あIsu is mountainous peninsula

southwest of Tokyo, near the provincial town of Mishima. We set off early on Saturday am, thus avoiding the weekend rush. Takashi - who is a fine driver - had rented a nice little Toyota sedan with a very high-tech dashboard, including a geisha-toned GPS Adviser. We made our way through the streets of Tokyo and Yokohama to Kamakura, where sits the Daibutsu (big buddha).

Note thurible in foreground, scale of the image by man with head obscured behind ut ti the right.

This is the famous, iconic colossus cast in bronze about the time the French were building the cathedrals in the 13th C. CE. As my earliest childhood image of Japan, this was a bid deal for me. The statue depicts not Gotama but Amitabha Buddha. This master is most attractive in his serenity and compassion. According to tradition, he was a monk (or possibly a king) named Dharmakara, who acquired so much merit over the course of countless lives that it is actually infinite. He can apply it to everyone else. (Remind you of anything?) He dwells in a paradise called the Pure Land, outside time and space, which is not Nirvana, but rather like the heaven of many peoples’ imagination, where he is still alive as a bodhisattva. Into this state of blessedness, he now welcomes all who say his name ten times during their life. They will see him as they die and he will escort them thither, where he will teach them Dharma until they are themselves perfect bodhisattvas, who can then return and help others. (This is sounding increasingly familiar.)

Takashi and Bill

Amitabha can be translated Infinite Light. A beautiful, hopeful serenity of Pure Land Buddhism is expressed in this remarkable image. Not unlike the great gothic cathedrals. (What was it about the 13th Century?)
Entering the temple precincts through a gate containing fierce guardian demons, one comes upon a holy well. As before entering a mosque or a church, one takes a ritual ablution (holy water). All three universal religions observe this tradition. There is something obviously natural about it: one purifies oneself, as best one can, before entering the Presence

There is also the donation chest for spare change, and a stationary thurible. This is an ornate, hollow, bronze sphere inside of which are placed burning sheaves of aromatic wood. (I acquired some merit this way.) It is also possible to go inside the statue, which is interesting mostly from an engineering point of view. As with the Ka’aba, the exterior is the point.



After an outdoor lunch (somewhat rare in Japan) overlooking some poor surfers trying to make something out of very underwhelming surf, we continued on through the Hankone prefecture, over Appalachian-like mountains. Takashi tells me that most of Japan is forested: second only to Finland in the percentage of forest land. So there is plenty of lumbering and saw-mills. And they need more. There are “too many trees and it’s bad for the mountains”. (I didn’t get that.)

We arrived at our destination in time for a nice soak in the hot-tub. This is a traditional Japanese Inn, in which dinner and breakfast are included and served in the room (and on the floor). After which the little, low table is set aside, and the futons rolled out. But I am ahead of the story.

This inn had two extras, the bath and the food. For here the bath is a natural hot-spring, very hard and salty, in an outdoor pool of mossy rocks, looking up into the lacey branches of all those damned trees. Then to the room in time for one of the most memorable dinners of my memory: this inn catches its own fish! The husband (who, I must say, looked just a little bit frazzled), goes out in a boat every morning to get it.

There was sashimi of eight varieties, of which I recognized tuna, halibut, and salmon. This was garnished by the whole body of one fish, whose head and tail poked merrily up through mounds of the raw slices of its body. On to the cooked daikon (which as I have learned, means big root), a kind of teepee made out of deep-fried grunion (just like smelt), little greens with peanut sauce, whole boiled prawns, a medley of vegetables in hot broth – not what we think of as vegetable soup, exactly, just consommé with few whole vegetables (cabbage leaves, julienne carrots, enoki



mushrooms, bamboo shoots, &c –), rice, and a horrible shellfish that looked like a huge snail or small conch, which you pull out of its shell, decapitate, and devour all the way from its ugly head to its slimy, black, corkscrew tail.

I ate this wretched delicacy with a smile, but then returned quickly to the shashimi boat (it was displayed on beds of shredded veggies in a model wooden boat) for some nice, sweet maguro with an extra smear of wasabi to get the disgusting taste out of my mouth, and completed the cleansing with some nice, cold, cooked bean sprouts in sesame oil.
Finally, at the end of the table opposite the sashimi lay a beautiful, whole, steamed snapper (or something like that, fairly flat and red), sauced in one of their sweet/soy creations. Desert was a little cup of mandarin oranges in yogurt.

Believe it or not, I actually left some shashimi on the boat.

The next day, there was a nice breakfast of kippers (again) and baloney (maybe they thought I was Dutch), veggies, rice, and tea. Then we set off on the return trip to Tokyo.

We drove around the curves of a road that reminded me in every respect of CA Route 1 eound Big Sur: high above the sea. overlooking forested islands and gigantic rocks and crashin waves. The difference is that here the spectacular cone of Fuji-san floats on the horizon aheadm with a range of lower, snow-covered peaks in attendance to the west. What a beautiful place.　
Nice of the cherries to blossom just for me, eh?


Wepassed several fishing villages, with dying nets and fish. Here:s a puicture of a device that whirls the mackerel (or whatever)around pretty fast to dry them quickly.

Suddenly, Takashi stopped the car, exclaimed something, and asked my permission to visit a little museum. It turned out to be a Buddhist temple, whose priest was a great 19th C. artist, a national treasure. He began as a plasterer in the village, but soon got so good that he developed his own style, in which actual three-dimensional figures alternate with trompe l'oeil effects, after a bit you don’t know what ias real anymore. Just right for a Buddhist temple. He decorated the whole thing, when he became a monk, and then chief priest. Every spot of the wooden building was carved and/or painted.

Most remarkable is the dragon fresco on the central ceiling. Like a tapestry I saw in the Dordogne, his eyes followed the viewer everywhere, but not only does this god stare at one wherever one stands, his expression also changes with each different viewpoint: fierce, melancholy, laughing, or serene. The docent also explained how the master painted so as to take advantage of the changing light throughout the day, which also causes the images to change.

Do you suppose there could be a lesson in all of this?

Up in the mountains again, we stopped at a big spa for more mineral bathing, and then to Chinese lunch (dim sum) before getting on the extremely-expensive tollway back to T-yo. There was about a half-hour of stop-and-go, but not that bad for a Sunday night. In bed by 10:00 after a couple of relaxing Poirot mysteries that I had not yet seen.

Since then, I have been working pretty steadily. Due to connectivity problems, I have to use Paul’s computer, which is a Mac with a Japanese keyboard, with many of the keys illegible anyway, so it’s slow going.

Shinjuku-ku

Shinjuku-ku is allot like midtown Manhattan, except less noisy and the people are smaller. As promised, everyone is very helpful and friendly.This section of Tokyo has skyscrapers (even one that is supposed to look sort of like the Empire State Building – or maybe the Chrysler building – I think: a series of receding platforms topped by a spire with a clock, and decorated with angular elements meant, I suppose, to suggest flying buttresses, It is a kind of post-modernist mixture of gothic, art-deco, and Stalinist contructivism. It houses the national TV network, and it overlooks a big park (as does Paul’s apartment), which used to be reserved to the Imperial family, but is now open to the public. There are also lots of big department stores and a huge, one of Tokyo’s biggest railroad stations.

My destination was an enormous department store devoted entirely to electronics, a kind of Godzilla of Radio Shacks.

On the map, Shinjuku-ku looks pretty tiny as a region of the city, but then one has to remember the vast scale of this city: about twice as big as LA and eight times the size of the Twin Cities! The same area as LA but much denser. Neck-and-neck with Mexico City as the world’s biggest. I took the elevator – to the sub-basement to find an adapter form my three-pronged computer power-plug. (Only old-fashioned two-prongers here).
Then I headed out for lunch, which today was a very delicate breaded chicken breast, with the usual accompaniments of miso soup, tea, rice, and some kind of pickled veggies. The sauces are fun. In three meals out, I have now twice encountered a ketchup-like delight. Not as thick as hoi-sin, but that color, with a strong admixture of cloves. And today there was also a lychee preparation, which was hauntingly good. (At least, I THINK it was q kind of lychee custard – maybe it was in fact desert and not a sauce at all, come to think of it! And all for under $10.

Unfortunately, no one in Shinjuku-ku cares for sushi, apparently: I have walked up and down the main drag, where every other storefront is an eat-shop of some kind, but NO SUSHI. I am not complaining – exactly – because what I have found has been delicious and affordable. In fact less than I would ordinarily pay for lunch in MPLS. So, with the move to free accommodations, I should be OK in Japan.

Everyone will cheer to learn that I have been walking a good deal more than I do at home. So far so good, although I feel like I’m in training. Takashi made dinner last night and today he said something about a visit to Rapongi (another part of town), but I think I will decline in favor of a quiet dinner around here.

Poor Takashi is like the wife in Eat, Drink, Man, Woman, who9 is desperately ill, but goes to work anyway, then comes home to die. Her family arrives, wondering about dinner, so she rises from her death bed, prepares and serves it, and THEN dies. Takashi gets up to study at 4:00am, then commutes about an hour to school, another hour back, and then cooks dinner! Last night, he was ready to take me sight-seeing, but I suggested just dinner.
It turn out there is a fine fish-restaurant right on the street floor of the bui8lkding, so we went there for shahimi and grilled filet of something. The shahimi included tune, mahi, yellow-tail and sea-urchin. The grill was a work of art. Scored cross-ways first so it would curl up under heat, then lightly grilled so that one end of the coil was dark, shading gradually into the white of the other end, and all covered with a very subtle, glistening, golden-hued glaze – probably from the oil. It is good it was so pretty, because there wasn’t much of it. The only large size at this restaurant is the bill. (Don’t ask. It will suffice to say that I finally found out why people think Japan is expensive.)
Over the weekend, Takashi is going to drive me to Kamakura (Big Buddha, sea-coast)) and the mountains (Fuji, hot-springs, traditional inn .)

Blown Away

Utter silence in the full recital hall. no paper-rustling. No whispering. Certainly no coughing or throat-clearing. Not a sound and not a hair that wasn't coal black, save on the elderly. The lights dim. A singe spot shines on a single chair on the dais. A darling 15-year-old boy in evening dress appears carrying a 'cello. Polite ovation. (No cat-calls, no shrieks, just applause.) What followed was an entirely unanticipated transport of delight, for about ten feet in front of me, Gen Yokosaka sat down to perform at Tokyo's Opera City Recital Hall. He is really 23, and already probably the finest 'cellist of his generation.

Takashi himself is a 'cellist and he suggested the recital. BOY am I glad I accepted. Yokosaka played everything from Bach to contemporary (B to C, as the series demands), beginning with a strange, unaccompanied Polish solo (Lutoslavski), followed by Bach's spirited Suite No. 4, , accompanied on the piano by another teenager, as was the final number of the first half, a narcotic Schubert sonata, so sweet you could smell it.

The second half began with a contemporary Japanese composer's evocation of the famous Osaka puppet show, with lots of pizzicato and chording and rapping and banging and twanging until I feared it might actually harm the instrument, although the piece itself was fabulous interesting and interesting. The piece de resistance was the Prokofiev Sonata, which is a real keeper: lyrical in Prokofiev's unique, late romantic way, with plenty of pyro-technics that never, however, stretch beyond the limits of acceptably accessible Soviet art. P. was one who could do that without actually compromising himself, it seems. Another, lesser known Russian romantic, Anton Stepanovoch Arensky, supplied the short encore, an Elegy that I had guessed was French and Takashi guessed Faure. Then he saw the sign revealing it as Arensky, of whom neithier of us had ever heard (died just as the Russians were recovering from their humiliating defeat at the hands of the new Japanese Navy and Cavalry - maybe the Elegy was in memory of the Baltic Fleet!)

Could it be that this is a nod to the current Japanese trend to brush up their international image (or "set the record straight," as Seito-san would say)? It does seem to be in the air; the Japanese want to be proud of themselves again, without being at all Jingoistic. Could the obscure Arensky Elegy have been chosen for reasons beyond its luscious sonorities: an ever-so-subtle allusion to 1905, when the Japanese displayed exemplary, chivalrous humanity in their treatment of vanquished Russians, for whom the Elegy was written?

LA to Tokyo

I had as pleasant a flight as 10 hours in economy can be, thanks to Singapore Airlines. terrific food and service. As I was sitting at the gate in LAX (which has a surprisingly backward terminal - busses to remote boarding towers - for international flights) a nice Singaporean lady came by with a sigfn offering wheel-chair assistance. I thought, "Why Not? I do look handicapped." So I accepted. They wheeled me right up to the door of the plane, took my coat, carried my handbag to my seat, all before anyone else boarded. They took it upon themselves to arrange the same service in Tokyo, where I was really glad for it.

A diminurtice Japanese girl in a Singapore Airlines uniform appeared behind a wheel chair. Although I must outweigh her three to one, she bravely pushed me up the ramp, including over those little joints that always catch your luggage rollers. And then we were off. I don't know why it is that all international passengers in the world are routed for very long walks before reaching the formalities windows. we went down an elevator, through several doors and corridors, around corners and then up another elevator and around the corner to a VERY LONG HALLWAY, complete with moving sidewalks that we couldn't use because, after all, she was pushing me in a wheelchair. And pretty fast. After about a km or so we took another elevator down and on arou9nd corridors and through doors to the immigration room.

There my three hundred-odd fellow passengers were lined up in the queue as I rode by them to the empty counter for the Crew. The official said "Card-u", which was an entry card that one fills out promising that one is carrying neither firearms nor explosives nor marijuana. I was just beginning to learn of the Japanese Solicitude Toward Guests.

I suppose it true everywhere that people in wheelchairs are treated a mentally as well as physically impaired. Add to this the Japanese Solicitude Toward Guests and the fact that underneath all the exquisite courtesy, they tend more o9r less unconsciously to regard us gaijin as helplessly clumsy and stupid to begin with, and you can imagine the treatment I got. My wheel-chair-pusher carefully dictated everything I was to write on the form. The nice official then stanoed it - as my colleagues waited in the interminable line - and I was wheeled throguh another door into Japan!

By ow it was about 2:00 am LA time and I was feeling a bit dazed. We pressed on (or rather she did) with my wheel-chair to the baggage claim.l there I found that my $5-Tucson-Goodwill suitcase has lost its pull-out handle in the flight. The SA women were3 crestfallen: full of apology, as th9ugh they were personally responsible. the new, older lady explained that I could file a claim, and joine my retinue, pulling my big bag along by the remaining handle. we went to xcustoms, where a masked official asked me the purpose of my visit. I said "tourism" and she waved me through. About one if eight Japanese seem to wear surgical masks in public. Then through the swinging doors to the Outer World.

but first, I had to 1) get a bus ticket for the hour and a half ride to the City, 2) find an ATM, 3) see about a phone card, and 4) go to the bathroom. My attendants dutifully wheeled me to all four destinations before3 depositing me on the curb right in front of the bus-stop, and handing me over to the care of the woman who ran the limousine service's curbside operations. I accomplished the first three tasks easily from my chair, advised and instructed by my attendant. They have a perfect phone deal for me: a FREE cell-phone (you pay through the nose for minutes, but there is no minimum). I needed it only to call Paul once the bus let me off, so I will have the phone with me for emergencies until I get back to Narita, virtually for nothing. A couple of bucks for the first call to Paul. The bathroom scene was kind of funny. there was a handicapped one that was so high-tech that neither I nor my helper could figure it out, so I just went to the normal one next door.

One other nice incident, which could have been a disaster, occurred. the bus pulled away and stopped on down the way at the other terminal stop. there a breathless man got on and handed my my security bag, containing money and passport and Indian Visa, which in my drooling stupor I had either dropped or left on the waiting bench. "O my God!" I said. He smiled and bowed and ran off again. As my KGB interrogator obsewrved in 1971 "This sort of incident is not repeated." No sir!

The ride to Tokyo was interesting and beautiful at night. Paul says he thinks Tokyo is more beautiful at night than in the daytime. Lots of canals and water and lights. No signs of squalor, although there are homeless people. Paul found me easily at the station and took me to my hotel, a short walk from his apartment. It is a tiny two-star place: just right. And CHEAP. ($80/night, which is what I paid in Kansas).

Anyway, I am going to move over to Paul's and share his apt with his Japanese house-sitter who has volunteered to take car of me too, while I am here. I will probably just stay in Tokyo - rent-free- for the whole two weeks and take day-tours to various places. Takashi has already collected a big pile of brochures for me, and he 0promises to show me as much as he can personally. He is a world-traveller himself, speaks excellent English, and has plenty of Japanjese Solicitude for Guests. He is studying accounting and cooking. (I think his travels may have delayed him a bit, career-wise.) Anyway, he has invited me to a cello recital tonight.
\
Paul let this morning, but last night was quite an evening. We took a cab to a hotel noted for it's connections in the literary world. there we met Paul's publisher, Seito-san, who gave Paul 1,200,000 yen in cash (about $12k) and bought dinner at the Hotel's superb, gourmet Italaian restaurant for Paul and me and Paul's transactor-colleague, who is the head of the women's program at a famous university for foreigners in Kyoto. The money was Paul's fee for his part in The Project. (The first of an eight-volume set, of which Paul has finished one and will translate two more. The Book is a historical novel set during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904-5. The Project has been noticed by the Japanese version of the New York Times, and Seito-san is very pleased. It is about two brothers - impoverished samurai-class hicks from the country, who modernized japan's entire military at the end of the 19th Century. The author (who has been compared to Tolstoy not so much for literary quality as for the subject matter and scope of his novel is supposed to be very entertaining to read (as also is Tolstoy). he is hugely popular right now, as the new generation is trying to come to terms with Japan's past. He is "both a national and a nationalistic author", says Paul. But not a right-winger.


As Seito-san explained to me, because of the atrocities of World War II (and he mentioned Shanghai and Nanking and the Bataan death-march), most westerners have the impression that this kind of cruelty is typical of Japanese Imperial rule. he facts of history are different, say Seito-san, as the Russo-Japanese War shows. Among other things, the Japanese scrupulously followed the Geneva code in treating Russian prisoners, whom they saved from drowning after their ships were sunk. Most of the prisoners did not want to be repatriated (to further service in the brutal Russian Navy), and they settled in Japan. This author has never before been translated into English, although his eight-volume novel are currently being serialized by the Japanese version of the BBC. Paul and I think that they should be dubbed into English and aired in the States.

Seito-san is a bon vivant and man of the world. He is or has been the representative of all the major university presses in the US and England. He knew Soerset Maugham and Faulkner. He like martinis and plenty of them. He ordered a perfect Montalcino for the main course (I sipped a teaspoon: it was one of the finest wines I have ever tasted - must have cost him a couple of hundred bucks). Dinner was quiet and elegant and relaxed. We shared most of the antipasti, including penne arrabiata, risotto gorgonzola, and prosciutto. My secondi was zuppa di pesce that was less a soup some perfectly cooked fish in a thick sauce.

We talked about literature and film and history and The Project. Not one words of religion or politics, which is unusual for me. It is very hard to tell what a man like Seito-san would make of one, given the refined degree of courtesy. But I did notice him grunting what sounded like approval at some of my remarks about Rashomon.

Winter, 2010 - Minneapolis to LA

Driving from mpls to Tucson was pretty easy, since I waited for the roads to clear a little after the big xmas snow. I got an early start, and made it all the way to Ottawa KS – about 50 miles west of KC by six – about nine hours, which I did not find particularly tiring. (partly due to my cds and partly due to the car. I have to admit – however grudgingly – that my Sosucky is quite comfortable for long distances). So, I went to bed and got up early and made it to Tucumcari the next day.

The only thing memorable the whole way was in Dalhart, the northernmost city of TX (because it’s in the panhandle.) now, I loathe TX, and I was cursing it all the way along, but I had a nice encounter at a gas station, with a very friendly geezer, who reminded me of Willy nelson. Long pony tail, beard, tooth missing. Tx accent quite appealing. we were comparing notes on the performance of ethanol gas. He observed that it might be good for the farmers, but allot of people thought that “Bush oughta be horse-whipped” for forcing it on us. I told him that I couldn’t argue with that, and not only because of ethanol. So this TX is not so loathsome. After all, the panhandle is also the home of buddy holly.



t-ri is motel city, making the small most that it can from the route 66 mystique. I’m spoiled, so I did not choose any of the 578 vintage motels, and opted instead for a new La

Quinta & some kfc in front of the tv. While it would have been possible to get to Tucson in one more long day, I stopped over in Truth or Consequences for a bath.

I recommend the La Paloma spa. For $60 you geta room in the old, refurbished adobe-court motel and bathing privileges. The housekeeping rooms have open ceilings and old furniture. The bath house has six rooms with water at various temperatures. You sign in to a free one and find a couple of massage-table couches and the bath at the end of the narrow room. It is sunk chin deep into the floor. There are stone steps and two finished-wooden pilings rising to the roof out of the water. Between them hangs a knotted rope, allowing you to hold on and float prone in the hot water.

The water flows constantly through the baths, so they are always clean without the addition
of chemicals. This is accomplished by the original municipal system, which pipes hot spring water to properties with the rights to it. Then it empties into a tributary of the canal leading to the Rio Grande. A most relaxing evening. Massage of various kinds is available, as are lectures in the course of miracles, which is fairly innocuous, if dully sewage in flavor (a re-reading of scripture and church history to conform to the philosophic preening – unfortunately, the ascended masters who channeled the teaching delivered amusingly defective communiqués about church history, which seem somehow to conform mostly to current popular fads a la Dan Brown: Constantine chose the content of the new testament, Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene, priests all had to be celibate after the 11 c, &c. ) the ascended masters need to do more research.

In the room was a discount coupon for the Happy Belly Deli, where I had breakfast the next day. Also commendable. The owner wore a t-shirt saying “Truth or Consequences – we’re all here because we’re not all there.” Which seems to be true enough. When the now-revived spa industry fell off after WWII they sold naming rights to the radio quiz show. Then later, as I hear, they kept the economy alive by accepting lots of people who could no longer be institutionalized against their will, just because they were weird, but were no danger to themselves or others. Lots of trailer parks. And a feel much like an Altman movie.

Just stayed around Nancy’s in Tucson, and then to Palm Springs for two lovely days with David Burgdorf – old church friend, fellow priest. One of the few I could watch Into the Great Silence with, as we did.
An easy drive west on I-10 to Ontario for the flight to Seattle. This was a great experience, as flying goes. The airport is small – just two short concourses – and not far to walk to the gates. Parked Sosucky in a remote lot for cheap and flew Alaska airlines, which was very pleasant. It is almost as far as from MSP NYC, but it felt like less.
The weekend itself was a wonderful relaxation with good, old friends from the Yale Russian Chorus. We have lots of common agreements – musically, politically, morally – and it was really a pleasure. This is one of the joys of old age: people to share the memories and rejoice. My hosts had a dinner party with Chorus alums in town. One is a retired foreign aid worker (and probably spook – he also writes thrillers), who spent allot of time working in Siberia out of Alaska. I floated my idea of the Chicago, Minneapolis, and Irkutsk High Speed Railroad. He said Russians were always proposing that. Must be a good idea.

Dinner was a magnificent curry, which the lady of the house had learned in Africa. Three curries, actually – prawn, chicken, and beef – attended by literally dozens of what British colonials would have called “boys” (one server carried each one). These are chutneys, various pepper sauces, nuts and sliced fruits and vegetables, the most important of which are peanuts and bananas and coconut.

We watched the light change the color of The Mountain (which, as the residents say, was Out) for us. (This means that Mt. Takhoma, aka Ranier, was not obscured by clouds.) Its perfect Fuji-cone fills the view across Lake Washington from my friends’ terrace.


Margo is a retired journalism professor and Andy is an unretired psychology professor at U of W, who spends most of his time travelling the world for the Gates Foundation checking on projects they have funded and looking for more, he just got back from Bangladesh and a project he is especially enthusiastic about. By now he will be in Lithuania.
With us at dinner was Jamie Pedersen, a brilliant lawyer and promising politician. He one his State Senate race easily ( he is very charming and attractive), pretty much for the purpose of advancing gay rights. He and Eric were married in their Lutheran church, and they have fathered three children through a surrogate: one two-year old , Trygve; and triplets Anders, Eric, and Leif – now six months old. Their fathers both continue to work – Jamie adding responsibilities in the Legislature. Talk about role-models! I would say those are four lucky kids.
On returning to Ontario, I made my way to Lever Rukhin’s loft in South LA. Lever is the son of a Russian painter, whom I met when Lever was the triplets’ age in Leningrad, in the course of a Chorus tour. I met the son by accident nine years ago in Rome. (See below, account of two years ago).

Lever lives off 55th and Alameda, which is the section that has recently changed its name from “South Central” to “South LA”. It is definitely Easy Rawlins territory, but not at all scary. Crime is at a fifty-year low, and Lever and his friends have never had any trouble at all.
Lever is keeping my car while I’m in the East. He has plenty of room, because he lives in a very secure, razor-wire-fenced compound of six storage-unit-studios, most of which are also residences, informally. Very nice set-up. L. barbecued some fabulous steaks and chicken for me and his neighbors. Then he had to go out of town to help his mother in San Francisco. I will see more of him when I return.
As an international airport, LAX sucks. There were no restaurants or any other facilities except toilets beyond the security checkpoint. Singapore was operating out of a remote terminal, which meant a bus-ride to the remote boarding buildings. Maybe that’s why. Primitive. Surprising for such a huge, glitzy city.
Speaking of which, I had the pleasure of dining with two other old friends, Joseph Oppolds and David Norgard. AS far as I know, David was the first completely out and openly gay man to go through the ordination screening process in the Episcopal Church. (Late ‘70s). I presented him for ordination at the Church of the Holy Apostles in Manhattan. Ordained with him was (N) Glasspool, who is now Suffragan Bishop of New York.

After reviving Episcopal Community Services in MN, David moved to CA, more convenient to Joseph’s work as a travel company executive. David now has a consulting business and Joseph is very near the top of a company that serves celebrities. If Brad or Angelina or Sean or the Jonas boys need to go somewhere, they call Joseph’s outfit. He doesn’t deal with them, though, because he’s in management. So, no swanky parties in Beverley Hills, but they did get to go to the Grammies in J.’s new Jaguar. Lovely apartment just off Santa Monica in West Hollywood.
Chasing the sun west over the Aleutians. The lights just came on, so the ten-hour flight must be winding down. Singapore Airline really takes care of you. Two meals and a snack in between. Big fun awaits at Narita, where I have to find the train to Tokyo, and then a public phone to call my friend, Paul McCarthy, who sadly has to leave for MN tomorrow to say goodbye to his dying brother. Anyway, he will get to stay in my apartment. I will move into his and see if I can stand his cat, Dinah. He has arranged a whole committee of English-speaking Japanese to show me around.

There is this one advantage to being fat: in airports, they are happy to push you around in wheelchairs. Even the aristocrats of First Class don’t get that!