Your Name Is a Place I Won't Forget

Earthshine reader —

It's me, Dazé, and I'm … relieved.

After a few hectic days, I managed to get this post out on time. That's right, second issue in and I'm already rushing to meet my self-imposed deadlines. Does this newsletter have any hope? I should hope so.

Now, let's take a stroll, shall we?

It was June 3, 2023. My wife and I had gone for a two-day trip to a city in the Nagano Prefecture called Suwa. She had been craving it for some time, mainly because it seems to be the place that influenced the setting of Your Name (2016), an animation film about a body switch between a country girl and a city boy, and more profound connections. Ultimately, it was this trivia combined with the fact that Suwa features a lake — I like lakes — that convinced me to go.

We woke up early and took a train to Shinjuku, followed by a several-hour bus ride to Kami-Suwa Station. It was the early afternoon and we hadn't eaten much except a "meronpan" (a sweet bun that's supposed to taste like a melon, but never does) and a cup of coffee, so we scouted for a restaurant and settled on a "teishoku" (set menu). Upon entry, an old lady — likely the owner — walked over and kindly informed us that the lunch period was ending.

The search resumed, but it appeared that the few other options were all under the same opening hours. Luckily, being in Japan, there was a safe bet: the holy "konbini" (convenience store); on this occasion, it was a FamilyMart. We picked up sandwiches and isotonic drinks, but because there weren't any tables, we decided to remain hungry a little longer and eat at the hotel.

To get there, we took an overpass to the other side of the train station and walked for about 7 minutes. The hotel was a hot spring "ryokan" (traditional Japanese inn) and featured a spacious, retro-styled lobby enclosed by a canal-like pond with countless koi. On the second floor (third in the Japanese standard) was the "onsen" (hot spring) and a dispenser corner that included … honey water? The room was tatami-matted and had a stunning lakeside view.

After lunch, my wife went out exploring while I stayed behind at the hotel; the early wake-up combined with the bus ride had taken a toll on me. Besides, this inn had it all — you can't blame me!

It wasn't until the next day, our final day, that I showed myself to the sun. We returned to the station and took a 16-minute train ride to Shimo-Suwa, another station further north. My wife had gathered some ideas on her first sightseeing, which led her to craft a masterful itinerary for the day:

1. Navigate through the suburbs and explore two shrines, (Suwa Taisha Shimosha) Akimiya and (Suwa Taisha Shimosha) Harumiya.
2. Pivot towards Lake Suwa and head back along the bank.
3. Hike up the hillside to a popular panorama viewpoint called Tateishi Park.

Walking through suburbs is often where I come across the most interesting scenes. I'm not sure why, but I find it incredibly easy to spot a charm in the Japanese ordinary. It's likely just because everything is so different from where I'm from, but I like to think that the meaning is a little more profound than that.

This photo was taken from a road that snaked through the town of Shimosuwa. Every time I look at it, I feel as if I could leap into it and onto the first red roof, down onto the green one, up again to the big one, down again, and so on — like the cat bus would in the whimsical world of Totoro.

Closing in on the shrines, I spotted this rather doleful sight. Seeing those roof tiles being decommissioned after years of service makes me wonder about the history they leave behind, one that nobody will remember; things like how many UV rays they resisted, how many raindrops they escorted into the ground, and how many bugs they gave home to … Even inanimate objects can't escape the circle of life.

You might have anticipated a photo of the shrines — no, I'm afraid. One thing you'll notice with my photography is that I'm not one to favour the evident sight or to follow trends. It's why I chose a newsletter over an Instagram account. A pair of Shinto priest shoes stationed in front of an empty shoe rack with a flight of sun-dried stairs to the side is not exactly something mainstream audiences go crazy over … But I do. What can I say, my eyes have a mind of their own.

To exemplify my previous point, let's consider this next image. I decided to drift away from the crowd gathered around the shrines to an empty area. Suddenly, a "kannushi" (a Shinto priest) fetching a fence turns the corner. "A priest fetching a fence" … doesn't that sound strange? It's the kind of thing you would prompt AI with because, heck … what are the odds? And yet, there in front of me was the scene unfolding, as real as it will ever be. This is why, as a photographer, I diverge.

With the shrines explored, it was time to make towards the very thing that got me to come here: the lake.

On the way, I stumbled upon this yard sale, which might be better classified as a sidewalk sale. One thing I admire about the Japanese is their remarkable faith in one another. As you can see, this sale is passive; the half-hidden whiteboard to the left literally reads "unmanned junk market", followed by "two for 100 yen". If I had approached the sale, I would have found a money box with the funds of bygone clients, and I bet not a single yen was missing from the corresponding count.

Suwa Lake wasn't hard to find, and what a sight it was. Before long, something else caught my attention: Is that a … gigantic tennis ball?! My wife questioned my suspicion. Unsettled, I did something I rarely do during a photo walk: change lenses. I loaded a 100-400mm and zoomed in all the way, but it wasn't enough. I had to employ the camera's x10 electronic zoom feature to discover that, tragically, it wasn't a gigantic tennis ball but a gas tank …

I decided to leave the super telephoto lens on, which came in handy for the various offshore scenes I spotted while continuing along the lake. Take this one, for example. The first thought that springs to mind is likely: Gah! Plastic pollution! The truth, however, is quite the opposite. This bottle, which originally had an ephemeral role, has now been assigned a new, long-lasting purpose: as a buoy. I'm no fisherman, but I'm willing to bet it's anchored to a crustacean trap.

I like the dirt, the signs of use, and the overall lack of modernity; you can almost feel the human effort that has accompanied this boat since its origins. Standing on the bank, I had an immense desire to leap into it and sail off in search of gigantic tennis balls, but my wife held me back. By the way, notice the plastic bottle in the basket; another DIY buoy, ready to be deployed.

This is a heron, and … that's about as far as my heron knowledge goes. If you can tell if this is a blue or a grey fellow, let me know. Enchanting birds, herons … They're somewhat common in Japan, but each time I see one, my heart skips a beat. Not only are they beautiful and have an impressive wingspan, but watching them hunt with such stealth is nothing short of hypnotising. Speaking of herons …

Have you seen one like this?! At first, I thought it was a youngling, then I saw his legs and worried they were broken, but no; this fellow was just resting after an arduous morning of fishing. Is this the bird equivalent of a human down on their knees? Fascinating and, frankly, hilarious; one more reason to love herons.

What's better than a gigantic tennis ball? A colossal common swan, of course. Look at that thing … The aerodynamics must be so appalling that you're better off riding an actual swan. But who cares about speed when the purpose is to cruise? That crow roosting on the deck surely doesn't mind.

Having arrived back to Kamisuwa, it was time to deviate from the lake and head towards the hillside for that esteemed viewpoint. For this part, I decided to switch back to the 24-105mm. Two lens swaps in a single session … One more and I fall to the dark side of street photography.

But first, a pit stop. And once again, the konbini saved the day; this time it was a Lawson. Among the assembled arsenal was a bag of frozen edamame, crisps, and two flavours of pre-cooked fried chicken nuggets called "karaage-kun". I also decided to try, for the first time, "haibooru" (whisky highball), a popular carbonated drink in Japan made of whisky and soda water.

My wife had taken the liberty to find — how do I put it? — a jungly shortcut that runs through the slope as opposed to taking the slightly lengthier road that zig-zags all the way to Tateishi Park. If I had known what lay ahead, I might as well have hit the road — in either sense of the meaning.

Picture this stairway, followed by another, and another one after that; all the while, poisonous grass blades scythe your calves, buzzing insects ambush you from all sides, and you sprain both your ankles — multiple times — from the mismatching levels between the steps. Worst of all? Your partner doesn't complain once.

Up to this point, all the houses I had crossed had been in fair shape and, in many cases, brimming with life. As we made our way up the hillside, a different sight took over: vacant buildings, many in ruins. What was this? My almighty wife happened to have some insight. There is a phenomenon in Japan called "akiya" which refers to abandoned houses, mostly rural. The reason? When a house reaches a bad state, the owners — or their heirs — choose to let it be rather than demolish it and either sell or rebuild it. Why? Because it's cheaper in both cases. The current count of akiya houses is over nine million and is commonly attributed to Japan's ageing population. So, if you're looking to move here and want an inexpensive house, consult the local akiya catalogue.

Another akiya house. In this one, Mother Nature is slowly but surely reclaiming the terrain that was once stripped away from her to facilitate human life which is now, ironically, better off without it.

At last, out of the woods. The remaining path to the viewpoint was along the winding road, which luckily only lasted for about five minutes. The hard part was over, but instead of mirroring my wife's enthusiasm for the reward to come, my mind was fixated on the hotel — visible under the green patch — and dreading the steps back; you and I both know the way down is always worse …

At last, Tateishi Park and its magnificent view of Lake Suwa. Conveniently, the place featured stands, so we found a seat and had our afternoon snack. Frankly, it wasn't the best of meals; the edamame was still frozen, the nuggets had gone cold, and that highball whiskey — never again.

At the start of the post, I mentioned the anime Your Name, written and directed by Makoto Shinkai. Something I've noticed in many of his works is that he has a deep fondness for the sky and puts a lot of effort into making it look ravishing. For fun, here is my lousy attempt (composited) at a sky frame à la Shinkai-san.

With a fuelled body and a rekindled spirit, it was time to return to the ryokan. The way down was indeed demanding, but what kept me going was the prospect of gulping down a few glasses of that honey water and submerging my worn body in the onsen — and that's exactly what I did.

Later on, it was time to say goodbye and return to Tokyo, this time by train. Upon departure, I looked out the window as a thought hovered over me: Suwa, your name is a place I won't forget. I didn't know it then, but this city had just earned itself a spot in my all-time favourite places in Japan; and, as you'll discover in a future issue, this wasn't to be my only visit there.

Until next time,
D