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.
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