On Women and Bags (It's Not What You Think) and All Things Chinese

Fury and tact.  One I feel, the other I will now attempt to muster up.

My three-hour layover in Beijing was not something I looked forward to.  It's a long story, but let's just say today I was indignant because of the treatment of the airline en route to Beijing by one of China's airlines.  Yes, I am one of those travel snobs.  I've not yet mastered the art of lowering my expectations from airlines where my status is supposed to make travel more pleasurable.  Because it was Air China that said "No" to things most other airlines says "Yes, of course" to flying into China I was already seething.  Cue three hours in Beijing where nothing is open (I landed at 5am) I plunk myself down in a chair ready to vent.  In e-mails, on Facebook, writing, I wanted to air my angst.  Having done so, I wanted a good cup of tea, some food, and to browse the news online.  Of those six items on my list, I got two: e-mail and food.

I get my access code for free Wi-fi by giving some large Chinese organization (government?) my passport number.  I wonder after the fact if that was a good idea (will they now track all of what I read/write/browse?), will they have my passwords?  Am I being paranoid?  Yes, likely to all.  The tea is Lipton (no), the peaches hard, the sandwiches iffy, so I go for bottled water and ... what are these?

Wife cakes.  Cakes made of wife?  Hang on.  The characters actually read "old bag cakes."  Here we go again.
My husband finds it hilarious (because he knows finding humor in this irks me) I struggle not to refer to him in public in Japan as my lord person, the word Japanese women commonly use to refer to their husbands.  I've asked him not to refer to me as his inside-the-house, the typical word for wife in Japanese.  I've shared with him our son is allowed to refer to me as honorable bag, but he's not actually to do so.  Not in my presence.  I make a quick mental note.  At least in Japanese mothers are honorable bags.  In Chinese, evidently, it's not the mother who's an old (but not honorable?) bag, but wife.  When did women become bags?  (Note:  no typo here.  The word is bag and not hag.)

Is it because we carry bags?  We were gatherers when our men were hunters back in the day, and the bags we carried then turned into our purses today?  Surely not.  Are we kangaroos, carrying our young inside our "bags"?  Is this a good thing, being thought of as a vessel, a holder if items, precious and sacred?  Do bags symbolize our wombs?  Am I reading too much into this?

I have the time to contemplate all this because from Beijing's airport I cannot access Facebook.  The links from Washington Post, CNN, and other major news outlets also don't work.  Is the Chinese mega-machine that is airport-government-and more controling what I have access to?  Wanting a good cup of tea but not willing to settle for Lipton, I make my way back to the small food stand and decide the old bag cakes warrant a photo, if for no other reason, my husband will get a kick out of this.  I take out my phone from my bag (my most honorable), open the glass door where the bag-cakes are kept cool, and snap a photo.  "Sorry, please.  No photo," the young woman standing next to the case tells me.  I look around.  This display of food is the only one with a guard.  Why no photo?  Because I'm surely not the only foreigner who thinks food should not be referred to as old, or baglike, or made from parts of a spouse, thus I'm forbidden to take the photo.  Someone like me will surely post it on Facebook once they get to a place where accessing social media is allowed.
"Uh huh," I tell the pretty, young, professional, but clearly intimidated guard-of-all-things-pastry and walk away, thinking "If you really don't want me to have this photo you should be asking me to delete it," or hide those old-bag/wife cakes.  But, that's the Air China flight fury residue talking.

Remembering back to the security line where only non-Chinese were taken aside for a pat-down I decide this is China.  When in China cakes are wife-bags, internet access is limited, the country where one would think I would have access to wonderful tea is clearly not the case, it simply is what it is.

Some day I will ask a Chinese friend, lightheartedly mind you with no judgment attached, what those old-bag-wife cakes are all about, but today I'll post my indignation and resolve to avoid at least all things Air China and leave it at that.

The Swaggerer

There was a time in my life were I was sort of a cop.  I say "sort of" because explaining what I really did gets complicated, and it's not necessarily untrue to say I was "sort of" a cop.  So ... I'm sticking with it.  I bring this up to tell you a story.

One day my partner and I were out on a stakeout.  Yes, it was one of those scenes-you-see-in-the-movies stakesouts.  We were in our car.  He had his giant camera with this super-charged lens and we were waiting for the bad guys to show up.  At one point, a group of people passed our car, so he quickly hid the camera and hissed, "Yell at me.  We need to be having a fight."  Happy to oblige, I started telling him what a loser he was, how "completely annoying you can be sometimes" and in short, let it all out.  I felt wonderful.  He was pretty amazed I could spew venom on cue.  I wasn't.  (He could be pretty annoying at times.)

When the bad guys started showing up, he'd click away, shutters rattling off one captured frame after another while I sat and tried to figure out who was who.  See, here's the thing.  We knew who they were, we just didn't know which one was which.  We had to match faces to names.  (It's a long story.)

Then I saw him.  He got out of his car (I think it was a Volvo) and after he chirped the car alarm he walked towards the meeting place.  Here's the clincher:  THE MAN SWAGGERED.  I kid you not.  It was definitely a swagger.  He was swaggering.

"That's so-and-so," I said to my partner.
"How do you know?"
"He's swaggering."
"I can't put that in a report!"
"Write what you want.  That's the guy.  That's the boss."

Here's where my partner started to guffaw.  I mean tears-and-snorts kind of a laughter with lingering giggles still minutes later.  Annoyed (which is why it was so easy to yell at him earlier) I stood my ground.  As it turned out, I was right.  He was the head honcho and his swagger proved it.

I bring up this story because I saw a man swagger today.  From the back, I swore to myself here was a Japanese mobster in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  The odds of me being right this time were slim.  But, the man had that swagger.  The same one Japanese yakuza guys have.  As do the arrogant, "do-you-see-this-giant-chip-on-my-shoulder" guys, and the "I'm-such-a-badass-you-can't-touch-me" guys who aren't really bad but want the world to think they are.  It takes a unique Japanese male to pull off a real swagger.  This guy today had it down pat.  When I saw him cross the street and climb into his cab, I was very sorry to admit there was no way this guy was a Japanese badass.  A wannabe, maybe.  But not the real deal.  It amazed me, though, that here would be a middle-aged Asian man who looks the part, walks the part, has that "I'm-a-tough-guy" routine all tightly choreographed, but is only a taxi driver.  (And I use the word "only" here with the utmost respect for taxi drivers.)

There's a swaggerer I work with up north in the Tohoku region of Japan.  He's one of these "I-want-to-look-bad" guys, and his reputation could be better.  He wouldn't be happy if he knew I was spilling to the world he's not nearly as badass as he thinks he is.  But, here again is that swagger.  With him, it's more a "get-out-of-my-way" walk but it's there.  People do scurry when they see him.  Children don't like him.  He's "that scary uncle" to most kids, and if they know he's coming for dinner, they'll find homework that didn't get done earlier or preparation for tomorrow that they swore they didn't need when asked before they knew of uncle's arrival.

Men who swagger are truly a breed of their own.  I hope some day you see one only because you really must see to believe.   And, try not to laugh when you do see them.  That act wouldn't be appreciated.

Ten Dollar Bath Salts

Japanese baths are a sight to behold.  Or so my friends tell me.  Onsens, as hot springs in Japan are called are places of wonder.  The waters are rich with minerals and salts unique to the region said to cure ailments and aches, soften skin, and even make one beautiful.  I wouldn't know about any of this as twenty-some years ago I made what my Japanese friends call "your fateful mistake."

Mind you, I knew exactly what I was doing.  When my friend showed me the tattoo of an orange tropical fish on her hip I was sold.  Knowing full well tattoos in Japan were then reserved for those more comfortable with the underground, I would be forever banned from public baths, onsens, pools, and as I learned recently, gyms.  Not caring about these consequences, I allowed myself to get inked.  To date, I don't miss bathing in public, and still do not find sitting in hot water in front of others relaxing or restful.  The ink serves me well.  I get to avoid bathing with strangers.  So far so good.

When I moved into my apartment in Tokyo two winters ago, and after I got over the initial shock of having to live in something the size of my friend's closet I went through a phase of confusion.  I saw there was a wall-mounted air conditioner, and the remote control had a "heat" button but repeated attempts for hot air were not successful.  Perhaps Japanese air conditioners blew heat as well (why?) but not as heaters?  It made no sense.  As a result, I spent my first several winter months without heat, layering extra blankets, and on really cold nights my coats, in an attempt to add warmth.

I did eventually figure out how to make my air conditioner offer heat and was promptly scolded by many for not working out such simple instructions.  It's the several months prior to my discovery I want to write about today.

Japanese bathtubs, especially for those of us who avoid onsens, are simply places of bliss.  They're deep.  As in, you can fill it up with water, as hot as you want it (these instructions I did figure out) and then soak.  I can sit up straight in my tub up to my neck in hot water, temperature of my choice.  For those nights sans heat, the bath-right-before-bed was a need and not a simple want.

I long ago discovered Japanese bath salts.  Depending on the store, there are walls filled with packets of salts offering anything from extra-sweat (as in sweat-inducing salts), soft skin, no more aches, diminished rheumatism, weight-loss (these don't work), and improved circulation.  Then there are the scents.  Oh, the scents!  Rose, lavender, jasmine, pine, grass, citrus, eucalyptus, grapefruit and more, small apartments like mine take on the scent of that night's bath.  Add to this, hot pepper (meant to induce sweat), magma (bubbles), the gel-like substance that makes everything slippery, sleep-inducing vapors, calming, nerve-soothing, and the ones clearing sinuses there's not a lot a good Japanese bath won't cure.

The packets of salts cost around 100 yen and go up from there.  For 1000 yen ($10USD) I can get whatever I want:  scented, mind-altering, herbal, or mud-like, all meant to make me beautiful, youthful, thin, and relaxed.  I don't often justify the 1000 yen investment into this health regimen because after all it's only a bath, but there are those days...yes, those days where the 1000 yen bath seems to do what food (specifically bread and chocolate) and a good book cannot.  On days like this I splurge and let myself soak, easing away the messiness of the day convinced I will have shed those pesky 5 pounds the gym cannot.  (The messiness usually goes away.  The pounds do not.)

Try to include on your next trip to Japan a visit to an onsen (unless you're inked) or a long and relaxing evening in a deep bathtub.  You'll be glad you did.  For those who choose the tub, add your favorite salts for added pleasure.  It's worth the price.  Even the 1000 ($10) yen bath salts.

Random Musings On Language

A nasty piece of work she was.  My new boss in my early thirties worked hard to establish herself by making sure we all looked bad.  I pushed back when I could, standing up for myself and telling the big boss my side of the story.  As a telecommuting employee physically not present, her face time with the big wigs trumped my version of events.  After a year, I resigned.

One of the most memorable conversations I had with Cathy (her real name) was the way she introduced herself.  More about my lack of knowledge of current English idioms than about her usual bouts of bitchiness, I still remember to this day her words and my reaction.  "I was raised on the street," Cathy told me.  I took her words to mean she had spent her you literally "on the street" homeless.  Fortunate my unstated "that must have been hard" never left my lips, I realized shortly my error.   Once I figured out "street" was actually "Street," as in Wall Street, her aggressive behavior and the way she clawed her way to the top by making sure she rose and we didn't made all the more sense.  Being "raised on the street" and "raised on the Street" are two very different life experiences.  Cutting teeth on Wall Street wasn't something I aspired to.  She did.  Good for her.

All this happened during an era where New York City was referred to as "the City" and Washington, DC "the District."  Had I put some thought into her "Street" comment I would have figured it out sooner.  It took my husband laughing at me months after I recalled this conversation to point out growing up speaking English isn't enough to be truly "with it."

Which took me back to my undergraduate years where my favorite professor one day told us the importance of keeping up with current events.  Specifically telling us there would be a section in our exam testing our knowledge of how well we kept up with the news, the week before finals I trudged to the library combing through headlines from major newspapers.  I aced the current events portion of the test and to this day make it a point to stay up to date.  Watching, reading, listening to news even from those I don't like or agree is important.  Where "I didn't know" isn't a viable excuse anymore, I make it a point to cover as much ground as I can.  Money may lead to power, but information--who has it versus who doesn't--also matters.  I'd rather be informed than sleep on a bed of gold.  The line "Keep your enemies closer" from Sun Tsu's Art of War is a mantra.  In my world, my success is largely determined by what I know.

Keeping up with current events in two languages is a chore.  Keeping up with Japanese idioms and abbreviations throws me off my game, especially when a phrase stumps me.  That's those around me often play "Let's Stump Amya" is fun only until I realize I didn't even know the word for that silly thing.  Jolts in Japanese equivalent to Cathy's "on the Street" remark continue to challenge the breadth of my vocabulary.  I'm amazed and quite bothered by what I don't know, especially when random foreigners I meet in Tokyo say they're fluent after two years here.  Allow me to throw you linguistic curve balls aimed at me, dear friend. 

There's no point I'm trying to make here except to say keeping up with the changes in language is tough. Back to my dictionaries that are television and the internet.  Sigh.

When Size Matters

There is an international boarding/day school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo known for its strict and rigid rules.  A decent number of alumnae live in Tokyo still, and every now and then a group of us get together to reminisce.  This walk down memory lane usually gets tawdry very quickly, the telling of stories causing gut-, and side-splitting laughter; the restaurant we're at on any given night almost always regrets letting us in. 

Last night was one such night.

Quite a sight, we are.  I am the lone woman who goes to these evenings out--the consensus being I'm the only one who can handle the abuse and stories of completely inappropriate behavior from days long past--a compliment, I know, albeit cloaked.  It's a good thing I can dish out similar libel, have thick skin and stories of my own, many of which include embarrassing moments my friends' memory has conveniently erased.

Our teachers would be surprised by the lives we lead today.  Collectively, our reputations and grades would have led most to assume none of us would end up this successful.  Proud of our accomplishments, we toast our teachers for being wrong.  Very wrong.

As we made our way out of one eatery to another, over-staying our welcome at the first place, we walk down stairs leading into what can only be described as a present-day dungeon sans the torture tools.  There are no chairs here.  It's dark, cramped, and as we file past those already standing with their food and drinks, we all mutter our "excuse me"s pushing up against the already imprisoned.  The hallway is that narrow and that tight.  This place is small.  Lamps hanging on the walls offer little light, and monsters and dragons could very easily poke their heads around any given corner.  I feel like I'm in 13th century France.  We file into the corner booth arguing over how much space my purse takes up, who stands where, who's claustrophobic.  And here it begins.  The Japanese man standing closest to us, clearly wanting to hang out with the "cool kids" comments on the height of one of the gang.  Again.  And again.

Which gets me thinking.  We are a hodge-podge of sizes.  There's the really tall one, the tall and thick one, the short and stocky one, and the medium-height thin one.  And then me.  We represent all sizes, makes and models. 

I ponder this for a moment.  Comments about height and weight fly out of the mouths of most Japanese I know with seemingly remarkable ease.  There is typically some discussion of my weight when I get together with those who haven't seen me for a month.  I've either lost weight or gained.   A discussion ensues among those who have opinions on my weight.  I'm usually not a part of these chats that take place as if I was invisible and unable to hear the result of the general consensus.  Fascinating.

No one I know back home would dare, ever comment on my weight, but here in Japan it seems to be a free-for-all topic.  I ponder this, too.  Casting aside judgment on why it's okay to comment on peoples' weight here in Japan, I instead think about how the Japanese have changed.

I am no longer the tallest or heaviest woman I know in Japan.  Anywhere I go, I'm surrounded by women who are larger than me.  Growing up here, for the most part, this was never the case.  While in the US, I am shorter than the average woman and "normal" in weight, here in Japan, I've always been tall and borderline heavy.  Today there are plenty of women who are taller (even without the four-inch heels) and who show the results of a diet rich in meat and milk.  Japanese bodies are changing.

And then there are the men.  Talk show hosts in Japan can often be heard discussing how young Japanese men prefer to remain single, living at home and interacting with the virtual world more than the real one, content to eat their mother's cooking.  Relationships?  Too bothersome.  Jobs?  Meh.

There is another crop of young men in Japan many find just as troubling:  the beautiful ones.  Arched and plucked eyebrows, coiffed hair full of product and seriously styled, clothes that make us all wonder who's credit card is being used, these men are elegant, beautiful, and thin.  Called "the vegetarians" for their--what?--lack of interest in anything hearty?  For the most part, boys don't grow up wanting to emulate this subculture of young men who personify nothing masculine. 

The fifteen days of sumo, the summer bout, which ended on Sunday shows the exact opposite.  Men meant to be large show off their strength and skill as they collide into each other.  Here, too, their weight and size is a topic of discussion.  Even in the world of sumo, the ultimate in sports where size matters there is evidently something to being too heavy.  I continue to marvel at how "appropriate" size is defined.

In a world where size continually matters, where we are all but defined by our height and weight, and in a country where comments about both fly out of mouths way too quickly I wonder what lies ahead for the new Japan.  Beautiful but seemingly weak men, women who are taller and larger than their mothers, and the ongoing commentary on observations regarding the size of gaijins (myself included) all make for interesting material for those inadvertently embroiled in the discussion over how size matters. 

Gone Native

I'm out with Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan.  He's good company as usual.  I'm at ease.  With him, I feel safe.  I can be myself.  One of the consequences of being this relaxed is that I speak freely.  I don't edit.  I don't think before I speak.

Which is why the word "consequences" is so appropriate.  Somewhere in the conversation with Alpha Male I evidently said, "Why's that?"  It came out naturally.  It went downhill from there.  Sort of.

"What did you say?"  He's driving so he doesn't look at me.
"I said, 'Why's that?'  Why?"
"Say that again?"  He's smirking.  Instantly, I'm annoyed.  What?  I'm not enunciating?
"I said..." and before I can finish, he says "'Why's that?'  Right?'  You think you said, 'Why's that?'  Right?"
I'm not amused.  What is this?  I think I said?  I know what I said.  I said....

And then it hits me.  Ohhhhh.  I did it.  It happened.  I spoke using the Tohoku dialect.  I did say "Why's that?" but I said it Tohoku-style.  No one outside of Tohoku would ever say it that way.  It actually doesn't even make grammatical sense.  It's not technically Japanese, except that it is for those in Tohoku.  Crap.  Crap, crap, crap.  I look over at him about to concede, confessing this country-bumpkin dialect has now crept into my vocabulary when I see he's trying ever so hard not to laugh out loud.  I decide right there not to concede.  It is funny.  Yes.  But, far be it from me to let him have any fun at my expense, I get defensive.  Except, I don't know what to say.  No quick retorts today.

"What?" he says.  I still say nothing.
"Oh, come on."  I'm still silent.  I've honestly got nothing.
"Are you mad?" and now he's not actually asking but more insinuating I'm being unreasonable, albeit possibly, could it be?  Does he think I'm being cute?
"I'm not mad," and now I'm the one trying to keep a straight face.
"You're pouting."  He laughs, guffaws actually, and I'm afraid we're going to crash.
"Watch out!"  Instantly my hand shoots straight out hitting the glove box, propping myself as if I'll be safe if this way.
"Sorry."  He swerves, avoiding a moped.

We're silent again, both still half-smirking, half-smirk-hiding.
"You gotta admit, it's pretty funny," I hear.
Instead of defending myself, possibly even complimenting myself for being able to sound like a true Tohokuite I say, "It just popped out!  What am I going to do?  Honestly?  I can't even tell when I'm using the Tohoku dialect?  It's that natural now?  Oh no.....Who else have I said this around?"  It's funny.  I get it.  Except, it's not.  Alpha Male is laughing again.
"I think it's a good sign."
"Good sign?"  Indignant, I fly off the handle.
"Good sign?  It just popped out!  Seriously!  I didn't even know I said it until you pointed it out.  I don't speak standard Japanese any more?  This is not good!  What am I going to do?"  He's still laughing.
"Look," he says, "It is funny.  Everyone knows you're working up there.  It's natural you'd..." and he laughs all over again.  "Sorry," he says.  Is he crying?  He's wiping the corner of his eye.  Come on.  It's not that funny.  "Sorry," he says again, trying to sound normal.  Then it hits me.
"You know," I start.  "It's true."  I tell him the following story.

"I was out to dinner with a bunch of guys from Ofunato, and they asked me what I wanted to eat.  So I said, 'I'll start with sashimi,' at which point they all laughed."  Alpha Male is laughing again.  I know why.
"I said to them, 'What?' and they said, 'You've gone native,' and I was totally confused.  I asked what they meant and they said, 'That's how we'd say it in Tohoku.'"  I continued to explain to Alpha Male how they'd corrected my Japanese, giving me instructions on how people in Tokyo would say "I'll start with sashimi" and while I knew the difference, I had no idea the way I said it was Tohoku-style.  "So, it's true.  Evidently, I now have enough of a Tohoku dialect that I don't even know I'm using it."  I ponder this for a moment.  Is this a problem?  Evidently guessing what I was thinking, Alpha Male says, "That's a good thing."
"Is it?"
"Sure.  It means you really have gone native."
"But, when I'm in Tokyo..."
"No, we get it.  I'll bet I'm not the only one who thinks it's..." and here he stops.  Is he looking for the right word?  Is he about to say, "...who thinks it's cute"?
"It's not cute," I finish his thought for him, guessing.
"Yeah.  It is.  It's good."

So, the consensus is, or so I assume, it's okay for me to speak this way.  I'm not sure I believe this, and I'm certainly not sure I like it, but I decide to accept the inevitable; I now have gone native and it's taken as a good thing.

I sure hope it is.