Posts Tagged ‘Nishiogi’

Nishiogi Shopping (2)

March 15, 2011

As of 12:45 PM, the Coop in Nishiogikita had fresh fruits and vegies.  Still no milk, bread or rice and the shelves are nearly empty of many other things.  As I left, a large delivery truck was unloading refrigerated goods, so perhaps the shelves will be replenished soon.

Many shops are closed, and those that are open, like convenience stores and the Coop, have turned off many of their lights.  The interior is dim yet perfectly adequate, which makes me realize how much electricity we use unnecessarily.  Do convenience stores and supermarkets really need to be so brightly lit even when conditions are normal?

A sign in front of the train station confirms that the areas in our neighborhood which will experience blackout are Shoan 3, Zenpukuji 1 to 4, and Nishiogikita 3 to 5.  The blackout will occur from 3:20 to 7 PM.  I saw a train go by on the Chuo Line heading toward Mitaka about 10:30 this morning, and it was nearly empty.  Buses are not so full either, and there seem to be plenty of taxis around.

I have not yet found milk, but bread of various kinds can be found in smaller bakeries, all of which have lines in front of them.  I waited 10 minutes in front of Lisdor Mitsu, just south of Nishiogi Station.  They have bagels and several fresh baked loaves of their popular brewer’s yeast bread.  There was a line at Dila’s Asanoya Bakery (in the station building), made to wait outside.  A young man at the door would let people in periodically.  This seemed a good arrangement to let people buy their bread  in comfort.  The shelves, seen through the windows, were piled high with their products.

Seiyu at Nishiogi Station has reopened.  I did not go in, so I don’t know what they have available.  The post office in Nishiogi 2-chome has a sign out front announcing that they will close early today, at 2:30 PM.  Various small eateries near the station were open and serving lunch.



Nishiogi Shopping

March 13, 2011

I just got back from another tour of the ‘hood.  Nishiogikubo’s Seiyu—proud member of the “WAL*MART Family”—is closed.  A sign on the shuttered entrance says they are closed till further notice due to the earthquake and refers shoppers to other Seiyu stores in Kichijoji and Ogikubo.  What do you suppose happened?  Possibly I was the last person to buy anything there before they closed.  At that time, while things had fallen off shelves, I saw no signs of damage to the building itself, which, after all, the recorded announcement kept assuring us was “safe.”  I would venture a guess that they were all sold out of everything, were it not for their referral of shoppers to nearby Seiyu stores.

If you hurry, maybe you can get that last set of tissue paper.

Moving on to Seijo Drugs to pick up some vitamins, I found the place crowded with shoppers and the line too long to stick around and wait in.  Out back the shelves normally full of tissue and toilet paper were nearly empty.  There’s a run on these items, and I passed people loaded down with them on the street.

Yesterday I had done a big shop at the Coop, but there had been no bread, bananas, strawberries or broccoli.  Today too no bread, and the fruit section was empty except for a few lonely kiwis and avocados.  Fresh vegies too were wiped out except a couple of bunches of celery, asparagus, and cucumbers.  Milk all gone, eggs all gone, rice all gone.  Shoppers were wandering around exclaiming, “But there’s nothing here!”  There is still some processed packaged food left, though, and for some reason lots of fresh flowers.  Signs above the empty compartments apologized for being sold out of just about everything due to the earthquake.

I then checked out Fuji Garden, right next door to the Coop, across the street from Daiso.  They’ve got lots of everything there, especially in the fresh foods department.  So if you want something besides kiwi and celery, pop next door for more variety.  What Fuji Garden is out of, though, is milk, bread, tofu, and fresh noodles. [The Coop (Seikyo) is located at Nishiogikita 1-2, next to the railroad tracks.]

Is this just a temporary glitch in the system?  Or are we really in for long-term shortages?  That remains to be seen.  I’ve got four and a half rolls of toilet paper at home and five box of tissues.  Let’s see what happens when I run out…

Photo Essay: Pond in Winter

February 2, 2011

On the last day of January, the sun was shining in a blue sky above Zenpukuji Lower Pond.  It was very cold, and the edges of the pond were laced with thin patches of ice.  The ducks moved slowly or not at all.  More birds than humans were hanging out at the pond that day; the jogging path around the pond was at first deserted, though as I made my way to the other side, a couple of photographers appeared, with high-powered-looking lenses hanging from their necks, and here and there I passed someone sitting alone on a bench contemplating the quiet water.


Except for a distant wailing of a siren, the sounds of Tokyo faded away.  Everything slowed down and grew still, and all I could hear were faint whistles and coos from the ducks huddled together in the middle of the pond.  As I stood beside the water, listening, people hurried by me on the path, in a hurry to get their walk done or perhaps just moving quickly to keep warm.


The ducks had other ideas:  Find a sunny spot and stop there for a while.  When you have to move, do so slowly.  They seemed to be demanding this of the humans, even cooperating in picture-taking as long as you too moved in slow motion.



This duck seemed aware of me, and paused long enough for me to shoot, but then immediately afterwards dove into the cold water with a soft splash.





Three-quarters of the way around the pond, I stopped to watch the lone egret resting on his sunny mound of dried grass.  He was surrounded by paddling ducks.  My eyes on him, I did not see what startled one of the ducks, who suddenly let out a loud quack.  All the other ducks immediately rose up out of the water as one, making a loud WHOOSH and scattering drops like diamonds all around them.  This happened too fast for me to get a picture of it—even the heavy-lensed bird photographers missed it—but I saw it.  It was like a fountain that suddenly turns on without warning.  Jets of water shot up in the air all at the same time.  And then the fountain just as suddenly turned off.

Through all the commotion, the egret did nothing, just kept to his post on the grass, like a meditating old arhat.









Back at the entrance to the park, the water at the edges was still frozen.  Pieces of ice glinted in the sun that was just beginning to reach it.

During the walk around the pond, I looked for signs of spring, but found only some tightly closed buds on a few trees.  But from the path I could see in the garden of a house that looks out on the park a plum tree that had beat them to it.







Slowly but surely/ the suns rays reach the pond and/ penetrate its ice




Bathhouse Blues

October 12, 2010

A July 16 story in the Daily Yomiuri headlined “Condo supply in Tokyo up for 1st time in 6 years” ends with this enlightening analysis:  “The [Real Estate Economic] institute traced the rebound in the condo market partly to a reaction to a plunge in the corresponding period a year earlier that stemmed from the global recession.”  Oh, so that recession is over now, is it?

If you turn a blind eye to the growing numbers of blue plastic tents gathering in public parks and along riverbanks, or the permanently shuttered small businesses hidden in the shadows of skyscrapers and overhead highways, Tokyo does appear to be as  prosperous and glittery as ever.  Everywhere you go, something new and big is under construction.  Or else, in preparation for the new and big, something old and no longer profitable is under destruction.

To make way for the new, something old must be removed first.  In the case of the condos, the old thing, as the Tree has previously reported, is often a single-family home with garden attached, or a small shop, run by a family, specializing in one commodity, like hand-made picture frames.  In the case of at least one of the new condo buildings, recently opened for occupancy on a back street of Nishiogikubo, the old thing was a much-loved public bathhouse, Tama-no-yu.


According to the Tokyo Sento [public bath] Association, the number of bathhouses in Tokyo has fallen from 2,687 in 1968 to just over 1,000 in 2006.  [A recent story in the Asahi Shimbun (Wed., Oct. 13, ’10) sets the current number at 813.]  The bathhouses of Suginami Ward, where the Tree office is located, made up 120 of that 1968 figure, and fell to 40 by 2006.  I now count 30 on the map at the Suginami public bath website [].

What makes bathhouses so vulnerable to encroaching developers?  The main reason is probably that they are no longer an absolute necessity.  You can still find older apartments around without a bathtub, but these are now few and far between.  Most housing units in Tokyo are fully equipped with their own private bathing facilities.  People go to the public bath to relax or to catch up on neighborhood gossip, not because they have no other choice.  This means, of course, that fewer people use bathhouses now than they did in 1968, and consequently all bathhouses struggle to stay alive.  I do not know the specific trigger behind the decision to close the Tama-no-yu, but given the general economic circumstances for all bathhouses, any one thing could have occurred to push the family that owned and operated it over the edge financially.  It might, for instance, have been a death in the family which left the heirs with huge inheritance taxes to pay and only one way to pay them:  take down the bathhouse and put up a lucrative condo building in its place.

So take it down they did.  I had been planning to make a visual record of its destruction, but as soon as the bulldozers and excavators arrived and started pulling the building apart, the property was covered with plastic sheeting so no one could see what was going on.  A sign said the sheeting was to keep the noise level down.



Passing by the site one day, after the destruction had been completed and construction of the new had begun, I found a sign advertising the new condos, and informing us of the new building’s name:  GAGA.

No Comment

So, okay, I know what you all must be thinking now:  What was so great about the old bathhouse that you are lamenting its replacement by a shiny new “city mansion” with the glorious name of GAGA?  Oh, I don’t know.  Allow me to indulge in a little reminiscing for a moment….

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I park my bicycle out front, grab my carry-all full of towel, shampoo, razor, soap, bottled water and comb, and duck under the noren that both indicates the bathhouse is open for business and marks a point of separation between the outer world of rushing Tokyo and this inner world where movement stops and you have nowhere else to go but into the hot tub, and nothing else to do but soak, for the next hour or so of your life.  Removing my shoes, I step up onto the wooden floor to my right, the one on the left being where the men go.  Here is a bank of old wooden shoe lockers.  I deposit my shoes in one of them and lock it by removing the small rectangle of wood that keeps it unlocked when inserted in a slide in the door.  I put this “key” in a pocket of my carry-all and step behind a screen.  Here is an opaque glass door leading to the women’s bath.


I slide it open and inhale the peculiar damp odor of the bathhouse.  Sounds echo from the bathrooms on both sides of a dividing wall that does not quite reach up to the ceiling, which is several stories high:  Voices calling out greetings, water splashing as it pours over a body, the clatter of plastic seats and basins against the tiled floor.


Immediately inside the door is the bandai, translated by our office dictionary as “the elevated seat between the women’s and men’s baths at a public bathhouse.”  A young man with wet hair and a red face is usually sitting here facing the door, behind a little counter where I place the ¥450 [about $5.50] fee.  He calls out “Welcome!” when you come in, and “Thank you!” when you leave.  On the other side of his seat he can see and talk to the men who are entering the other side of the bathhouse.  But the rest of us can’t see those men and those men can’t see us, which is a good thing, because I am now in the changing room, and all the women in here are stark naked.  I suppose if he really wanted to, the young man sitting with his back to the room could lean around and take a gander at the naked flesh, but I’ve never seen him do that.


There’s a glass case here by the door full of bathing needs like soap and towels in case you forgot yours, and another one full of cold drinks for sale.  You pay for all those things, too, at the bandai.  The changing room is spacious and airy and full of activity.  A TV is broadcasting the news from a corner near the door to the baths, and under that is a weighing machine.  In the middle of the room are two raised tatami platforms where you can sit and chat or put on your socks.  Against the further wall to the right are the lockers for keeping your clothes in while you bathe.


I grab a big wicker basket from the pile by the glass case and head for the nearest free locker.  I take off my coat and fold it up and place it in the basket.  Everything else, including everything I’m wearing, goes into the locker.  I put my towel on top of my coat and carry the basket along with my smaller plastic carrier full of bath items to the door to the baths.  I leave the basket near this door, slide it open and step into the bathroom.  It’s much noisier in here, much warmer and steamier.


I help myself to a plastic seat and basin from a stack by the door and look around for a free spot at the washing trough.  There are four rows of these:  One against each wall and two facing each other in a row down the middle of the room.  Each spot has a round mirror and a shower head and faucets delivering hot or cold water.  I place my seat in front of one of these spots and start my ablutions by pouring hot water all over myself with the basin.  I wash lightly with soap and water, pouring out the dirty water into a gutter at my feet that carries it away down a drain somewhere.  I thoroughly rinse all traces of soap away and then head for the bath tub.


There are three to choose from.  One has hotter water than the others, and water jets for both back and feet.  The one in the middle is larger and has slightly less hot water and water jets for the back.  The third one, full of white water, is a “milky bath,” billed as something that restores your youthful skin.  This is the most popular bath, but I prefer the ones with the water jets, which give a good massage to the aching muscles in my shoulders and lower back.  I stretch out full length and let the jets do their thing.  A woman says “excuse me,” and climbs into the tub next to me.


Behind us on the wall is half of a huge mural of Mt. Fuji, the other half being in the men’s bath.  Above us is the very high ceiling, painted powder blue as if to indicate heaven.  I stare at the windows way up at the top of the bathhouse and wonder how they open and close them.


No one stays in for long.  You get too hot if you do.  The trick is to take several short soaks in the bath, rather than one long one.  I usually take two or three.  In between the soaks, I scrub at the washing trough, each time getting a little bit cleaner.


After 40 minutes or so, I’m done.  I rinse off my stool and basin, returning them to the stack by the door.  I slide open the door and feel the cooler air all over my heated body.  I retrieve my towel from the basket and pat down by the bathroom door before padding over to my locker to dry off more thoroughly and get dressed.  Then I go over to the massage machine area, where other women are sitting under hair dryers or leaning back with eyes closed into coin-operated chairs that undulate all over your back.  I prefer the leg and foot massager.  I sit down on one of the tatami platforms and deposit ¥100 into the machine.  For ten minutes my legs and feet are pummeled and squeezed and kneaded by this mechanical device.  I drink lots of water, and then it is time to go home.


Wet-haired and red-faced, I put the basket back by the door and say “thank you” to the person sitting in the bandai, now a young woman, who thanks me in turn for coming.  I slide open the door and go out into the cool night air.  I unlock the shoe locker, remove my shoes and put them on in the entranceway before ducking under the noren and re-entering the rushing current that is life in Tokyo.

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That’s how it was, and how it is no more.  Instead of that we now have this:


Photo Gallery: Zenpukuji Pond, Late Summer

September 24, 2010

September 20, 2010.  Zenpukuji Pond, Tokyo.

Late Bloomer

Reading Room

Summer's End

Gallery of Store Fronts

July 13, 2010

Last year, when I discovered that a favorite small coffee shop had disappeared almost overnight and that a frame shop I had used the services of several times had also closed down, the latter to be replaced by a 13-floor apartment building, I decided to start keeping a photographic record of those small store fronts still remaining in our neighborhood.  Several of these photos have already been published in the Tree—before it became a blog.  So we decided to archive them here under the title of “Gallery of Store Fronts.”

We recently came across an article by Bryant Simon, American Studies professor at Temple University, in which he claims that “the spread of …branded symbols of globalization”—such as McDonald’s and Starbucks—“raises the value of the local.  Everywhere multinationals go, they generate a grassroots pushback, an assertion of the enduring value of particular places, tastes and traditions.”  By this same screwy logic, one could also claim that the spread of nuclear weapons serves to generate the anti-nuclear weapons movement.

What Professor Simon fails to appreciate is that while it may be true that the value of our local shops and businesses is raised by the encroachment of fast food chain stores and Starbucks outlets and their imitators, there is not much that anyone can do to “push back” against them.   Unable to keep up with the competition, small shop after small shop in our neighborhood goes out of business and pulls down its shutters for the last time.  Some of the store fronts appearing in this Gallery have already folded but are still standing.  Others are happily still with us–for the time being.  Let’s enjoy them while we still can.

Nihil Cow crafts and gift shop

Tanuki (badger) yakitori (chicken kebab) restaurant

a second-hand bookstore

No longer open for business

a former tatami (straw mat) maker

antique shops

Nishiogi Noh

June 7, 2010

Vol. 3, no. 6, June 7, 2010.

Kore wa nani?

What could this be?  The answer is revealed below.  Hint:  Something is being recycled here.

NISHIOGI NOH. On Saturday, May 8, I went to the Igusa Hachiman Shrine to see its annual performance of Nishiogi Takigi Noh or “Noh by Firelight.”  Takigi Noh is performed outdoors at night.  While the covered stage at Igusa Hachiman used conventional theatre lighting, the house, being open to the night air, was in darkness, except for two metal baskets of ignited firewood set in front of either side of the stage.  The seats quickly filled while a cool May wind contributed sound effects and atmospherics by sighing through the tops of the tall trees that surrounded the theatre and blowing up gusts of aromatic spark-filled smoke from the fires.  As if on cue, a large crow flew across the house at 7 o’clock, and then the show began.

This year’s drama was “Lady Aoi,” by Zeami, the great Japanese playwright, who lived in the 13th and 14th centuries.  Aoi is the wife of Prince Genji, a fictional character in an 11th century novel.  She has been possessed by an apparition and become ill.  Her family has called in a medium to try to identify the apparition.  Throughout the play, Lady Aoi appears only in the form of a kimono laid out on the stage floor.

In the opening scenes, the medium enters with the family and seats herself in the far right corner of the stage.  She wears a white robe with wide sleeves, and while she intones the incantation that will help her identify the apparition, the wind plays with her sleeves, making them billow out and swirl in a way probably not called for in the script.

The apparition appears.  It is Genji’s former mistress, Lady Rokujo, or rather not her, but her vengeful spirit, or “double.”  She tells her tale of woe.  She has not been treated with respect, despite her noble status, because the Prince has lost interest in her; and preference has been shown to Lady Aoi, whom Rokujo now hates as a result.

“People envied me for falling in love with radiantly beautiful Genji.  My days were always full of joy and glamourous.  But once his love toward me faded away and I was in the wane, my fragile life became like living in shadow….I come here all the way to avenge my bitterness….My bitterness will never fade.”*

And she proceeds to beat Lady Aoi.  (This being Noh the beating is expressed by vigorous but stylized movements of the arm up and down in the general direction of the prone kimono.)  As she beats her, the Greek Chorus chants:

“No matter how deep my grudge against you, and no matter how much you scream, you can be with the beautiful Genji or make love with him as long as you live.”*

A priest is sent for to exorcise the apparition from Lady Aoi.  He arrives and starts to pray, shaking his rosary beads violently in the air.  The vengeful spirit reappears, this time in the form of an ogre, wearing a mask with tortured expression and two horns protruding from its forehead.

A battle commences between the praying priest and the attacking ogre.  The ogre menaces and threatens; the priest dodges the blows and keeps up his praying.  Drums beat, flutes shriek.

Greek Chorus:  “One who listens to my preaching will acquire the wisdom of Buddha, and the one who understands my heart will immediately be enlightened and become Buddha.”*

Finally, the priest succeeds in overcoming the vengeful spirit.

Ogre:  “Alas, how horrible the voice of mantra! How horrible! This is it.  I will never come back again.”*

The commotion on stage ends almost as suddenly as it began.  The music and chanting stop, the ogre turns and walks in slow silence down the aisle leading back stage, followed shortly after by the other performers.  One by one the musicians and chorus smooth their garments, pick up their instruments and retire from the stage through a low sliding door at the back.    The play is over.

*translations courtesy of

Totoro’s Tree

April 25, 2010

Feature Story:  A Tree Grows in Nishiogi! One cold day late last year I was out riding around Nishiogi on my bike.  I came upon a recently created vacant lot, surrounded by a fence made of vinyl sheeting.  I had forgotten the building that used to occupy this space but not the tree, which still stood in the middle of the lot, spreading its now bare branches skyward.  I took a picture of it because I felt sure it was doomed to be cut down, as all trees are cut down sooner or later in our town if they stand in the way of an ambitious development project.

This is a keyaki or zelkova tree.

Zelkovas are members of the Elm Family.  For those Tree readers who have never seen one, here’s a few words about them from Kevin Short, who writes a wonderful nature and folklore column for the Daily Yomiuri:  “The keyaki is an Asian tree, growing from Honshu Island south and west to Taiwan, the Korean Peninsula and mainland China….Keyaki wood is hard and true, with beautiful grain.  Many of the spectacular bowls and trays covered with urushi lacquer are carved from keyaki. Temples and shrines use the wood in beams and supports, and also in the intricate carvings on the walls and pillars.”  If you visit the grounds of a shrine, you are almost sure to find a keyaki towering above you.

The other day I opened up one of my bookmarked websites (called “Nishiogi Navi”) which covers local news, and there on the home page was a picture of this same tree.  Only now it had a name:  Totoro’s Tree.  It had not been cut down after all, but instead had become a local celebrity.  And the following morning, Sunday, April 18, a dedication ceremony would be held at the site of the tree to celebrate its rescue from the bulldozer and to open officially the new park that had been built around it.

According to this and other linked up websites, this zelkova had once held the status of “Valuable Tree” under the protection of Suginami Ward.  In March 2008, however, the heir to the landowner of the lot on which the Valuable Tree stood filed a request to have the protection status rescinded so that the tree could be removed to make room for a residential building.  Apparently permission was immediately granted.  (So much for “Valuable Tree” status!)  But the local residents “rose up against the planned felling of the tree” and started a “Save Totoro’s Tree” movement.  By June of the same year, they had collected 8,000 signatures calling for the tree’s preservation.  The ward caved in, bought the land from the owner, and turned it into a park.

So last Sunday morning I actually got up early and took on the assignment of attending the ceremony.  (I asked other staff members to come with me, but they all grumbled about it being Sunday morning and so on, so I ended up going alone.)

Totoro’s Tree

The barrier around the lot had been removed, and in its place was a garden plot of straggly flowering shrubs set out in terraced rows.  The park itself consisted of bare earth, still muddy from the recent rain spell, and a couple of benches scattered around the edges.  The tree had changed too.  Its branches were now adorned with pale green fuzzy-looking leaves and flowers.  I kept looking up into those branches and wondering what the tree was making of all the fuss going on down below on its behalf.

I was not the only member of the press there.  All the “front row” spots were already filled with cameramen and their crews.  We neighborhood people had to make do with less advantageous positions around the edges.  (So no complaints please about the poor quality of the photographs.)  The ward had brought out all the requisite paraphernalia for this sort of ceremony in Japan:  a red and white striped awning for VIPs to sit behind, a red and white ribbon stretched in front of the tree for the formal ribbon-cutting ceremony, a time capsule (in which I later learned were placed newspaper cuttings about the movement to save the tree so that later generations will realize the “valuableness” of trees), and a display of 250 potted geraniums to be given out to the first 250 people to arrive at the park.  (I was no. 235.  And yes, I did go home with a new geranium for the Tree office.)

Press Section

The ceremony consisted of several speeches by local politicians and big wigs, the burying of the time capsule, and the cutting of the ribbon.  We heard first from the Vice Mayor of Suginami Ward, who told us that this tree was now the symbol of Suginami, and he considered it the finest example of a zelkova in the whole ward.  I was reminded of a scene in the Akira Kurosawa masterpiece Ikiru (To Live).  In that film, a civil servant who works at the local ward office fights on behalf of local housewives who want to get a vacant lot turned into a playground for their children.  They run into opposition at every turn, from bureaucratic red tape to big money interests and gangsters, but the lowly civil servant fights on unflinchingly and the park finally comes into being.  At its dedication, however, all the speeches are made by the politicians, who also take all the credit for the park’s existence.  Not that the vice mayor was taking all the credit for Totoro’s tree:  he was not. But not only did we not hear from any of the “non-important” people who had actually done the  hard work to make this park happen, but the vice mayor bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor who played the part of the mayor in the film.

Vice Mayor’s Speech

A member of the ward assembly spoke next, in the glib and flowing tones of a typical politician.  All these politicians speak the same way, very fast and all seemingly impromptu, full of high-sounding polite expressions, so reassuring on the surface if you don’t try too hard to understand what they are saying but which if you could slow down the flow long enough to hear what is actually being said would evaporate into meaningless and empty sounds.  “It’s so wonderful to have this tree here blah blah blah and thanks to all the hard work and cooperation of everyone involved we could have this tree here blah blah blah and we must do all we can to save nature which is a treasure for our children blah blah blah and something everyone wants and needs blah blah blah and I myself will do all I can for nature and will appreciate this tree in my heart forever blah blah blah.”

Meanwhile, all over the ward, as well as the entire city of Tokyo, trees are being felled and flowering bushes uprooted at an ever-faster rate. We here at the Tree are of course happy that this one particular example of a zelkova was saved, and we think that the successful efforts of the residents who led the signature campaign are an encouraging sign. But we also fear that this “symbol” of Suginami means just that:   a token payment to the natural world which can be used as a sign of  good “tree-saving” intentions, thus sparing bureaucrats and politicians the more difficult and demanding task of revising and revoking policies and regulations that hasten and encourage destruction of Tokyo’s natural environment.

[Totoro’s Tree is located in 38 Nishiogikita 4-chome.  To walk there from Nishiogi Station, go out the north exit and go left on the shopping street known as Ichibangaijoshidaidori 「一番街女子大通り」.  Walk about five minutes until you come to a cross street with a furniture store on the right corner.  Turn here and walk straight about four blocks to the park.  You’ll pass the Newbury Cafe on your right, a nice place to stop for a drink or light meal on your way back to the station.]


THIS JUST IN: Tokyo Tree resident poet wins Honorable Mention in 2010 Kikakuza Haibun Contest. We are pleased to announce that our poet-in-residence was recently among those honorably mentioned in a haibun contest held by Kikakuza, a linked verse association here in Japan.  She will receive this award for “After a Night of Cold Rain,” a modified version of a haibun first seen in the pages of the Tree, in which she described the Grand Tour cohort’s excursion to Nikko in essay form with a few haiku thrown in.


Found Object: I walked out of the Tree office the other day and found a gargoyle attached to my next door neighbor’s balcony.   On closer inspection, it was the household pooch, catching a few rays.

Gargoyle Sighting

“Shoulda brought my shades…”