I am over two hours late to a dinner with my visa sponsor. He wants to see my husband more than me, which means I'm once again relegated to playing the role of interpreter. An invitation by this man to anything is never something I turn down so I speed down the highway in my rental car hoping the cops will not see me. In my defense, I called to say I didn't know what time I would arrive and this great man, my sponsor says, "You're working. Work. I'm sure your husband and I will have plenty to talk about even without you here." Two men talking about yours truly without said person's presence is always reason for serious contemplation. I have a very odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I am right. By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner. I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence. My husband shares the news.
"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says. I look up. The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer. Soon would be nice. Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing. The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife. Of course.
I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words. "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down. Christmas? What Christmas? I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.
I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing. Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you. I'm not asking you to believe. I'm sharing experiences and observations.
Rewind back ten years or so. My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal. Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts. Did they exist? Possibly. Probably. Maybe.
I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting. The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful. (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?) I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room. I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like. I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned. Success. It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer. I could smell him where he was in the room. The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.
Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed. That's when he came back. The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful. Then the bed moved. It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight. I open my eyes. Nothing. I'm certain, though. Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed. The cologne is strong. What does one say to a ghost? I'm not scared. Is that a good thing? While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot. He must have sat down again. Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.
Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku. The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms. I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night. There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable. I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific. Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.
One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet. That was it. Tonight I made it official: Hiro's office had a ghost. All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.
I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost. "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?" What am I? The Ghost Whisperer? Why would a ghost listen to me? Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth. Is that possible? I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale. "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says. "Gives me the creeps." Great.
Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence. I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone. Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.
So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian. David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot. I don't mess around with religions. I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.
We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place. Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him? Immune? Is that the right word?
Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now. The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.
'Til next time, The End.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, November 29, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
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.
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.
Monday, October 14, 2013
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.
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.
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