( Note to a small prologue - Given the immense feeling of isolation that is wander in an environment you do not have the ability to understand anything without looking at the dictionary, the music becomes a vital sense: it creates imbuirte some complicity in a state of mind to those around you do not understand, so that there is a tie, as there is a mutual incomprehension towards others and towards each other, but not by this means less happiness . I mean that during the weekends, which is when I do the tourist thing, the iPod becomes my second heart. That is the reason why in today's blog I mention the music that moved me, stirred me and moved me during my excursion to Kyoto Saturday.)
The Kyoto last weekend made me short because it takes to get an hour and fourth from the central station of Kobe (Sannomiya, you know, which is half an hour from the residence where I live, the station Gakuentoshi), so I decided to get up early to better enjoy the day. No short or lazy I woke up at 6.00 am when the streets of Kobe that are already placed enough, for here the stage machinery makers are very early risers. After breakfast and order a little bit the fourth to take the subway to Sannomiya and I approached the train station a special transport redeem bonds (the JR Rail Pass, I guess that I'll talk about it later, so hold on to the name) to buy in Spain, as in Japan can not buy. By mistake, the girl (it's amazing that nobody speaks English here, for more to be told that if they speak it) gave me some tickets that corresponded with me but they were infinitely better, because I could ride a bullet train, called Shinkansen. Ditancia is not much, but I tell you, do not delay anything. To put it more accurately, from Osaka to Kyoto (Osaka is in the middle of the road, and last week the hard drive as 50 minutes) takes 3 songs from Abba: Chiquitita , Dancing Queen and Mamma Mia . (What Shall I tell you, every one will get the gay side where you least expect it.) The train was about to start came when Thank you for the music that hard as it takes to find the exit to the street , so I could enjoy Waterloo jumping with happiness Kyotenses sidewalks.
Sometimes I think the swing is the engine that moves the world.
Moved by this irrefutable truth rode the bus ready to scoff Kyoto and I plug in the swinging Sinatra sessions. Suddenly, almost a betrayal, it sounds like one of the most amazing lyrics I remember:
Someday when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight .
( Someday, when this terribly decayed,
when the world is cold,
will feel a glow just thinking of you
and how you tonight.)
I was not too awfully low to say, but if I felt that glow to remember the way she Looked All Those nights and the endless nights that rondare, brunette. Right there, then, squeezed up from the epigastrium Hundreds of Japanese (because we must add that apart from the passion of these guys roll up on public transport, the Japanese who were with me on the bus were tourists, so the pressure was indescribable) a tender tear slipped down my cheek and I had to clean the tongue, as my left hand was caught between a briefcase and a man's leg with Gothic king face and right hand trying to escape from the oppression that an old (pardon me, I wanted to say old) strove to inflict merciless. Advantage which would have to have anyone here look at the face, because to see a foreshortened (in the literal sense of the word) of six feet-plus with headphones suck face has to be a show for a any of the five Japanese in 1200 that surrounded me at that time.
was lucky and that I wanted to stop was nearby. More than I thought. It was the Buddhist temple (well, exactly a doctrine derived from Buddhism) Higashi-Honganji, which is huge huge huge. Made of wood and all the buildings around here, I could only see the entrance to the exhibition (which I can see with the face of duck) and small temples, which I took no pictures inside because he was a priest (or whatever) in the middle of a mass (idem) of which I understood a few words Loose as "pillow" and "caring." You can not say that my Japanese is not advancing at a glance. For those who may know the facade of the University Cisneriana, say that the temple "small", of which attached photo, is higher. The temple "big" was covered completely with a ship construction, since it is in reform. From the looks of the ship, the above templito had to be almost as big as the Plaza de Cervantes. You may happen to me, of course, but I'll have to somehow communicate the impression that I caused. On the right side of the photograph you can see the height of the nave of work that covers the temple. If you say to him, the temple that appears in the photo is almost tiny imaginareis you better than I speak. Background first act of Turandot, for environment a bit. It is an opera set in China, whether in the imperial Beijing, but we can not forget that the Kyoto (or Heian Kyo, as it was at that time) was built in the image and likeness of the Chinese court, he was the model tracking the Japanese without saying drank this green tea is my . As the world has changed in ten centuries, now the Japs universal control technology and Chinese roses sold in bars. be back to take a bus to amortize the Bonobus of a day that I bought at the station on arrival and to avoid making a collective niponicidio hear Gomaespuma, causing such a state of hilarity in me that he noticed that the bus driver looks at me through the rearview mirror while driving. I can not help it: the history of the sock and the cleaning lady I fell.
Pasa half an hour until I Rokuon-ji temple, which houses the famous Kinkakuji, also called Pavilion Gold more than obvious reasons. Tamara warned me that most likely would come a time when all the temples seem equally, and the National Geographic guide tells me that's a thought very common but there is no case to make because the temples are full of subtle details that differentiate them. However, I have the bad luck that I have no one to accompany me to tell me those details (I love to do a tour of any of these temples, but I dare not pay for me to speak in English Japanize that probably leave me as I am), which, heeding my dear 
resident of La Paz, I am driven mostly by the pure nature that is around the monuments. Buddhism and Shintoism, so it seems, are highly integrated with everything that has to do with nature mater, and I would have time to stop listening at first and then Corelli Gesualdo to decide that the most beautiful at this time is to listen to the breeze that sighs on the leaves, on water and birds and waterfalls. I approach the golden pavilion, as I can I avoid the hundreds and hundreds of people eager to get a picture cloned that of others, and seek approaches that bring me other sensations. I, therefore, countless photos, and once the camera has done its job, let it rest 
to be me trying to rest as far as possible the union with everything around me (or almost everything, I have no intention to join the Sunday drivers who have no qualms about squandering the haven that promises yard), and is beginning to glimpse what they say to feel one with the cosmos. Those who know me will believe that I'm joking, or that when it comes to Alcala ire all stinking smoke and sandalwood incense sticks. But it has nothing to do with it. This is not an outdated hippie seventies in Ibiza and around, but to understand once and for all that what has characterized the human being throughout history (and talking about human beings with capital and not only militarized Hottentots breathe to the rhythm of war, which has been around in this blue sky is not always) has been the constant search for beauty, 
be here in Rome in Ecija in Boston or in Port Moresby. Beauty concept has changed over the centuries and locations, but Rubens had been startled by the works of Modigliani, Tomas Luis de Victoria with the symphonies of Mahler does not change anything. Not even about religions, cultures, nationalities, experiences or other esoteric trifles. I mean, that Beauty with capital has been and will continue to be an innate human search. Or so I believe. After all, what is love but the desire to be one with what we consider beautiful?
resident of La Paz, I am driven mostly by the pure nature that is around the monuments. Buddhism and Shintoism, so it seems, are highly integrated with everything that has to do with nature mater, and I would have time to stop listening at first and then Corelli Gesualdo to decide that the most beautiful at this time is to listen to the breeze that sighs on the leaves, on water and birds and waterfalls. I approach the golden pavilion, as I can I avoid the hundreds and hundreds of people eager to get a picture cloned that of others, and seek approaches that bring me other sensations. I, therefore, countless photos, and once the camera has done its job, let it rest 
to be me trying to rest as far as possible the union with everything around me (or almost everything, I have no intention to join the Sunday drivers who have no qualms about squandering the haven that promises yard), and is beginning to glimpse what they say to feel one with the cosmos. Those who know me will believe that I'm joking, or that when it comes to Alcala ire all stinking smoke and sandalwood incense sticks. But it has nothing to do with it. This is not an outdated hippie seventies in Ibiza and around, but to understand once and for all that what has characterized the human being throughout history (and talking about human beings with capital and not only militarized Hottentots breathe to the rhythm of war, which has been around in this blue sky is not always) has been the constant search for beauty, 
be here in Rome in Ecija in Boston or in Port Moresby. Beauty concept has changed over the centuries and locations, but Rubens had been startled by the works of Modigliani, Tomas Luis de Victoria with the symphonies of Mahler does not change anything. Not even about religions, cultures, nationalities, experiences or other esoteric trifles. I mean, that Beauty with capital has been and will continue to be an innate human search. Or so I believe. After all, what is love but the desire to be one with what we consider beautiful? The same ideas and same pleasures (not just aesthetic but also emotional) haunt me in my visit to the temple of 
Ninnaji, whom I regret not being able to show you pictures of causes that do not come to mind. Do not know where I heard that in some cultures the metal was another element, like water, air, earth and fire. I do not know if that happens here, but I notice that the iron is integrated in nature and became almost part of it, but note that a discontinuity that involves an assault on the eyes. These guys knew what was up, and you can not deny that they made a inadjetivable work. But here I can not even want to echo the thousands of reflections that I trasconquineaban while wandering in these temples. Suffice it to say that I think that one has to make this trip (not me refiero a Japon sino a algo mas intimo) en su mismo yo, y conseguir hallar un tiempo para si que le evada de aquello que no le deje evadirse de nada. Se que ahora mismo soy un afortunado, que cuando llegue a casa volvere a ser engullido de modo inexorable por la voragine stressil que nos consume imperterrita, pero no por ello quisiera reivindicar para cada uno esa parcela de paz profunda e intransferible que nos merecemos. Es dificil, lo se, pero ay amigos, que distinto seria todo si fuera mas facil.
Ninnaji, whom I regret not being able to show you pictures of causes that do not come to mind. Do not know where I heard that in some cultures the metal was another element, like water, air, earth and fire. I do not know if that happens here, but I notice that the iron is integrated in nature and became almost part of it, but note that a discontinuity that involves an assault on the eyes. These guys knew what was up, and you can not deny that they made a inadjetivable work. But here I can not even want to echo the thousands of reflections that I trasconquineaban while wandering in these temples. Suffice it to say that I think that one has to make this trip (not me refiero a Japon sino a algo mas intimo) en su mismo yo, y conseguir hallar un tiempo para si que le evada de aquello que no le deje evadirse de nada. Se que ahora mismo soy un afortunado, que cuando llegue a casa volvere a ser engullido de modo inexorable por la voragine stressil que nos consume imperterrita, pero no por ello quisiera reivindicar para cada uno esa parcela de paz profunda e intransferible que nos merecemos. Es dificil, lo se, pero ay amigos, que distinto seria todo si fuera mas facil. En esto me hallaba cuando llegue al ultimo edificio que me habia propuesto visitar hoy: el templo de Ryoanji, que segun mis noticias was unlike anything I had seen until then (and here I refer not only to Japan) because the interior garden is an area of \u200b\u200braked gravel on which they stand 15 rocks of different size and shape. Built in the late fifteenth century, this temple is spoken of as the beginning of all Western minimalism from people like Gropius or Brook is excited to the core with something as simple and profound at once. Somewhat skeptical about what I see, I stood at the door of the temple, bare me, I freeze it now makes a horrible scratching and the temple does not have any door.
As envisioned, the garden is full of people talking and whispering and talking on the phone in that singsong Wakarimasen that makes me crazy for quite a whopping two weeks, but not first decide to lose the feeling looking at the ground (a simple wooden tatami) while waiting to be a hole is made between people who admire the delights of the gravel. When I notice that someone has gone I sit, I sit comfortably, and once installed look for the Allegri Miserere, which is so beautiful it makes mourn the southeast trade winds. So that I look up according to the first chord sounds, and what is presented before me is just what I imagined: a set of misplaced stones and boring and not seen since that of Tapies exhibition at the Reina Sofia. But something tells me that I stay the more than ten minutes it takes the Miserere. I climb a little volume to block out the voices around me, thinking that meditation without a doubt looking Soami (painter and gardener who designed it) can not be reached within ten seconds. 
And so it happened that, in a curious blend of Renaissance polyphony and Zen gardens, after a little while I start to shake some thoughts, not all defined, but they produce a real emotion, almost tangible. I think of Don Rodrigo, I'm just a piece of gravel, the leaves die in autumn without anyone knowing, when the sea is not always to blame, in my mother's head down and in a present that anything goes. And for a second, and ten seconds, and even something more, I want to break to mourn. To mourn for the emotion, to mourn for simplicity, to mourn apologetic for not knowing the penalty must always remember that last as long as one allows. I embrace the Lord that I have at hand, curl up on like a salamander and cry out but I do not understand or will not understand. Suddenly, as I undertook this, a ray of sun blinds me for a moment, and when I get to open my eyes I notice that something is falling. I rub my eyes to verify that there is a dazzling effect, and I reach out enough to notice that it is not that, it starts to rain, to sparkle, to drizzles. But the sun does not hide, but drops shines, few persons who dare to slip into my face, and again, as fleeting as they came, they leave.
The Allegri Miserere over. Have been the best eleven minutes eighteen seconds since I came to the archipelago as crazy as heavenly.
I turn, enjoy the rest of the yard, came back to put on, I left the room, and, with them, turn off the music sounded in that time (Bach, Grieg, who cares ...) to go to the station, whistling the greatness that we have the anonymous beings.
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