Bamboo Forests... Silent Refreshment

What's in a Name?

2007-03-23T12:42:00.000+09:00

At some point in the early stages of modernizing a certain fishing town, which was faced with a growing population and the subsequent needs produced, new school buildings were built and brought under the overarching umbrella of a branch in the city government known as the Board of Education (BOE). Those of the elementary and high school variety were given names deemed appropriate to their location or specialty. The business of naming junior high schools, on the other hand, must have been presented at the end of a long and tiring day consisting of too many dissenting opinions, too many bottles of tea consumed, and the rapid approach of the hour designated for the year-end company party.

At least, this is what I imagine whenever I am, in response to a polite inquiry, obligated to list three out of the eight schools my husband teaches at; 5-chu, 7-chu, 8-chu, using the respective Japanese pronunciations for the numbers.

In English this would translate roughly into “Junior highs five, seven, and eight”.

The buildings are depressing enough from the outside, with the cold, somber concrete walls, dirt lots and overall feel of a prison building rather than an institution of education. It seems a shame to not even have a unique name to boast of.

Now, I know the buildings themselves are not a result of the thinly-stretched budget of a city in the throes of its twilight years, but are rather a recognizable standard throughout the country. What I wonder is if they too, are known only as a number in their respective municipalities.

The Time Has Come

2007-03-16T14:09:00.000+09:00

I had been dreading this day for quite a while. Although I couldn’t accurately predict when the inevitable would take place, there was no denying that every week brought it one step closer. And then it happened… the ATM spit out the bankbook with a whirr of distaste, refusing to have anything further to do with my well-worn companion.

We’d been together ever since that sweltering August day a year and a half ago when I gingerly pulled it out of its plastic sleeve to give it a good look over. I suppose it was inevitable that we would bond- it essentially replaced my checkbook and would serve as the only record of the electronic transactions that happened on a monthly basis in the interest of keeping things like water and electricity flowing.

Every week we would make our way to the bank and go through the same routine of withdrawing money and updating its records (which happened automatically through the magic of ATM printing). It witnessed my transition from an awkward foreigner staring blankly at the kanji-ridden screen trying to match symbols with a hastily scrawled diagram to a confident resident able to breeze in and out of the building in 30 seconds or less. It patiently endured squinting scrutiny in my efforts to decipher the lines of kanji and kana that indicated what company had withdrawn what sum of money. It even held its tongue the time I pretended to be my husband in order to take care of some technical hold-up regarding a funds transfer into (as opposed to from) our account.

Thus it was with a sigh as these memories flooded my mind that I packed up my things and slowly approached one of the two staff members standing by. Both seemed slightly disgruntled, so I aligned my path with the one who still had a spark of energy in her eyes. After taking a moment to summon my courage and give a slight apologetic head bow, I told her my dilemma.

The relief on her face was almost palpable at the immediate understanding of my situation, which prompted a small grin of my own to appear. With surprisingly little thought or practice beforehand I had spoken in clear Japanese, a far cry from last year’s experience at the post office. Five minutes of standing in front of a large machine later saw me in possession of a crisp new bankbook, as well as the old faithful one, now with a hole punched in its corner announcing its retirement.

Truly, it couldn’t have given me a better farewell gift than a chance to clearly see the progress I’ve made in my language acquisition. While still miles away from proficient, or even passable, I know the next time I come across the “How well can you speak Japanese” question on a form, I can confidently fill in the bubble meaning “I know enough to get by”.

And so I smile as I gently tuck its faded yellow visage away in my folder of “Things to Take Home”, basking in one last warm memory from an old friend.

KAT- Matsudo

2006-08-16T22:52:00.000+09:00

(Second entry in the KAT series)
Let us not speak of the train rides. They were wholly uninteresting, except for the remarkable lack of people crushing themselves into the cars due to our trip falling in the middle of Obon.

Let us speak instead about the wonders of giant robot heads… because that’s what we saw at the Bandai Museum in Matsudo. For you toy fanatics out there who’d like a more in-depth description of the tour and pretty pictures, this site does a great job of stirring up the collector within you. For the rest of us, a little excerpt about our 2 hour stop:

“Hazy daylight strikes my eyes upon our emergence from the JR station, and we cross the pedestrian bridge to the four-story shrine celebrating all that is Bandai. As my mind races to resolve the shapes meandering in front of me against a painfully bright backdrop, a part of it is filled with visions of an almost deserted building during the stretch of summer days set aside to honor the spirits of the dead. This vision is abruptly dashed as we stumble across the line of families, couples, and more families snaking away from the entrance. The museum isn’t open yet, and only 30 lucky souls get to stand in the air-conditioned lobby as we all wait the last 15 minutes before the stroke of ten peals across the city.

There are even attendants herding people to the appropriate areas depending on one’s destination. For those who wish to bypass the museum and go straight to the store filled with Bandai goodness, by all means, make your way there. For the rest of us who will only spend the pittance it costs to enter the Gundam universe, enjoy the humidity. It’s good for the skin. After a couple minutes of confused meandering, we finally discover which line we want to be in. It’s the long one with all the children.

Curses.

We spend the rest of the wait zoning out and wondering at the architectural genius who built the room we’re standing in. We’ve made it into the museum itself, but it only stands to reason there’s a line within a line to get into the actual area we have a mind to visit. There were no lines for Character World, oh no. Everyone wants to stare at the big Zaku head and life-size (which means it’s at least two stories tall) Gundam robot instead.

It’s quite a sight, so I can’t blame them.

So here we are, in a deceptively small room, all black except for a couple screens talking about (what else?) Gundams and the brightly uniformed Bandai attendant taking tickets and handing out a check-point sheet of sorts. At first glance the line looks to be no more than twenty people. Then you reach a corner that, instead of being solid, opens into a long corridor that unmasks the other 3/4ths of humanity awaiting their turn to walk through the impressive metal doors that lead to the museum itself.

If we all rushed the attendant at once, we would be as unstoppable as water flowing through a crack in the Hoover Dam.

Somehow, I don’t think the parents tenderly cradling their sleeping infant while avidly reading descriptive plaques on the wall are up to the task. Watching them makes me wonder if they’ve set their daughter on the path of robot adoration, indifference, or active dislike. She’s pretty zonked out… probably won’t remember a thing.

At last, we’re in! This is what greets us:

Kudos to Ash for taking such an impressive shot in dismal lighting conditions.

Now it’s just a matter of skillfully weaving through the crowd and seeing what there is to see...”

And see we did, everything from the history of the Gundam universe to a room I have nicknamed “The Black Hole”. It’s a place designed to rapidly, and rather unfairly, deplete your yen through cunningly devised activities while the imposing yellow eyes of the giant 1:1 scale Gundam look on. Rip-off booths aside, it was a good time, which I think has to be partly attributed to all the little kiddies running around with unfettered energy and enthusiasm. It’s infectious, you know?

We were ready for lunch at my favorite bakery in Ueno by the time we emerged, and then it was off to a popular part of Tokyo known as Odaiba.

KAT- The Beginning

2006-08-14T20:31:00.000+09:00

(First entry in the KAT "Kickin' Around Tokyo" series)
As we peeked outside in the pre-dawn hours, it became painfully obvious that the low-hanging clouds had no intention of letting even the tiniest bit of sunshine filter through their ranks. This did not bode well for our plans to visit the seaside, photogenic town of Kamakura. We were bound by our hotel reservation to make it to Tokyo, but the two hours of travel beyond that didn’t seem quite so worthwhile as it did a few days ago, being the kind of place that should be seen in the company of blue skies and minus the threat of intense rain showers (considering all the notable places to visit are outside).

For a couple (mostly my husband) that carefully lays out sightseeing plans in order to make the most of the time spent out and about, the unfavorable conditions posed a real dilemma. There were too many other places on our list of “Things to See” in Japan to warrant a second visit, so if we followed through now, we would most likely not make it back.

Then it dawned on us. We were going to Tokyo, the urban playground of Japan. Instead of going through it and southward, why not just hop around to the locations we’ve wanted to check out for a while now anyway? We wouldn’t be nearly as exposed to the raw elements as we hopped from one soaring building to the next…

Or so we thought.

Check it out!

2006-06-30T14:57:00.000+09:00

It was bound to happen of course, but now it's official- the splitting of my time between two blogs. Right now you may be thinking, "Great... sooo, I should expect an update here about every 6 months?" A valid point, but first I urge you to hop on over and check it out anyway.

Truth be told (for reasons described in its inaugural post), blog 2 will probably get updated more frequently, although more thought will be put into posts here. In the meantime, both will march on to the beat of Taico drums.

This will also be the last news-ish post I'll put on this site, if I can at all help it.

With all that said, stay cool! Please, please stay cool... cause it's physically impossible over here, and if you don't take the burden upon yourselves, who will?

A Photo of a Photo of a Mirror

2006-05-02T22:38:00.000+09:00

For the first time this year, I went for a walk without my coat! My original mission was to sneak close to the wall of a neighboring home and snap some close-up pictures of the cherry tree as its blossoms waned. This soon changed into snapping photos of random things. What can I say, I'm that kind of photographer.

This mirror is what's supposed to be utilized by the drivers that roar down our narrow street to look around blind corners. In reality, it only gives false security that if there is a car you're about to crash into coming around the bend, you might be able to avoid it. The high wall in the mirror, which fences in the mega-huge nice house I wish we lived in because it has a balcony that faces the sun for the purpose of drying clothes in this dryer-less society (we'd be happy for just a corner! They'd never know we were there...), is typical of what lines most Japanese streets. There's no curb, nowhere to swerve to avoid disaster really, just a choice between crashing into the wall or crashing into the thing you were trying to avoid in the first place. This would also explain why, when people pull off and park on the side of the road, they in essence block that lane of traffic...

But I digress. This particular mirror is useless, since nobody uses the adjacent road to turn onto ours. Ironically, it is one of the better placed ones, being placed at a good angle for decent sightlines. Some I've seen are positioned so badly that you'd be no worse off if it didn't exist at all and had to deal with the blind corners alone. These are also the intersections where I've seen quite a few accidents and shattered glass & tail lights on the road while riding my bike.

That figure in the distance is a distorted picture of me taking this picture. I just happen to be wearing a turtleneck the pale color the cherry blossoms blush in their prime, which seems fitting considering we have both opened our arms to embrace the warmth of springtime.

I know what you're thinking. It doesn't matter what anyone says; it's not pink. Cause, you know, I don't do pink. But I DO do Korea, and that's where my dear husband and I are headed in a few short hours! We'll be gone for the rest of the week, so posts will begin again sometime after that.

Have a great Golden Week!

Pity the Japanese Comedian

2006-04-30T16:45:00.000+09:00

Or rather, pity the thirty-five Japanese comedians Ash & I were watching on TV last week. All those gathered were men decked out in jump suits and helmets, ready to begin a race. The course seemed simple enough, even mundane; with ropes on either side of the path laid out, a couple twists and turns, and a long flat stretch that eventually began a relatively steep ascent. A banner declaring “Goal!!” was at the crest of the hill, the sight of which was unhindered and would serve to encourage stragglers onwards. The overall time was unimportant, for the only goal was to finish. The men readied themselves. A gun sounded, and they were off, jogging easily and remaining in a pack. The poor chumps didn’t have a clue of what was in store.

Thirty seconds into the race another gun sounded, and from the starting line raced the first hazard of the course: women. Women comedians, to be exact, along with some men who were dressed up as women (which seems to be a favorite comic element among comedian groups) shot through the course and quickly caught up with the pack. What followed could only be described as an onslaught: the women tackled any man they could find and planted themselves on top, tormenting with slaps or kisses calculated to make even the strongest warrior shiver. Those who escaped their wiles desperately increased their speed and ran as fast as they could forward, until an invisible boundary was crossed and the women followed them no more. Seven men had been lost, and the remaining pack members milled around, composing themselves before starting once again towards the goal while nervously glancing behind their shoulders.

Before long the bang of a gun was heard once more, and the pack quickened their pace in an attempt to avoid whatever had been just released. Their efforts were in vain, for what pursued them this time was giant and menacing; indeed, each stride of its long legs made up six of an ordinary man’s. Within moments it came upon the pack, where the members of which turned around and could only gape soundlessly. It looked like a man, only in a suit of red and with a fake-as-fake can be white beard.

In fact, it was a man. On stilts. Wielding a giant sword, with which he proceeded to whomp on the runners mercilessly and with impressive balance. The hilarity that ensued was extraordinary, with the poor harried men running wildly about, ducking the sword, dodging the stilted man’s legs as well as each other, sprinting out of the way only to realize they’d backtracked and having to turn around and run the gauntlet once more. Amazingly enough, only five men were lost this time around, and the rest continued on.

Just as the runners began to relax, the dreaded bang of their impending doom again rode upon the wind. Six blurs tore around the track, followed by a cloud of black-clad stagehands racing to keep up. The course-planners had unleashed their ultimate weapon: kick-boxers.

Overtaking their prey, the kick-boxers proceeded to do what they do best. It was really more of a slaughter than a fight, for as the stagehands caught up, five or six of them would quickly lay hands on any runner they could find, and the kick boxers would then plant a good hard wallop on their trembling rear end, causing the runner to collapse on the ground and roll around, yelling with pain and indignity.

Only a shade more than ten runners made it out of that trap intact, but lo and behold, they were almost upon the finish line! The banner fluttered in the wind invitingly and the comedians, with hope shining from their faces, began to trudge up the hill towards victory and freedom. Just as they crested the top… the banner began to move. Before long it was clear that it had been mounted on a huge dump truck, the back end of which was beginning to tilt, soon releasing the final bane: big black cannonballs. As high as a man, they tumbled down the hill with increasing speed, bowling runners over and smacking into those already laid prone.

This time the comedians left standing turned and helped up their fallen comrades, and as one big screaming mob, they came across the goal line and proceeded to chase the hosts waiting at the top off into the distance.

So ended a half-hour of surprise and amusement that seems unique to Japanese culture. Glancing at one another, my husband uttered what both of us were thinking:

“We really need to get a VCR.”

Odd Connections

2006-04-21T22:09:00.000+09:00

Disoriented, I shook my head in an attempt to clear my thoughts before returning my attention to my surroundings. I immediately regretted this as a simultaneous assault upon my sight and hearing began; my vision swam with neon signs and screens flashing wildly while incessant beeps, wordless shouts, and unpleasant tinny music blasted my eardrums relentlessly. As I fought the urge to cringe away, the darkness began to recede and the outlines of hulking shapes revealed themselves to be what I had secretly known and dreaded... gaming machines.

They stretched as far as the eye could see. With titles such as Dance Dance Revolution, Taico Drummer, Guitar Freak, Mario Kart x 4, and Pop’n Music, the interactive potential was endless. And, to make full the joy and despair rending my heart, there were rows upon rows of glistening UFO catchers chock full of treasures near and dear to a gamer’s heart, such as life-sized Goomba dolls and the all-coveted FFXII Potions.

There was nothing I could do. The choice had been made long prior to my arrival, and whether I willed it or no, there would be no deviation from the script. With great care and a deliberateness found in some ancient craft handed down from generation to generation, my body fell into the groove it had once trodden years past.

Time blurred into nothing. All I was aware of was the chime of coin hitting coin within the heart of my captors, over and over again. Heart racing at my recklessness, mind racing with the amount of money being blown through heedlessly, conscience heavy with guilt at this blatant disregard for the budget strictly adhered to until this ill-fated spree, it occurred to me that I knew exactly what I was doing, and it didn’t change a thing. Just as the pit in my stomach dropped to an all-time low...

I woke up.

Thank goodness I woke up.

And with clenched fists, I muttered to myself, "I really hate that Laundromat".

The Sting of Defeat

2006-04-08T00:29:00.000+09:00

Make that 13 stings, each more painful than the last. At first it was only 7, and we were smarting, but the wall wasn't insurmountable. Then I glanced at my computer screen for 30 seconds for no good reason before returning my attention to the television.

The last 6 stings struck without me even noticing.

We were once a "Pacific League doormat". Then we were champions. And now... now we're one step above doormat, which everyone knows is housecat.

There was no ceasefire granted in mercy this day, and at the end of it all, the scoreboard read:

Eagles: 13
Marines: 0

Lotte still has cool chants and loud Taico drums on their side, and it's a new day. Just take it one game at a time guys and shake off the building psychological pressure more losses than wins tend to produce. We can still have a respectable season.

All Together Now!

2006-02-28T20:09:00.000+09:00

I’d just like to take this moment and say that Lotte has some kick-butt cheers going on. Especially the most popular chant in its repertoire, which is partially in English (for that stylistic punch that Japanese words lack) and enhanced by gut-thundering Taico drums rumbling in-sync to the words:

“Let’s Go Lotte!” BOOM BOOM BOOM-BOOM-BOOM
“Let’s Go Lotte!” BOOM BOOM BOOM-BOOM-BOOM

(enter musical score as everyone begins to jump) “Go Lotte, Go Lotte! (Insert Japanese phrase here). Go Lotte, Go Lotte! (Insert Japanese phrase here).”

“Let’s Go Lotte!” BOOM BOOM BOOM-BOOM-BOOM
“Let’s Go Lotte!” BOOM BOOM BOOM-BOOM-BOOM

It was so catchy that I actually found myself singing under my breath every time the Taico drums would start up. The opposing team’s chants weren’t nearly as awesome. If the teams were going up against each other in a WWF wrestling match, Lotte would win by the sheer superiority of its theme music.

I also forgot to mention that Lotte won the game we attended. Naturally. No one can withstand the crazy power of “Go!!” with the might of a thousand sweets enthusiasts marching behind it.

Japan's Favorite Past Time- Part III

2006-02-22T16:51:00.000+09:00

(From the forgotten chronicles of Fall 2005)
Ah yes, the fans. These faithful supporters are not just a few in a vast sea of fair-weather floozies- they make up an amazing majority of ticket holders, and bring an element I have seldom seen at a game back in the states (remember, I’m speaking from the background of someone whose home-team was lackluster at best). And truly, there’s nothing like soaking in genuine fan excitement for their team, no matter how lousy their performance the previous year.

As with every other area of life here, there seems to be an unwritten protocol of how to participate in rabid fan-like activities. Each side has about three chants and/or songs that they rotate through, each accompanied by trademark choreography, such as jumping up and down or waving hands in unison. These are only displayed when their respective team is up to bat. Each side also has a volunteer band that follow the team around no matter where their game schedule takes them, providing the music with which the crowd synchronizes their deep-voiced intonations.

Not a peep could be heard out of the other team’s supporters when Lotte’s players came up to bat. They kept a respectful silence as roars of encouragement and approval came from the Lotte faithful. The only time this code of silence was broken was when an error was made, which inevitably led to the Other’s horn player whipping out a mocking nya nya nya barrage of notes as his cohorts cackled. Silence would then descend upon them once more, until either the next error or the inning’s end, whichever came first. Just as the two teams would trade places, so would the fans, with Lotte remaining silent as the Other cheered their team on.

In truth, it was all very civilized as each side dutifully waited for their turn to chant, stomp, and cheer, all the while remaining silent in shared shame during painful blunders aggravated by the taunts of their opponents. In my mind, this scene defined something difficult to grasp about the Japanese psyche that I had observed around me; a compulsion to practice manners and social graces without fail, but only part of the time, or the obsession to follow the letter of the law, written or unwritten, all the while breaking those the masses have deemed unnecessary, or at least bendable. And permeating everything is the Us vs. You mentality, right down to association with and accepting the responsibility of mistakes and blame by “your” side’s representatives, whether it be a baseball team, political party rep, company CEO, or family member. I see it everywhere. Absolutely everywhere.

Seeing this mindset being displayed so blatantly was strangely fascinating, as ingrained in the game here as anything else associated with the sport. And although we might not be able to get such a complete experience watching games on TV, the spirit was still there.

So why did we caught up? Maybe it was the intensity with which the game was played. Maybe it was the fact that we innately understand baseball, and understanding anything in this strange culture was welcome. Maybe it was the way players and fans alike poured everything into the game. Maybe it was for the badly translated comments fans made on the news. Whatever the reason, I’ve now watched more baseball in Japan than I ever did in the states. Period.

Japan's Favorite Past Time- Part II

2006-02-17T15:04:00.000+09:00

(From the forgotten chronicles of Fall 2005)
Our first taste of baseball simmered in trademark Japanese intensity came about one scorching September day in the glistening city of Makuhari. In the absence of the familiar sight of purple and white adorning the stadium, Ash & I had decided to root for our “new” home team, the Chiba Lotte Marines, even going so far as to purchase over-priced trinkets at the gift shop in the name of “memories” and “souvenirs”.

Arm in arm with a friend from Tokyo, we managed to buy some behind-home-plate tickets from a kindly old man less than two feet from the main ticket window for half the normal price (we secretly think he was a scalper, although he couldn’t have made any money from us), ignore our rightful seats while claiming others higher up in the shade (scoring some relief from the barbaric early September sun), smile at the 4-year-old munchkin being super-cute with her doting grandfather, and soak in the overall ambiance.

The stands on the opposite side of the field were a solid white, filled to the brim with loyal Lotte fans. To our left were devout followers of the opposing team, resplendent in appropriately festooned merchandise. As far as I could tell, the rest of us were the indistinct masses that go to a baseball game because it seems like a reasonably interesting way to spend a Saturday. It was at this moment that I began to think the term “fan” here meant more than munching on yakitori while quietly thinking about how nice it would be if the team I had vaguely stronger feelings towards claimed victory this day.

The stadium itself was noticeably smaller than the one back home, which meant even last-minute stragglers could purchase seats that provided a decent view of the game. Provided you weren’t unfortunate enough to sit directly behind a very ugly and very opaque concrete post. Ill-conceived architectural design, that post. Although I wasn’t right behind it, it marred my view of the game, which actually consisted of more than indistinguishable dots moving far off in the distance. So I actually wanted to see the field. But it was better than sitting in a pool of my own sweat in the seat I had actually purchased, which was half-melting in the sun by that time. My point is that since I could actually see the action, I was able to enjoy the game.

As far as I can tell, the rules of the game are the same as back in the states. If they’re not, they’re similar enough for the casual observer who knows the basics and is able to understand no-brainer concepts such as Out, Strike, Ball, and Walk, even without knowledge of Japanese sport terminology. Since understanding directly affects enjoyment, and enjoyment commands attention… you can see where this is going.

But Star, you may ask, it’s easy to see all the action of a baseball game on TV, you don’t have to sweat in the air-conditioned haven of your own home, and you understood the game back in the US! Why would anything you’ve mentioned suddenly capture your attention for an otherwise unchanged sport?

I’ll be the first to acknowledge that it’s a bit bizarre. But I’d like to point out a few things. First off, there is no true escape from the unrelenting summer heat. For anyone. Even salarymen decked out in smart business suits who have nice homes and more money than us common folk carry around sweat rags to mop up the never-ceasing rivers of your body’s cry for relief. Ash once lived with host parents who were very well off with a very nice house (I’ve been in it. I want it.) and he still roasted during that summer. So, given the choice of being wet and sticky at home or out and about… out and about at least has the promise of brief forays into air-conditioned buildings, which is still a hit-and-miss endeavor.

Secondly, circumstances do matter. It was a breath of fresh air to watch something and actually understand it in a foreign, unfamiliar land. Having arrived a scant month prior, the chance to join in communal understanding with the people around us was like a dip in a just-discovered cool mountain lake after a long hike; we didn’t really know how tiring it was to immerse ourselves in constant adventure (even signing up for a cell phone was unexplored territory- back home, they practically give them away!), or how much we missed just knowing what was going on around us, no matter how much we enjoyed and appreciated our different surroundings & new culture. Can you imagine the elation of stumbling across a chance to feel normal once more? This alone could have single-handedly accounted for our interest throughout the rest of the season, as we cheered Lotte on in the questionable comfort of our own home.

But, as always, the crowning factor is often the most simple one.

The die-hard fans are a riot.

Japan's Favorite Past Time- Part I

2006-02-13T15:28:00.000+09:00

(From the forgotten chronicles of Fall 2005)
It’s a flurry of action. Men compete against one another in titanic struggle after struggle, pitting strategy, strength, speed, and agility against their opponents for the ultimate prize. Sweat, blood, and tears flow from both sides. Fans shower their favorite with screams of devotion and pride. I speak of the sport that has captivated Japan for many, many years.

No, I don’t mean sumo.

I am speaking about a sport that has crossed both cultural and physical boundaries, traversing vast expanses of ocean to lodge itself firmly into the hearts and minds of the Japanese people. Yes dear reader… I speak of the time-honored game of baseball.

Now, I don’t claim to be a baseball fanatic. I haven’t devoted vast amounts of time to learning about players and their statistics. Asking me to name last year’s roster of any team will net you a blank stare. I can’t even rattle off all the MLB team names like some members of my family (shame still twinges my very being every four years or so). My pitiful home team doesn’t seem to know how to play the game very well. And so, my interest in this all-American sport is contained to a few games at Coors field to enjoy the sun, and possibly as background noise on the television while clipping my toenails.

Ironic how it took moving overseas for baseball to capture my attention once more.

It was hardly noticeable at first, a passing fancy really. Ash and I had heard about the difference between games here vs. in the states; typical stuff like “the atmosphere is electric” and “fans really get into the game”. And so, we decided it was time to experience Japanese baseball for ourselves… a decision that would lead to the peculiar phenomenon of two Americans following the foreign league of a sport born out of their native soil all the way through the regular season to the Asian Championship itself.

Culture Lesson: Zabuton

2006-02-02T14:26:00.000+09:00

The other day a friend of mine related an interesting little tidbit about Japanese culture that she had learned from a television show over the weekend.

The traditional Japanese cushion, known as a zabuton, is one of the everyday items found and utilized in just about every household across the country. Even homes that sport Western-style seating employ this traditional piece for many daily activities. They are as prevalent as chopsticks, and even if you simply visit the country, you have plenty of chances to experience these cushions when you enter a restaurant for a meal.

Side-effects of using these cushions for long periods of time might include numbness and tingling (for the inexperienced), and newfound flexibility (for long-time users, such as myself). I’ve often wondered if having to continually stand and sit contributes to the strength of the elderly here…

But I digress.

Zabutons are generally square, measuring 20-30 inches on a side, is approximately 2” thick, and are most often made of woven straw. Not the softest cushion I’ve ever sat on, but certainly better than the cold, hard floor.

Like everything traditional in Japan, there is a proper way to both present and use the zabuton. The tidbit I mentioned deals primarily with presentation, and so we will focus on that. It came about during that notorious time of warfare known as the Edo period.

When a guest comes to visit and it’s time to offer them a seat, both the guest and host will kneel on the floor. The host will then present a zabuton that’s folded in half, the open end facing the guest, placing it on the floor. With a slow, deliberate motion, the host opens the zabuton toward himself and solemnly pushes it over to the guest, who will then use it to cushion himself from the unforgiving floor.

This whole elaborate process was, for practical reasons, created to develop trust and afford some protection for the clans. The visitor could see for himself that there were no weapons hidden within the cushion, thus bolstering a reasonable certainty that a surprise attack would not be immediately forthcoming.

It would eventually find itself a part of traditional Japanese culture, meant to represent the host’s honorable intentions towards his guest, and that no ill will or treacherous designs were in place.

So, what does it mean now? I asked.

“Oh, it’s just the really polite way to offer a zabuton to guests, and I don’t think most of us even know how to do it properly.”

“You mean… you didn’t know this before you watched the show?”

“No, I think most Japanese don’t know why we do the things we do sometimes!” she replied with a laugh.

Considering I often don’t know why the Japanese do the things they do… let’s just say conversations like this help level out the playing field a little more.

In the Moment

2006-01-23T15:48:00.000+09:00

The sun is bright, nearly blinding me as my bike lurches out of the awning shade and stops centimeters from the curb. The shrill squeal of protest emitted from my brakes doesn’t elicit so much as a glance from the other pedestrians crowding the sidewalk’s corner as they wait for the blue “walk” sign to flash.

I glance around me, enjoying the chance to observe under the cover of anonymity. Sunglasses don’t quite fit my head when I have my winter hat pulled down over my ears to prevent icicles from forming, and so at this instant, I am just another Asian face in a vast sea.

Vast for my town means four or five people milling around a specific location at any given time.

One of them is wearing what appears to be a white surgical “face” mask. Although I’ve gotten used to this decidedly odd sight in the mind of a Westerner, it still draws my attention for an instant. As she chats with her mask-less friend, I find myself admiring her courtesy. No doubt she’s slightly ill with a cold or a cough, and is wearing the mask to keep from infecting those around her as best she can. Just one of the many unwritten social graces formed by a people coping with compact living conditions.

The crowd begins to stir, and I quickly snap my head forward and up before wincing and ducking my chin back under the scarf wrapped around my neck. The icy wind is vicious today.

I squint at the light more carefully this time. Ah. It’s blue.

Onward. Dinner won’t cook itself, after all.

Writer's Block

2006-01-20T16:44:00.000+09:00

Lately I’ve spent my blogging time sitting around with the laptop on my, er, lap and engaging in light mental exercises* to get the creative juices flowing. Although I’ve a wealth of topics, events, experiences, and even opinions to share with anyone who stumbles across this site, there are times when I just can’t seem to artistically arrange my native phonetic syllabary and accompanying intellectual lexicon into a perspicacious, provocative, or even facetious manner no matter how assiduously I try.

Okay, so I spent entirely too much time composing that last sentence, utilizing dictionary.com in doing so. Who uses a word like perspicacious in normal conversation anyway? Not anyone I know. Not even me, because I’ll probably forget its meaning in the next ten minutes. As it is, I’m just trying to remember the Japanese word for “fun” so I don’t have to go diving for my dictionary every time I want to use it in an unscripted dialogue with friends.

But really, I feel like my writing has been rather lack-luster of late, and being the perfectionist I am, if I’m not satisfied with the finished product, I refrain from posting it. Sometimes it doesn’t sound quite right. At other times, I don’t get any further than a lot of incomplete sentences documenting the topic. While this usually provides fodder for fleshing out the post, lately I’ve been having trouble bringing it together in a way that won’t bore everyone, including myself, to tears.

Believe it or not, there’s a bright side to all of this. In mounting desperation, I began looking at my ever-increasing array of unfinished posts for something to spark the fire. You see, although I much prefer to write and post on a topic in one sitting, I somehow formed this habit of writing in stages- going back to a particular piece of work multiple times in the span of a week or more. Taking a break can be refreshing, and it’s better to come back to a post I’d been at a loss at how to finish two days ago and complete it in fifteen minutes versus the hour and a half I would spend dredging my brain on ways to progress.

Can you guess what I found?

Yep, some almost completed posts that I can easily wrap-up. Hurrah! So the next few posts will probably be dealing with topics that were current, oh, a few months ago. Hopefully they’ll still be interesting to you AND help propel me out of my writing funk…

Better late than never, right?

*After intense research & experimentation, I have concluded that staring at the white-washed wall across the room in front of you while shifting your weight occasionally because different areas of your body are going numb does not and should never be constituted as “light mental exercise”.

One Stamp Please

2006-01-12T14:55:00.000+09:00

Here I am once more. It’s always the same, beginning with the sliding doors closing behind me with a dull, decisive *thud*. I quickly ease myself into an obscure corner and cautiously survey my surroundings.

It appears the mid-morning rush has come and gone. Although there are a few people milling around the other side of the expanse, there is no one between me and my goal. Her head is bent over miscellaneous paperwork, right hand armed with a thick black pen that quickly darts around the sheet in front of her in sporadic intervals. She hasn’t seen me yet.

I feel my pulse begin to quicken as I work up my nerve to approach the counter. With as much stealth as I can muster, I quickly break out my memo pad and begin reviewing the phrases I had jotted down earlier today.

Kitte o ichimai onegaishimasu. Kitte o ichimai onegaishimasu. Kitte o ichimai onegaishimasu. Konnichiwa. Kitte o ichimai onegaishimasu.

In the past, communicating my desire to purchase a stamp and mail a letter or postcard has consisted of awkwardly spoken single Japanese words and lots of hand gestures. I’ve always dealt with the same lady, and she has done an admirable job discerning the meaning I’m trying to convey.

It was time to change the rules of engagement. With a few weeks of Japanese lessons under my belt, I had become more at ease with full sentence pronunciation and increased my awareness of intonation and the flow of the spoken language. This late December day, I was determined to simply stand and voice my request in a complete, proper, sensible sentence. I had actually just learned it the past week. It would be silly to not use what I’ve learned when the opportunity presents itself right? Right.

Quiet down, you easily excitable stomach butterflies.

During my momentary distraction, Stamp Lady lifts her head and glances around. With the same feeling of certainty you get when you enter a train station and suddenly feel fifty pairs of eyes assessing your decidedly foreign form, I met her laser beam gaze.

There’s the flicker I know so well… one of recognition, dismay, and finally, resignation. The second one I don’t take personally, as I’m sure she’s just as embarrassed by her inability to speak English as I am of my inability to speak Japanese. In fact, I’m pretty sure that same flicker can be seen in my eyes when someone stops me on the street and begins to speak Japanese rapidly. As for the resignation… it probably has more to do with the fact that she knows she can’t pawn off the job of interpreting my request off to another worker, given her success with our past dealings.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, I soon find myself standing directly in front of her politely smiling, expectant frame. Suddenly remembering that I too have the capacity to work my face into a pleasant expression, I flash a smile of my own and then work my mouth around the not-as-foreign framework I’d practiced only moments ago.

As the words leave my mouth, I can only think of one thing… I can’t believe I just forgot the “mai”! At least I haven’t gestured yet… oh wait… yeah, they’re clenched in a fist alright…

We stare blankly at each other. Silence.

Seconds (or was that minutes) later... with a slightly warmer smile, she responds with a phrase I still don’t understand (er, does she think if I can speak it, surely I can understand it? I’m so absolutely okay with that at this moment…) and holds her hand out for my letter. Transaction ensues.

VICTORY IS MINE!

Giddy with elation, I breeze out of the post office, startling a nervous wisp of a young woman peddling New Year’s cards with a bright smile along the way. I’m left with a sense of accomplishment and flushed with the sweet taste of success.

Who cares if she actually fathomed the need herself instead of actually responding to my request? At this moment in time, fear of embarrassment has no hold over me.

“I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.” ~Psalm 34: 4

Is it just me, or did it turn out to be a really gorgeous day?

I Didn't Ask for a Wake-up Call...

2006-01-08T09:15:00.000+09:00

Sometimes, I remember phantoms of the bygone days. This includes certain vehicles that would make the heart of every child within earshot race with excitement and anticipation. With a catchy little jingle, these white boxes-on-wheels would roam up and down the street, eventually flagged down by a little boy or girl. The smiling ice cream man would serve up his popsicles, and all would be well in life.

Once every so often, I’m hit with a feeling of nostalgia.

This was not one of those days.

Please imagine if you will a darkened bedroom. Two futons and their accompanying blankets have been sprawled across the tatami floor. The window shutters are tightly closed, allowing only a sliver of early morning light to land between two motionless bulges, whose true identities are hidden beneath layers of covers.

This is the story of one of those comforter-swathed futon dwellers, completely caught up in the throes of deep slumber.

The peaceful morning silence is shattered…

“I struggle to go back to sleep. The noise keeps intruding and jerking at my consciousness. My befuddled brain doesn’t know what to make of the incomprehensible intrusion. Surely it must be an emergency. Surely the gates of malignant darkness have broken loose and we have only moments to flee the city before we’re consumed. And then, I hear it. Crystal clear, in fact. A phrase I’ve heard many a time on countless television shows. The meaning is etched clearly in my mind.

‘Oishii Desu!’

It’s delicious… it’s delicious??? It’s Delicious????

What the… some jerk in a van interrupted my slumber to sell some lousy OCTOPUS??? How dare he?!?!? I mean, it’s not even the driver shouting! The assault on my ear drums is coming from an ancient, scratchy tape recording rigged to blare on loudspeakers that break fundamental sound barriers mounted on top of the wretched vehicle! If you’re going to wake me up so rudely, AT LEAST do it in person!

With something between a snarl and a whimper, I jerk the covers back over my head and slam my eyes shut, determined to capture whatever snatches of precious rest remain within reach.

Alas, it wasn’t to be.”

What you’ve just read is the tragic account of a perfectly innocent morning ruined by the un-invited (but highly announced) commercial blaring of an Octopus truck rolling by, enticing the neighborhood to start their day off right by purchasing some pre-determined portions of the delicious, steaming, fresh sucker-covered invertebrate.

Now don’t get me wrong. I like octopus. I do indeed think it’s delicious. But not at seven in the morning. On a precious, lazy Sunday when sleeping in is actually an option.

Do these people ever sleep? I mean, I know our neighbors are quite active after midnight and bumping around before six in the morning regardless of the week day, but seriously. That… that just isn’t right.

The best part of this whole thing was that the vendor drove up and down every little side street and dead end around us for a good 30 minutes with his sound system set so loud that the very foundations of our apartment shook. I couldn’t have done with just the violent wake-up call. Really. I needed my surroundings to rumble a bit too. Thanks for your concern.

Aren’t there some noise ordinance laws or something? When’s the next election? I know of a *great* platform for the next aspiring politician.

College Traditions

2006-01-06T14:06:00.000+09:00

Today marked the end of an ultimately satisfactory winter break with my husband returning to work and yours truly running errands by pedaling around town in near freezing temperatures (the days of luxurious lounging in the car with the heater blasting and zipping from store to store have ended for me since my handsome chauffeur is gone during the day doing frivolous things like earning a living).

As most of you know, my in-laws visited us in our icebox shanty. What you don’t know is that they came bearing many gifts, including real cheese (after trying different variations here, I’ve concluded that the only real cheese is the Kraft and Tillamook variety), warm and soft and cuddly fleecy fleece blankets, original Toblerone (my secret chocolate weakness that makes Amy’s choco-holism look tame) and the all coveted tortilla, which in turn gave us a perfectly legitimate excuse to liberally blast the heat (you know, to show our gratitude and all). Everything considered, our finicky wall heater performed admirably, only ceasing to work a few times during the entire ten day span where we had a full house.

And of course, we had a wonderful time spending over a full week with family. Mom & Pop are a kind, generous, fun, and loving pair. We love & appreciate you two, and not just for the goodies you bring us.

There’s really no possible way for me to condense everything we saw, did, and experienced together into one entry, and so I’ve decided to post current adventures as usual (and hopefully more frequently) while randomly sprinkling individual stories of our time during the tail-end of 2005 amongst them.

After all, I did promise to share interesting things… eventually.

In the spirit of my college days, I would like to share with you the best two quotes of the entire time. Pop is the undisputed king of this round.

Context: It is bleeping freezing here. If you think you’re going to warm up from being out & about by returning to the (dubious) shelter of the apartment, think again.

Walking home from a rousing two-hour round of karaoke, Star & Ash break into a trot as they near the apartment.

Pop (calling out from somewhere behind them): The kids must think they’re going someplace warm!

**Zing! I’m so ashamed it was us that gave into that illusion…

One morning, as everyone is getting ready to brave the outdoors, Pop is in the middle of exiting into the brisk fresh air before anyone else is even close to being ready when…

Star asks: Where are you going?

Pop replies: Oh, just gonna go lie down in the gutter and warm up a bit.

**Check… and mate.

A Year End Respite

2005-12-28T21:18:00.000+09:00

Merry Christmas everyone!

I’m pleased to report that Ash’s parents arrived for their week-long visit safe & sound! They’ve truly been experiencing Japan; camping with us in our icebox, munching on mounds of mikan (mandarin oranges), traveling all around Tokyo via the JR train line, seeing tourist sights with all the other Japanese tourists, sauntering around in Ginza, playing Rook in a laundromat while getting stared at by little old ladies passing by the windows on the street… it’s been fun to share a slice of our life here with them, although I still think they secretly can’t wait to get back to their nice warm bed at home :)

I’m also pleased to report that so far, Pop has managed to frighten at least two parents with his grinning and waving at the incredibly cute kids toddling around the various tourist sights.

They are sooo cute. Seriously.

Anyway, our guests will return home just after New Year’s, so we have a few more days of both the mundane and excitement ahead of us!

In short, this is my reason for not updating this site til now, a service announcement that there will most likely be no other entries until things have settled down around here, and a promise that I will share anything interesting that happens… eventually.

Until then, may the Lord touch your heart with His love in the year to come, and may you recognize it when He does.

Happy New Year!

Feels Like Home

2005-12-19T14:37:00.000+09:00

Believe it or not, there are times when being here feels like home. These feelings mostly come about when I’m performing the daily, mundane tasks that are a part of life. It’s not too hard to forget the ocean is less than a kilometer from my apartment, and if I focus on the signs that are written in romanji rather than the various Japanese “kana” forms, I can almost imagine that I’m biking around my college town in Colorado.

Of course, I never actually biked anywhere when I was in Colorado…

But that’s not the point.

The point is that today, as I was pedaling my out-of-shape self to the grocery store clear across town (which is now, ironically, the closest one, thanks to the grocery I knew and loved when I first arrived going out of business), I imagined that I was back home. The sky was a startling blue, its beauty unmarred by pesky clouds. The sun warmed my fleece-covered form, despite the best efforts of the nippy air to reach past the four layers I was wearing & send chills down my spine.

That’s very Colorado.

But the thing that fooled me, just for a moment, into thinking I was back home was simply this: the wind.

Yes, the wind. I will never be able to forget the days when, walking across campus, I would hunch over and literally fight the wily zephyr for every step forward I managed to take. It would lash my face and snatch at my hair, determined to make sure that I reached my destination looking as disheveled as possible.

Such was the case today. Hunched over and struggling with all my might, I slowly pedaled up Main Street as my invisible assailant howled around me, even managing to knock the hat off an unsuspecting woman nearby. The brunette locks I’ve been painstakingly coaxing to grow past my shoulders (and no, they’re not even close) whipped around, stood straight up, and did other tricks I never knew they were capable of.

As delusional as it sounds, I couldn’t help but smile.

Naturally, the illusion was shattered within seconds as a young man, hair slicked back with five times more pomade than necessary, crossed my path, completely decked out in ostentatious bling and a full-length, fur-collared “pimp” coat.

Fur-trimmed everything, worn proudly by both men and women, is very Japanese. (What I think about the current fashion trend in Japan is another topic altogether).

But I swear, for just a moment… I was back home… and if I wasn’t greeted by the same wind as that which rushes through the prairies, I surely met its cousin.

Speaking of the Unexpected...

2005-12-14T18:10:00.000+09:00

So I have this friend… who is one of the nicest ladies I’ve ever met… which sometimes causes quite a dilemma... because… well… when she earnestly decides to help me in some form or fashion, whether I want it or not… I can have the hardest time saying no.

And thus, I found myself sitting nervously in her living room, shivering slightly as my jacket was deftly shucked off my shoulders and transported out of sight. Left to return stare for stare with the mini Buddhist statue in the family’s shrine, my mind frantically raced to make some sense of the events that had brought me to this moment.

It’s funny how the most innocent comment can lead to the most awkward of circumstances. Funny and unsettling. Okay, so it was mostly unsettling as I sat, mentally scrambling for a way, any way, to get out of this predicament. Alas, it was not to be, for just as I was formulating a super lame excuse to jet outta there, in SHE shuffled.

We shall call her Obaasan.

Obaasan, meaning “Honorable Grandmother”, was actually my friend’s mother-in-law. Imagine the tiniest Japanese lady you conceivably can, hunch her over a little, and your mental picture might come fairly close to the sight of this woman. I mean, I was sitting down when she came near, and my head cleared her waistline by a good amount. I felt gigantic as I assessed her tiny and fragile form.

“Um, there’s really no need…” I began to stammer.

“(Lots of Japanese I couldn’t understand) ja nai!” (I think that last part meant “no trouble!”)

And with that, Obaasan proceeded to give me the most excruciating ten minute shoulder massage of my entire existence. We’re talking serious strength flowing through this woman’s frail form. Between the bursts of pain exploding behind my eyes came the realization that, if she so chose, she could easily throw me over her shoulder and rip my arms off at the tender age of eighty-four. She turns eighty-five next year.

Now, I have nothing against massages. I’m very fond of them, in fact, and believe they can do a world of good when applied to tense, aching muscles. Deep tissue is my favorite, for I think if there’s no pain, there’s nothing beneficial happening. But it was decidedly strange to have an elderly Japanese woman I hardly knew alternately sitting and standing behind me, manipulating my muscles for all they were worth (and then some), all while being unable to communicate tolerable amounts of pressure effectively.

In the end, my shoulder did indeed feel better. Or maybe it was just numb. At any rate, it didn’t hurt anymore. I left the house with a final thank you, scrambled over to my bike, and pedaled home in something of a daze. Not quite able to cope with the fact that I had just experienced a merciless massage from a lady almost the same age as my very own grandmother, I occupied my mind by concocting different menus that could possibly account for such terrifying strength. Almost all of them included Wheaties in some form or fashion.

And all this occurred thanks to the 3 seconds it took me to utter, in the midst of idle conversation, “My shoulder has been bothering me a little”.

Seasonal Irony

2005-12-12T13:14:00.000+09:00

My first summer here in Japan was, in a word, wet. Very wet. Florida-esqe wet. Humidity levels soared as the blinding sun turned the countryside into a steamy sauna wonderland. Wrinkles would disappear within minutes of getting dressed (okay, so that’s a plus). Clothes, bedding, and towels were always slightly damp (not such a plus). It was the sort of wet that leaves you soggy after standing outside for five minutes. I don’t think I’ve ever guzzled so much water in my entire life.

For not having any insulation within its walls, our apartment certainly retained the heat well. Too well. So well that we became regulars at the local department store and its centralized air conditioning. Our air conditioner at home is much too small and underpowered to combat rising heat levels at any time other than the evening, when the sun’s power has shut down for the day.

All this said, I can honestly say that the time I expected mold to rear its ugly head was during the summer season. And it certainly has made itself known, despite our best efforts to keep things clean and out of dark storage places with poor air circulation unless they’re bone dry (and even then we air things out). Most of our casualties have been inexpensive wood implements purchased at the hyaku-en shop (Japan’s version of the dollar store), which were promptly thrown away and the area disinfected. Other victims who were salvageable include travel bags, a wooden bamboo steamer (I’m seriously heart-broken over this wonderful cooking instrument), and a shoe. I might add that none of these items were stored in the same place.

The ironic thing about the war being waged isn’t that it was unexpected; it’s that the assault began not during the height of a hot & humid summer, but during the brisk fall and frigid winter instead. It’s freezing here, including the inside of the apartment, and will only get colder. This means a key component in the “warm, dark, wet” formula for the creeping fungus’ ideal environment has been kidnapped and tossed to the south until the next year.

My conclusion: it’s a tenacious little bugger. At least the cockroaches leave us alone when temperatures drop below 15 C.

Hmm… I wonder if I’ve stumbled onto the reason insulation doesn’t exist in this region of the island…

Precision Casting

2005-12-07T18:03:00.000+09:00

Most weeknights after dinner, Ash & I settle ourselves in the living room and flip on the television. Although I’m normally not an advocate of having the tv blaring 24/7, having shows blather on in Japanese has actually been a great help in my efforts to comprehend the spoken language… or at least, in actually hearing different syllables and words instead of blinking rapidly at the streamline nonsensical babble it used to be.

In addition to being a tool of language practice & acquisition, our television gives us a glimpse into the Japanese culture. We’ve seen some pretty awesome things, some rather disturbing things, some boring, meaningless things, and some downright strange things. I would like to share one of the latter with you.

Come with me into the wild world of “Precision Casting”! Remember, it’s the level of dedication and attention to detail that separates the mediocre dabbler from the triumphant Champion! Cash prizes, trophies, and fame are yours for the taking! It’s truly a manly man’s sport.

How it works:
1) Obtain specialized “fishing pole”- preferably one approved by tournament officials.
2) Tie an official-approved white weight where the hook normally resides.
3) Set a small wooden “target” on the ground.
4) Stand at a specified distance away from the target (this distance can increase or decrease, depending on the difficulty level attempted).
5) Cast the line, exactly like expert fishermen do.
6) Objective- Hit the wooden target with the white weight.

For you advanced casters out there, the objective is slightly different.
1) Set a can behind the wooden target (which should be standing upright).
2) Make sure the caster’s view of the can is effectively blocked by the wooden target.
3) Objective- Bounce the standard white weight off the grass at a certain angle and knock the can over… without touching the wooden target.

There are tournaments for this sort of thing. Seriously. Needless to say, the excitement factor reaches ‘mildly amusing’ on a good day.

But I have to admit, I was interested. You see, my brother and dad are avid fly fishermen. And so, this seemed like a sensible way for fishermen to improve their casting skills & accuracy when they’re not blessed with abundant locations to actually put their techniques into practice. They could be assured that on the rare occasion they actually made it to a river, they wouldn’t be having a bad day on account of their inability to cast their fly into the “right spot”.

But I was wrong. That’s not what “Precision Casting’ is for. There’s no hint that anyone would ever participate for any reason other than competing in its specialized tournaments.

Bottom line- This sport is completely unaffiliated with the wide world of fishing, besides sharing some commonalities like, you know, equipment and stuff.

Silly me.

So what does this mean? Just that there are a bunch of Japanese guys running around with the casting skills of a master fisherman, who have never set foot in a river or lake.

Freshwater fish are safer than they will ever know.

Disclaimer: This entry is simply one observer’s view on the sport. The sport’s official name, rules, and regulations are unknown to the author, who did try to find out more about it, but was thwarted by websites purely written in Japanese.

The "Yuujou" Dance

2005-12-02T17:11:00.000+09:00

Since my arrival in August, I have been fortunate enough to make some friends amongst the Japanese populous and enjoy that thing known as ‘a social life’ once more. It was sort of a snowball effect, all stemming from one random encounter in the foyer of Jujiya (the local department store) on a hot summer’s day. The woman we met that day has since introduced me to more faces than I can possibly remember (some of whom have become good friends, who have in turn introduced me to Their friends, etc, etc), and remains a constant presence in our lives.

I can only describe this kindly woman as a force of pure energy and dumbfounding hospitality bundled together, with an eagerness to help in every way imaginable. I’m sure you’re familiar with the term, “to go the extra mile”. Such a description doesn’t apply to this friend of mine, it doesn’t do her justice.

At first, Ash and I were both taken aback, and more than a little uncomfortable with all the attention and well-meaning effort she showed us. We had been told that in Japanese society, there are subtle undertones to every favor & gift exchange, with certain expectations attached that take years to decipher, much less master. While able to handle a couple acts of kindness, she, quite simply, overwhelmed us. It’s intimidating to join in the social dance when you don’t know the steps, not to mention verbalizing such abstract concepts when neither party has an incredibly good grasp of the other’s language.

Our relationship with her has now settled (for the most part) into a comfortable, rewarding one for both sides. It’s been fun to introduce her to American gestures of friendship, such as the lovely e-card, and she’s been enjoying the chance to speak English and flex her “mothering instincts” once more (her children left the nest a while ago). And of course, we both manage to surprise each other quite often as we learn about each other’s cultures beyond “general knowledge”.

It’s personal experiences like these that make living abroad so rewarding.

Back to Reality

2005-11-30T20:51:00.000+09:00

Who would have thought I’d be able to stretch out a weekend trip that occurred a month ago this long? I’ve finally run out of things to say about it (hey, it was bound to happen), although it will always remain one of my fondest memories of our time here.

I will officially end the Nikko series with an illustration of a fundamental truth here in Japan: Things are not always what they seem.

Star & Ash finally reach the border of their hometown. After 7.5 hours of following deceptively easy-to-follow road signs, they are feeling slightly claustrophobic and hungry.

Star: We should get something for dinner.

Ash: I just want something simple… like a sandwich.

Star: Okay. There’s a grocery store on our way home. I might grab something ready made though.

Later, in front of Kasumi's glistening, modern-looking self-serve yakitori* counter...

Star: Mmmm, they all look tasty.

Ash: Do you remember me telling you about my experience at the yakitori restaurant my boss took me to one night?

Star: Yes…

(Ash points at some innocent looking skewers.)

Ash: That looks like liver.

Star: Er… how about that one?

(Star points at another innocent looking pile.)

Ash: That looks like heart.

(Star points at yet another innocent looking pile.)

Ash: I’m not quite sure, but I don’t think you want that either.

Star: So… out of six choices, these three over here seem safe.

Ash: Pretty much.

Star: At least they can’t disguise chicken feet…

At home, Ash munches on his “what you see is what you get” sandwich. Meanwhile, Star prepares to finish her yakitori dinner.

Star: I think I like the chicken meat better than the beef. Those vegetables were definitely Not bamboo though…

Ash: No?

Star: They were kind of sour. I think they may have been onion.

(Ash nods. Star shrugs and takes a big bite of her last chicken yakitori skewer.)

Star: Mmmpth!

Ash: What??

(Star promptly spits the offending chicken onto her plate and stares at it.)

(Silence.)

Ash: What’s wrong?

Star: ................. chicken skin.

That’s right, you heard me. Not chicken with skin. Not even crispy delicious skin. I’m talking slimy, fatty, limp, peeled off the meat, accordion strung, soy-sauce glazed deception on a skewer.

Yuck.

*Yakitori is a well-known Japanese dish consisting of chicken morsels grilled over live coals and glazed with a sweet soy-based sauce. The name literally means “grilled chicken**”, although beef and veggies are known variations.

**I guess when they say chicken, they truly mean chicken… heart, liver, skin and all. Now I try to make sure I’m requesting chicken “meat”, for my own peace of mind. Ah, the joys of having preconceived notions bite you in the rear when least expected.

A Memorable Moment in Nikko

2005-11-26T20:54:00.000+09:00

Eventually, our peaceful solitude came to an end as we returned to civilization. Or rather, civilization caught up with us around 10:00am. The masses came driving up the roads to view the splendor we had just bid farewell to. Have I mentioned the intense satisfaction we experienced clipping down the mountain while, on the other side of the road, half the island was slowly inching up?

While we experienced quite a few memorable moments, the most noteworthy happened near the national park in Nikko. We were witnesses to a landmark event, a sight so rare that it will be passed down from generation to generation amid tremulous voices and misty eyes. I will never forget the morning when, as we waited in line to enter the park, a little Japanese girl ran past, chasing a monkey.

Yes, that’s right. We saw a little girl chasing a monkey. You tell me how often that happens!

With eyes widened in disbelief, we watched the un-caged, wild, and free primate lope across the parking lot while occasionally glancing over his shoulder to assess his persistent pursuer. In turn, the little monkey chaser was toddling just as fast as she could after the object of her affection, a look of pure glee plastered across her face. Within five seconds, they disappeared into a grove of trees.

That was pretty entertaining.

Now, these monkeys are notorious for snatching cameras, purses, and anything else they can get their paws on from park visitors. They’ve even been known to chase some fully grown men around for the chance to swipe something shiny. If you’ve ever watched Animal Kingdom, you know that monkeys can be pretty vicious. Taking all this into account, I decided the strangest part of this whole thing was the absence of a frantic parent pelting after his or her errant child.

I guess monkeys are pretty normal here.

It all happened so fast that we didn’t get a chance to capture this moment on film, video, or any other electronic recording device. Instead, I present an example of the Japanese custom of “parking wherever you darn well please, and tough cookies for all the other cars you’ve obliviously & effectively blocked from getting out again. Especially the cars that had the pomposity to park in designated parking spaces ”. Enjoy!

Pension Ho!

2005-11-12T15:14:00.000+09:00

This was the sweet sweet sight that unfolded before us around 3:00pm Saturday afternoon. After nine hours of traversing the countryside (which was actually easier than you might think despite the language barrier), we had arrived at our haven for the night.

Welcome to Pechika!

Looks cozy doesn’t it? Well, I can tell you it WAS! The dinner they served us was delectable (tender melt-in-your-mouth fish that didn’t taste like fish at all steamed in a white wine sauce, yum!), the Japanese-style bath could be turned into a private one (there’s nothing quite like soaking weary bones in crystalline, steamy hot water without worrying about strangers sauntering in to share the space), and the innkeepers were both friendly & seemingly impressed by our stuttering attempts to communicate in their native tongue.

I’d also like to extend my admiration to our innkeepers in the area of cleanliness. This place was seriously spotless, from the dining area to the dorm-style restrooms. There wasn’t a speck of dust or grime anywhere. Having kept house here on the island these past few months, I know what an amazing accomplishment this is.

Final Impression: Well worth another visit.

Warm, comfortable, and satiated, we rested for the much anticipated day ahead of us.

Navigator vs. Sandman

2005-11-09T21:17:00.000+09:00

I fought the good fight. In truth, it took a devastating amount of internal strength & fortitude as I battled my nemesis of old. I struggled for the sake of family, for their safety, for their sanity. In this case, “family” means my husband, and “nemesis” means the silent stalker that has pounded my consciousness into oblivion time and time again- motion-induced slumber.

I fall asleep at the drop of a hat whenever I am in a car speeding towards a destination farther away than a half hour. And no, it doesn’t necessarily matter if I’m driving or not, the inescapable urge remains.

This weakness of mine does nothing to help my husband as he valiantly sits behind the wheel, dodging death traps and mentally calculating how far we’ve gone, how far we need to go, and wondering how he’s supposed to stay awake with his wife zonked out beside him. The void my consciousness leaves inevitably tempts his alert mind to shut down as well.

In laymen’s terms, he gets sleepy.

Unlike other road trips I could mention, I could not afford to drift into the Sands of Doze. I was on a mission. I had obligations and knee-shaking amounts of responsibility.

I was the Navigator.

Armed with only a sketchy compass and a linguistically incomprehensible road map, my duty was three-fold:

1. Keep my driver awake & relatively cheerful (dodging death traps is hard work!).

2. Track our progress across the country to make sure we didn’t take a wrong turn somewhere and waste oodles of precious, precious time.

3. Keep our vehicle on course as we wound our way through the inevitable twists & turns we would encounter between our starting point & destination.

Fortunately, driving through vast, lonely emptiness doesn’t exist on an island that crams more people into smaller spaces than sardines in a can. This robbed my foe of its main weapon- visual boredom. I’d also like to thank a major contributor to our sleepless voyage- Mr. iPod and his cohort, Clickity Tape Deck Adaptor. You rock.

In the end, it was well worth the effort… some of the English names we saw for various businesses were classic.

It doesn’t get much better than “Wonder Goo”, although “Cow Cow” does come close. Would anyone like to wager a guess on what either of these respective establishments actually sells? I eagerly await your comments.

Our maiden voyage would soon come to an end.

We ARE Going... Aren't We?

2005-11-03T13:36:00.000+09:00

The timing was right… the last weekend in October. Steep mountain slopes at high elevation combined with frigid night temperatures promised a wealth of color to the autumn traveler. October weekends were normally sunny and pleasant. This prospective excursion provided an opportunity to enjoy famous Japanese hospitality at a ryokan. Oh yes, the timing was right for us…

… and the fifty bazillion other tourists and vacationers who overrun the quaint town of Nikko during the fall season, for the specific purpose of seeing the leaves turn along Iroha-zaka Road and Lake Chuzenji.

Phooey.

We soon found that the other tourists had a couple distinct advantages over us:

1. Most of them were Japanese.
2. Uh, most of them were Japanese.

This immediately gave them the upper hand, since most of the information about lodging (and anything remotely helpful regarding how to plan for such a trip) on the web was in Japanese. Plus, trying to reserve a room was not exactly English-friendly.

We decided that most of the tourists at famous sites in Japan are actually *from* Japan. Out-of-country tourists seem to go through a travel agency, bypassing communication difficulties altogether. Those of us in the “Long-term tourist” category tend rely on friends and co-workers to help us along the way.

Which is exactly what we did. We are blessed to have a friend here in Japan who also happens to be a member of our church back home. He’s given us incredible support and served as an excellent translator as we navigated through the bureaucratic nightmares of “signing up for a keitai (cell phone)” and “buying a vehicle” (deciphering the technicalities of services and legal hoo-haw is bad enough in your own language, while trying to do the same in a different one reaches the heights of “near impossible”).

After he called around, our friend informed us of some… let’s call them snags… in our game plan. First, none of the ryokans had any openings- they’re normally booked 6 months in advance. Second, although there was a western-style room we could reserve, the price was 13,000 Y per person. Per Person. Ouch. There was no way our modest budget could handle a $260 hit from lodging alone. Lastly, we could expect massive, frustrating crowds of people, which meant the traffic up Iroha-zaka Road equated to hours of sitting in our car enviously watching turtles speed along, leaving us in their dust.

Deflated, we decided we would simply have to put our travel plans on hold…

…which gave Ash’s fellow teachers a chance to shine :) After hearing his tale of woe, they sprung into action: *internet search* *a couple telephone calls* *price checks* *alternative routes to avoid traffic* .

As it turned out, we gaijin travelers (determined to escape the drudgery of another weekend at home) had some advantages of our own…

1. We didn’t mind an initially longer drive around to the backside of the mountains.
2. We didn’t care about breaking the status quo- i.e., being more than willing to ignore the “proper” morning schedule (such as being tied down to a set breakfast time).
3. We most certainly didn’t care about spending the night in Nikko “proper”. (I guess some like to say that they've actually stayed in the town of Nikko.)

Final Plans:
Saturday- Drive along the main roads (avoiding the hideously expensive yet time-saving highways) following a non-English map & the accompanying road signs around the backside of the mountains before ascending them & staying at an off-season lodge within our price range.

Sunday- Get up before daybreak and crest the top of Iroha-zaka Road by 6:00am. Drive down leisurely (along with many exploratory and photographic stops), bypassing the traffic going *up* the mountain. Finally, get the heck outta dodge before the sea of cars decide they want to go *down* the mountain. Navigate the return drive, hopefully in enough time for my husband to get a good night’s sleep before going to work in the morning.

Now THAT’S a recipe for success if I ever heard one!

Road Trip!

2005-10-31T15:46:00.000+09:00

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. It seemed like an even better idea after we finally received our car, despite all the twists, turns, and mind-boggling hoops it took to obtain the otherwise ordinary hunk of metal (a ridiculous story in & of itself). It was time to break free of the three-week rut we’d been in and actually GO somewhere and DO something without getting soaked in the process. Two words folks… ROAD TRIP!

The words “road trip” conjure up fond memories of journeys past- racing through the cornfields of Nebraska on the way to a wedding, jimmying open the car door early one morning in Washington State (after one of our fearless leaders managed to lock the keys inside after everyone spilled out into the restroom), dreaming for the day when Kansas would be bodily ejected from its current position and attached to the end of California, thus shortening our travels to Missouri considerably… the list goes on. It was time to create such memories here in Japan.

At this point you’re probably asking yourself the following:

* They drive on the left-side of the road in Japan, don’t they?
Yes they do.

* Have you ever driven on the left-side of the road?
No we haven’t.

* How long have you had the car?
Let’s see, we received it last Wednesday… so less than a week.

* You can’t possibly be used to driving there yet!
Not in the least, but I have the utmost confidence in my husband’s ability to adapt.

*Aren’t you afraid for your lives??
Very much so. The Japanese are insane crazy drivers with a serious disregard for those around them. We half expect a mostly-blind old guy to pull right out in front of us in his K-car death trap from a side street that you don’t have a clue exists until you blow past it. Or hit the said car. At 70 km/hr. Because you have to pay atrocious fees to use the highways, and all the other main (and free) roads go right through towns and neighborhoods. So people are walking along the sides of the (narrow) main road. Or in the middle of the road. Because the roads have no sidewalks.

*Right. So you’re going to travel halfway across the country because…?
Have I mentioned that you’re in just as much danger when walking or bicycling from the drivers as being a driver yourself (due to the lack of sidewalks)? All of the above transportation methods probably have about the same safety factor. Besides, what’s the use of having a car if you don’t take advantage of the mobility surge it bestows?

*Okay… so what romantic, picturesque location have you decided to visit, while keeping in mind that you don’t know the language, thus making all the twists & turns absurdly difficult to navigate?
Someplace in the mountains… at high elevation… to hike into unspoiled forest… and watch the fall leaves shed their green adornment in favor of the brilliant hues of red, orange, and yellow.

What?!? We *are* from Colorado!

And so we began to plan our weekend expedition into the very-well charted mountainous regions of central Honshu.

Destination: Nikko

Nature's Candy

2005-10-23T21:15:00.000+09:00

Imagine… row after row of plump, glistening grape clusters in handsome shades of purple and red beckoning the local forager weary from the summer’s unrelenting heat. Mounds of watermelons ranging from the size of a small continent to no bigger than your palm are lazily gathered in boxes, plump & practically bursting with the sweet promise of delightful refreshment to ease humidity’s sting. The crowning jewel of this bonanza are the flawless peaches, blushing ever so slightly as they peek over their crates. Such was the scene that unfolded before me every week this summer as I jauntily bicycled past concrete piers and sandstone apartment buildings to our friendly local fruit & vegetable stand.

Although I admit that vegetables have their place in this world, and even that I enjoy the taste of a few of them, it’s the fruit group that inevitably catches my eye. Unlike the typical state-side supermarket, the Japanese grocer is concerned with the freshness and quality of his or her produce. My opinion of the current USA fruit industry (mass growth, mass chemicals, mass transportation, for sale two months before anything is actually ripe) has long been jaded by one-too-many deceitful peaches (the ones that look appealing but end up leaving you with a mouthful of pulp the taste and consistency of soggy cardboard), but the Japanese have restored my faith in the possible production of quality produce at decent prices.

Pricing is of course relative to your location. Paying the equivalent of $1.00 per piece of fruit (different than per pound) probably seems pricey to those of us who are used to the King Soopers & Walmarts of the world. But, when compared to the 1000 yen or the 4000 yen cantaloupe melon (yes, that’s right, $40 for an average-sized melon), the 100 yen pricing suddenly seems like quite a deal. I can also attest to the fact that the cheaper fruit tastes no worse than its expensive cousin (I gave in and bought one of the outrageously priced melons I mentioned earlier… tasted just like every other cantaloupe I’ve ever had…) The moral of the story? While you quite often get what you pay for, just buy the 100 yen fruit. It still tastes like good fruit should.

This Japanese fanaticism for quality produce *can* go to an unreasonable extreme. Not only are they concerned with quality and freshness, but with appearance as well. Case in point- produce with cosmetic blemishes (taste intact) are often discounted considerably. Simply no one will buy the misshapen strawberry because it does not appeal to the eye as well as the taste buds… well, no one but one of four resident foreigners who’s perfectly content to slice said strawberry and close her eyes while savoring the taste. This doesn’t happen often however- vendors do their best not to buy the cosmetically-challenged fruit in the first place.

As the seasons change, so does the selection, with the most reasonably priced pieces being the fruits naturally in-season. The coming of fall has brought out the best of Asian pears, persimmons, and apples. While a part of me wishes some fruits were available year-round, I can’t say I’m too disappointed by their seasonal replacements. I’ve been encouraged to try something new (I can’t remember the last time I had a persimmon) and, out of necessity, change up our weekly menu to take advantage of the seasonal stock. It’s been a good way to practice the ever useful tool of “flexibility”, a blatant survival technique whenever one moves away from familiar surroundings.

It’s only a matter of time before winter starts knocking at our door. I wonder if the produce shops will close down and if fresh fruit & veggies will disappear from the markets until spring arrives. Larger supermarkets will probably charge an arm and a leg for the imported produce they’ll inevitably stock. Trees, bushes and plants will slumber underneath a blanket of white across the land…

Oh well, canned fruit isn’t *so* bad.

The Quake

2005-10-21T15:06:00.000+09:00

It was nothing huge. Nothing life-threatening. Nothing scary. It just was. We just reacted. And then it was over. And we went back to our daily lives. It was only later that I was struck by the realization that we’d just experienced an earthquake.

Japan is a vulnerable little island, where “natural disasters” are a commonplace occurrence. Multiple typhoons lash the land every year, quakes rock the very foundation of the earth itself, and landslides & flooding occur as a result. And yet the majority of the natives love their home, and are quite content to live and die here.

It’s not a question of “if a disaster strikes, what will you do?” It’s a matter of “when a disaster strikes”. This attitude makes all the difference. Kids grow up with the knowledge of what safety measures to take should something hit. The government is active in both the development of earthquake-resistant structural engineering and the implementation of it in future construction projects. A sophisticated and high-speed warning system is in place in the event of an approaching tsunami. The news warns of approaching typhoons, provides coverage of disasters within minutes of their occurrence, and serves as a way to provide important information to the masses. The Japanese are vast in their preparation and networking system in the disaster arena, because they know it’s a matter of “when”.

It’s all quite different than what this Coloradoan is used to, who has lived the majority of her life in a place where disasters are the exception, usually out on the eastern plains where tornados occasionally brew. I enjoyed that security. Tragedy can and does happen anywhere, but at least I didn’t worry about my house falling down on me.

Wednesday’s quake wasn’t very big. Occurring off the eastern coast of the island with a magnitude of 6.5, it registered as a 4 here. A little tremor really, lasting perhaps 3 minutes. At first, we thought it was just a really big, fast-moving truck roaring by our residence (they always shake-up our home). Except this time, it didn’t subside. After staring at each other for 5 seconds with an “Is this what I think it is?” look on our faces, we leapt into action. TV off. Gas off. Escape route secured (front door open). Nothing close to fall on us. We watched different items around the kitchen shake a little. And then it was done. TV on. Immediate news coverage and information on the quake we’d just experienced.

Back to our typical Wednesday evening.

That’s how life is here, how life anywhere is. We live in our “invincibility bubble”- not thinking about when you may be taken out of the game. Until something shakes your bubble up. But, unless your bubble is punctured (injury, loss, etc), you quickly recover and go back to living. What else can you do? It’s better to continue than lock yourself up in an underground vault to prevent disaster. It makes sense to go on… but I think there’s another reason we react this way.

There’s something inside each of us that believes we’re invincible… even eternal. There’s the sense that it isn’t supposed to end here.

Becoming acutely aware, if just for a moment, of one’s own mortality is a sobering thing. In a way, I’m actually grateful. Such moments have the power to clear away the clutter, freeing us to see the things that truly matter and the chance to engage with those nagging questions so easy to ignore, but important to pursue.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a typical evening.

The Journey Begins...

2005-10-05T20:46:00.000+09:00

In truth, this journey began about two months ago as we voluntarily threw ourselves headfirst into our new surroundings. It will last at least another ten, possibly more. For those of you just joining us, an introduction is in order.

Key Players: Myself and my husband, Ash.

Background: Former residents of beautiful Colorado, USA.

Why: We felt called to have an adventure before settling down and starting a family!

Location: Japan

And so starts my attempt to chronicle our thoughts, observations, and experiences in a land far, far away. Stay tuned for the next installment...

* * * * * * * * * *

At the request of my husband, I feel obliged to divulge his "pet name" for this blog. Considered exclusive knowledge, I share it with those of you who were kind enough to read this first post.

::drum roll::

"Plastic Rainbow Smack by Star".

::wild clapping and hooting::

There's a very good chance that you can expect more of these delightful (and random) side notes in the posts to come!