Two-dimensional marriage (in Japan): It's not what you think

I justify the nights in front of the television because it's simply too damn hot to be outside (true), and I need to stay current on Japanese pop culture (also true).  No, I don't have much to say about Japanese television that falls into the complimentary category.  I make no apologies.  I am, however, relatively up to date on what passes for hip and funny in Japan.  As I said, it's hot in Tokyo.  I'm finding myself in front of television often and for long periods of time.  All for current events and odd comedy.

Which is where I saw it.  A Japanese man dresses in a high school girl's uniform on Sundays and walks the street of Harajuku.  Bald except for his long, flowing white hair complimented by a similar long and flowing white beard (tied with ribbons, no less) he's hard to miss.  Or so the reporter says.

He's quite a sight.  What makes him newsworthy is the legend (of the urban type) people who have their photo taken with this man dressed as a teenage girl receive good luck.  This middle-aged man in cosplay drag is a lucky charm?  Japanese youth swear by him.

Hence his appearance on Japanese television.  This is where it gets interesting because, let's face it, the story up to this point isn't sufficiently ridiculous.  He's asked a series of questions.

"Are you a cross-dresser?"
"Are you doing this to express something in yourself?"
"Would you consider yourself shy?"

Yes, yes, and yes.

Except for the last one.  He says he used to be shy but through this outfit can release his true self.  It is at this point he releases the zinger.  Asked about his wedding ring he shares the fact he married at 27 and divorced at 28.  This was his shy phase.  Is he married?  He smiles.  Yes.  He's in a two-dimensional marriage.

The comedians surrounding him on this particular show are confused.  No one comes out and asks, so he volunteers.  This ring is to signify his marriage to an anime character.  A famous cartoon girl whom I don't recognize but the comedians seem to know.  There's a mixture of gasps and laughter and confusion as to how one goes about marrying an anime character but this is the point I stop listening.  There are limits to my desire to follow trivia and this man crossed a line.

It must be an age thing.  I don't get this marriage-to-a-cartoon-character phenomenon.  How does this work?  Aside from the obvious, of course.  What are the rules and who defines them?  Your partner lives in your laptop and smart phone.  Seriously.  How does this work?

Should we be concerned?  Did people in the 1800s "marry" characters in literature?  Perhaps this isn't new and I'm clueless on romantic fiction?   

This is what I get (evidently) when I hole up indoors and refuse to venture out into the heat.  Now I don't know what to do.

Boarding School Buddies: Bonds, Baggage, and Bad Behavior

There is a boarding school tucked away in the suburbs of Tokyo.  The doctrine preached here is so religiously rigid the Tea Party (the ultra-conservatives in the USA) salivates over the mere mention.  Here is the Mecca of conservative Christians in Japan.  I went there for high school not because my parents were particularly thrilled or in sync with the school's teachings but because this was the only international school in Japan with boarding facilities.  Here I learned the art of sneaking out of the dorm (I never got caught) and breaking rules without seeming to do so.  Here I learned the art of of creatively interpreting said rules, following them by my own code and thus changing the intent altogether, but doing so in a convincing way insuring I would not be punished--skills that have served me well in adulthood.

I didn't like some of my classmates or dorm sisters.  Some didn't like me.  None of this really mattered then and it certainly matters less now.  Of our graduating class--the best the school ever produced (we all agree on this)--the ones with the most professional power today are the ones considered back then the least likely to succeed.  We are all incredibly proud of this and secretly conspire at our quarterly nights out to show up at school some day in expensive cars and tailored suits, dripping jewelry and cash everywhere we go.  We haven't done this to date, and considering our crazy schedules the likelihood of all of us taking a night to show off will never happen.

Some of my classmates had parents who took religious indoctrination very seriously.  For them, being at this boarding school didn't put them far out of their comfort zone.  For others, me for example, this school was my chamber of horrors.  Except for one key fact:  friends I made back then are still friends today.

There is a bond that forms when people go through a similarly intense experience.  That this shared experience happened during our formative high school years--teenage angst for all--only solidifies the bond.  Which is why when I gather with my classmates all of whom happen to be male and they spend the night sharing the same stories (funny each time) and taking part in behavior I would never put up with from any other male, it is cause for reflection.

Their behavior on these nights out is bad.  Really bad.  The stories they share are wild, illegal, immoral, crazy, stupid, and mean.  Last night was one such night.  After several hours of howling laughter and revealing more secrets, reminiscing over days where my ex and I fought more than kissed, Sebastian says the following:  "You're pretty liberated.  Why do you put up with us?"

I'm about to say, "Honey, I'm beyond liberated.  Betty Friedan would come to me for advice on feminism."  I don't say this because:  a).  Sebastian wouldn't know who Betty Friedan is, b).  it's not true, and, c). it sounds rather uppity.  Instead I offer an alternative truth.

"I love you guys."
And, there it is.
This is no romantic love.  It's a bond shared by many who have gone through and emotionally intense period--like prison or the military.  This bond transcends ordinary definitions of friendship.  It connects.  It ties together for life.

"I'd never tolerate this kind of behavior from anyone else," I say.
"What would you do?" Theo asks.
"I wouldn't hang out with you in the first place.  We would never be friends."

The word for children (now and in the past) who have grown up abroad is Third Culture Kid.  Or, TCK.  We are now adult third culture kids, or ATCKs.  We don't quite fit in back in our own countries--those of our passports--and we don't quite fit in here either.  Yet, and here's a truly beautiful fact, we get both.  We're comfortable in both.  We are of multiple cultures finding a sense of belonging wherever we happen to be at the moment.  We are of both (many) but we are of neither.  This makes perfect sense in our world, but because this lifestyle is still shared by relatively few in the population, there are not many others who "get" it.  Who "get" us.  This only strengthens the bond among those of us who are TCKs.  It's absolutely true their behavior in other men (or women) is something I would never ever put up with from anyone else.  But, from these men--my brothers, my exes, my friends--I disregard my own rules.  Our baggage, however horrible it may have been (including how we behaved as children and teenagers) is forgiven, understood, and accepted.

So, today I am grateful for bonds.  I am grateful for people who "get" me.  Even if they almost get us kicked out of a restaurant for being so loud and wild.

Why I Hate Japan's Rainy Season

It should go without saying I am not a nature girl.  When people ask, "Do you want to go for a walk?" I secretly wonder if their version of walking is actually hiking.  I don't go to the beach.  I don't camp.  Sweating I abhor.  Summer is my least favorite month, especially in Japan.  I've already established all these facts in my previous posts.

The rainy season in Japan, officially announced here in Tokyo yesterday, is my second least favorite season.  Not because it frizzes my hair (I don't have enough, and really, my hair could stand a bit more bounce).  I hate the rainy season because I'm convinced it brings out the roaches.

Let's establish this now.  I'm not the world's best housekeeper.  Organized piles of books, magazines, and papers are stacked throughout my apartment.  Some people call this clutter.  I prefer to refer to them as stacks of reading material.  When I do cook, my garbage goes in a smaller bag which gets tied in a knot, and this goes into a larger bag which I take outside to the trash container.  Raw garbage is picked up on Mondays and Fridays in my ward.  I take mine out whatever day of the week it is.  It can sit outside.  I don't care.  There's no reason I should have to hold onto this garbage because it's not Friday or Monday.

My organized piles do not include garbage, and this is why I argue there is no reason my apartment should become a haven for roaches.  It must be the rain which makes them crawl out from their holes, buried deep in the basement, away from sunshine and happiness.  Evil creatures these.

Which is why when I entered my apartment, climbed the stairs to the landing and promptly faced a roach, a mini-roach actually, a baby perhaps, I came to a full stop.  This is usually when I call out to my husband--resident bug-killer--but he is not here.  Alas.  I hate, I mean I really hate the crunching sound bugs make when stepped on or squished under my thickest cookbook.  Usually I end up pushing them out the window with a paper towel, not, mind you because I'm some roach activist--they should die, these roaches--but it's the crunching that creeps me out.  May I just go on record and state even if I were an animal rights activist I would make an exception for roaches.  I need no justification.  Roach killing is entirely acceptable.

To avoid the impending sound killing this roach would surely make I first soft-crunched it, pushing down on it with a tissue I found in my purse.  Now on it's back, I peer down at it to see if I had successfully terminated its life.

Then it jumped.  I mean, this thing sprang up at least 30cm, did a back-flip and landed on its feet.  In the floor exercises of Roach Olympics, this thing just won a gold.  No, it broke the record for the most elegant and spontaneous flip.

I shrieked.  Okay, I screamed and then immediately wondered whether my neighbors would called the police.  I grabbed the nearest book--thank God I read--and smashed it down onto the Olympic medalist, "ewww"ing at the, this time, final crunch.

The rainy season in Japan, depending on where you live, lasts anywhere from four to six weeks.  To think I may have to battle roaches this entire time does not make me happy and that's a generous understatement.  Hot and humid summer will follow this rainy season, and today I don't know which is worse--oozing sweat or war with a bug.  Winter cannot come soon enough.

A Silly Story About Handwriting

I used to have recurring dreams.  Not the exact same dream, but the theme was identical.  I dreamt about tornadoes.  Always in the den in the home of my late grandparents, in my dreams I would look out across the fields of corn and watch tornadoes dance towards me.  Some were pastel pink, blue, and mint green.  Once I stood in one looking up at the wind around me.  Never scared, I loved these dreams.  I was in awe (I still am) of their power and grace.  These tornadoes did not destroy.

A suggestion I analyze my dreams led me to a bookstore where I combed through dream dictionaries trying to find meaning.  All the books offered the same explanation:  trauma in my life, crises, extreme emotions, impending disasters.

Please.  Dreaming about tornadoes was a gift.  I felt no tension, upcoming temper tantrum, or doom and gloom on the horizon.  Quite the contrary.  I loved waking up after seeing tornadoes in my sleep.  I felt calm.  Happy.  In my dreams, tornadoes were good.

Which is why I stopped reading silly dream dictionaries.  I didn't agree.  They were wrong.  My dreams.  My rules.

Reading somewhere recently that handwriting filled with loops indicated sociopathic tendencies, I was reminded of these dream dictionaries.  Allow me to share a story.

Because banks in Japan are generally rigid with rules I don't always understand, I opened an account with a branch of a US-based bank.  Here my signature was enough to open an account whereas Japanese banks require a registered stamp.  I have one of these stamps but I don't always know where it is, making it more of a challenge to go to the counter and beg for mercy to access my account without the proper proof of who I am.  (The stamp proves I'm me.  Not my ID.  Don't ask.)

I recently went back to the branch office of this US-based bank to change my address.  I showed proof of who I am and signed on the dotted line.  I handed the paper back to the teller who looks at it, then at the computer screen, then back to me.

"Your signatures don't match," he says.
"What signatures?" I ask because this doesn't make sense.
"Your signature here," and he points to where I just signed, "and here," now pointing to the computer screen.
I'm tempted to ask, "So?  You know it's me," but I don't.  Here's why.

I am one of these people whose signature changes with my mood.  Some days my writing is illegible.  Other days I have big loops for the "y" in my name.  Still other days the "a" and "m" are angular.  Today it's a combination of the above.  The point is, the my signature today does not look like the one I offered when I opened the account.  My mood today?  Okay.  I'm in a hurry.  I'm hungry.  Not cranky.  Generally good.  This leads to a slightly illegible, loopy "y" and pointy "a" and "m".  So then, what was my mood when I opened the account?  How the hell am I supposed to remember this?

Evidently, this hand-writing-changing-with-moods thing is not all that common.  All around me are people whose signature has remained the same for years:  my parents, husband, son.  I'm baffled by this.  They're baffled by me.

I think through all this as I contemplate what to say to the man in front of me.  I finally decide on what seems to me the simplest answer.

"May I see my original signature?"
"Ah, sorry.  No."
I laughed.
I did.
He didn't.
Fine.

"Okay.  Let me try again."  I take a piece of paper from the small tablet in front of me and sign it not all that differently.
"Here.  Try this."
He takes the sheet, looks at it, glances up at the screen, and handing it back to me, says, "Sorry.  No."

You've got to be kidding me.
"Okay.  Fine."
I completely change my signature to the one I use when I'm annoyed and hand that to him.
"Closer," he says.
I am not amused.
"What's different?" I ask.  "And, why can't I see my signature on your screen?  You've seen my photo ID.  You know I am who I say I am."
"Yes, I'm sorry.  But, we need your signatures to match."
Of course.

I sit back.  Here is the first time my changing-by-my-moods handwriting has gotten me in trouble.  Don't other people have this problem?  Why doesn't my husband's handwriting ever change?  And, what about this "loopy handwriting indicates sociopathic tendencies" article I just read?  Am I weird?  I really don't remember how I signed my name over a year ago, much less the mood I was in on that day.  I'm actually stumped.

I lean in to the counter.
"Look," I say.  "I don't remember how I signed my name a year ago.  I don't know what to do."
The man in front of me sighs, exasperated by this foreign woman whose handwriting doesn't match.
"Try again," he says, handing me another slip of paper.  I am close to yanking it out of his hand but don't.  I slowly sign my three names, a deliberate attempt to let my handwriting express my complete and utter annoyance.  He doesn't get it, of course.

I slide it across the table and sit back again, crossing my arms across my chest in defiance.  This is a challenge.  He takes a pen out of his drawer and circles two names from the first sheet and one from the second.
"This combination," he says.  "Copy these two from this paper and this one from the other."

Not feeling cooperative anymore, I take out my phone and snap photos of the two sheets with circled names.  I now have a record of how I must sign my name at this bank.  How I wish they would just let me use my stamp.

Signing again, looking at each circle and copying carefully I am done.  I pass.  Joy.

Annoyed with the bank, I leave with the thought it's that article that really nags at me.  There is no way loopy handwriting means I'm a sociopath.  I refuse to believe this article which surely was written by the same person who wrote that dream dictionary.  Careful what you read, people.  It might just ruin your mood, and we all know where that leads.

Signed,

Amya

The Ad in the Train

Tokyo subways are covered with ads.  Look up and one will see hanging from the ceiling on colorful sheets of paper the latest articles touting the truth through propaganda, cheap journalism, paparazzi photos, and tabloid gossip.  Look on the walls of the trains and one will see everything from beer to insurance to waxing services to festivals highlighted for sale and to inform.  I don't mind these much.  I find it a good way to keep up with pop culture in Japan, trends, and whatever passes for news.  Most days my eyes glaze over what's on the walls of steel tubes running underground in Tokyo.  Today, well today I stand in awe of people who connect dots not meant to be connected.

I swear I am not making this up.  I feel that must be stated front and center because while I pride myself in an active and adventurous imagination, today I must concede.  Evidently, I would have failed miserably had I gone into marketing or advertising.  This ad ... this ad takes the cake. 

Above the automatic doors of each train car are two screens.  The one on the right shows the name of the station, how far we are from the next several stations, and whether the doors on the left or right will open.  This screen is informative.  It pays to read this if sleeping, or reading a smart phone display or a book is how one usually passes the time on a train.  Stops are easy to miss. 

The other screen displays more ads.  Today on the way to my lunch meeting I glanced up and didn't pay attention to the girl selling cosmetics while she sat at a white desk.  I didn't pay attention to which coffee brand was introducing a new flavor.  What caught my attention was the two-part question, one line in red and another in blue under the heading, "If a foreigner stopped you on the street and asked for directions in their language what would you do?"  The red option was, A: say you don't understand them and walk away.  The blue option was, B: show them using gestures and explain the best you could.

Flash to a screen shot of a man with the red answer.  I can't hear him but the line he's evidently giving the mic is, "I'd walk away if I don't understand them."  The woman with the blue answer is indeed gesturing wildly, and while I still can't hear the answer, the line reads, "Surely if I point enough they'll understand."

Then comes the bar graph.  Ask 100 Japanese the same question and how many offer the red "I'd walk away" answer and how many would give the blue "I'd gesture" answer.  I hold my breath.  I prepare.  This can't be good.

And, I'm wrong.  Of the 100, 81 would gesture and try to help while 19 would shake their heads and walk away.  Nice job, 81 people.  That's kind of you to try.  Thanks.

I assume this is the end.  I am wrong again.  (Surely, a record.  Twice in one day?)  This is the part I can't make up. 

So far this is not an advertisement but a public service announcement about helpful Japanese assisting lost foreigners.  We all feel good watching this, the Japanese satisfied with their kindness and foreigners touched by the ever-polite Japanese sense of hospitality.  Why not end it there?  This is where my imagination fails me.  I would have left it at a feel-good group hug message.  Sell something after this?  Why?  Why ruin a good thing?

What comes next stumped me.  The fuzzy warm feeling story turns into a psychological analysis of the red-answer people and blue-answer people.  A perky young woman shows up on the screen and asks, "If the people answering in red were a type of ramen, what flavor would they be?"

What?  Ramen?  We're determining personality types now by associating them with ramen?  Why?

She asks the same question about the blue-answers.  What flavor would they be?

For the record, the red people were soy sauce flavored, and the blue people were salt flavored.  Soy sauce because they don't like change (I'm quoting here) and they don't take risks, and salt for the blue answers because they like adventure and will try new things.  I am not making this up. 

There's more.  (Because, why end here?) 

Now comes the advertisement.  Enter a new app developed by one of Japan's largest telephone companies offering instant verbal translation.  Want to ask, "How do I get to the train station?"  There's an app for that.  Download it and speak your question into your phone and up pops both the written and spoken phrase you are to ask.  It also translates the answer back to you, presumably, if the person speaks their answer into your phone.

So, there you have it.  Helpful Japanese get classified into a ramen flavor to sell an app. 

I feel some how entitled to take a bow after sharing this with you.  You're welcome.

Men Behaving Badly and Women Who Push Back

I mean, really.  The remarks themselves are sexist enough, but the whole lack-of-creativity part also irks me.  You want to put women down?  Come up with something other than "if you bleed you can't lead."

Disclaimer:  What the Governor is to have said is something I read online.  I haven't verified it.  I don't know him.

Back several years the man elected Governor of Tokyo (yesterday) evidently said something to the extent women can't ever be in positions of leadership because we get weird while we're menstruating, and it's because we bleed that we're not orchestra conductors, or hold other "manly" jobs of the like.  (The "manly" is my addition.  Couldn't resist.)

Before I get to my next point, may I just go on record and say male politicians who talk about women this way really need more originality in their condemnation of an entire sex.  Menstruation?  Again?  That's all you've got?

To this remark the he's said to have made, Japanese women living in Tokyo came up with a creative way to keep their husbands from voting for the man-now-Governor.  The message was simple:  Vote for him and you'll get no sex at home.  Dubbed the "sex strike", news conferences of these outraged women calling the then-candidate on his gaffe didn't get as much press as I had hoped.  That, and considering he was elected, I wonder how many men will be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future?  Who said Japanese housewives were submissive and obedient and demure and quiet?  Who said "men rule Japan"?  I wouldn't necessarily recommend using sex as a weapon, but I'm ready to say that's a lot more creative than reducing women to unpredictable and mentally unstable creatures controlled by hormones.  I like creativity.  In the battle of creative come-backs, Japanese women reign triumphant.  You're just going to have to try a little harder, Governor. 

I simply would be remiss if I did not point out clear messages from our friends in the animal kingdom:  in sex, in politics, and in male-female dynamics.  It's the male lion that has to worry about hair.  It's the male peacock and pheasant that's adorned and has to strut for the hens.  And, isn't there an owl species out there where the male kills mice and brings them as a token of his love to the female to show his worthiness?  As a part of owl-courtship?  Why are we humans not more like these animals?

Following this story over the past several weeks, I've allowed myself the following conclusion:  If I'm ever offered a job in the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, say to consult for the upcoming 2020 Olympics or something, I've decided I will say to those interviewing me,

"Oh, I'm sorry.  I'm on my period.  You can't trust my judgment today."

That would get me booted out the door, but it would make me feel better.

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. 

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.

From My Veranda: Corporate Espionage in Japan

Walking back from my bus stop to my apartment, I saw a familiar sight.  The building next to mine is the headquarters of a large food company.  Well known, I would have a hard time finding someone in Japan unfamiliar with their name and products.

To be fair, I've seen this sight before.  Three men in black suits and white shirts are bowing to a black car (today it's a Lexus) pulling out of the company's private parking garage.  The three men in black bow in unison, rise in unison, bow again, rise again, and then stand there until the Lexus turns right and out of sight.  I watch all this and them follow them with my eyes as they walk back indoors to merciful air conditioning.

This scene takes me back to one I experienced as a child.  I'm in the train station with my father.  We're waiting in the lobby for someone to arrive.  We are not alone.  The lobby is a large rectangular room with food kiosks on one side, ticket machines and salespeople on the other.  In front of us is the gate from which people come and go, and behind us are large glass doors leading outside.  In other words, it's a pretty typical Japanese train station.  What's different about this scene today are the men in black lined up in two rows.  They face each other.  The line begins from the turnstyle all the way out the door.  The men in black are yakuza (the Japanese mob).  Some wear dark sunglasses.  Some have tightly permed hair.  Some are bald.  Large, really large, and then more average, they stand silent, facing each other all in black.

Our family is standing near the doors.  Not because we need an escape plan per se, but because it's generally a good idea to give these guys as much space as they feel they need.  Today, we chose to be near the door.

Then it happens.  Clearly the honored and exalted guest, either this faction's bigwig or his boss or his boss has arrived.  Entering in a dark gray and black Japanese kimono, grandpa-boss has large earlobes.  That's what I noticed first.  One by one, the men bend at their waist, each hollering the I'm-a-guy calling of, "Ooooos" as heads bow in domino-fashion.  Perfectly synced, they were precise and exact.  The combination "Ooooos" and bow was indeed so perfect, that this was being undertaken in public for all to see by bad boys to the bone, let's just say it was comical.

My father saw the beginnings of a grin on my face and gave me the "Absolutely not now" look and I froze.  Nothing is funny about the deepest forms of respect the yakuza can give their masters.  No.  This was not funny.  I was not going to laugh, smile, grin, smirk, or snicker.

I bring up this domino-bowing story only because the three men in black today reminded me of this long ago event.  That's not my story today.

I've now lived in this apartment in Tokyo for over 18 months.  During this time I've realized a key factor about my neighbors--the food giant.  My floor looks straight into what I've decided is their product development department.  From my window or small veranda, I can see directly into their offices.  They never close the blinds.  I've seen them taste test new products, and I've seen them compare their brands with their competitor's.  All I need is an ordinary pair of binoculars and I would be able to read their computer screens and actually see next year's item currently under development.

This is supposed to be a secret, this new product.  What's the point of a new item on the market if a competing company gets wind of it and puts out their brand first?  Enter in the question I've harbored for 18 months.  Why don't they close their blinds?  Why don't they take more care to be secret about their research?  Mine is not the only apartment facing their floor where the next hit item will be born.  Any one of us could take their research and offer it up to the highest bidder.

Clearly I've read too many spy novels and fancy myself the modern-day Mata Hari.  Obviously I'm not going to steal their secrets and make money off of their sloppiness.  But, the point is, I could.

This lack of concern on the part of this food company is not the only reason I say the Japanese are lax when it comes to protecting their product, ideas, or name.  Just the other night I was invited out to dinner with friends who own a large food company of their own.  As the president consumed more liquor, he became more insistent towards the chef/owner of the establishment that he copyright the name of his store before expanding into other Asian countries.
"They'll steal your name," the president says, "and then the fact you're famous here in Tokyo is moot.  Everyone will associate the other company with your food.  Since you can't control how good their food is, and it can't possibly be as good as yours, you and your restaurant look bad.  Got to do this now," the president continues, "to protect yourself.  You know how they are about stealing names to make consumers assume they're the real deal when they're only copycats."

I won't mention which countries the president was referring to.  While pirating is evidently not seen as a moral issue for these countries, it's the fact the chef/owner never thought of this that is proof yet again how many Japanese are oblivious to the fact their products might be of interest to others.

The moral of the story is this:  close your curtains if you're doing something you don't want others to see, and be smart about branding yourselves if you want to control your name.  That said, I'm not implying all Japanese are lax about protecting their identity, new product, name, or corporate secrets.  Just saying.

"Did you know there's a company called Honda making motorcycles in *****?" the president asks us all.  "Not the real Honda, but another Honda."  I counter with a "No way.  Honda, the real one wouldn't stand for that," but the president shakes his head.  "You're wrong.  You'd be amazed."  I am.  And then I remember the people across the street from me.  With no concern over those of us who can see into their offices, perhaps it's no wonder there are two Hondas making the same product.

Food for thought.

On Hugging in Japan: Public Displays of Emotion

I must have been in my teens.  Looking for something to read, I browsed the bookshelf my parents kept well stocked and came across a book about life in Japan.  I don't remember the name of the book (note to self--write these things down if I want to sound credible) but there was a passage about publicly displaying emotions, specifically affection, being a no-no here in Japan.  So much so that when Rodin's statue "The Kiss" was displayed in Tokyo in the 1960s (don't quote me on this) there was an uproar.  Not about the two naked people embracing, but the fact they were kissing.  The kiss (The Kiss) was too much. 

I left Japan at age 18 to go to university in the US.  I made frequent trips to Japan over the next several decades, finally moving back two years ago.  Time away from Japan has made me notice changes, some subtle and others more overt.  A key difference between the Japan of my youth and Japan today is precisely this public displaying of emotion.  More people walk through town holding hands.  Even the older generation, those of my parent's age can be seen walking hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm.  I see people hugging hello and good bye at train stations and restaurants.   Watching the national high school boys baseball championship I see teenage boys hugging each other--some in celebration, others to comfort.  Is there a new cultural phenomenon in Japan?  Has Japan caught the open-expression-of-feelings bug?  Is it possible (do I dare hope?) love is in the air?  Are we in experiencing perpetual spring fever?

Because nothing in Japan is simple, I must note how, here again, life in Tohoku is different.  I did not set out to make a statement, or work towards affecting change.  I did what came naturally.  With kids around me in the 13 preschools I've visited over the past two years I made it a point to hug.  Slowly I started seeing these kids in town.  Some I saw frequently.  There was hesitation at first on both sides, me wondering if I can and should hug the kid in front of his or her parent, and shyness on their part.  This, too, changed with time.  Now kids run up to me arms wide open and clutch me around my waist.  I hug them back tight.  We giggle, laugh, say hello.

Soon the moms were ready for hugs, too.  With some mothers now hugs are a part of hello and good-bye.  Then came the dads.  A handshake would turn into a pull towards each other, ending with something resembling a chest-bump.  These also over time turned into more natural, comfortable hugs.

I've known it's not up to me to initiate the hug, at least up in the Tohoku region where life is much more formal, rules rigid, traditional, and sometimes antiquated.  This became extremely evident during the tanabata festival held up north in early August.  I hadn't seen my adopted families for almost six weeks.  With everyone in a good mood, emotions running high in the best way possible, I said hello with each brother, sister, and mother I saw.  One of my mothers came shuffling towards me, a half-run half-walk, her hands held up as if she was showing me her ten fingers.  I smiled wide, said hello and clutched her hands.  We'd never hugged before, and it was only after I saw a quick glimpse of disappointment in her eyes that I realized she was expecting a hug.  The same thing happened with a brother.  He had never initiated a hug.  I couldn't imagine a hug would be forthcoming, but his hands also were showing me ten fingers, and when I went to high five him on both hands, he pulled me in.  When we both pulled back from each other we exchanged a, "Well, that was awkward" look.  (I have a feeling it will be awhile before we try that again.)

Japan is changing.  Japan has been changing.  This is more obvious and evident in some areas, while far out in the country like Tohoku it's less visible.  I am leaning towards defining this change as good.  Others may disagree but here is a part of life in Japan I can confidently say is moving in the right direction.

On Grandmothers

It all started with an NHK documentary I watched as a child.  The Japanese maestro of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Seiji Ozawa was highlighted on this show.  My parents and I crowded around the television taking in his words, the music, the awe he inspired.  The camera zoomed in on a statue in downtown Boston (one I have yet to find) and I knew right then and there, someday I would live in Boston.

Fast-forward twenty or so years and I'm talking to a friend about this revelation, that I will some day live in Boston.  "People are rude in Boston," he says.  "Really.  My cousin lives there.  He's impressed by what Bostonians do and say.  Well, impressed isn't the right word, I suppose.  People there take rudeness to a new level.  Even the grandmothers are bitchy."

I scoff.  He is wrong.  Not about how an entire population of a city, or so his cousin points out, can be rude.  My objection is about grandmothers.  Grandmothers are not, cannot be rude.  He is simply wrong.  His cousin exaggerates.

These were the days I measured grandmothers by mine.  No one would dare accuse my grandmother of being rude.  Ever.  I assumed all grandmothers were kind, patient, supportive, giving, and treasured.  My grandmother was.  Others must be the same.

I was idealistic, young, and naive.  I lacked real-world experience.  I was fortunate enough not have spent time around (many) truly rude people.  And I was idealistic.  (That part warrants another mention.)  I refused to believe there were rude grandmothers in the world.  Collectively, surely they must be like my grandmother.  As a group, they simply were not capable of rudeness.

Oh youth.  When we finally did move to Boston in 1997 we were met by aggressive drivers, opinionated people who spoke their minds freely (which usually meant they were pointing out how I was wrong), and finally, rude people.  I was shocked.  Was my friend right?  No.  Grandmothers in Boston would not be, could not be rude.  Right?  The rest of these people, maybe.  Not grandmothers.  Please, not grandmothers.

And so the bubble was burst.  One after another, rude grandmothers showed up in front of me, turning left from the right hand lane, flipping me off when I honked at them.  In the grocery store, their cart in the middle of the isle blocking everyone, my "Excuse me"s met with eye-rolling and "Well, just move around me then."  She might as well added, "You little snot" to the end of that sentence.

Twenty more years after my friend told me of his cousin's words, still unwilling to believe all grandmothers everywhere were capable of rudeness I made my way back to Japan.  The land of politeness, consummate service, and kindness, surely grandmothers here personified grace.  In the two years I spent up north in the Tohoku region, I had yet to come across a rude grandmother.  Hoping the American sentiment of freely expressing one's own opinion was what caused grandmothers (at least in Boston) to be okay with their behavior I hung onto hope.  So far so good.

All good things must come to an end.  The resolution, the glory I felt in my correctness came crashing down one day as I stood in line at a bakery in Tokyo, the place that sells the most wonderful milk bread.  Never mind that eating this bread requires penance at the gym (which I refuse to submit to), today I would partake and indulge.

The line was long on this day.  My tray in hand, the milk bread roll resting safely on top, I'm minding my own business when I feel a tap.  I turn around and see an older woman, a grandmother standing there looking up at me.  In perfectly clipped British English she says, "Are you here," and she points to the floor, "to pay?"
"I am," I reply confused.  Why else would we all be in line?
"Que up then," she snips, and then adds, "Properly."

What?  Qu'est que le hell does that mean?  Oh grandmother.  You managed to ruin all hope I had about your kind.  I resolve to admit I have been wrong my entire life.  Angry most of all that she's the one who crushed my faith I am this close to taking out my anger on her, and for a very quick moment think about saying something like, "Well, aren't you a short, snappy little thing."  But, I don't.  Instead I ignore her and stand my ground properly in que, same place I've been standing all along, and mourn the truth I've refused to acknowledge.

Yes, even grandmothers can be rude.  Alas.  So it is. 

Train Etiquette

I am not one to blame the French.  In the case of the empty seat next to me on trains and buses in Japan, it's not the French who are to blame as much as it is my French heritage.  I accept this fault because acknowledging the other truth is more hurtful.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling.  In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved.  No one shushed them.  No one paid them any attention.  He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan.  Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.

Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet.  Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course).  Two people having a conversation is almost rare.  There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part.  (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.)  Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem.  Or so my friend says.

Here's the thing.  Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken.  I am not exaggerating.  People will stand rather than sit next to me.  I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me.  "Watch," I'll say.  "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled."  I am proven right.  Always.

This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning.  I console myself by saying I smell.  My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume.  I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself.  As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart.  I can't smell myself, of course.  Once the perfume is on, it's on.  I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes.  Others can, evidently.  Smell me, that is.  I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me.  The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.

My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts."  Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior.  They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them.  That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt.  I told my friend as much. 

One more thing.  I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh.  No, this isn't the most mature of responses.  It is, however, honest.  We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains.  If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020.  Beware.

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.

The Price of Fruit in Japan

A mango is a mango.  The price between two mangoes should not differ by a whole digit.  In other words, the cost of a mango displayed on a neatly-typed card should not include a zero at the end of three numbers.  I should be long past the shock over the price of fruit in Japan.  I've grown up marveling at $100 watermelons, cube-shaped cantaloupe with $50 price-tags, and $10 apples with calligraphy shadowed onto the skin.  So, why, on this particular day am I shocked by and scoff at a mango that costs 1980 yen (approximately US$20)?  Perhaps because as a child I never had to worry about paying for such fruit.  Now that I'm on my own, no parents to remind me they simply were not going to dish out that kind of cash I'm shocked all over again.  It's a piece of fruit.  Some food is worth the cash we dole out.  Sushi, yes.  For that, I'll pay.  Watermelons, no.

There was no way in hell I was spending $20 on a mango. Which is why when I spied the orange balls on a shelf at my neighborhood grocery, I did a double-take at the price.  The tag read 198 yen.  That I assumed this was wrong, that the missing zero made me wonder whether it was pried correctly, this is what troubles me.

On a recent trip home, I stopped in at Whole Foods and seeing the chalked sign, "Five mangoes, $5" I did just about did a cartwheel for all to see.  That's about right.  A mango should not cost much more than a dollar in the US.  In the country of cubed melons, there may be a reason a mango costs $20.  In the States, a mango at that price better remove my wrinkles, add ten years of bliss to my life, and make chocolate a necessity in losing weight.

I bought two of the 198 yen mangoes.  It's the principle of the pricing.  That it was missing the elusive zero was cause for allowing myself to splurge.  I brought them home and promptly dug into the orange fleshy sweetness.

Sadly, it tasted like it cost 198 yen.  The color of the meat inside was more yellow than orange (never a good sign), and in spooning out the substance I so looked forward to I noticed it resembled something stringy and nothing the pudding-like softness I had assumed would be inside.

Sticking with principle (always a good excuse) I decide to splurge.  The 1980 yen mango must justify the cost.  Yes?  I tell myself I'm doing this for science, or if that reasoning doesn't work, in order to have good writing material, and with these thoughts in mind make the trek back out to find this over-priced piece of fruit.  I'm giddy as I anticipate.  Its flavor must be magical.  Delving into unchartered territory, I have never paid this much for fruit but convinced this all makes sense I plunk down my card.  (Note:  I'm confessing here my husband actually paid for this mango--credit card bills go straight to him and not me.  Thanks, luv.)

Whether this mango warrants the price tag is questionable.  Certainly, it was much better than the 198 yen piece I brought home.  Good as it was, it wasn't $20-good.  It was a mango.  The one-dollar Whole Foods mangoes were better.  I find myself bothered by the fact Japan's fruit-sellers can get away with charging these prices.  I miss buying a bag of nectarines for $4.00, the box of blackberries I buy for almost nothing and then scarf down, fingers stained and teeth purple.

Alas, the price of fruit in Japan.  A mango is a mango.  One piece of fruit should not contain four or more digits in yen.  With no reason to believe my objection will be heard, I wonder what must happen here in Japan for me to buy fruit without completely emptying my wallet.

Tokyo Reinvented?

Governor Inose of Tokyo has a plan:  Make Tokyo into a 24-hour metropolis.  In a recent visit to New York City--the city that never sleeps--he sought out what New York has that Tokyo doesn't.  The list is long:  subways and buses that run all day and all night, a vibrant entertainment industry (e.g. Broadway), and an economy that benefits from continual consumer availability.  On a Sunday morning television talk show he spoke about how making public transportation available to everyone all the time, businesses will flourish and the Tokyo Metropolitan Government as well as the private companies that own various subway and bus lines will also benefit.  To all who watch the governor from afar it's clear he's struggling to fill the giant shoes left behind by his predecessor, the infamous Mr. Ishikawa.  Perhaps his attempts to make Tokyo into a truly global city is his way of leaving his mark.  My personal opinions of the governor aside,  during this one show he made his points well.

Except there's a problem.  (Of course there's a problem.)  Take the idea of running trains 24 hours a day.  Tokyo subway lines run two rails, each heading a different direction.  Maintenance on these lines happens at night, continual operation of railways being key.  Taking this a step further, continual operation and availability of prompt railway services is important because any disruption is meiwaku to the passengers.

Herein lies another problem.  Any English equivalent I've heard of this word, my translations included, simply does not do this word justice.  It's laden with cultural context.  You simply do not, in Japan, cause meiwaku.

The loose translation is "inconvenience."  Your inability, capability, or refusal to do the obvious, the right thing, and what is expected causes inconvenience to others.  There's no simple way to explain how wrong, bad, inappropriate, unappreciated, and unacceptable this is.  If trains were, on the off chance, late or worse yet, unable to run as smoothly as they do here in Tokyo, all because proper maintenance did not or could not take place the night before, then the idea of a 24-hour Tokyo is moot.  Causing Tokyo residents meiwaku far outweighs the economic benefit of an always-available subways system.  Let's say the governor does get his way and trains and subways do run all night.  Somewhere there will need to be maintenance done, as quality and safety is of paramount importance.  There would need to be routine work done on these lines--except the act of shutting down a train line to conduct routine repairs is also not acceptable if it means that line or station is inaccessible.  It's meiwaku to those needing to travel.  The number of people affected by this inconvenience is problematic enough that it kills any thought of 24-hour rails.

How does New York do it?  I don't know.  I can see, however, how Americans would be far more willing to accept a certain train station being inaccessible for a few hours every other week in order for any preventative maintenance needing to be done.  It's the price you pay.  Walk.  Take a taxi or a bus.  Drive.  You adapt to your surroundings.  I can't see New Yorkers flooding Mayor Bloomberg's office with complaints about how this inconvenience is unacceptable.

On another political pundit talk show, the "problem" of baby strollers on trains came up.  Again.  It seems mothers who ride trains, pushing their babies in strollers simply take up too much space.  I've heard this before.  Mothers my age and older say, "In our day, we folded our strollers and held our babies when we rode trains.  Young women these days expect people to make room for them."  The idea here?  Young mothers are causing other passengers meiwaku by taking up valuable real estate in rail cars.  Certainly, there's a generational difference in perspective.  The sense of entitlement my generation allotted onto our children has come back to bite us in the butt.  Point made:  Our children think it's okay to cause other passengers meiwaku.  No one says this, of course.  Much less that we raised a entire generation to think this way.  Is there a cultural shift happening in Japan?  Most definitely.  Should fingers get pointed?  Yes.  There's a reason for this change.  It lies with parenting.

My take on the governor's dilemma--how to make Tokyo global and continually competitive--is that anything he proposes has the potential to collide with cultural expectations and what is now the norm for Japan.  He dare not inconvenience his constituency, but if he is to take leadership in keeping Tokyo relevant globally, changes have to be made.  The subway/train problem is just one example of where he will have to ask commuters and tourists to cooperate, tolerating the meiwaku. 

I'm all for Tokyo going global.  Rather, more global.  I like the idea of not having to worry about catching the last train back to my apartment.  As Governor Inose pursues his goals on reinventing Tokyo I conclude with this thought:  Perhaps we just take a taxi or a bus, like New Yorkers presumably do, when any particular train station is going through construction or maintenance.  Maybe it's not that big of a price to pay, and the whole meiwaku thing is a bit blown out or proportion?  I think it's worth considering this idea. 

The stroller issue?  That's a whole other can of worms and one I don't see a quick resolution happening any time soon. 

The Scolding

Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan has a head shaped like a cube.  If his head were a cardboard box, a bowling ball would fit inside.  His body fits his head--large shoulders that go straight down to his legs with no waist to speak of.  He swaggers when he walks and people step aside as if he's a gangster, ready to beat up that one person that gets in his way.  His absolute disdain for those who break the law make it all the more ironic he's seen as "one of them."

When my phone rings and I see on caller ID that it's him, I pick up, ready for a nice chat.  Good company always, I'm honest with him.  No one who sees him walking their way would ever guess this man is gentle and kind.  The visual doesn't fit the man except when he gets angry.  His usual quiet and unassuming character will disappear if he sees the need to exert his strength.  Truly, he would beat the crap out of a gang of hoodlums harassing a homeless man.  Here, his stature as a hulkish Japanese man, an unusual sight indeed, would serve him well.  The teenage boys would cry, run away, regretting the day they chose the path of deliquency.

"Hey," his gruff voice greets me in the usual way.  "You doing okay?"
"Uh huh."
"You head home soon, don't you?"
"Yup.  Tomorrow."
"You should rest when you're home."
"I plan to.  I'm going to take it easy."
"Good.  Glad to hear that."
"How are you?"  I ask because it's polite and because I want to know.
"Nope.  Not today."
"Huh?"  Does he mean, "Nope.  Today I'm not okay" or does he mean "we're not talking about me today."  I get my answer immediately.
"We're not talking about me today."
"Okaaay."  So, we're not talking about his work, or anything related to him today.  That leaves me and everything else.
"You got a minute to talk?"
"Sure.  What's going on?  You sound upset."
"I'm not upset."  He pauses a few seconds here and I suddenly feel dread.
"What?"
He takes a deep breath.  "I saw you the other day."
"Where?"  He names a part of Tokyo I sometimes travel through.  I am amazed all over again at how small of a town this metropolis is at times.  I've run into too many people I know at the oddest of places for it to be a one-off coincidence.
"What was I doing?"
"Walking."  For some reason, I'm disappointed.  Which is ridiculous, of course.  Most of what I do in Tokyo is walk from place to place.
"Okay.  So, you saw me.  Why didn't you stop and say hello?"  I don't mean it as an accusation and for a split second I wonder if he'll take it that way.
"I had people in my car."
"Oh."  That makes sense, I suppose.  And then he says it.
"You've lost weight."

There it is.  I know what's coming.  This is not a compliment, a "you looked good" comment that people throw at others to flatter.
"You're not eating, are you."
"I am."
He's silent.  When he finally speaks, it's slow.  "Three meals a day?"
No. 
"Yes," I lie.  Who eats three meals a day anymore?
"You don't.  I know you don't.  Your face, it was almost gaunt.  I could see your cheekbones."
No way.  I look at myself in the mirror everyday.  I don't not look gaunt and my cheekbones do not protrude out of my face.
"I may have lost a bit of weight but it's not that bad."
"You're eating three meals a day.  You can really say that."  He's challenging me and I hold in a sigh.  I wanted a nice chat tonight.  Instead I'm getting a scolding.
"Mostly."
"Look," he starts, and I decide to cut him off.
"Okay.  I don't eat three meals a day.  But, I'm not skipping meals so I lose weight or anything like that.  Really.  I'm fine."
He doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, a long time on a cell phone and I wonder if I've lost him.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
"Yeah.  Just wondering if you're done."  Ouch.
"I'm done."
"Well, I'm not.  You need to hear this because you won't take this from anyone else here.  Let me talk.  Don't cut me off."  Yikes.  "Got it?"
"Yes."
"Look," he starts again.  "You going home this time has to be a real vacation.  You need to rest.  And, eat.  I'm not saying come back looking like me.  I'm saying eat the food you like, get caught up on sleep, and spend a week doing nothing.  No e-mails, no phone calls, no work.  Rest.  Get a massage or something."  He finishes but I'm not sure he's completely done or just taking a breath.  I stay silent.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"You're stressed, aren't you."
I feel myself get defensive.  "Not more than usual."
"You're stressed."  I cringe because I would not take this from anyone else.
"A bit, maybe.  Normal stress."
"Which you don't think is a big deal."

I ponder this a moment.  Life in Tokyo is wonderful and tiring.  Life in Tohoku is totally and completely intense.  Gratifying and worth it, but disaster relief isn't supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns.  What's he getting at?  Of course there's stress in my life.  I go back and forth between Tokyo and Tohoku, already a long enough trek on its own, and when I'm up north I'm surrounded by varying degrees of pain.  Yes, I'm stressed.  But, not so much that it would show on my face.  Right?

Thinking back to the time he surprised me by picking me up at the airport, I realize this is his way of showing concern.  All this flies through my brain and I realize I'm out of words.  Afraid anything I say will sound snippy I wonder if I should just promise to take better care of myself and hang up.  I have to pack yet before my flight.  That's a good excuse, right?  I decide to try this tactic.

But, evidently all this strategizing and wondering came through loud and clear to him on the other end of the phone.
"Here's what we're going to do."
I don't say anything.
"You listening?"
"Yes."
"You want to say, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'll take better care of myself' and all that.  That's your defense mechanism.  You won't, through.  Rather, you don't.  So, here's what we're doing.  I'm taking you out for food once a week when you get back and you're going to eat.  A lot.  I don't like skinny women.  I'll bet your husband doesn't like them either.  We're doing this.  That's it.  We're doing this.  You'll say you don't have the time but we're doing this.  We're both busy, but until I'm really sure you're okay, this is how it's going to be.  Tell your husband."

Am I that transparent?  How did he know I was going to use those exact phrases?  I'm focused on that part and not on the mandatory weekly dinners that he's announced will take place forever and ever.

All of a sudden I'm tired.  I don't want to be scolded tonight.  I don't want to talk about this.  I just want to go home.  I speak into the phone and call him by name.
"Can we talk about this when I get back?  Please?"
He must not have expected that, as his next words are not as rough.  "Are you upset?"
Yes.
"No."  Why do I keep lying to him?
"I know I should take better care of myself.  I just don't want to talk about it tonight."  I decide to skip the "I have to pack" part and hope he believes we will pick this up in a month.
"I'm tired," I say.  "You're right about that.  Help me figure out a better system when I'm back."  Pause.  "Okay?"
"Yeah."

And so it went.  I know he cares.  I know he's echoing what my husband would say if he were here and saw how I ate.  (Or didn't.)  Alpha Male is an important presence in my life here in Japan, but I wasn't in the mood for this tonight.  Perhaps I could avoid these scoldings if I would just take better care of myself?  Nah.  Nothing is that simple.

Inked: "I am not a gangster."

It is with much displeasure and great regret I announce the following:  I am now a member of a gym.  For someone who despises sweat and sweating, and for someone who considers exercise to be walking from the front door to my living room (and back) several times a day, the idea of paying to twist muscles, life heavy objects all while my body perspires a smelly substance--this act is a coup.  The recent influx of photos taken on iPhones and other such hand-held devices which show up on Facebook has led me to this moment.  I simply do not look like that.  I refuse to accept or believe this.  But, there's power in numbers.  The more photos show up of me the less I'm able to refute what is evidently fact.  Hence, the gym.  And sweat.  And sweating.  If I don't lose it now, it simply will not happen.  I concede.

Enter an evening spent looking through various gyms and memberships online.  I find one nearby and choose it because a). I like the photos I see of the gym, and b). I like their logo.  This is how I choose where I will sweat.  (I know.  I don't ask you to understand.)

Deciding reading the fine print on the membership rules would be a good thing here, I reluctantly put on my reading glasses and attack the text.  And yes.  There it is.  "No one with tattoos will be allowed membership."  Bugger.

Undaunted, I read on.  Surely they mean "no Japanese with tattoos"?  There are simply too many servicemen and women with ink on their shoulders.  To exclude those is a bad business decision.  Yes?  No.  They mean everyone.  "No one with tattoos" means just that.  No one.

To be fair, I know the reasons behind this.  Those inked in Japan have traditionally been members of the Japanese yakuza.  These are Japan's gangsters, mafia, mobsters, bad guys--they're beautifully inked scary men.  There has been an effort made by police and politicians (more on this some other day) to keep these bad boys at bay, preventing them from using public and private facilities and buildings by instituting policies refusing entry by "anyone with a tattoo."  

Back to my application form.

Then I see it.  It's a good thing I chose this one day to read what I was agreeing to because it's there:  "Unless our club determines your tattoos are acceptable."  Hmmm.  What's an acceptable tattoo?  Mine.  Right?

I decide this is not a question I can ask on the phone.  Because I like their prices, location, the look of the gym (and their logo) I make my way down to the building which will serve as my own personal torture chamber.  Feet apart, I stand in front of the nice, healthy looking young man and say, "I'm interested in your gym, but I want to know what you mean by 'acceptable tattoos.'"  He smiles at me as if he gets this question a lot.  "We need you to promise to keep your tattoo covered from the moment you enter this gym," and he points to the door "until you leave."

Pffft.  That's nothing.  I can do that.  I make an appointment for a tour and leave.

Today was my tour.  I like the place still, confirmed their tattoo policy, and signed the papers.  I am now a member of society who pays to sweat.  I'm not at all sure whether this is a good thing.

I signed documents, paid, had my photo taken for my ID card, and just as I'm about to put my coat on and leave, the woman who handled my paperwork hands me one more form.  "Read this and sign, please.  It's about your tattoo."  I glance down.

There are five boxes I'm to check.  The first one reads, "I am not a gangster."  I am to check this to swear, certify, and promise I am not a member of the Japanese mob, the yakuza.  It's funny but it's not.  I check it, and read on.  Boxes two through four are so insignificant I honestly don't remember what they said.  Box five was interesting.  The gist was to agree I will be kicked out of the gym if any member notices my tattoo and complains about it.  Well now.  That's rather harsh, isn't it?  Evidently they take this quite seriously.  Fine.  Check.  I keep coming back to this same thought--it's funny but it's not.

So, for the record, inked that I am, I am not a gangster. 

What I Really Think: The Ipponmatsu Debate

Let me be clear.  I'm not writing on behalf of Rikuzentakata City Hall, nor have they asked me to speak out on this topic, and this post is by me as an individual.  These are my thoughts, my opinions, my feelings. 

Today's topic is Rikuzentakata's Ipponmatsu.  Translated into English as the Miracle Pine, The Lone Pine Tree of Hope, and several other similar words strung together, it's about the one pine tree that stood its ground when 70,000 other of its tree siblings were washed away by the tsunami.

First, a brief history lesson.  Ancestors of those living in Rikuzentakata now planted pine trees meant to serve as a tsunami barrier along the coast of Hirota Bay, the ocean facing an expansive flat land leading into the town.  This was in the 1600s.  More pine trees were added to this initial planting, and over the past 300 plus years, the number grew to 70,000.  Paths were created so lovers could stroll at dusk.  Park benches were strategically placed.  By all accounts, this pine grove was peaceful, beautiful, and serene.

The key word here is "was."  All but one of the 70,000 pine trees were blown to bits by the tsunami, sending large trunks into buildings, cars, and people.  Even today there is a large pile of this wood in town almost white now with two years of sun exposure and salt bleaching.  They remind everyone who drives past the mound of what was.

Ipponmatsu, the miracle pine is the one tree left standing.  Or, again, was. 

The short version is this:  this tree, the miracle, the lone survivor died.  Its roots steeped in salt water, the tree was declared dead in the fall of 2011.  The city spent a good amount of time deciding what to do.  On the one hand, the perseverance personified by this tree gave hope to those who were left in the town and to those visiting.  "Life goes on" is what it says.  "If I can withstand a massive wall of water, you can defy hardships as well" is the message it sent out.  The city could cut it down, the tree having served its purpose.  Or, it could attempt to preserve it.  But, how?  How does one go about "preserving" a 27-meter tree?  And who pays for this?

Politicians, businessmen, and visitors to Rikuzentakata made similar suggestions on their trips:  "Why don't you leave old city hall (or the gymnasium, or the library, or the museum) as a monument?  That way people can come here for generations and see what the tsunami did.  It would be like Tohoku's version of the Hiroshima Memorial."  There's some sense to this.  Showing just what the tsunami did, that there was a beat up, bent out of shape car in the lobby of city hall mixed in with chairs and desks and broken glass, that the floor of the gymnasium was covered with several inches of ocean sand with various kinds of artifacts and debris strewn around the floor--this would show the power of the waves, that a robust evacuation plan is a must, that every city everywhere must put time into creating a strategy for how to survive a disaster.  What these same politicians, businessmen, and visitors did not take into account is this:  people died here.  For those still living in town who lost family members, friends, and colleagues, these grotesque buildings are reminders.  Every time they see the gaping monuments they're ripping off the band-aid keeping them together.  Save the buildings?  So others can visit and learn and understand?  What about those with band-aids?

The problem with the analogy with Hiroshima is that no one who made the decision to keep the dome in its place is left to ask how these decisions were made.  Similarly, almost all of Hiroshima was wiped out, hundreds of thousands of lives lost.  It was war.  No apples and oranges comparison here.  Apples and spaghetti, maybe.  War and tsunamis are both disasters.  Apples and spaghetti are both food.  The comparison ends there.

Rikuzentakata City Hall decided to preserve the tree.  The cost for this was unprecedented:  preserving the tree required new technology, multiple processes, and a task no one had ever undertaken in Japan to date.  The price tag is somewhere around 1.5 million US dollars.  That's a lot of money for a tree.  Yes.

Critics say, "If you're going to raise that kind of money, why don't you build temporary homes faster instead?"  Others have said, "You're creating a cyborg."  Still others have said, "You're taking away money from other projects donors might give to."  Here's where I roll my eyes.  Dear people.  Do your homework before you cast stones.  Please.

The only criticism I might agree with is the "cyborg" comment.  Fine.  It's no longer a "tree."  So what?  The tree died.  Would it have been better to cut it down and leave a gaping hole, a stump that would rot, or a plaque reading "here's where the miracle pine was"?  That provides hope?  To whom?  How?

True, the cost for the preservation of the tree is steep.  But, as far as I'm concerned those who don't live here, who don't have to muster up faith and hope and the will to go on need to back off and take a seat.  The Metropolitan Government of Tokyo just spent a huge amount of money luring the Olympic Committee to host the 2020 Olympics.  I live in Tokyo.  As far as I can see, we're fine here.  We don't need tourist yen injected into our city to survive.  Why is no one writing about that?  Where are the reporters (foreign and Japanese) who question whether this was a justifiable or smart use of funds? 

If money was being taken away from other projects, if donors all of a sudden stopped showing up at Rikuzentakata City Hall offering assistance all because of the Ipponmatsu I, too, might question whether all this publicity on one tree was a good thing.  This is not the case.  I've personally worked with organizations still interested in helping the city.  Right there is proof money is not drying up.

As for "build temporary houses faster".... oh, honey.  You really have no clue, do you?  We would be building homes faster if we could.  Typical of what the city faces is this:  thirteen months from three government ministries for paperwork approval to build public housing.  That's the problem.  Not a tree.

Without selling papers, magazines, finding and keeping sponsors for television and internet news, the media can't and won't survive.  I get that.  I do find it rather tedious and tiresome, however, that some reporters have to go out of their way to butcher a story to guarantee sales.  It's the name of the game, I suppose.  Sad, really.

Tokyo Station Blues, Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

“What did it look like?”

I describe it.

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

“Yes.”

“What?”

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

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

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”  I tell him.

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

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

“When was it stolen?”

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

“Whoa,” the first man says.

“That long ago?”

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

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

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

I swear I saw them both roll their eyes.

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

“That changes everything.”

Now I’m annoyed.

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

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

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

“Yup,” they say and they’re so proud.

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

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

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

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