Multilingual Philosophy

In Japan, the trains stop running at midnight.  Hence if you want to drink and talk late into the night, it is common for friends to stay over.  Like Ryosuke.  We met up with him at a local izakaya (bar restaurant) and realized about 11:30 that we weren’t anywhere close to being finished. “Let’s stay over!” we offered and he called his wife to check in.  Ryosuke is curious about everything geinjin-related because he lived in America for 2 years.  For him to talk to me, someone who has lived in Japan for 2 years, it’s a perfect match for exchanging understanding of the two countries and the two peoples.   

Once back to our apartment, we all changed into comfortable clothes and opened beers and snacks and didn’t stop talking until 3am.  He speaks fairly good English, and we kept switching back and forth between languages.

There is nothing quite like talking to someone who grew up with none of the same assumptions as you to show you just how arbitrary some of the things you believe are.  It also shows you what you REALLY care about.  

He laughed when I called my boyfriend ‘sweetie.’ “It sounds too much, too sweet!” he said.  And yet, to me its a vital expression of care, a way to attach someone to you through word, to remind them what they mean to you. 

The whole night was spent making discoveries, arguing, laughing, and wondering… isn’t it amazing how different and yet how essentially the same everyone is.  “We all want to fall in love… we want real deep love, where you can talk and be honest,” he said.  

I can honestly say that traveling to somewhere where people are not the same as you, even “traveling” there in a chat room or through facebook, to communicate with those you might not agree with is the most incredible and essential way to learn about yourself.  Try it today.  Talk with someone you wouldn’t expect, might not even want to talk to.  They might surprise you.

Catch it as it goes by

If you haven’t been to Japan, you may not have experienced the joys of kaiten (or turning) sushi.  You sit next to a conveyor belt, the raw fish just keeps going on by, and you can choose however many of whichever kind you like.

The funny thing is that when we went, Naoki said “Don’t take the ones on the belt… they aren’t fresh enough!” So we order them through a little machine at the table and then they come out on the belt with a special notice that the plate is for our table.  So those lonely pieces of not specifically ordered sushi just go around and around and around getting less and less fresh.

“It’s like… beer juice.”

Um what?  Beer and juice together? Beer that tastes like juice?  Juice squeezed from the rare and infamous beer tree?

As I come to find out, it’s actually a non-alcoholic beer-flavored drink that you can then add your own sho-chu to.  Sho-chu is like japanese vodka, strong and and clear with no taste… so once you use Hoppy, you have created a mixed drink that tastes like beer. Oh Japan.

Hang me out to dry

Some times a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

No one was scalped in the taking of this photograph.

Picture this

Its 10pm. A dark cold night and I am walking home from the subway station, fighting off the drizzle in the air.  I am about to cross the crosswalk right in front of my apartment and I hear a siren.  Sirens are slightly different here than in America, but they still identifiably dangerous.  I stop on the sidewalk and wait to see where it is coming from.  Soon the source of the sound appears, a white and red ambulance.

What I then notice is that the two people in front of me are two middle-aged Japanese women walking their bikes, and they have failed to notice the sound.  They make it halfway into the intersection just as the ambulance is approaching.  The ambulance slows, the women slow.  The women stop–bikes in hand, looking at the ambulance like it is a blue cow with wings.  Just stopped, frozen in the middle of the intersection.

I want to scream “MOVE!!” but I don’t.  After what feels like minutes of hesitation, though it was probably only 1 or 2 seconds, they start bowing their heads and rush across the rest of the intersection to get out of the way.

Is this the japanese concept of wanting to respectfully make sure every decision is a correct decision before proceeding, but rearing its head in a completely useless fashion?  When they heard the siren, they could have backed up to the sidewalk where they came from, or rushed onto the far side of the street, even if they hadn’t seen the ambulance yet.  Isn’t that emergency protocol?  Also since they had bikes in hand, wouldn’t it have been faster for them to get ON them, instead of walking along side them?

I stood amazed watching this happen, the driver of the ambulance and the women bowing heads and trying to figure out who would cross first.  At a point of emergency, at a critical moment, decisions need to be made faster without consideration for politeness.   I find the respectfulness of Japan incredibly beneficial and yet limiting when citizens hesitate to take decisive action when it is needed.

One of these things is not like the other

There is a difference between belonging and fitting in.  So I will never fit in.  And I won’t try.  But I want to belong.  Belonging means I am part of the group, part of the family, that I am looked at with love and trust, and included in the plans.  And maybe, just maybe, I belong in this photo.  Sure, I stand out.  But we are laughing together and isn’t the best way to know you are connected to those around you.  Laugh together, and you share one heart.

2012, The year of the Dragon

A little late, but HAPPY NEW YEAR!

It is the year of the dragon, as you can see in the display of Takashimaya windows.  It is like the New York Barney’s equivalent, with the most elaborate window dressings. I love finding these visual gifts in Tokyo.

Japan lover though I am, weirdness can always be found here

If you aren’t satisfied with my finding bottled placenta in the dollar store, or dogs wearing clothes and sunglasses, let me share a dollop of Japanese strangeness like none other.  I love Japan, and every time someone says “It’s because it’s Japan” as an excuse for something they don’t like that they will find equally as much in their own country, I am the first to the defense.  However, what I find weird about the weirdness here, is it doesn’t seem to be just a expression of one’s inner freedom.  It’s different than american strangeness for some reason, as if they are still following a silent set of rules even as they break the norms.  It doesn’t fill me with individual inspiration the way street performers or other artists breaking the mold do.  Am I missing something?

What do you keep in your warehouse?

I personally keep frosting in mine.  In my warehouse.  Also known as a cookie in Japan.

The other day girl brought cookies into work.  So delicious, these little treats were like a wafer cookie in America, with softer creamier parts between each layer.  But she kept pointing to it and saying “Warehouse!” Apparently the name of this kind of cookie is WAREHOUSE, indicating that it stores large amount of creamy goodness in its center.  Who heard that American word and thought it would be a good way to call a cookie?  She didn’t even know what a warehouse was when I explained it.  Ah well. It was delicious no matter what it was called.

I never get tired of Engrish

This is just too good.  Not only is arrange and arrangement spelled wrong but they are spelled in two different ways.  And you can imagine the person who wrote it trying so hard.  The way they spelled it sort of makes sense for how it sounds!

100 yen shop + placenta = WHAT???

I like Japan, but WHAT THE F***?

I am shopping in the 100 yen store… let’s see, makeup brushes, lotion, nail file, and… what?

I just… I just… have SO many questions! How do they get it in such a little bottle? Why a squeeze bottle? Why is it next to the baby chapstick?? Whose womb did it come from? Is there a placenta donor bank specifically for cosmetic products?  And how are they able to sell such a premium product for 100 yen!!??

In all seriousness, I am pretty sure there is no ACTUAL afterbirth for sale in the 100 yen.  But one can never be completely sure.

The Schoolboy and the Ventriloquist

I had my first experience with the Japanese police tonight.  Thankfully it was instigated by me, a simple matter of a stolen bike.  There is little chance I will get it back, but since it’s a foreign country, I thought it best to go through the official channels of reporting it, in hopes it will be worked out.

When I walked in to the KOBAN office and presented myself, I was met with baffled looks and and slow attempts to figure out what had happened.  I was luckily equipped with the following handwritten note explaining my situation in Japanese, otherwise I would have been helpless.

I was then ushered into a room with two policemen who looked very nervous about conducting an interview with an American woman.  Their helplessness was slightly off-putting, and I hoped I never needed them for something more urgent.  We sat down and they began filling out forms, conversing in Japanese, and now and then attempting to ask me a question.

As my nerves over speaking to the police settled, I began to see the sitcom setup I had entered, sitting in this interrogation room with far more than a table between myself and the KOBAN.  In fact, I was being questioned by what looked like, as far as I could tell, a schoolboy and a ventriloquist.  The younger man wore his blue uniform like a costume, all covered in important-looking pockets and badges, which only made his quivering lip and look of pure befuddlement all the worse.  I wondered how recently he had become a policeman, and what indeed he would do faced with a real criminal.  The other man, similarly dressed, wore it better.  He looked as if he knew how to use a gun, and seemed to feel that filing a missing bicycle was below his station.  When he spoke, his mouth remained in its firm position, without so much as a twitch.  How the sound escaped, I still have no idea. I had to smother my laugh as I imagined him with a chatty puppet on his lap; he may have missed his calling.

We somehow managed our way through most of the form with our limited Japanese and English, and I was beginning to feel like maybe I shouldn’t be there. The discomfort in the room was only growing, as if I was the first person to have EVER reported a missing bicycle.  The schoolboy asked me my birthday and I realized I wasn’t sure what year to tell them.  Japan uses a year system based on the eras of the emperors, and so my birth year in Japan is Showa 59, but this I couldn’t remember.  “Um… 1984?” I offered, hoping they would understand.  “Showa wakarania,” meaning, Why the heck do you have a different system anyway! They paused, as if they may have reached an unbeatable stumbling block, and the schoolboy policeman wrote it down with a painstakingly slow hand.

In the following fumbling silence, the ventriloquist blurted out, “Jo-ji Oweiru.”

“Umm, sumimasen? (excuse me?)” I stammered.

“Jo-jii Oweeeruus,” he said again as he pointed to my birth year on the form.  Ah! 1984, yes!! George Orwell! This middle-aged Japanese policeman, who seemed to discarded facial movement as unecessary, was trying to make a connection.  Yes, George Orwell wrote 1984, which is also the year I was born. It was related to nothing, and yet it connected us.  He knew one thing about my generation and this was it.

But what he said next really took the cake.  He thought for a second and then said with unfailing austerity, “And eurythmikusu.”

At that moment I knew this experience was not about finding my bike, but the perfect reminder that the universe is a stand-up comic with no end of great one-liners. Yes, as defined by a 60-year-old Japanese policeman in a Tokyo suburb, the year of my birth can be summed up in two equally important and monumental happenings:  George Orwell’s famous novel and the Eurythmics.  And the funny thing is, he is probably right!  If you are going to remember two things from that year, you might as well choose those as any other! A prediction of a dire science fiction future and a British lady with a man’s voice and bright orange hair ushered me into the world, hallelujah!

The ventriloquist smiled at his brilliance and then returned to facial immobility.  Our moment of connection was over.  But for a brief moment, in the 45 minutes I spent there trying to accomplish a simple task, he had tried to offer all he knew of my world and my era.

They probably will not find my bike.  But for what I was given in return for my visit, I could pretty much care less.

Follow that hat!

Though this has become a regular sight for those of us living in Japan, I still get a kick every time I see a sea of bright-colored hats at waist level running across the sidewalk like a caffeinated flock of head gear. In other words, the Japanese use a brilliant little system I call the matching hat system.  If you are going to take the kids out of the classroom and walk them down the street, the only way to make sure you dont lose one is to stick a rainbow color on each child’s head, and if you see a little spot of yellow bouncing away you know you have some herding to do.

3-d cell phones, but old branch broomes

Japan races forward to be a technology leader while still trying to maintain, retain, hold on to the traditional, the good old days.  At least thats what I see on my wait to work as I pass the old fellow sweeping the streets with a branch-made broom.  Are these style of brooms really better than the polyester ones sold in the store? The ironic truth is that they actually might be.  Forward does not always mean better.  For all we know, in his pocket, while sweeping, he might have a cell phone like one of my friends–the kind where you push a button and suddenly the whole screen is 3-d popping out at you in virtual depth.  Ironic, huh?

6 months later, still rebuilding

Sure, we are professionals, but we live in a dorm like building with all performers and a certain mentality prevails among the casts.  Which translates to midnight runs for snacks and alcohol is a frequent occurrence in this neighborhood.  Though some would disagree, the smallest tragedy we experienced from the earthquake of March 11, 2011 was our 24-hour 7-11 sinking partially into the ground and having to be torn down. Its the only 24 convenience store around and was the sole provider of late-night bad decisions for the disney performers.  The the quake was a monumental event in the history of Japan, I cant tell you how many times I have heard “Oh my god, I cannot WAIT till 7-11 is rebuilt.” And you wonder why sometimes living here can be frustrating.  However despite the national and international significance of the quake, in our daily life of going to and from work every day, smiling to endless fans, there is something truly important about the ability to get an icecream at midnight when you have just had one of those kind of days.  So I will admit I couldn’t help but smile when i saw that immense progress has been made with our new 7-11 which now has walls and glass.  Maybe in a month we will have 24-hour access to all our vices again!

Picture this: late night chats in Japanese

The party is mostly over and we sit around the low table snacking on the leftover food and pouring wine.  1 of the 6 japanese speaks great English, another 2 can put together a broken sentence, and I am doing my best to say everything I can in Japanese.  I manage to come up with broken versions of about 50% of what I want to say.

If you’ve been here, if you are aware of world cultures, you generally assume that Japanese are fairly conservative.  Quirky, sometimes extremely so, but generally polite respectful and quiet about sensitive or personal issues.

Its 3am and we are talking about the recent loss of one of the fellows virginal status and what he could do to get better in the bedroom.  It is not uncommon in America to sit around chatting about personal stories with your girlfriends over drinks.  But now I am with half guys and half girls, all straight and we are discussing personal sexual preferences and experiences as if its a board meeting.  There is something overly intimate and oddly sterile about the whole experience, as if we were discussing medieval architecture. I try to explain that if this was America, offering such personal details to straight members of the opposite sex would be a act of flirtation, trying to rile and excite them.  But this had no such mood, no temptation, no baiting.  Simply a group discussing and consenting about the pros and cons of trimming pubic hair and what to say after sex is over.  I would never share with my straight male friends what kind of hair trimming I do or do not partake in, lest they imagine it or take that as I sign that I would like them to see it.  Yet we chat merrily and easily with some giggles but no blushing.

To top off the experience, the Carpenters are crooning softly in the background.  I am doing by best to keep up in Japanese as the only geijin in the room.

I couldn’t help mid-experience stopping to take mental picture of this drunken board room of japanese sensibly discussing sex technique as passionlessly as breakfast cereals in the middle of the night with the Carpenters filling all the silences. A unique moment is always worth remembering.

Old Friends, Matching Kimonos

Discovering his secret moment

I sat in the front seat of the Shuttle 7 bus on the way to work, right behind the driver.  Each time we stopped at a stop light I noticed his right hand leave the wheel and absentmindedly float up beside his head.  At first i thought it was nervous tension, hours of driving a bus creating a physical tick or just moving his arm to stretch.  Then I noticed his fingers moving up and down just slightly in a specific kind of pattern.

Yes, every time we stopped at a light this bus driver was practicing his violin (possibly cello?).  Hand up to position, fingers finding the melody, hand back down to drive when needed.

Sometimes its the beauty in the tiny moments that remind me how amazing it is to be alive.

Bike baskets: Not just for groceries, bags, and babies

Do they stay there when she (I am assuming it’s a she) rides? If so, do they have seat belts?

 

My daily dose of laughter

We sit in a keiten sushi restaurant, the kind where the sushi passes on a conveyor belt.  I have learned hiragana and katakana and try to stumble my way through the menu, asking Naoki what every other item is.  `Ge—soooo… what is it?` I say.　`Mmmm` he ponders, `foot of squish.`

We have had the whole squash-squish-squid conversation before, so I actually magically know what he means, and the guffaws come streaming out.  `Oh!` he says, `Squish is pumpkin right? Mistake!`  This makes me even happier as I qualm my giggles to demonstrate squishing a bug on the counter, and we both laugh all over again.  I am not going to eat geso anyway, so I am perfectly happy to think of it as foot of squish.