Hell Ramen, Umami, and Chocolate of the East

Just so we're clear, I did not write "hellish ramen" or "ramen from hell."  Hell ramen is a type of ramen available in Ofunato up in Tohoku.  I'd heard the rumors, something about the tongues of those who eat this burning off, or some hell-like analogy of hotness and pain and fire.  One night last week I ended up at the restaurant serving this boiling, steaming, red broth of noodles.  The gang I am with was determined to eat this famed dish. 

There are rankings.  The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty.  Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out."  This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him.  "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says.  He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.

For the record, I did not order the hell ramen.  We had already eaten dinner together previously.  Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that.  I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice.  Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.

Hiro orders a five.  We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him.  When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret.  Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food.  Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes. 

Someone looks up and starts laughing.  Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious.  Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat.  I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back. 
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks. 
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head.  I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.

Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up.  I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty."  Everyone stops talking.  This is crazy.  "I ate the fifty," he says.  "I can do twenty."  Then we all start talking at once.  "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?"  During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone.  I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand.  "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks.  This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind.  "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen.  Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile.  Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph.  We all cheer and continue to laugh at him.  When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face.  I didn't pee my pants."

Yuji does not finish the broth.  As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue.  Whatever.

All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan.  An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me.  They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy.  Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree.  If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.

The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking.  The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami.  Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food:  it tastes better with it.  With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally).  All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes.  I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was.  Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of.  It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango.  I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.

I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things.  I will never try this dish, umami or not.  If I die with this regret so be it.  I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you. 

Crows, Blowing Winds, and Conspiracy Theories

The wind has been fierce for the past three days in Rikuzentakata.  Stepping outside means noses run, eyes tear, cheeks burn, and hair requires rearranging.  It's hard to walk.  It's hard to stand upright.  Window panes rattle causing an eerie whine. 

We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal.  The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but.  Finally last night I heard the whole story.

Yuji is drunk.  This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered.  By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.

"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this.  Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."

Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes.  While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss. 
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone.  "Look at these dates.  We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say.  "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind.  Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go.  I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before."  I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows.  Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky.  They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says.  "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.

What do I do with this pseudo-science?  Nothing.  Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory.  The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss.  I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect.  Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now.  Wouldn't I?

I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake.  It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?"  This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive.  I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami."  I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start.  Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad.  It's stupid, that's all.  If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku.  There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.

What would Yuji make of this?  I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural.  I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.

My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this:  thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface.  If only we could predict.

Reflections on the Fire

I have preached passionately about the need to prepare.  I have implied not thinking through how one will react in a disaster is stupid and irresponsible.  Having spent over two and a half years with those who suffered through the tsunami that hit Japan in 2011, I was in a position to know what happens when preparation is shoddy.  I live and work with those who even today feel the after-effects of the consequences of their actions.

I had a plan.  I had thought through how I would react in most disaster scenarios (i.e. earthquakes, typhoons, accidents, tsunami, robbery).  I knew what I would do.  I was prepared.  I was confident.

Last night I proved myself wrong. 

If there ever was a post I'd like you to read and share this would be the one.  What I did and did not do can be a lesson for all.

Here's what happened in chronological order.

I'm asleep.  It's some time after 1am--the last time I looked at the clock.  The intercom from downstairs rings.  I'm annoyed.  Who's at my door in the middle of the night?  I don't ignore it.  (Why?)  No one I know is going to come visiting this late.  I get up and answer it.

"Yes?"
Nothing.  No, that's not right.  There's noise.
"Yes?"
More noise.  Asshole.  You must be drunk.  Why did I get up?  Why would you type in my room code?  Why didn't you wake up someone else?

I hear someone banging on a door.  The drunk must have punched in someone else's room code, too.  Who let him up?  I hear noise.  I hear more banging.  I hear more noise.  Someone bangs on my door.  I look through the peep hole and realize this is the first time I've done so.  I hear the alarm system in the hall way, a mechanized male voice saying something.  Is this the emergency alarm system?  Drunks don't warrant this kind of an alarm.  I open the door.  There's a firefighter.

"There's a fire on the fifth floor," he says.
"Yes."
"Please evacuate."
"Yes."
"Take the elevator."
"I understand."

If there was ever any doubt humans are capable of having multiple thoughts at once, I am here to prove the naysayers wrong.  Three distinct thoughts went through my mind at the same time.

1).  He's looking at me up and down as he says this.  Why?  Is my hair standing on end?  Is it my bathrobe?  Is he not sure I understand Japanese?
2).  The firefighter is short.  I am not a tall woman, but he is a head shorter than me.  Could he carry me or David down ten full flights of stairs if he had to?  I think not.
3).  There's a fire?!  Holy shit.

I go back inside and call out to David.
"There's a fire.  We have to leave."
"Uh huh," he says back, slowly getting up off the bed.

David is looking for his jeans.  I see my socks I left at the foot of my bed earlier in the evening.  I tell myself I can't put socks on because I don't have time to tie my tennis shoes.  (More on this later.)
I wrap a scarf around my neck, take it off because I'm only wearing a t-shirt and I need to put another layer on before the scarf.  I tug on pants, grab the jacket on the chair thinking for a moment it wasn't thick enough when we were out for a walk earlier in the evening.  I remember telling David I was cold when we came back from our walk at 11pm.  I look at the coats hanging in the closet, all within reach and still take the too-thin jacket.

I walk back to the bed and look at the clock.  It's just before 3am.

I go to the bathroom.

I go back into the bedroom and grab my cell phone.

I put on my leather slip-ons.

David and I leave the apartment, David locking the door behind us.

I stand in front of the elevator, it's steel emergency door shut.  I tell myself we aren't supposed to use elevators in a fire.  David slides open the door.  The elevator is there.  I see three people inside.  We get in and it descends.  We pass floors eight, seven, six, and five.  We see and smell smoke.  Why are we in the elevator?  Why did the firefighter tell us to take the elevator?  Who takes the elevator in a fire?

The lobby is full of firefighters and long hoses.  I see red flashing lights outside.  David and I walk out and I look around to see if there's a spot where we're supposed to go.  I see the crowd.  There's a folding table with men standing around it and I wonder for a moment if there's a roll-call.  I squeeze past my neighbors and head towards the iron fence nearby.  I stand with my back to it.  My feet are cold.  I look up at David and say, "I decided I couldn't wear socks because I didn't think I would have time to tie my shoes."
"But you had time to go to the bathroom."
"I know, right?"
Who goes to the bathroom before they escape a building on fire?
"My socks, though.  I decided I couldn't wear socks because I wasn't going to wear my tennis shoes.  I'm wearing slip-ons.  These would be the shoes to wear socks with.  I don't have to tie these."  I pause.  I'm talking to myself more than I am to him.  "Why didn't I wear socks?"
David doesn't say anything.  He looks up.  Billowing is the right word.  We see thick smoke billowing out of a fifth floor apartment.  It's exactly five floors beneath mine.
"Shit," I say.  "Now our apartment will smell like smoke."  Yes.  That's what I thought, and that's what I said.

Next, I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be caught with a guest in my room.  My contract is clear in stipulating this is a one-person apartment, and that I will not have over-night guests.  My doorman knows David visits sometimes and doesn't say anything.  I decide this is because I am one of the few people that will greet him with a "Good morning" every day.  I look around and see there are three other couples--other rule-breakers--and decide we can risk getting caught.  The doorman likes me.  He won't tell, right?  David and I discuss this briefly, but in the end we decide to play it safe.  He asks where the nearest all-night cafe is, and quietly makes his exit.  I feel like I'm a teenager, breaking rules and trying to outsmart the adults who will surely punish.

I see firefighters holding up a woman wrapped in a blanket.  They walk her to a stretcher and she lays down, handing her dog to another firefighter.  Is she okay?  What do they do with the dog?  They wheel her away right in front of me and I'm very curious about what is going to happen to the dog.  Surely they won't take the dog to the hospital with her.  Does the dog go to the vet?  Does the dog get to ride in the ambulance?  I don't want to ride in an ambulance that previously had a dog in it.  Does the dog ride in some other vehicle?  Are there emergency vehicles just for pets?

Oh my god.  I can't believe I'm thinking this.

There are cops and firefighters and firetrucks all around.  (David came back having counted seventeen firetrucks.)  There's yellow tape blocking off our street.  One of the cops is old.  Old, as in over sixty.  He's in full uniform.  Is he a senior official?  I wonder how fast he can run.

My feet are cold.

Now it hits me.  The only thing I have with me is my cell phone.  I have no cash, no passport, no IDs, no wallet, no credit cards, no water, no food.  Then there's a new thought.  I have cash in my apartment.  I had completely forgotten about this.  Enter an immediate and powerful desire to self-flagellate.  "You have cash in your apartment for just such an occasion--a quick exit in an emergency--and you forgot you even had it?"
Yes.
In fact, I have to think where it is.

Why did I bring my cell phone?  If I had a pillow with me I'd bury my face into it and hold it there until the shame washed away.

I brought my cell phone so I could post on Facebook.

Clearly there is something wrong with me.  How could I go on and on about the importance of being prepared, of thinking through how one will react in an emergency, of having a grab-and-go kit when I myself, faced with an order to evacuate chose to: stop at the bathroom, decided I could not wear socks, picked a coat I knew wasn't warm enough, crawled onto my bed to pick up my cell phone so I could post on Facebook, and carried absolutely nothing else with me?

What I learned is this:  whatever disaster may strike you is not one you can control the timing of; reason and logic is hard to come by at 3am; the best-laid plans fail.

Once we received the all-clear David and I came back up to the apartment.  We both agree it smells like a camp fire.  I crawl into bed and waves of homesickness wash over me.  I'm still cold, the thin jacket and my I-don't-need-socks decisions clearly a mistake.

The last thought I remember is this:  I want my firefighters big and rude.  I want my firefighter to say, "Get your ass out of here" and I want to know he can hoist my 200-pound husband over his shoulder.

It is now the morning after the fire.  I walk out onto my balcony and look down to the street.  Except for the lingering scent of smoke there's nothing indicating just nine hours ago we were all huddled outside wondering, worrying.  The firefighters have long gone.  The yellow tape has been removed.  Life in our neighborhood is back to normal.

Except for the fact I have clearly, very clearly underestimated how I, the "Be Prepared" guru will react in an emergency, all is well.

On Resilience, Coping Mechanisms, and Differences of Opinion

To each their own.  Who am I to tell you the way you choose to cope is wrong?  I don't know your pain and your experiences are not mine.  Hard is just hard.  Your "my life is hard" is not a measurable event, and my version of "my life is hard" is just that.  Let's not compare.  Let's not one-up each other.

I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku.  She's strong, opinionated and honest.  She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother.  That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point.  Not today, at least.  Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.

"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry.  I showed up without calling, I know.  I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?'  So I said I had, and then Rio went off.  I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.'  It was quite the tongue-lashing!"  Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah.  For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.

Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month.  "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says.  "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened.  I lost my store but so did she.  That place was just as much hers as it was mine."  This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says.  "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day.  She didn't need to see where the store was anymore."  It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit.  "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko.  This was when I first fell in love with the girl.  I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.

We cope with trauma and tragedy differently.  Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms:  some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.

I choose to read.  I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above.  I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process.  Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.

What about the other options then?  Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories.  Many around me drink.  Many who drink don't stop with just a few.  Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through.  I am not one who drinks away my anxiety.  I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope.  Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it.  I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country.  Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong?  If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't?  It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.

I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on.  I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain.  That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping.  Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.

Tolerance and patience:  the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not.  Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over.  Read away, dear child.  Talk back to your mother, Rio.  I hope it brings you peace.

Halloween in Japan: Past memories, Future Full of Stories

Growing up in Japan, I celebrated Halloween once.  Even today, I feel cheated.  Not having had access to what surely must have been the world's most amazing candy, back several decades ago there were no pumpkins in Japan, and the idea of trick-or-treating made sense to no one I knew.  Complaining, my usual modus operandi, did me no good as the option did not exist.  No one would be prepared, no one would know what two American children dressed in whatever costumes we could muster up were doing at their front doors, threatening to misbehave in exchange for chocolate.

My parents must have felt sorry for us one year (just one year?) as in late October my mother announced a nice elderly missionary lade in town said my brother and I could come over for Halloween.  With glee, squeals, dancing what I thought counted as a jig, I dragged my brother up to my room to strategize over costumes.  The end result was a cute blond boy in one of my too-small dresses and me as a cowboy.  Don't ask.

We rang the missionary auntie's doorbell giddy over the treats that my brother and I knew she had ready for us.  Tonight he and I would have messy chocolate faces.  Oh, the joy.

Which is of course not what happened.  Auntie invited us in, (we did say "trick or treat!") and we sat down at her dining room table as she pulled out a cake.  Cake?  For Halloween?  Fine.  We'd play along.  Surely it would be chocolate.

It wasn't.  It was a spice cake in the shape of a turkey.  The tail was made out of candy corn, something I hadn't eaten to date, so my brother and I didn't feel too terribly cheated.  There was hope.  Here was American Halloween candy.  Surely it must be all that our cousins told us it would be.  That is except to say we both knew turkeys were for Thanksgiving and not Halloween, and spice cake was what grown ups ate with tea and not something children in cute costumes should be subjected to.  Our hopes hung on the candy corn.

Wax shaped into corn-like kernels that taste like nothing that should be eaten dashed our hopes.  My brother and I used our best manners to eat this crap served us, and we went home dejected.  To this day, I consider candy corn evil and the most horrid food out there.  Sticking the word "candy" onto something otherwise inedible doe not make it candy or good or food or edible.  My brother and I never celebrated Halloween again.  I feel totally and completely cheated.

Because all children should celebrate Halloween (in my most humble opinion, of course) last year I bought a costume and donned a wig, carrying several thousand pieces of American candy-goodness and made the rounds of preschools, Rikuzentakata city hall, elementary and high school sports teams and the like handing out candy throughout Tohoku in exchange for promises of good behavior.  Shy kids with outstretched hands who patiently waited for the green light to scarf down these colorfully wrapped pieces of joy made me smile.  It's one of my fondest memories in post-disaster Tohoku so far.  Dressed as a queen with curly blond hair, they knew it was me, but still moved around me cautiously, wondering just what was about to happen.

Queen Amya was a hit.  Why then did I feel the need to take the costume up a level, adding more drama to what is already a new and foreign holiday?  This year I am going as a witch.  I've always wanted to dress up as a witch.  That this year I'm finally doing so, knowing surely kids will cry at my all-black costume, scared of the evil that must hide inside--I blame the fact I was deprived of the need to celebrate as a child.  Dressing up as a witch is surely a mistake.  Bribing with candy will have to do the trick.

There's another problem with dressing as a witch, and this one I've not yet worked out.  The idea of the "thin veil between the worlds of life and death" and ghosts is a topic still delicate for kids and adults alike in Tohoku where loss of life is still a very painful topic.  Ghosts?  The veil between life and death?  For those who've lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues, this is not necessarily something to celebrate.  Which is why I must bend the truth.  Omission is not always a bad thing.  The consequences of me dressing up as a witch, the potentially scary part of Halloween include not being able to fully share what this day is about.  I'm choosing to believe this is not necessarily bad.  Selective representation of facts?  I can do that.  If I focus on candy and cute princess and superhero costumes kids wear in the US then I can conveniently forget the part about how this might be the night people will return from another world.  That doesn't need sharing.  Especially not in Tohoku.

This year I will say "YES" to candy, enjoying melting chocolate and sticky candy.    (On the faces of kids.  Not mine.)  Childhood memories are powerful and as evident by mine, can linger.  This year I hope to add a layer of unique and fun memories to several hundred preschoolers.  Cue joy.

Lonliness, Weight Gain, and the Sociopath

I'm back in the US visiting my husband.  Life could not be better.  I sleep well, laugh, mix work with pleasure, shop, and visit with family and friends.  My time is my own in the best way possible.

And, I've lost weight.  To many in Japan this makes little sense.  The Land of the Obese as the US is known to many Japanese, wouldn't I gain during my visits home?  No.  Why?  It's simple really.  I'm not lonely whereas in Japan I am.

There.  I said it.  The longer I spend time away from my husband the lonelier I feel.  Nights are especially troublesome, as insomnia, my latest BFF (unrequited love, a one-sided attraction) will not leave me be.  Around midnight when I've exhausted shows on television that waste my time and I can't think of anything else to do I eat.  It's the worst time to do so, yes, I know.  Blah blah blah.  That it's not good for me, that this is when all the junk food I eat (because I can't eat anything good for me) goes to parts that don't need more padding is not the point.  I eat because I'm lonely.  Food comforts me.

Not having this problem in the States I shrink.  My clothes fit better and I will return to Japan with people surely commenting on this noticeable weight loss.  All this because when all is said and done, it's okay for people to comment on my weight in Japan.  The "You've gained weight" remarks flow too easily for my taste, but short of not eating at 2am I don't see an end in sight.

Which reminds me of a story.

I used to work with a git.  A sociopath really, he thought manners were for sissies.  A genius in his field, he completely disregarded behavior most of us would consider normal, and because of his knowledge and skill his outbursts of everything otherwise unacceptable was tolerated.  He reveled in making people squirm.  He lived to make people writhe in discomfort.  I really couldn't stand him.

He traveled with an entourage:  a personal secretary, personal interpreter, and anyone else he could wrangle into accompanying him, they were all doomed and knew it.  On this particular Monday morning we were all waiting in the lobby of the most expensive hotel in town to greet the great man.  My job was to interpret for a new executive vice president who was to "learn the ropes" from this madman-ass.  I didn't need to interpret for the evil genius, just the new guy.  No problem.  Bring it.

The elevator doors opened and people started bowing.  He'd say something to those who were before us in queue making his way down the line.  Patiently waiting our turn, I decided to have some fun.  "Twenty dollars, sir, and I'll bet you the first words out of his mouth to me are, 'You got fat.'"
"No way," the executive said.
"Twenty dollars."
"He won't even say 'hello'?"
"No.  He won't.  Are you in?"
"I'm in.  I don't believe you.  Yeah.  I'm in."
People around us heard this exchange and joined in.  Soon I had three other men all agreeing to pay me twenty dollars each if I was right.  Suckers.

The terrible man is now standing in front of us.  I start in with, "I'd like to introduce Mr. So and So, the new executive vice president of such and such group."  The man next to me extends his hand which jerk-face ignores.  He grunts instead and then looking at me, cue the quickest $80 I've ever made, he says the words.
"You got fat."
I laugh knowing he hates this because I just beat him at his own game.  Never mind I just added money towards my expanding shoe collection, I'm a happy girl even with the totally incorrect observation of my weight.

Shrinking as I have, I'll return to Japan in a few days and this time enjoy the comments I hear about how and why I've lost weight when surely, with all the food I've had access to I shouldn't have.  Notice if you must.  Too bad I can't make money off this particular prediction.

Disaster Escape Stories: "I knew not to but did it anyway."

Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns.  The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II.  Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions.  They come from a time where modesty was the norm.  I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share.  He's already one of a kind.  I consider him a total and complete exception.

This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement.  Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help.  Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.

Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves."  The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people.  Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations.  Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes.  The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you.  I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive."  Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends?  Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren?  Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami?  Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?

Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing.  I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse.  I do hope stories about March 11 will be told.  Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid.  Today I offer one from an adopted family member.

We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me.  I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table.  I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here.  I can picture it in my mind.  My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about?  I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way.  It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands.  Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me.  Evidently I am wrong.  I know it was pointing the other way.  I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me.  "You're just tired."  She goes to the fridge.  "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink.  These things aren't cheap, but I really like them.  I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside.  What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle.  Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen.  Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack.  Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls.  "Daddy doesn't have to go."

Dad is a volunteer firefighter.  Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days.  Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened.  He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."

The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit.  She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit.  Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet."  I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come.  Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given."  I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them.  They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers.  I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too."  Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again.  "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator."  I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says.  "My parents aren't rich.  Refrigerators aren't cheap.  At least my mother wouldn't think so."  I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor.  My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall."  I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs.  "But, it's not.  Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape.  To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible.  When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there.  Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord."  Misa is now laughing out loud.  I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."

Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not.  Misa's story shocked me.  Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item.  I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more.  What does this story tell me?  I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in.  If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced.  I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion.  What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance?  Again, I have no answers.