyomizera temple in Kyoto, which looked like a miniature manhattan of grave steles. Or the Berlin shop off the Ku’damm which was run by a man passionate about antique asian textiles.
2 - Taking the road less-traveled. Sometimes, the far-flung places, off the beaten track, are the most rewarding. Like so many tourists, I took the Staten Island ferry for its views of Manhattan. However, while most tourists immediately hop back on the return ferry to Manhattan, I took the chance to travel across Staten Island by bus, a ride of more than an hour. But I was rewarded with some of the most striking urban landscapes anywhere, a section of marshland studded with the remnants of dozens of ships rusting quietly into the water.
3 - Eat everything. Everything is worth trying once. Some you’ll hate, some you’ll love, but you’ll remember it all.
4 - Buy discerningly. Souvenirs should remind you of a unique time and place. Like the handmade broom I bought from Vancouver’s Granville Island. Yes, you heard right, a broom. This beautiful object was made by a family that have been making traditional handmade brooms for ages, using textured manzanita wood and corn brush from New Mexico. It wasn’t until later that I realised that this was the same company that made the brooms for the Harry Potter films.
Some things I could have had less of:
1 - Buying too many “Luxe” guidebooks. Quite useless and took up crucial luggage space. Only for the moneyed and unimaginative.
2 - Bringing too many clothes. Provided you have enough underwear and socks, you can get by with fairly little. Even for a 2-month trip, there were clothes I barely touched.
One morning I stepped out of the spacious Roppongi apartment owned by a generous friend. I walked around the corner for one of Tokyo’s more unusual gourmet experiences - ramen at Ichiran Ramen, which takes a monastic view of the national dish (more of that later). I spent a leisurely afternoon at the nearby Midtown complex, a sprawling and glitzy melange of upmarket hotels, eateries, boutiques and even an art museum, something truly typical Roppongi. I flipped through racks of ubercool fashion, browsed exquisite ukiyo-e prints at the branch of the Suntory Art Museum, and ended off with a cafe glacé and chocolate cake at a minimalist French chocolate boutique.
It was here among ranks of impeccably-dressed people, between mouthfuls of luscious single-origin chocolate cake, that I was brought down to earth. On the wall, above a pair of expensively-dressed matrons, was a flatscreen TV. On it, the French chocolatier himself was shown in a photograph slideshow visiting the farmers that produced the cocoa beans in Madagascar. African men and women, dressed in exuberant colours, did the backbreaking work of planting, harvesting and fermenting the precious beans. They were barefoot, sweating. These people would never get to taste the results of their labours - no mousse cakes for them, or pistachio pralines. And yet they looked happy and fulfilled.
And so, here at the end of my journey from one end of the earth to the other, that I’m reminded of my relatively privileged place in the big scheme of things. Granted, I only visited large cities in my itinerary, but as so often is the case, large urban centres seem to encapsulate the extremes of the human condition, writ large.
In every place I visited, there were the immensely rich and the lucrative industries that cater to their every desire. In New York, there were restaurants in which one could spend a small fortune on oscetria caviar and magnums of champagne. In Tokyo, there were exquisite boutiques with sumptuous window displays of dazzling jewelry and fashionable clothes. And there were the designer restaurants and exclusive clubs in which to wear them and dance the night away.
And there were of course those that such places deliberately excluded: the entire families of indigenous Indians sleeping in filthy piles on the streets of Buenos Aires, the wandering homeless pushing cruddy shopping carts in New York, the mentally disabled poor shuffling aimlessly about the streets of San Francisco.
And so in between these two poles I found myself in between, in the upper middle of this throng. I was free to travel, to have leisure, to occasionally indulge in an expensive meal, and to pursue things other than the business of merely staying alive. I felt guilty about lamenting my lack of funds while pawing through the exquisite bric-a-brac on sale in Tokyo’s Roppongi. I resolved never to complain about not being able to afford that stunning designer jacket again.
I was robbed in Buenos Aires and came face-to-face with the hope-less bureaucracy that comes with petty crimes in such places. But I also found kindness in the most unexpected places - in New York, looking in a hardware shop for a replacement for a screw which had fallen off my bag, when I inquired how much I should pay, the curmudgeonly owner waved me away with typical New Yorker brusqueness - “Geddoudahere”.
If asked what I will remember from this trip, this dream come to fruition, I would say many things. Standing beneath the dome of Hagia Sophia, the silvery light streaking in through the darkness, ancient mosaics glinting dully in the shadows. At a contemporary art gallery opening in New York, hobnobbing with the fashionable crowd a la Carrie Bradshaw. Being invited by an old Japanese master dyer into the back of his old Kyoto workshop where he sat me down on the tatami and showed me his collection of antique fabrics.
I will also remember the conversations with fellow travelers and locals, all of which were enlightening in one way or another. A wealthy Russian couple who bought me sake in a Kyoto restaurant, the French lady who shared her travel dreams with me in between Berlin and Frankfurt, the Japanese ramen seller who engaged me in conversation even when his English wasn’t up to it. Even when one travels alone, you’re never truly alone.
If I have any regrets about what I should have done more, here at the end of my journey, it was perhaps that I should have tried to talk to more people, to make more human connections. I never emerged poorer from any conversation, not even the one I had with the rapacious carpet seller in Istanbul.
Some other things I didn’t regret doing:
1 - Ditch the guidebook and get lost. Sometimes you can become a prisoner of Lonely Planet, tied to its tried itineraries, bound by its reasoning. When I purposely took the path less traveled, I came upon some memorable sights by accident. Like the sprawling buddhist cemetery on the back lane to Kiyomizera temple in Kyoto, which looked like a miniature manhattan of grave steles. Or the Berlin shop off the Ku’damm which was run by a man passionate about antique asian textiles.
2 - Taking the road less-traveled. Sometimes, the far-flung places, off the beaten track, are the most rewarding. Like so many tourists, I took the Staten Island ferry for its views of Manhattan. However, while most tourists immediately hop back on the return ferry to Manhattan, I took the chance to travel across Staten Island by bus, a ride of more than an hour. But I was rewarded with some of the most striking urban landscapes anywhere, a section of marshland studded with the remnants of dozens of ships rusting quietly into the water.
3 - Eat everything. Everything is worth trying once. Some you’ll hate, some you’ll love, but you’ll remember it all.
4 - Buy discerningly. Souvenirs should remind you of a unique time and place. Like the handmade broom I bought from Vancouver’s Granville Island. Yes, you heard right, a broom. This beautiful object was made by a family that have been making traditional handmade brooms for ages, using textured manzanita wood and corn brush from New Mexico. It wasn’t until later that I realised that this was the same company that made the brooms for the Harry Potter films.
Some things I could have had less of:
1 - Buying too many “Luxe” guidebooks. Quite useless and took up crucial luggage space. Only for the moneyed and unimaginative.
2 - Bringing too many clothes. Provided you have enough underwear and socks, you can get by with fairly little. Even for a 2-month trip, there were clothes I barely touched.