And so goes another cherry blossom season. Yesterday, the wife and I ventured forth for the third and final cherry blossom viewing of the season. We looked forward to spending an afternoon together beneath the frail canopy of pink and white.
There really is nothing quite like an afternoon spent with friends or family, adrift in a sea of petals, like the world's fruitiest snow globe. Surrounded on all sides by a patchwork of pink and green and loved ones in the crisp morning air, a bottle of sake nestled between a couple six-packs of Asahi and a picnic lunch, it seems like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. Not even the fact that you're drunk off your ass at 10:30 in the morning.
So with the past two cherry blossom viewings being such a huge success, why not go for the three-peat?
That was a rhetorical question.
As I discovered from hiding my mother's birthday present in my closet for a month, flowers die. Scientists still aren't sure why this happens, but there's one thing for certain: it makes a mess and stems are terrible gifts.
Yes, cherry blossom viewing is a temporal recreation, with a viable viewing period of only three or four weeks. So 'round about week four, things start getting a little... crazy.
Just a bit.
In cherry blossom viewing, as in so many other tourist activities, it's all about location. The famous places get swamped. Such was the case with Tenmabashi, our destination for yesterday's excursion.
The majesty of Mother Nature's sublime palette splayed across a delicate canvas is somehow lost when that God damn 170-year-old four-foot tall bitch shoves her elbow into your kidney for the tenth time. I'm bigger than you, I'm stronger than you, and I'm not shaped like a Tetris piece you old hag!
Seriously, listen to this while you look at this picture and tell me it doesn't fit.
But beyond the bruised ribs, stomped toes, and occasional once-in-a-season photo opportunities marred by a middle-aged dude's balding dome in the frame, lies the jewel at the center of the sakura festival's crown: the festival part of the festival.
The festival combines all the best aspects of city life into one long strip. Stall after stall bursts at the seams with promises of new and exotic flavors, edible artwork, and game specifically designed to make you look like a sucker. It's a lot like the carnival in America, except with less reason to be embarrassed of your species.
"How the fuck do magnets work?"
No amount of money is safe in a tourist's wallet at a Japanese festival. From the haunted houses to the "American Potatoes" (French fries) to the goldfish-catching games, around every corner lies a new experience beckoning just one more 500 yen coin from your pocket. Because if you try really, really hard and aim that cork-gun just a little bit more to the right, you're sure you can knock that Nintendo Wii box off the platform, because you're just know you saw it move a little last time. Sucker.
Just one more thing, if you're ever at a Japanese festival and you see a bottle of this:
It says "ramune" on the bottle, but I'm pretty sure that's just the Japanese word for "heroin"
BUY IT.
200 or 300 yen might seem a bit expensive for an 8.5 ounce bottle but sir or madam, you would be mistaken. This stuff is a golden shower from the Skittles rainbow.
200 or 300 yen might seem a bit expensive for an 8.5 ounce bottle but sir or madam, you would be mistaken. This stuff is a golden shower from the Skittles rainbow.
There's nothing else like cherry blossom season in Japan. It's something I'm really, really going to miss upon my return to the States this summer. Maybe one spring break I'll make it back out to the 'Pan for another dose of it, but for right now I think I've built up a tolerance. Or maybe my liver's failing.
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