Saturday, December 31, 2011
The New Japan: New Year's Eve, Japan-style
The New Japan: New Year's Eve, Japan-style: We ventured out at 11pm to empty streets. I comment to my son, "I've never seen Tokyo so quiet" and we all ponder this for a few minutes. ...
New Year's Eve, Japan-style
We ventured out at 11pm to empty streets. I comment to my son, "I've never seen Tokyo so quiet" and we all ponder this for a few minutes. We have the sidewalk to ourselves. Twenty minutes later, we hit the crowds.
Food stalls line the sidewalk. People are lined up ten deep at the local shrine. We walk by the scents of food--chicken, beef, and pork on skewers, noodles mixed with vegetables, octopus pancakes in small balls, pastries, candy, sweet sake. It's a good thing I ate little during the day. My stomach grumbles.
Hungry and ready to eat, we stop at a chicken stand. We ask for a variety of chicken bits on sticks, and the father-son team behind the grill talk to us in English. Dad puts his hands together and says, "Pray? Japan-style?" and I say, "Yes." He grins. "Thank you."
Ten minutes later, the line in front of the shrine is now over 100 deep and I look at my phone, noting we're ten minutes away from midnight. Another ten minutes and the line is now out in the street, cops and firefighters directing traffic away from the worshipers.
We make our way to another bunch of stalls, this one set up in a park. My son looks at grilled fish on a stick--whole--and says, "I want one." He smiles and I grin back.
I pass the stalls selling cartoon masks. "I wanted these when I was a kid!" Then there are the candy stalls. "These, too!"
At each stall, I peer in to see who's behind the stove, grill, counter. I look at my husband and say, "Here's another way Japan has changed. These stalls used to be run by the yakuza guys. These people aren't."
They're around, of course. The chimpira, yakuza wannabes (guys lower down on the totem pole) stick out by their outfits and tightly permed hair. That they don't mind being seen in public wearing outfits their mothers would cringe at is a tell-tale sign of who they are. They swagger. Really. It's a sight to see.
Sumo wrestlers, very large men in traditional yukata walk through the crowds and people part to let them pass. People stare and then look away, a mixture of awe, respect, and just a bit of fear, as we all pretend to look and yet not look.
We eat ourselves silly, pay way too much for street food, and are happy and content as we make our way back to our apartment. The streets are now buzzing with people. Gone is the quiet from before. Taxis weave in and out. We can hardly walk through the crowds on the sidewalks going this way and that. A most perfect way to spend New Year's Eve in Tokyo. May this be the beginning of many more.
Food stalls line the sidewalk. People are lined up ten deep at the local shrine. We walk by the scents of food--chicken, beef, and pork on skewers, noodles mixed with vegetables, octopus pancakes in small balls, pastries, candy, sweet sake. It's a good thing I ate little during the day. My stomach grumbles.
Hungry and ready to eat, we stop at a chicken stand. We ask for a variety of chicken bits on sticks, and the father-son team behind the grill talk to us in English. Dad puts his hands together and says, "Pray? Japan-style?" and I say, "Yes." He grins. "Thank you."
Ten minutes later, the line in front of the shrine is now over 100 deep and I look at my phone, noting we're ten minutes away from midnight. Another ten minutes and the line is now out in the street, cops and firefighters directing traffic away from the worshipers.
We make our way to another bunch of stalls, this one set up in a park. My son looks at grilled fish on a stick--whole--and says, "I want one." He smiles and I grin back.
I pass the stalls selling cartoon masks. "I wanted these when I was a kid!" Then there are the candy stalls. "These, too!"
At each stall, I peer in to see who's behind the stove, grill, counter. I look at my husband and say, "Here's another way Japan has changed. These stalls used to be run by the yakuza guys. These people aren't."
They're around, of course. The chimpira, yakuza wannabes (guys lower down on the totem pole) stick out by their outfits and tightly permed hair. That they don't mind being seen in public wearing outfits their mothers would cringe at is a tell-tale sign of who they are. They swagger. Really. It's a sight to see.
Sumo wrestlers, very large men in traditional yukata walk through the crowds and people part to let them pass. People stare and then look away, a mixture of awe, respect, and just a bit of fear, as we all pretend to look and yet not look.
We eat ourselves silly, pay way too much for street food, and are happy and content as we make our way back to our apartment. The streets are now buzzing with people. Gone is the quiet from before. Taxis weave in and out. We can hardly walk through the crowds on the sidewalks going this way and that. A most perfect way to spend New Year's Eve in Tokyo. May this be the beginning of many more.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
The New Japan: Ofunato Stories: Part 2
The New Japan: Ofunato Stories: Part 2: Today I'm grateful. While I'm alone on Christmas Eve, staying in a hotel destroyed by the tsunami back in March, this newly rebuilt and ref...
Ofunato Stories: Part 2
Today I'm grateful. While I'm alone on Christmas Eve, staying in a hotel destroyed by the tsunami back in March, this newly rebuilt and refurbished building is a reminder of birth and rebirth. It's like Christmas meets Easter all in one season.
Today I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days. I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity. I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration. I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.
I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.
I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back. I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.
I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents.
I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town. I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.
Yes, I miss my family. Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave. Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief. For that, too, I'm grateful.
Today I'm grateful. I'm grateful to be alive. I'm grateful for my family who arrives in Japan in two days. I'm grateful for my new adopted brothers here in Ofunato who have taken good care of me and shown me incredible generosity. I'm grateful for those here who are trying hard to move on with their lives, as each day brings a mixture of hope and frustration. I'm grateful for those who stayed behind to continue with the rebuilding of Tohoku through sheer devotion to the prospects and plans for economic recovery.
I'm grateful for family and friends from near and far who have continued to offer help in the form of concern, time, support (emotional, financial, and spiritual), laughter, harsh words, and love.
I'm grateful for my husband who has let me go with the understanding I will come back. I'm grateful for my son who questions what his mother is doing but not enough to complain.
I'm grateful for the kids who squealed with delight as a city council member dressed up as a reindeer entered their classrooms ringing bells, announcing the arrival of presents.
I'm grateful for grown men who can dress up as reindeer for the kids in their town. I'm grateful for men who take a day off from work to help deliver gifts of candy.
Yes, I miss my family. Yes, it's hard sitting in a hotel room once destroyed by a giant wave. Tonight, gratitude outweighs any sentiment of loneliness or grief. For that, too, I'm grateful.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Ofunato Stories: Part 1
My fifth trip to Ofunato this year showed me a very different town. Not having a "before" image to compare it to, I can only see the progress made as the city worked to clean up the massive amount of debris left by the tsunami. The part of the town near the port is now completely cleaned up. The foundations of houses and buildings remain but the everything else is gone. The few remaining buildings, those made of concrete and strong enough to withstand the waves are back in business or still being repaired.
Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday. There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.
I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers. The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is. I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship. I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles. They matter.
We shared stories. Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.
"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says. I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week. I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no. Not the skimpy-looking thing. This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know." I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object. Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids. You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me. I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod.
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply. "I'd do anything to make them laugh. Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother. Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese. Kazu-san's going to interpret for me. I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right? There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you? That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!" Kazu-san objects. "We've got it all worked out. She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine. Where's the trust?"
"Trust? Trust you? We know better." More laughter.
"I've got it!" The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux? No, not a tux. An elf, maybe." My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one. A green or red shirt, and shorts or something." I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this. Everyone laughs. Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay. If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really? What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs. The butt!"
"Good! I'll be the front and you be the butt." With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.
Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?" Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing. You go, too. I'm Elf One. You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right. That and a hat. The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."
The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.
I did not see this coming. My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile. That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled.
Be careful what you ask for. Indeed.
Those I spoke to still speak of the event in March as if it was yesterday. There is hope for the future, but there is also a profound sense of loss, confusion, frustration, and those who wonder what to do next.
I met with the gang of relief-supply deliverers. The group is as jovial as usual, teasing each other, making fun of how skinny one is or how fat another is. I am again humbled by the fact they let me into their tightly-knit bonds of friendship. I think of them as my adopted cousins, and uncles. They matter.
We shared stories. Our hopes for what is to come, their grief over what they lost was mixed with laughter, food, and the prerequisite alcohol.
"Tell me about this Mrs. Claus thing we've heard about," the youngest of the group says. I grin.
"Well," I begin, "I'll be here again next week. I have a Mrs. Claus costume that makes me look like a plump grandmother."
"Not one of those skimpy things?" the eldest of the group asks.
"I'm handing out candy to kids, so no. Not the skimpy-looking thing. This isn't something I'm doing for middle-aged men, you know." I grin again.
"I think she just called you 'old'," Kazu-san says.
"I did not!" I object. Everyone laughs.
"So, Mrs. Claus, candy, kids. You know where you're going?"
"Kazu-san set things up for me. I'm going to three day care centers and the orphanage."
They all nod.
"That's a good thing you're doing," the balding Taro-san says, suddenly serious.
"It's for the kids," I reply. "I'd do anything to make them laugh. Even if that means I dress up like a frumpy looking grandmother. Oh, and I'm going to pretend I don't speak Japanese. Kazu-san's going to interpret for me. I figure I might as well try to be the real Mrs. Claus, right? There's no way she'd speak Japanese."
"Kazu's going to interpret for you? That won't do," Susumu-san says.
"Hey!" Kazu-san objects. "We've got it all worked out. She's giving me a script."
"You're not going to read from it, right?" Taro-san says and they all laugh again.
"I'll be fine. Where's the trust?"
"Trust? Trust you? We know better." More laughter.
"I've got it!" The city council member bangs the table.
"You need Kazu to wear a tux."
"A tux? No, not a tux. An elf, maybe." My dead-pan and totally serious comment is met with cheers.
"What does an elf wear?" Kazu-san asks, not sure he likes this.
"Well, green tights, for one. A green or red shirt, and shorts or something." I try to conjure up an elf in my mind as I say this. Everyone laughs. Taro-san falls over he's laughing so hard.
"Okay. If Kazu's going to wear green tights then I'm in, too," the city council member says.
"Really? What are you going to be?" I ask.
"A reindeer."
Taro-san, now upright says, "I'll be the hind legs. The butt!"
"Good! I'll be the front and you be the butt." With that, the city council officer and Taro-san start planning their costumes.
Enter Kazu-san's younger brother.
"Sorry I'm late!"
"Elf Two!!" Kazu-san yells.
"What?" Younger brother is clearly confused.
"I'm going to be Amya's interpreter for the Mrs. Claus thing. You go, too. I'm Elf One. You're Elf Two."
"Okaaay," Shige-san agrees very cautiously and then is told about the green costume he has to wear including the green tights.
"Don't elves have those pointy shoes?" he asks.
"Right. That and a hat. The hat has to have a bell on the end of it," I say.
"Where am I going to find a hat like that?" Shige-san is not sure he likes being volunteered to wear tights in public.
"You make it, idiot," older brother scolds him.
"Oh."
The rest of the night was spent planning the route, negotiating whether or not I could get a sleigh ("with bells and lights?" I ask), which schools were located on top of a hill ("downhill would be better if we're going to pull you") and adding two high schools to the mix of places we'll visit.
I did not see this coming. My plan was to go to Ofunato on the 22nd dressed as Mrs. Claus, handing out Christmas candy to kids who've had a very tough year, and hoping to make them smile. That I'd end up with a sleigh, two reindeer, two elves, and drivers to shuttle us to and from these various facilities, I'm again humbled.
Be careful what you ask for. Indeed.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
The New Japan: The power of advertising
The New Japan: The power of advertising: "I want that," I say, pointing to the television. "What?" My husband looks up from his laptop and replies with no idea what I'm talking abo...
The power of advertising
"I want that," I say, pointing to the television.
"What?" My husband looks up from his laptop and replies with no idea what I'm talking about.
"That," I point.
"What 'that'?" He's looking at the television, completely confused.
"You missed it." I'm annoyed.
"What was it?"
I turn to him. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails."
His look says it all. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails," and he repeats it slowly, making sure I really said what I said. "Whose toenails?"
"Yeah. Frankenstein was painting that woman's toenails. She was sitting by the pool. I think it was somewhere in Florida. I want Big Apple Red."
"You want Frankenstein to give you a pedicure?" He's not sure I'm sane.
"Not a pedicure," and I try not to add a tone that implies I would add "duh" at the end of that phrase. Clearly a complete pedicure would take too long. I just want my nails done. By Frankenstein.
"I want you to get someone to dress up like Frankenstein and paint my toenails. Red."
"Red. Yeah. I got that part. You want me to get some guy to dress up in a Frankenstein costume and paint your toenails? I just want to make sure I'm getting this."
I honestly don't understand what the big deal is. "Yes, I want you to get someone to dress up as Frankenstein, and yes, I want that person to paint my toenails." Duh. "Maybe for Christmas?" I add.
He's deliberate in what he says next. "May I ask why?"
"It looks like fun."
"Fun," and he trails off.
Am I the only one who finds the idea of sitting pool-side, sunbathing, and having Frankenstein paint my toenails serious fun? I think not. The power of suggestion, that this would be absolutely loads of fun, it's so clear to me. Surely this is why whoever is offering the services of Frankenstein's pedicure skills put it on a television commercial. Right?
Commercials are meant to sell. They want us to buy their products and services. Some do a better job of this than others. Case in point. A Japanese credit card company commercial says the following: "What you've seen on the previous commercial, and what you'll see on the next--buy them. Use this credit card." The implication is "buying is good and you should do it through us." No beating around the bush there.
Another commercial, this time for a stew, first starts out with a Christmas tree with lights flickering out from under piles of white snow. Star-shaped lights turn into star-shaped carrots in the stew. Yes, I now want to buy that stew. I also think star-shaped carrots are now officially a wonderful idea. Piping hot stew on a warm winter night with star-shaped carrots? I'm sold.
Commercials for canned coffee make even coffee look appealing. Those drinking them look happy, caffeinated, and ready to hit the day. That coffee is my current nemesis makes the fact these commercials catch my eye and make me wonder about my decision to continue avoiding the drink even a stronger point.
Staying with the coffee theme for a moment.....Some canned coffee advertising makes no sense but still makes one stand up and take notice. I was sitting on a train, absent-mindedly looking around when I see the following:
It'd be great if chicks liked me.
Maybe I'll be a panda.
Chicks like pandas, right?
Pandas are cute. Chicks like cute things.
But, then again, if I were a panda, I'd end up with a panda chick for life.
Hmm. That won't work.
Pandas and human chicks don't mix.
Still, worth a shot, maybe?
What this has anything to do with coffee is beyond me, but I did actually get up from my seat and write down the words from the ad. I didn't buy the coffee, but I had to stifle a guffaw on the train.
I find Japanese advertising to be a mix of subtle, nuanced suggestions mixed with outright "buy this and you too can look like me" statements. I'm not sure I can completely put my finger on what is so different from the ads I see back in the US but different they are. Here is yet another new side of Japan I'm seeing. Why I'm noticing this now is still a mystery to me, but the power of advertising has been a running theme in my life since my arrival.
"I can dress up as Frankenstein and paint your toenails." Evidently, my husband is still figuring out how to look up where to find a company that sends out Frankensteins to sunbathing women.
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why'?"
"I don't see why I can't paint your toenails."
"It's not the same thing."
"I don't get it."
"I want a real Frankenstein."
"You realize," and here he pauses, "you make no sense."
"I do, too," and I don't add, "in my world" because even after twenty-plus years there are clearly some things he still doesn't get. Seriously powerful advertising is one of them.
"What?" My husband looks up from his laptop and replies with no idea what I'm talking about.
"That," I point.
"What 'that'?" He's looking at the television, completely confused.
"You missed it." I'm annoyed.
"What was it?"
I turn to him. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails."
His look says it all. "Frankenstein was painting her toenails," and he repeats it slowly, making sure I really said what I said. "Whose toenails?"
"Yeah. Frankenstein was painting that woman's toenails. She was sitting by the pool. I think it was somewhere in Florida. I want Big Apple Red."
"You want Frankenstein to give you a pedicure?" He's not sure I'm sane.
"Not a pedicure," and I try not to add a tone that implies I would add "duh" at the end of that phrase. Clearly a complete pedicure would take too long. I just want my nails done. By Frankenstein.
"I want you to get someone to dress up like Frankenstein and paint my toenails. Red."
"Red. Yeah. I got that part. You want me to get some guy to dress up in a Frankenstein costume and paint your toenails? I just want to make sure I'm getting this."
I honestly don't understand what the big deal is. "Yes, I want you to get someone to dress up as Frankenstein, and yes, I want that person to paint my toenails." Duh. "Maybe for Christmas?" I add.
He's deliberate in what he says next. "May I ask why?"
"It looks like fun."
"Fun," and he trails off.
Am I the only one who finds the idea of sitting pool-side, sunbathing, and having Frankenstein paint my toenails serious fun? I think not. The power of suggestion, that this would be absolutely loads of fun, it's so clear to me. Surely this is why whoever is offering the services of Frankenstein's pedicure skills put it on a television commercial. Right?
Commercials are meant to sell. They want us to buy their products and services. Some do a better job of this than others. Case in point. A Japanese credit card company commercial says the following: "What you've seen on the previous commercial, and what you'll see on the next--buy them. Use this credit card." The implication is "buying is good and you should do it through us." No beating around the bush there.
Another commercial, this time for a stew, first starts out with a Christmas tree with lights flickering out from under piles of white snow. Star-shaped lights turn into star-shaped carrots in the stew. Yes, I now want to buy that stew. I also think star-shaped carrots are now officially a wonderful idea. Piping hot stew on a warm winter night with star-shaped carrots? I'm sold.
Commercials for canned coffee make even coffee look appealing. Those drinking them look happy, caffeinated, and ready to hit the day. That coffee is my current nemesis makes the fact these commercials catch my eye and make me wonder about my decision to continue avoiding the drink even a stronger point.
Staying with the coffee theme for a moment.....Some canned coffee advertising makes no sense but still makes one stand up and take notice. I was sitting on a train, absent-mindedly looking around when I see the following:
It'd be great if chicks liked me.
Maybe I'll be a panda.
Chicks like pandas, right?
Pandas are cute. Chicks like cute things.
But, then again, if I were a panda, I'd end up with a panda chick for life.
Hmm. That won't work.
Pandas and human chicks don't mix.
Still, worth a shot, maybe?
What this has anything to do with coffee is beyond me, but I did actually get up from my seat and write down the words from the ad. I didn't buy the coffee, but I had to stifle a guffaw on the train.
I find Japanese advertising to be a mix of subtle, nuanced suggestions mixed with outright "buy this and you too can look like me" statements. I'm not sure I can completely put my finger on what is so different from the ads I see back in the US but different they are. Here is yet another new side of Japan I'm seeing. Why I'm noticing this now is still a mystery to me, but the power of advertising has been a running theme in my life since my arrival.
"I can dress up as Frankenstein and paint your toenails." Evidently, my husband is still figuring out how to look up where to find a company that sends out Frankensteins to sunbathing women.
"Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"What do you mean, 'why'?"
"I don't see why I can't paint your toenails."
"It's not the same thing."
"I don't get it."
"I want a real Frankenstein."
"You realize," and here he pauses, "you make no sense."
"I do, too," and I don't add, "in my world" because even after twenty-plus years there are clearly some things he still doesn't get. Seriously powerful advertising is one of them.
Friday, December 9, 2011
The coffee dilemma
Twenty-plus years of marriage with Christmases, Valentine's Days, and anniversaries has long-ago put my husband in a bit of a tough spot.
The question "What do you want for Christmas this year?" means he doesn't know what to get me. He has a list of items he shouldn't buy. No kitchen or household appliances (ever), no jewelry unless he's seen me go "ooooooh!" at that specific piece, and nothing that might make me say "Baby, How am I supposed to fit into this!?"
That he tries makes me happy. That he wants to make me happy makes me happy. Perhaps it's the little girl in me that wants to open up a present from him, squeal and get teary over his ability to find the perfect gift. Considering how many years we've been together and how many times he's had to buy gifts, it's no wonder he's running out of ideas.
Enter my latest answer. I saw it in a movie. The man could have anything he wanted. The CIA or NSA or some secretive government agency promised they would give it to him. His answer? "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." I laugh every time I think of this scene.
My new answer to "What do you want this year?" has also been "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." Which gets me laughs, eye-rolling, "Where do I buy that?", and "No, seriously." I've asked for "Peace on Earth" over the past several years, and dear husband, your "I'll see what I can do" has been much appreciated. Let's try something else this year. My dearest, I need you to solve a problem for me. That can be my Christmas present. My problem? Coffee.
"How is that a problem?" You'll say. "You gave up coffee years ago." To which I would reply, "I know. That's my problem." You would ask for clarification. I would offer the following scenario.
I'm visiting someone. It could be a business meeting or a friend. Out come the drinks and snacks. I'm almost never asked what I'd like to drink. My track record to date, 50-50 between coffee and green tea. Half of the time I'm served coffee, which means that cup sits in front of me untouched and I feel bad for not drinking it and my host feels bad for serving me something I clearly don't like.
This is not good. This is a problem. I'm given a drink, a western drink, and I'm supposed to drink it. That I don't drink coffee is really not the point. I show proper appreciation for their hospitality by drinking it. Period.
Let's go back three-plus years. I'm on a flight, flipping through one of the many magazines I always brought along. Never having time to read them at home, I would save them up for my once-a-month business trips and go through all of them, donating them to the flight attendants at the end of the flight. One article caught my eye. "Green Tea is Good For You." Well, duh. I knew this. I've always known this. Something happened that day. It was an "a-ha" moment. The switch that had been half-on for years offering a flickering light officially snapped into the ON position. I was switching to green tea. Enough with the coffee. This was for real. I was done with coffee. For good.
My coffee-problems were as follows: a). I would add a bit of coffee to my cream, and b). I would inevitably get called away from my desk just as I had made myself the perfect cup of coffee, only to return when it was cold and slightly bitter. I would then drink that cold, slightly bitter, no longer warm and comforting cup of coffee, because I needed the caffeine.
Let's acknowledge here for a moment an important point. Cream is essentially 100% fat. I'm not kidding when I say I added coffee to my cream. This means, I was essentially drinking quite a few cups of serious (albeit very yummy) fat everyday. We all know what that kind of fat-consumption does to certain body parts.
So, admitting I was drinking coffee for it's caffeine content and also knowing I wanted to live longer than continual fat-ingestion would probably allow, that day in that airplane seat, I gave up coffee.
Dear husband,
Herein lines the problem. I know better than to outright tell those who serve me coffee "Sorry, I don't drink coffee." Coffee has not touched my lips in many years and you've heard me say I don't miss it one bit. My butt has shrunk after giving up my many cups of coffee-cream concoction. What do I do then when cans and cups of coffee appear in front of me? Yesterday I fake-drank a cup, only after repeatedly being told "Drink up. It's getting cold," and knowing I couldn't ignore the now lukewarm cup any longer. This problem needs fixing, and for once, I'm all out of ideas. If you can solve this dilemma for me, I'll consider it a year's worth of presents. Do something. I really don't want to go back to coffee. Help me please.
Your adoring wife
The question "What do you want for Christmas this year?" means he doesn't know what to get me. He has a list of items he shouldn't buy. No kitchen or household appliances (ever), no jewelry unless he's seen me go "ooooooh!" at that specific piece, and nothing that might make me say "Baby, How am I supposed to fit into this!?"
That he tries makes me happy. That he wants to make me happy makes me happy. Perhaps it's the little girl in me that wants to open up a present from him, squeal and get teary over his ability to find the perfect gift. Considering how many years we've been together and how many times he's had to buy gifts, it's no wonder he's running out of ideas.
Enter my latest answer. I saw it in a movie. The man could have anything he wanted. The CIA or NSA or some secretive government agency promised they would give it to him. His answer? "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." I laugh every time I think of this scene.
My new answer to "What do you want this year?" has also been "Peace on Earth and good will to everyone." Which gets me laughs, eye-rolling, "Where do I buy that?", and "No, seriously." I've asked for "Peace on Earth" over the past several years, and dear husband, your "I'll see what I can do" has been much appreciated. Let's try something else this year. My dearest, I need you to solve a problem for me. That can be my Christmas present. My problem? Coffee.
"How is that a problem?" You'll say. "You gave up coffee years ago." To which I would reply, "I know. That's my problem." You would ask for clarification. I would offer the following scenario.
I'm visiting someone. It could be a business meeting or a friend. Out come the drinks and snacks. I'm almost never asked what I'd like to drink. My track record to date, 50-50 between coffee and green tea. Half of the time I'm served coffee, which means that cup sits in front of me untouched and I feel bad for not drinking it and my host feels bad for serving me something I clearly don't like.
This is not good. This is a problem. I'm given a drink, a western drink, and I'm supposed to drink it. That I don't drink coffee is really not the point. I show proper appreciation for their hospitality by drinking it. Period.
Let's go back three-plus years. I'm on a flight, flipping through one of the many magazines I always brought along. Never having time to read them at home, I would save them up for my once-a-month business trips and go through all of them, donating them to the flight attendants at the end of the flight. One article caught my eye. "Green Tea is Good For You." Well, duh. I knew this. I've always known this. Something happened that day. It was an "a-ha" moment. The switch that had been half-on for years offering a flickering light officially snapped into the ON position. I was switching to green tea. Enough with the coffee. This was for real. I was done with coffee. For good.
My coffee-problems were as follows: a). I would add a bit of coffee to my cream, and b). I would inevitably get called away from my desk just as I had made myself the perfect cup of coffee, only to return when it was cold and slightly bitter. I would then drink that cold, slightly bitter, no longer warm and comforting cup of coffee, because I needed the caffeine.
Let's acknowledge here for a moment an important point. Cream is essentially 100% fat. I'm not kidding when I say I added coffee to my cream. This means, I was essentially drinking quite a few cups of serious (albeit very yummy) fat everyday. We all know what that kind of fat-consumption does to certain body parts.
So, admitting I was drinking coffee for it's caffeine content and also knowing I wanted to live longer than continual fat-ingestion would probably allow, that day in that airplane seat, I gave up coffee.
Dear husband,
Herein lines the problem. I know better than to outright tell those who serve me coffee "Sorry, I don't drink coffee." Coffee has not touched my lips in many years and you've heard me say I don't miss it one bit. My butt has shrunk after giving up my many cups of coffee-cream concoction. What do I do then when cans and cups of coffee appear in front of me? Yesterday I fake-drank a cup, only after repeatedly being told "Drink up. It's getting cold," and knowing I couldn't ignore the now lukewarm cup any longer. This problem needs fixing, and for once, I'm all out of ideas. If you can solve this dilemma for me, I'll consider it a year's worth of presents. Do something. I really don't want to go back to coffee. Help me please.
Your adoring wife
Thursday, December 8, 2011
A little bit of everything
Holiday season that it is, I've been thinking a lot about who would be sitting around my dining room table on any given major winter holiday. My family is made up of, simply put, incredibly diverse perspectives. If everyone on both sides of my family were to sit around the table (and let's not focus here on the fact this will never happen) the list would include the following: Buddhists, agnostics, Muslims, evangelical Christians, atheists, pagans, seriously literal "What Would Jesus Do" Christians, die-hard "I-need-to-stock-pile-guns-to-protect-myself-from-the-government" militia-style Republicans, completely polar opposite "ohmygod, I can't believe I'm related to you" Democrats, gay and straight, with money and not so much, African-Americans, Chinese, Egyptian, Ivorian, Creole, Lakota, mixed race children, Ph.Ds and my grandmother who didn't finish high school, farmers and those with a load of frequent-flier miles, artists and stick-figure drawers, musicians and tone deaf. The list of comparisons goes on.
We don't all get along. Some of us rarely speak. Others simply won't and don't. We are related by blood and marriage. We don't choose each other. Therein lies a significant point. Except for our spouses, we don't choose each other.
Filling my life with those whose opinions are similar to mine--this is fun. We banter, push each other, laugh, and finish each other's sentences. Those with divergent opinions I see less of, and the more adamant we are in our differences the less we see of each other. I like having choices. I like choosing people I like and who like me back and spending time with them. I like having them in my life. I tell myself this is normal. It is, right? Why wouldn't I want to have like-minded people whom I like all around me? (Keyword for this paragraph: like.)
Because--and this is where Japan comes in--that's how I define my heaven. More specifically, and let me go on record first and say I don't technically believe in heaven the way it's referenced in the Bible, my heaven is the Yamanote-line.
This is the Yamanote-line.
It's a major train line running around Tokyo, never-ending, and possibly never beginning. Fine. It must start somewhere every morning and end somewhere every night but that's really not the point I'm trying to make.
My heaven is me on the Yamanote-line. Forever. All my favorite people hop on and off, we eat food, we never get fat, we talk, laugh, dance, sing, tell really stupid jokes (I'm finally able to remember the punchlines of every single joke in my version of heaven), and this goes on forever. Those whom I choose for friends, family, companions, ride with me on the train. Some get off every now and then and let others on. Simply put, I'm surrounded by people I love and chose forever. I'm totally serious about this.
I could argue I can save making sure I'm surrounded by like-minded people until I ride the Yamanote-line forever. I want different ways of thinking in my life, now, right? So then, just as easily I could argue I should make sure I'm challenged by those I'm really not sure I like and do that now so I'll appreciate the presence of my favorite people later on. Not being much of a fan of delayed gratification, this is hard for me. Admitting I don't often sit around the dining room table with my relatives whom I'm just really not all that fond of evidently means I don't want different ways of thinking that much. Hmmm.
Back to why this matters now. As I hunt for apartments in Tokyo, I find myself deliberately avoiding the Yamanote-line. This is ridiculous, I know. I'm almost telling myself if I ride the Yamanote-line too often now I won't appreciate as much later. This is total crap, obviously, but I still find myself looking at the lines that branch out and away from the green circle and avoiding the areas on the line itself. It's like heaven is right there but I'm not supposed to touch it for awhile.
A little bit of everything tonight. Life and death, likes and dislikes, friend and foe, and some how knowing it relates back to Japan. Random musings for the day.
We don't all get along. Some of us rarely speak. Others simply won't and don't. We are related by blood and marriage. We don't choose each other. Therein lies a significant point. Except for our spouses, we don't choose each other.
Filling my life with those whose opinions are similar to mine--this is fun. We banter, push each other, laugh, and finish each other's sentences. Those with divergent opinions I see less of, and the more adamant we are in our differences the less we see of each other. I like having choices. I like choosing people I like and who like me back and spending time with them. I like having them in my life. I tell myself this is normal. It is, right? Why wouldn't I want to have like-minded people whom I like all around me? (Keyword for this paragraph: like.)
Because--and this is where Japan comes in--that's how I define my heaven. More specifically, and let me go on record first and say I don't technically believe in heaven the way it's referenced in the Bible, my heaven is the Yamanote-line.
This is the Yamanote-line.
It's a major train line running around Tokyo, never-ending, and possibly never beginning. Fine. It must start somewhere every morning and end somewhere every night but that's really not the point I'm trying to make.
My heaven is me on the Yamanote-line. Forever. All my favorite people hop on and off, we eat food, we never get fat, we talk, laugh, dance, sing, tell really stupid jokes (I'm finally able to remember the punchlines of every single joke in my version of heaven), and this goes on forever. Those whom I choose for friends, family, companions, ride with me on the train. Some get off every now and then and let others on. Simply put, I'm surrounded by people I love and chose forever. I'm totally serious about this.
I could argue I can save making sure I'm surrounded by like-minded people until I ride the Yamanote-line forever. I want different ways of thinking in my life, now, right? So then, just as easily I could argue I should make sure I'm challenged by those I'm really not sure I like and do that now so I'll appreciate the presence of my favorite people later on. Not being much of a fan of delayed gratification, this is hard for me. Admitting I don't often sit around the dining room table with my relatives whom I'm just really not all that fond of evidently means I don't want different ways of thinking that much. Hmmm.
Back to why this matters now. As I hunt for apartments in Tokyo, I find myself deliberately avoiding the Yamanote-line. This is ridiculous, I know. I'm almost telling myself if I ride the Yamanote-line too often now I won't appreciate as much later. This is total crap, obviously, but I still find myself looking at the lines that branch out and away from the green circle and avoiding the areas on the line itself. It's like heaven is right there but I'm not supposed to touch it for awhile.
A little bit of everything tonight. Life and death, likes and dislikes, friend and foe, and some how knowing it relates back to Japan. Random musings for the day.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
The New Japan: The new buzzword
The New Japan: The new buzzword: I hear it everyday. Really. It's perhaps that psychological phenomenon I can't remember the name of, where I think of a song and then next...
The new buzzword
I hear it everyday. Really. It's perhaps that psychological phenomenon I can't remember the name of, where I think of a song and then next thing I know I hear it on the radio over and over. Then again, maybe there's a reason this is happening. And, maybe I know what that reason is. And, just maybe, it has something to do with March 11th.
Before you go, "Oh, here we go again" give me a few more minutes.
I have heard the word kizuna everyday since arriving in Japan. It means bond, ties, a connection, an affinity. The sentiment in Japan is "we are connected." The "we" can be immediate family, a community, a network of friends, or the country as a whole. I get it. I think it's beautiful. This buzzword, I hope stays around for awhile. It wouldn't hurt for the sense of community to stay put. This kind of bonding only builds, and it's a wonderful way to recover.
This video has been making the rounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS-sWdAQsYg&feature=share
I made the mistake of watching it as I sat in a crowded office waiting to file paperwork. Two minutes in, I was tearing up and I had to put my iPhone away. I faked a yawn to cover up my tears lest I get called up to the desk at this exact moment.
It explains kizuna well. You're apart of it this bond, too.
Spread the word.
Before you go, "Oh, here we go again" give me a few more minutes.
I have heard the word kizuna everyday since arriving in Japan. It means bond, ties, a connection, an affinity. The sentiment in Japan is "we are connected." The "we" can be immediate family, a community, a network of friends, or the country as a whole. I get it. I think it's beautiful. This buzzword, I hope stays around for awhile. It wouldn't hurt for the sense of community to stay put. This kind of bonding only builds, and it's a wonderful way to recover.
This video has been making the rounds.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS-sWdAQsYg&feature=share
I made the mistake of watching it as I sat in a crowded office waiting to file paperwork. Two minutes in, I was tearing up and I had to put my iPhone away. I faked a yawn to cover up my tears lest I get called up to the desk at this exact moment.
It explains kizuna well. You're apart of it this bond, too.
Spread the word.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Tohoku forgotten?
Granted I've been in Japan less than 48 hours. Yesterday was a wash. Walking around town in a daze, I can say now I wasn't taking much in. Today is different. I'm in the city again where I'm most comfortable. My eyes are more focused. I see things better, clearer. I'm struck by what's not present. Ask me again in three weeks, six weeks and I may take this back. Today, I stand by this.
I've walked through stations. I've ridden on trains. I've watched television. Gone are the posters, signage, shows, reports, news stories discussing what happened in Tohoku in March. Sitting in front of the television now, I'm watching a report on how children are faring post March 11th. This is the first time I've seen or heard the words "Tohoku" since arriving in Japan this time.
What happened? What changed? The obvious answer is time. Donor fatigue sunk in long ago. The ever present sense of resolve and perseverance seems to have been replaced with apathy, hopelessness, and a lack of interest. Like other catastrophes, natural and man-made, people get tired of hearing and reading news on the same topic. I get that. I understand how the rest of the world has stopped discussing Japan. But, here, too? That Japan isn't even reporting on the lives of those in Tohoku, this surprises me.
Then there's this.
Starbucks has stopped accepting donations for those in the Tohoku prefectures. The announcement states they stopped collecting money at the end of September, and tells coffee-buyers they donated over 35,000,000 yen to the Japanese Red Cross. That's no small sum. But, why stop now? I don't get it.
I am incredibly aware of the fact I cannot be a gong ringing on my own, trying to keep peoples' interest focused on Tohoku. That means I will spend a significant amount of energy over the next several months figuring out how to balance reporting on what I will do in the Tohoku area, and how not to talk about only that. I will try. I really will. Then again, isn't there something wrong with the fact anyone should have to limit the conveyance of facts (especially facts this important) because the rest of the world has a short attention span?
I've walked through stations. I've ridden on trains. I've watched television. Gone are the posters, signage, shows, reports, news stories discussing what happened in Tohoku in March. Sitting in front of the television now, I'm watching a report on how children are faring post March 11th. This is the first time I've seen or heard the words "Tohoku" since arriving in Japan this time.
What happened? What changed? The obvious answer is time. Donor fatigue sunk in long ago. The ever present sense of resolve and perseverance seems to have been replaced with apathy, hopelessness, and a lack of interest. Like other catastrophes, natural and man-made, people get tired of hearing and reading news on the same topic. I get that. I understand how the rest of the world has stopped discussing Japan. But, here, too? That Japan isn't even reporting on the lives of those in Tohoku, this surprises me.
Then there's this.
Starbucks has stopped accepting donations for those in the Tohoku prefectures. The announcement states they stopped collecting money at the end of September, and tells coffee-buyers they donated over 35,000,000 yen to the Japanese Red Cross. That's no small sum. But, why stop now? I don't get it.
I am incredibly aware of the fact I cannot be a gong ringing on my own, trying to keep peoples' interest focused on Tohoku. That means I will spend a significant amount of energy over the next several months figuring out how to balance reporting on what I will do in the Tohoku area, and how not to talk about only that. I will try. I really will. Then again, isn't there something wrong with the fact anyone should have to limit the conveyance of facts (especially facts this important) because the rest of the world has a short attention span?
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The New Japan: The truth about lying
The New Japan: The truth about lying: Here we go again. I'm back in Japan, and after getting out of bed way too early for my taste (all thanks to jet lag) I spent the morning lo...
The truth about lying
Here we go again. I'm back in Japan, and after getting out of bed way too early for my taste (all thanks to jet lag) I spent the morning looking at apartments. From the outside, that is. Where do I want to live? How much do I want to spend on rent? I did my homework. I asked for advice. Following it, mostly, I took my print outs and combed the streets.
Looking at buildings only tells me so much. I know this, of course. It's the inside that matters. I want space, a toilet that sprays warm water, air conditioning, an elevator. I need to get inside. Before I do, however, I want to walk the distance from the nearest train station. Is there a supermarket nearby? A Chinese restaurant? I walk telling myself research is good.
"Except you need to just go to one of the rental agencies and make the appointments to get inside." My Japanese Alpha male points this out, not as criticism but as fact. (He's not "my" Alpha male, per se. Just one of the few remaining in Japan.)
"I know," I sigh and try not to whine. "I just don't want to deal with the 'we-don't-rent-to-foreigners' thing again. Can't you come with me?"
"Not for awhile."
I don't say anything.
"Just do it." Now he's annoyed. "Just go. It'll do you good. You need to know how to do this."
And, now I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed that he's annoyed, and I'm annoyed because he's right.
"Okay. Fine. I'll go."
"Let me know what they say."
"I will."
"Gotta go. I'll call later." With that, I'm on my own.
I pick one of the rental agencies from the many folded-over sheets I'm carrying with me. That I can't find the place after 15 minutes of walking is a bad omen. The map says it's just right around this corner. It's not.
I stumble upon it (another bad omen) and walk in, say hello, sit down, and show them the apartments their agency lists, and ask if I could see one.
"Do you have a guarantor?"
"Yes. Does he need to come with me?"
"Is he a family member?"
What? I'm confused. No, he's not a family member. I'm here on my own.
"No," I say slowly and try not to make too much eye contact.
"He's my sponsor. My employer."
"Ah, well, your guarantor needs to be an immediate family member."
I'm stunned. No way. This is news to me. All along, I've been told my guarantor needs to be someone that the rental agency can go to in case I bail, reneging on my contractual obligations. An employer, a boss would make a much better guarantor than my father, I think to myself.
"Except that my family doesn't live here," I say. "Can't I use the president of the company I'm working for as my guarantor?"
Big sigh. "Aaah, sorry, no." Then, "What kind of company is it?" Really? What does this have to do with anything? I tell him. It doesn't change anything. So, why ask?
Something isn't right. I'm not buying this.
"It's very hard to rent a place as a foreigner as you know, which is why my visa sponsor is willing to be my guarantor."
"Sorry, it needs to be an immediate family member."
Who is not here with me, of course. I almost ask him, "So if my husband were here with me and we couldn't pay the rent you don't think he and I would bail on our contract together?" but I don't.
Truth is cloaked with sugar and icing in Japan. Truth is used when convenient. As are untruths. I'm reminded of an article my mother wrote years ago which I some how ended up reading one day. It had something to do with the concept of truth-telling (or not) in Japan. She used me as an example. Evidently, my completely untrue responses to "Have you brushed your teeth?" were not at all convincing. Here I thought I was getting away with a). not having to brush my teeth before bed, and b). lying about it, and all along my mother knew I was not being honest. Stunned she saw through me, I think I brushed my teeth more regularly there for awhile after reading what she wrote.
I know the line between truth and lies is often fuzzy in Japan. The delicate dance over when to be completely honest and when to tiptoe around it is choreography I'm accustomed to dealing with.....except when it has to do with why I can't rent an apartment, get a cell phone contract, or the like.
I'm fine. Annoyed, but fine. I will find an apartment. It might not happen the way I had hoped or planned, but I will. What I can't predict is how I will react to those who continue to tell me as they sigh and cock their heads, why I'm not a suitable tenant. Then again, the 10-year old me lied to my mother about (not) brushing my teeth. Clearly, I'm capable of lying. Or, shall I say, "I'm capably of lying, too"? It takes two to tango, rental-agency man. You just may have found yourself a partner.
Looking at buildings only tells me so much. I know this, of course. It's the inside that matters. I want space, a toilet that sprays warm water, air conditioning, an elevator. I need to get inside. Before I do, however, I want to walk the distance from the nearest train station. Is there a supermarket nearby? A Chinese restaurant? I walk telling myself research is good.
"Except you need to just go to one of the rental agencies and make the appointments to get inside." My Japanese Alpha male points this out, not as criticism but as fact. (He's not "my" Alpha male, per se. Just one of the few remaining in Japan.)
"I know," I sigh and try not to whine. "I just don't want to deal with the 'we-don't-rent-to-foreigners' thing again. Can't you come with me?"
"Not for awhile."
I don't say anything.
"Just do it." Now he's annoyed. "Just go. It'll do you good. You need to know how to do this."
And, now I'm annoyed. I'm annoyed that he's annoyed, and I'm annoyed because he's right.
"Okay. Fine. I'll go."
"Let me know what they say."
"I will."
"Gotta go. I'll call later." With that, I'm on my own.
I pick one of the rental agencies from the many folded-over sheets I'm carrying with me. That I can't find the place after 15 minutes of walking is a bad omen. The map says it's just right around this corner. It's not.
I stumble upon it (another bad omen) and walk in, say hello, sit down, and show them the apartments their agency lists, and ask if I could see one.
"Do you have a guarantor?"
"Yes. Does he need to come with me?"
"Is he a family member?"
What? I'm confused. No, he's not a family member. I'm here on my own.
"No," I say slowly and try not to make too much eye contact.
"He's my sponsor. My employer."
"Ah, well, your guarantor needs to be an immediate family member."
I'm stunned. No way. This is news to me. All along, I've been told my guarantor needs to be someone that the rental agency can go to in case I bail, reneging on my contractual obligations. An employer, a boss would make a much better guarantor than my father, I think to myself.
"Except that my family doesn't live here," I say. "Can't I use the president of the company I'm working for as my guarantor?"
Big sigh. "Aaah, sorry, no." Then, "What kind of company is it?" Really? What does this have to do with anything? I tell him. It doesn't change anything. So, why ask?
Something isn't right. I'm not buying this.
"It's very hard to rent a place as a foreigner as you know, which is why my visa sponsor is willing to be my guarantor."
"Sorry, it needs to be an immediate family member."
Who is not here with me, of course. I almost ask him, "So if my husband were here with me and we couldn't pay the rent you don't think he and I would bail on our contract together?" but I don't.
Truth is cloaked with sugar and icing in Japan. Truth is used when convenient. As are untruths. I'm reminded of an article my mother wrote years ago which I some how ended up reading one day. It had something to do with the concept of truth-telling (or not) in Japan. She used me as an example. Evidently, my completely untrue responses to "Have you brushed your teeth?" were not at all convincing. Here I thought I was getting away with a). not having to brush my teeth before bed, and b). lying about it, and all along my mother knew I was not being honest. Stunned she saw through me, I think I brushed my teeth more regularly there for awhile after reading what she wrote.
I know the line between truth and lies is often fuzzy in Japan. The delicate dance over when to be completely honest and when to tiptoe around it is choreography I'm accustomed to dealing with.....except when it has to do with why I can't rent an apartment, get a cell phone contract, or the like.
I'm fine. Annoyed, but fine. I will find an apartment. It might not happen the way I had hoped or planned, but I will. What I can't predict is how I will react to those who continue to tell me as they sigh and cock their heads, why I'm not a suitable tenant. Then again, the 10-year old me lied to my mother about (not) brushing my teeth. Clearly, I'm capable of lying. Or, shall I say, "I'm capably of lying, too"? It takes two to tango, rental-agency man. You just may have found yourself a partner.
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