Tokyo Station Blues, Part 2

I decide on a whim—perhaps the planets are aligned perfectly today—Tokyo Station deserves another chance.  It doesn’t, of course.  I’m being generous.  “This doesn’t happen often,” I want to say to the station, an inanimate object with no capacity to be grateful.  “Don’t get used to it.  It won’t happen again.”

I have thirty minutes before my train leaves to go up north, and I decide to go down into the abyss to the “Tokyo Station Lost and Found Office” to locate my stolen wallet.  Perhaps some kind soul picked up my wallet and turned it in.  Perhaps the pickpocket, after taking my money out tossed it into the trash and one of the cleaners found it.  This is Japan.  This happens here all the time.  Wallets dropped and stolen are often returned.

Before I navigate the multiple passageways down into the catacombs, I must first figure out where this office is.  I need a map.  Usually displayed on one face of the rectangular columns holding up the sky (ceiling), so long as I can find the map I can find the office.  Yes.  I can do this.  I do indeed find a map and look at the hallways, stores, escalators, elevators, and restaurants spread out, the crisscrossing intersections making the station look like it’s a city.  First floor, B1, B2, I keep looking and finally find it, tucked away deep into the corner, far away from anything civilized.  Of course.

Undeterred, I begin.  Following the signs, I only get lost once.  When I turn the corner, I see a long hallway leading to a large window where two seated men await.  It’s like a scene from a dream—“You must first walk down this long hallway before you can…” and here Morgan Freeman or James Earl Jones would either say “find your way into heaven” or “find the Holy Grail” or “fulfill your destiny.”  There’s nothing between the two men seated behind the window and me.  They see me coming, and I see them watching me.  I start walking towards them down this very long hallway.  This is some how comical.  Truly.  This is like a movie.

I finally stand in front of them and say, “My wallet was stolen by a pickpocket awhile ago and I’m wondering if anyone turned it in.”  The two men look at each other.  What?  Was I not clear?  I feel like turning around and saying to the ceiling, “Well?” hoping to hear Mr. Freeman or Mr. Jones say just the right thing.  I don’t, of course.

“What did it look like?”

I describe it.

“Was there anything that had your name written on it, inside the wallet?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Driver’s license, health insurance form, Alien Registration card, credit cards…”

“Got it, got it.  So your name would be clear, address too, if anyone handed it in.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”  I tell him.

One of the two men is typing in my name while I realize the other has been typing in what I’ve been saying up to this point.

“Well, I don’t see it under the description you gave me,” the second man says.

“When was it stolen?”

The date?  The exact date?  Hmmm.  I don’t actually remember the date.  Awhile ago?  I inhale, looking at the calendar on the wall and pick a random date three weeks back.  That feels about right.

“Whoa,” the first man says.

“That long ago?”

“Yes,” and then, “Wait.  I have a copy of the police report.”

“You went to the cops?  Did they find it?”  Huh?  No, they didn’t find it.  That’s why I’m here.

“Yes, I went to the cops, and no, they didn’t find it, and the date…..January 29^th.”

I swear I saw them both roll their eyes.

“Well, that’s different,” the man on the left says, evidently annoyed he has to retype the date.

“That changes everything.”

Now I’m annoyed.

“How does that change everything?” I ask.  “You’re a slippery little man and I’m not in the mood,” is what I really want to say but don’t, because my mother raised me with manners.

“I have to retype the date now.”  Yes.  He actually said that.  I’m this close to turning around and throwing my hands into the air, yelling at the imaginary Mr. Freeman and Mr. Jones to “Get down here and fix this!” but decide not to because….I’m sane.  Or something.

“Nope.  It’s not here,” he says, leaning back as if he accomplished some intricate and complicated deed.  The first man folds his hands in front of his chest and says, “You know, if we’d found it, if it had been turned in we’d have sent you a postcard by now.”  I swear I have to keep from laughing.  You’d send me a postcard?  But, they’re serious.  It’s true.  I would have been sent a postcard saying, “Your wallet has been returned to the Lost and Found Office in Tokyo Station.  Please call this number to schedule a pick up time and date,” or something of the sort.  I would have squealed hoping the photos of my son and nieces were safe, the little bits of paper I’ve collected over the years are still tucked away in the side pockets, my lucky $2.00 bill safe.  Back to the postcard, though.  I cock my head to the side and say, “So, if you’d have found my wallet you’d have sent me a postcard.”

“Yup,” they say and they’re so proud.

“So, there’s no way it would be here,” I say as a statement and not a question.

“Not unless they turned in just the wallet and took all your IDs out or it just showed up today.”

“Hmmmm.”  I nod.  I feel there’s a sort of “Oh, dear poor woman.  If you only knew how things worked here, you could have avoided wasting our time” attitude hanging in the air and right there, I choose to fully embrace the fact I will never see that wallet again.  Ever.

I also decide Morgan Freeman and James Earl Jones are having a good laugh at my expense and start retracing my steps leaving behind what surely must be a sort of Hollywood version of hell.  Tokyo Station is full of tricks—nasty ones at that—and I just wasted 20 minutes trying to relocate a wallet I’ll never see again.  Perhaps it’s time to start riding the bullet train from Ueno Station and avoid Tokyo Station altogether.  In fact, I think that’s exactly what I’ll do from now on.  Ha.

Country Boy Meets City Girl, Says the Wrong Thing and Survives

Here is a very simple but powerful story.

I'm at a gas station filling up my car.  The service here is impeccable.  Windows are wiped.  I'm given a wet hand cloth to clean my dashboard.  They ask if I have trash.  (I do.  Who doesn't?)  As the young station attendant comes back over to my window he says, "You came all the way from New York?"

Huh?

And then I get it.  He saw my Boston Red Sox magnet on the back of my car, there to cover up a dent from the time I backed into a pole that popped up out of nowhere.  Oh, dear man, if you had said this in Boston you would be so dead. 

I must have paused a few seconds too long, because this young thing continues, "You know.  The Red Sox."  I exhale.  Be gentle. 

"The Red Sox are from Boston," I say trying not to show how irked I am.  "New York..." and as I trail off, he gets it.  "Yankees!"  I sigh.  "Yes, it's the New York Yankees.  In Boston, we're the Boston Red Sox.  I'm from Boston."

He shows no remorse for this catastrophic mistake, so I must correct him.  Again, gently.

"The Red Sox and the Yankees are rivals.  Arch enemies.  We hate each other."  Tactfully said, and I'm proud, especially as I gauge his response.
"Oh!"  I know he got it.  Do not imply, insinuate, or mistake the Red Sox belonging to New York City.
"Sorry," he says, and I contemplate whether I should let this go or needle him more, lest he make this same mistake to someone who will actually beat him for it.  I decide he's remorseful enough to not confuse the two cities and their teams.
"Matsuzaka, right?"  The young man is trying to be jovial, polite, chatty.
"Yes, Matsuzaka," I say back.  "But, he left.  Or rather, we got rid of him."  I'm speaking on behalf of the Red Sox here, the collective "we."
"Oh," and the man is surprised.  "I didn't know that."  Then nodding, "He got old."  I look down to my steering wheel to hide my grin, and agree with him.
"Yes, he got old."  What is Matsuzaka?  Mid-thirties?  Old for a pitcher, certainly.

And so you have it.  Confusion over which team belongs to which city (or vice versa, as the case may be) jump-started a nice little conversation with a complete stranger who will definitely not forget me next time I pull into his gas station, and will most definitely not make that same mistake again.

School Violence in Japan: More Questions Than Answers

Japanese news over he past month has been peppered with stories about the effects of school violence.  A high school student committed suicide after repeated beatings from his team manager, and the womens' judo coach for the national team resigned after the athletes filed a mass complaint accusing him of violence.  Unfortunately such stories are not new.  I've often reflected upon multiple and similar incidents from my elementary and middle school days at times like this.  In the end I'm left with more questions than answers.

It seems for those of my generation growing up, what is now being referred to as violence and beatings were more the norm in school.  Coaches would routinely slap disobedient baseball players, kick legs, or throw buckets of water on them.  I use baseball players only as an example.  Back in our day, it was more unusual for coaches to not "train" by means of a shove here, a smack there.

"It instilled in us a sense of competition," one friend tells me.  "It was embarrassing and it hurt.  I wasn't going to let my coach get the best of me so I tried harder."

I call Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan who has an answer for everything and ask to meet.
"Sure I was slapped.  Not punched, but slapped across the face.  I didn't think of it as a beating.  For me though, it wasn't the coach that did this but rather the older students.  It was just part of life for us in high school.  This is how sports clubs functioned.  We got stronger.  It pissed us off so we got back by practicing more than before.  We got better."

I ask, "Why do some students commit suicide then?  Don't the coaches know when to stop?  Why was it not 'violence' for you but it is for these kids?"
"Students these days are taught they have options.  'If you try one thing and it doesn't work, you can try something else.'  On the one hand, this is good.  On the other hand, and don't take this the wrong way," Alpha Male looks at me sideways, "It's more of a western way of thinking.  We weren't taught that growing up but kids these days are.  When we were in middle and high school we just took it because that's how things were.  Now, kids are taught more independence, freedom and that they can choose.  It's good, but the educational system has changed into something not quite Japanese."

I ponder this.  Multiple incidents from my childhood come to the surface, each competing for the "which is the worst" category.  One teacher, someone I liked, routinely called up one boy to the front of the class, pulled him up by his sideburns and continued to judo-trip him while he cried and screamed for help.  Half the class laughed, the rest of us sat stunned.  He didn't do anything wrong.  He wasn't a trouble-maker.  One day it just started.  How long did he go through this?  All I remember is the announcement the teacher made out of the blue one day that this boy was diagnosed with diabetes.  The "beatings" stopped that day, never to continue.  I'm still baffled by what this teacher did, and why.

Another teacher mercilessly picked on a girl who moved into the community and into our classroom.  She didn't bathe often.  The teacher, with every opportunity would let her and the rest of us know she smelled, making her cry.  Why do this?  Is this a hint?  It didn't work because it didn't change anything.  Except that one day she didn't come back to school.  We were told she moved away.

What was normal at one time in recent Japanese history is no longer.  Feedback is consistent:  Japanese education is to blame.  People my age and older are disgusted by Japan's youth.  "Spineless," and "Too opinionated" are two ways today's young are often described.  Should we be adding to this "Can't take a beating"?  I find myself confused.

Earthquake Drama

I woke up to a grey skies outside my window.  Another cold day in Tokyo.  I made and took calls, wrote e-mails, finished a report, and got ready for my lunch appointment.  A childhood friend who called me butterfingers as I let the basketball slip through my grasp, we didn't get along well when we were in our teens.  Now an accomplished journalist and bureau chief of a major foreign news outlet in Tokyo, we were going to get caught up.  I made my way to our rendezvous point as my phone started to ring.  Taking calls on trains is a no-no in Japan.  I answered anyway, keeping my voice low.
"Something's happened in North Korea," he says.
"No problem.  We'll reschedule."  I got off at that station and began retracing my steps home.

Cue internet searches on what happened in North Korea.
"M4.9 seismic activity reported" reads a headline.  It was my next reaction that step off a chain reaction.

"Pffft.  M4.9.  That's nothing.  We go through worse, bigger earthquakes here all the time."
That's what I thought.  Really.  Now, for the record, I am sorry.  Truly sorry.  This is wrong.  That it wasn't an earthquake, per se, but a nuclear test isn't the point.  I am now guilty of earthquake superiority.  I've become an earthquake snob.  This is not okay.

There is surely a psychological word describing the process in which within thirty seconds, one's mind ticks off a chain reaction of memories.  Walking past a cafe, I see a slice of apple pie.  This takes me right back to my grandmother's kitchen smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, warm with more than just the heat from the oven.  This takes me to the time I was in third grade when walking home from school I passed a hair salon encountering a scent I had only smelled in my great aunt's kitchen.  Bliss.  This took me to my best friend of the time, Yumi walking that same route for four years.  Remembering Yumi took me back to the time we fought about her skin allergy. (Why?)  I didn't like Yumi much.  That reminded me of my other best friend, this one from sixth grade.  Her, I liked.  Which reminded me of the little book of rules we had to carry around in middle school, making sure our hair did not touch our collars, and our bangs above our eyebrows.  Enter the drama surrounding hair cutting in our home.  Always wanting to experiment, I needed my father's permission to go short.  Next, I think about the time I grew my hair out into a bob ten years ago or so, thinking I needed hair in order to look feminine.  My husband pops into my mind next with his words, "Don't ever let your hair grow long again.  You look much better with short hair."  And, now I'm wondering if I need another hair cut.

All that in thirty seconds.  This isn't the jog down memory lane I took today, but rather an example of how fast our minds recall incidents otherwise inconsequential but clearly tucked away only to be pulled out when there's a trigger.  Today, my reaction to the M4.9 "earthquake" in North Korea jump-started a similar process.

I remember back to a time an associate of mine, finding she was pregnant said to me, "I'll lose my gold status on the airlines and hotels now.  I won't be able to travel for at least a year."  I believe I shot back with "You've become quite the travel snob" reeling at how her priorities were as horribly askew.  Today, the word "snob" also applies to me.  Word and memory association stopped there today.  I was stuck on the the fact I've become a snob.

Who gets her socks knotted up into a bunch over "who's earthquake is bigger"?  Where's the concern, sympathy, and genuine hope no one was injured?  Why did my mind jump to competing over the size of an earthquake as opposed to valuing human life?  I'm ashamed.  I'm embarrassed.  I'm also more than a bit peeved with myself.

The conclusion I've come to over my little mental connect-the-dots snafu is this:  I'm reminded all over again I've simply become complacent.  When leaving my apartment, I no longer ask myself if I'd really like to walk home in these shoes if the trains stop running.  I used to, and in the summer would carry around a pair of flip-flops, just in case.  I don't carry extra cash around knowing if there's a massive black out, shutting down banks for days or even weeks I'll certainly need cash to survive.  There are earthquakes somewhere in Japan every day.  While I can't live my life always worrying about "the big one" I similarly can't be as laissez-faire as I am about the fact there will be consequences to having an uncharged cell phone, no cash, and heels that will leave me with blisters the size of Montana if I have to walk more than a kilometer.

North Korean nuclear tests aside, the mental exercise I took today jolted me back into a mode of consciousness  I've been lax about of late.  And, I hope everything's okay in North Korea.  Not in the, oh-go-test-another-bomb-why-don't-you way, but in that the people there, the ones who don't have a say are really okay.

Tokyo Station Blues

Let's establish some basic facts:  1).  I am not directionally challenged, 2). I am comfortable in large crowds, and 3). I'm not careless.  How then can one location I visit repeatedly cause me so much grief?  Enter Tokyo Station and I'm off my game.  The ground under me must shift into another dimension.  If it were an isolated incident here or there, if these mysterious encounters with confusion happened elsewhere with similar frequency I would be more inclined to acknowledge the possibility I just might be slipping.  This is not the case.  There's something about Tokyo Station that throws me.

I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week.  Yes, in Tokyo Station.  Of course.  Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people.  I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life.  I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan.  So, no.  I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime.  That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.

I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well.  The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time.  Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?" 

I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time.  This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times.  Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year.  A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change.  So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else.  Surely that store wasn't here last time?

Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease.  Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place.  Do I dare hope?

No.  Of course not.  Why do I let myself think these things?  Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from.  When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back.  All roads lead to Tokyo.  So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up."  It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.

So, I look at the train car.  It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything.  Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hi!"  A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me.  I have no idea who he is.
"Hi!  I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is.  "How are you?"  Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay.  Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?"  I stall with this question.  I've still got nothing.  No clue who this man is.  He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it.  I'm pretty sure, in fact.  Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?"  He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look.  What?  I'm wrong?  This isn't that fire fighter guy I know?  He tells me who he is and where we met.  I'm so off it's embarrassing.  It's bad. 
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly?  "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.

And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo.  Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues.  Evidently, however, today is not that day.

February Joy, February Angst: On Why I'm Glad I'm Not Four

February brings the coldest month of the year in Tohoku.  Tired of snow, ice, and wind that cuts through the many layers of winter gear, spring feels far away.  It's no consolation the month only has 28 days.  It drags on, bringing down any semblance of positive energy trying to poke out from the frozen ground.

Except February is also the month for two holidays.  One Japanese, another clearly not, there’s a buzz.  Those otherwise dejected have two events to discuss.

One is the Japanese festival of setsubun.  Traditionally, this is when oni (ogres) come down from the mountains into the homes where little children live, terrifying them with their grotesque masks of pure evil and horridness.  The children throw beans at them calling out, “Oni wa soto!  Fuku wa uchi!”  

“Ogres, go away!  Good luck come inside!”  Indeed. This story is about the bravery of children determined to protect their friends from these monsters, whatever it takes.  But, first some background.

It is most definitely a local tradition, more fun for the grown men who some how get pleasure (?) of tormenting their children.  (Payback, anyone?)  There’s no going easy on the kids.  It’s tradition.  That the children cry is a given.  It’s almost the point.  All this in the name of continuing on what’s been done for generations—it’s cute and funny—except when you’re the kid facing the evil giant.

This year, the oni from Goyozan, a local mountain up north in Tohoku wrote a letter to the kids, giving fair warning of what he’s coming down from the mountain to do.  It’s Japan’s version of Santa Claus, except in this case, Santa not only doesn’t give presents if you’ve been bad, Santa comes in a evil-Santa costume, horns sticking out from under his hat throwing coal at kids who disobeyed parents.  Or something of the sort.

Here’s a translation of the letter, in its most terrible oni handwriting, complete with a larger-than-life hand print for a signature.

To the brats at XXXX Preschool,

I am the red oni from Goyozan.
How dare you all throw beans at me last year!

It hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep that night.  This year, I’ll take back you up to the mountain with me if you don't finish their lunch properly, don’t take naps, and don’t listen to your teachers.  You better be prepared!
I’m coming to your preschool on February 1^st.  Be there.  And, don’t throw beans at me.  Got it?

From the Oni of Goyozan

What must it be like to go to school with this handwritten letter from the oni most feared hanging in the hallway?  I’m so glad I’m not four years old.

Now, the story.  I’m at one of the preschools I routinely visit.  Today we’re practicing English discussing shapes.  I start with happy shapes.  In the spirit of celebrating Valentine’s Day, I take out the Valentine’s cards I brought from the States and explain to the kids, “In America, boys and girls give chocolate and cards to people they like.”   The girls pick up on this right away, giggling.  Even five year olds know in Japan girls give chocolate to the boys they like.  Boys don’t reciprocate.  Oooh.  Gross.

I’m careful to suggest the kids can write the cards to anyone.  Knowing some of these children lost relatives, I don’t say, “to your mommy” or “to your grannie” but I make the list as long as possible making sure the kids can come up with someone.  Soon, crayons in hand, we’re all addressing cards.

Done with our Valentine’s activities, I go back to my book of shapes.  I pick what I think is the simplest and point to the circle.  “Can you find any circles in the classroom?”  Hands shoot up again.  I call one a boy who points to a large bag of crumpled newspaper, the size of golf balls.  I ask what these are for.  Kids talk at once.  It’s explained to me these are the “beans” they will throw at the oni who will surely come to traumatize the kids in early February.  Another boy raises his hand, and he tells me the following story rattling off line after line, not pausing to take a breath, while the children around him nod in agreement.

“Last year, a bunch of really scary oni came to school here and we were scared, but I didn’t cry because I’m brave and strong and my daddy told me boys aren’t supposed to cry, but I felt like crying because I was so scared.  And then, when the oni came last year’s five year olds made a line, they held hands, and we all stood behind them throwing beans and newspaper balls like these at the oni yelling at them to go away because they’re bad.  The five year olds were scared, too--even the boys--and a lot of them were crying but they still protected us from the bad oni.  The babies and the kids in the younger classes were screaming because they were so scared.  But, we all had these five year olds protecting us from the bad oni.  So, our class decided this year the boys will make a line where everyone in the school can stand behind us and the girls will be right behind us because they’re five, too, and they’ll throw as many of these newspaper balls as they can.  We’re going to protect the younger kids just like the five year olds protected us last year.  We’re the five year olds now, so that’s what we’re going to do.”

It took all the resolve I had not to choke up. Forcing myself to smile as I listened to the absolute determination of these five year olds to continue the tradition of protecting the young I said, “You’re right.  You’re all very brave.  Good for you.  I’m proud of you.”  Turning red, the boy nods and I’m not sure what to say next.  Deciding I will lose it if I don’t keep talking, I decide to change the subject.  I flip through the book of shapes and find the perfect one.

“What’s this?” I say, pointing to a star.  All the kids know “star” in English and called out in unison.  We look for stars in the classroom.  Again, a success.  I end the day of shapes-in-English by making a heart with my hands, telling them I love them all, and then whisper, “And, you’re all stars.”

Kids.  I swear.  They should rule the world.

Women in Japan: On Being Womanly

Womanhood in Japan is like a souffle.  When rising, it’s soft, delicious, and full of potential.  Behind that potential is the possibility this sweet goodness will fall.  Sometimes the proverbial souffle comes crashing down.  Some days I spend quite a bit of time wondering how my life would be if I were a Japanese woman.  My answers waiver between “just like me now” and “not at all something I’d like to experience.”  This bothers me.

On a recent visit by a high-ranking female foreign dignitary to the tsunami-ravaged remnants of Tohoku, I was told the following by one of the men I was with:  “Foreign women in power still look womanly.  Japanese women, when they become powerful, politicians and the like, they look like men.”  I offered a “Huh” because that’s all I could come up with on the spot.  I’ve pondered this comment since.

What does it mean to be womanly in Japan?  I think of powerful foreign women I know personally and those I’ve seen on television.  I don’t think this man was saying women in pantsuits look manly.  I’ve seen plenty of foreign women in pantsuits.  I don’t think it has to do with hair length, the application of make up, or types of jewelry worn.  I go through lists of what it’s not, and come to one conclusion:  foreign women wear power better than Japanese women, because Japanese women aren’t meant to be powerful.

I ponder this some more.  Powerful women in Japan that I know are usually outspoken—not a flattering trait for a woman here to have.  Powerful women in Japan make decisions and give orders—upsetting the historical balance between who’s wearing the pants in any given scenario.  Powerful women in Japan make their own money—leaving no room for men to “provide for you.”  What was it then about this foreign dignitary that left an impression on this individual as being womanly?  Is it simply a matter of being pretty?  Was she some how able to exude professionalism and competence while not intimidating the men around her?  Why are strong women considered intimidating in Japan?  Why is it better for strong women to be womanly?  I feel like someone has poked my souffle and it’s rapidly falling.  My subconscious is screaming, “Plug the hole!  Plug the hole!”  Before I can, I need answers.  As of now, I'm stumbling, trying to work this through.