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.

Suicide: What to do when the person sitting next to you on the train is (possibly) suicidal

I don't usually look at, much less read the screens of the smart phones of those sitting next to me.  Not on trains, buses, or while we're waiting for the light to change.  I don't know why I did today. 

At first, they didn't register.  The woman sitting next to me on the train today was flipping through the pages on her cell phone.  Her finger moving down the screen from top to bottom, she would stop every now and then reading the title of a link to an article.  Or so I assumed.

It was probably at one of these lingering moments as she decided whether to click the link that I noticed the words.  It's amazing what our eyes take in.  There they were:  suicide, and "I want to die."  Not only did my eyes register these words, I was also able to read the full titles of the links.  Each one started with "I want to die." 

Was she contemplating suicide?  Was she a student researching suicide?  How would I know?  What do I do?

She clicked on a link.  The article which I read along with her listed the causes of suicide (i.e. family problems, finances, job-related stress, relationship difficulties).  I see the word "depression."  Her finger keeps dragging the page down, faster and faster it seems and I wonder for a minute whether she's actually reading.

She clicks the back arrow next and we're taken to the previous screen.  I now notice each of the articles above the one she just read are in a lighter purple, the ones below in dark blue.  I know what this means.  All the articles in purple are ones she's read.  Noticing again each article beings with the words "I want to die" I now start to panic.

Maybe panic isn't the right word.  I no longer feel comfortable reading over her shoulder (surely she must have noticed by now) and sit up straight.  I look ahead and decide to dive. 

I take the ear bud out of my left ear and face her.  She looks right at me as if she knew this was coming.
"Are you alright?" I ask.  She nods quickly, smiling.
"Yes."
I'm not content with this answer.  What did I think she was going to say?  Did I expect her to confess she's contemplating suicide?  I could sit back and accept her denial (?) but this feels too simplistic.  Even though she couldn't possibly tell me in a crowded train why she's reading articles about suicide, I decide to ask again.
"The links" and I point to her phone, "you were searching here.  Are you really alright?"
She nods fast.
"Yes."

And, that's as far as I can take it.  I leave my ear bud out in case she wants to say something further.  (If I had plugged myself back into my iPhone I would have been signaling I was done talking.  I assume she figured this out.)  None of this feels good.  Did I overstep?  Should I have kept quiet?  What was I doing reading her phone anyway?  What if she was suicidal and this was her way of asking for help?  And, how pray tell, would I know this?  What was I doing?  

She got off at the next stop (wouldn't you?) and as I sat there in my seat I decided I had no idea whether I did the right thing.  What would you have done?

Tokyo Station Blues

Let's establish some basic facts:  1).  I am not directionally challenged, 2). I am comfortable in large crowds, and 3). I'm not careless.  How then can one location I visit repeatedly cause me so much grief?  Enter Tokyo Station and I'm off my game.  The ground under me must shift into another dimension.  If it were an isolated incident here or there, if these mysterious encounters with confusion happened elsewhere with similar frequency I would be more inclined to acknowledge the possibility I just might be slipping.  This is not the case.  There's something about Tokyo Station that throws me.

I've already established with a series of rants on multiple sites the fact I had my first encounter with a pickpocket last week.  Yes, in Tokyo Station.  Of course.  Again, I'm not one of these careless, "Oh look how much cash I have," or "Let me just hold my wallet in my hand as I walk" people.  I've been in large crowds more often than not in my life.  I'm cognisant of the issue of personal space, especially here in Japan.  So, no.  I was not being dumb, naive, or flighty last week as some deft pickpocket grabbed my wallet from inside my purse and made off with my last dime.  That, dear friends, was Tokyo Station playing a very nasty trick on me.

I've long since found Tokyo Station to be a maze I can't seem to traverse well.  The store my co-worker seems to be able to find every time is no longer there when I retrace the steps he surely took last time.  Lest I acknowledge I can't find my way through a simple train station, I've had to stop myself from texting him several times, "Where is this place again?" 

I seem to enter the station from a different entrance each time.  This is quite an accomplishment, mind you, as there are only six entrances (that I know of), and I've been through the station dozens of times.  Granted, the station went through a major makeover the past year.  A large brick structure that looks like it belongs in downtown London versus Tokyo, my understanding is the number of entrances did not change.  So, that reason doesn't apply either as to why once I'm inside everything seems to be somewhere else.  Surely that store wasn't here last time?

Today, as I proudly make my way through Tokyo Station, even finding a bakery that has the most wonderful cranberry and cream cheese rolls (the same bakery I've looked for over the past ten or so trips) I congratulate myself on successfully navigating myself through with ease.  Perhaps the culmination of minor annoyances ending in last week's pickpocket incident--the crescendo of minor to major trouble--knocked my station mojo back into place.  Do I dare hope?

No.  Of course not.  Why do I let myself think these things?  Standing on the platform, I think through which door to enter my train car from.  When bullet trains head from north to south cars and seats are in order, starting with one at the front, all the way up to car ten/row twenty in the back.  All roads lead to Tokyo.  So much so that trains going north are said to be going "down" (as in "away" from Tokyo) whereas trains going south towards Tokyo are going "up."  It is truly a very good thing I'm not one of those people that can't find my way through a train station.

So, I look at the train car.  It's heading down, away from Tokyo (although we're going north--stay with me, people) so the seats are in which order.....the train car in the front is 10 and the back car is one, so.....it's a good thing this isn't actual math or anything.  Working through train car logic that surely can't be this hard I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hi!"  A man looks at me, big smile on his face.
Oh, this is not happening to me.  I have no idea who he is.
"Hi!  I say back, hoping by the time we start having a conversation I'll actually remember who he is.  "How are you?"  Keep the conversation going, girl.
"I'm okay.  Busy," he says, and "Got to keep going, though."
"What were you doing in Tokyo?"  I stall with this question.  I've still got nothing.  No clue who this man is.  He answers me but I'm not really listening because I'm concentrating hard and I think I've got it.  I'm pretty sure, in fact.  Forgetting for a moment this is Tokyo Station and very little goes right for me here, I say, "Firefighter, right?"  He looks at me with that oh-woman-you-crush-me look.  What?  I'm wrong?  This isn't that fire fighter guy I know?  He tells me who he is and where we met.  I'm so off it's embarrassing.  It's bad. 
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" He forgives me, but do I sense only reluctantly?  "I promise I'll remember next time," and with a few more comments offering goodwill towards each other we part.

And, of course I enter the train through the wrong door, fighting the those looking for seats in rows with higher numbers at the front of the car, because, girl you will some day get this right; high numbers point away from Tokyo.  Some day, I will learn these rules and cure myself of these Tokyo Station blues.  Evidently, however, today is not that day.

The Fight: On Women in Japan, Part 2

Alpha Male’s question hits hard.  I don’t want to answer him about whether I’ve been felt up on Tokyo trains by perverts.  I’m embarrassed.  In the silence between us it’s clear the ball is in my court.  It’s my turn to speak.  I look at him.

“I don’t want to tell you.”
“It’s okay.  You don’t have to,” he says so fast that it’s almost comical.  Except it’s not.  This is him trying.  We keep missing each other, our points flying over the head of the other.
“I want you to know.  I want to tell people, but it’s…it’s embarrassing, you know?”
He pauses.  “Yes, I know.  But, as you said earlier, I guess I don’t get it.  At least not the way you want me to.”

I look out the window watching the people walking on the sidewalk.  The stores behind them sell stationery, fruit, shoes.  We pass a car dealership.  I’m not thinking of what to say, much less how to say it.  My mind is blank.

“Hey,” he says.
“I know,” I reply.  “I’m thinking.”  I lie.  Do I tell him?  How will he understand if I don’t?  It’s time.  Like bile about to burn my throat on its way back out, what I’ve not told anyone is like acid inside me.  It’s eating away at my soul.

“Well,” I start, “let me tell you some stories.”  I decide to cover myself—a poor attempt to maintain anonymity.  “I won’t say whether any of these stories happened to me or someone I know.”  He doesn’t speak.
“Okay,” he says slowly.  “They may or may not have happened to you.”
“Right.”  And, I begin.

“She was standing near the door.  She could see her reflection in the window because it was dark out.  The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck.  It smelled like beer.  Then she felt a hand on her butt, moving up and down.  ‘Nice ass,’ he said.  She glared at his reflection in the window.  He grinned back at her.  They were communicating through their reflections.  ‘It’s big, your ass,’ he said.  This shame,” I pause, taking a deep breath, “This shame—it’s powerful.  There’s shame, and then there’s anger.  It’s pretty scary stuff, making the heart race in a way that’s probably really unhealthy.”  I look out the window again.  “She’s wearing heels today, and decides to fight back.  She leans back into him, and two things happen at once.  He says, ‘So you like it?’ and she steps on his foot.  He’s wearing soft shoes, tennis shoes maybe, and so the heel digs down.  She hears, ‘Ow!’ so she knows she’s got him.  She keeps putting her weight down on her heel and feels him trying to pull his foot out.  He pulls his hand off her butt, and he’s now pushing against her back.  She keeps stepping down.  ‘Stop it’ he whispers, and it’s a violent whisper.  Something pops in his foot and he yelps.  People are looking at him.  She sees this in the window reflection and smiles, no sneers at him.  He gets off at the next train station, limping.”

Alpha Male laughs.  “Good girl!  She fought back!  I’m impressed.”

Feeling bold with what I take is his support, I go on.

“Then there was this time this woman just shamed him.  Feeling a hand moving up and down her thigh making its way toward her butt, she just said right there, out loud ‘Get your hand off my butt.’  Everyone went quiet.  Immediately.  He didn’t pull his hand away, so she said it again.  ‘Will you please get your hand off my butt.’  He did.  The man standing next to her asked if she was okay.  Before she could answer the doors in front of her opened and the man behind her pushed her aside and ran out, flying down the stairs in front of them.”

“She spoke up.  That’s good,” Alpha Male is encouraging.
“Yeah.”  My face is burning.
“So, when you say middle-aged women are targets, well I guess I appreciate the warning, but it’s hard to hear.”
“I’m telling you these things so you’ll know.”
“I know that.  I know, but…”

We pull up to a subway station.  This is where I’m to get out.  I stay in the car and say, “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Look,” he says after a few minutes.  “These are things we don’t hear a lot about.  Real stories, I mean.  I’m married, but I don’t know if this has ever happened to my wife.  I guess I should ask her.  If I had daughters I’d want them to know what to do.  My wife, too.  All we can do as men, all I felt I could do was warn you.”
“I know.  Thanks.”  I need to get out, to let him go do whatever he’s doing next, but the idea of riding a subway after talking about gropers--this now bothers me.  Alpha Male picks up on my ambivalence. 
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No,” and I open the door.  This is ridiculous.  I can’t keep from riding trains just because of what might happen.  “I’ll be fine.”
“Really?”
“Really.”

I get out, wave good-bye and walk down the stairs towards my next ride through the tunnels of underground Tokyo.  When I get on the train, I look around me and see who is where and make my way to the corner, pushing my back up against the wall trying to look as nonchalant as I can.

Japan may be changing, visible warnings of impending arrest for those who assault women on trains.  For women who have been groped, these changes cannot happen fast enough.  The moral of the story is this:  whatever your type may be, it’s never okay to feel women up on trains; speak up; and, keep talking about this. 

Porn on the Train

I first heard about the Mayan calendar, the "December 21st is the last day for humankind" story on a camping trip to New Mexico years ago.  Let's just say nature called out.  I needed to reconnect.  True I was burnt out; tired of airports, hotels, and living out of a suitcase.  I camped with a group of women in the hills of New Mexico.  This is most unlike me.  I don't camp.  It was one of those things in hindsight I can't explain.  Nature has not called me to reconnect since, and I don't expect I'll commune with it even if it does.  I'm simply not a nature girl.  But, I digress.

It's December 21st in Tokyo, and while there are several hours left yet in the day, the world has not come crashing down around me.  In fact, I had a most wonderful lunch and dinner.  Coming away from it feeling tall and useful, happy and loved, I was convinced life is truly good and no way would the world come to an end today.  On that note, who's December 21st are we to be looking at anyway?  Whose clock officially kicks off this day?  Are we to calculate this day using GMT, or on Mayan time?  If the latter, December 21st starts around Pacific Standard Time in the US? That actually means December 21st is about 36 hours long for us here in Tokyo.  This is too much math for me to contemplate.

I'm heading home on the subway after dinner, yawning because I haven't had enough tea today.  I'm looking off into space, not really paying attention to my surroundings.  Still happy from my meetings, I let myself dwell in this special moment.

I yawn again, and cover my mouth but a bit too late.  Looking to see if anyone noticed I see the man sitting across from me staring.  What?  You've never seen a woman cover her mouth only half-way through a yawn?  Sorry.  Bad manners on my part.  Our eyes have met.  Here, he looks down to the magazine he has open in his lap.  He looks up at me again.  I look down at the magazine.  It's porn.  It's actually child pornography, but in anime, Japanese cartoons.  The front cover facing me has a barely dressed preteen in an erotic pose.  Well now.  I look back up at him.  He nods.  Am I being challenged?  I sit still.  He nods again, this time to the empty seat next to him.  Is he serious?  He wants me to sit down next to him?  I ponder this.  Briefly.  He nods again, gesturing down at the seat with his head. 

I decide there is this vortex of confusion over the earth today, December 21st and all, and that our planet is trying to decide whether or not to stay alive.  In this confusion, I'm thrown in front of a man reading child pornography on the train who evidently wants me to read it with him.  I get up and sit down next to him.  Be prepared, dear man.  Bring it.  You have no idea what you're getting into.

Sitting side by side, he looks at me and I look back at him.  This is a fight.  I can feel it.  I'm determined not to lose, although I can't quite pinpoint what exactly "losing" would mean.  He starts reading the magazine again.  I join in.  It's not reading as much as it is looking at the pictures.

Of girls being raped.  Of girls giving blow jobs.  Of girls.  There's nothing about these drawings that would make anyone think these characters are anything but six-year olds.  This is child pornography.  This is smut.  Possession of this child pornography in Japan is legal.  He's not breaking any laws. Attempts by foreign governments to shame Japan into proposing legislation that would categorize even anime as child pornography have a). not succeeded, and b). been met with furious opposition from the "artists" who draw these scenes of torture and debauchery.  "It's art," they say.  Bite me.

We're both quiet.  He flips pages and I follow along.  The "stories" are short.  He starts another and I see this one contains a dog.  That's it.  That's my limit.

I look at him.  "You like this?"
He looks back.  "Yeah."
I turn my ahead away from him and look straight ahead.  People are watching us.  I'm silent for a minute and then say, "Huh."
"You don't like it?"
I turn, then pause, and cock my head to the side.  I'm giving him my best "you're-kidding-me" look, hoping he gets it.  Straightening back up, I say, "No, I don't."
I'm not done.  "I don't get why looking at this is fun.  I think it's gross.  This," and I point to the dog, "Really?"
"Yeah, the dog is a bit much."
"The dog is a bit much?  The rest is okay?"
"Yeah.  The rest is okay.  It's not real."
Aaah.  There it is.  It's a cartoon so no one's getting hurt.
"You're foreign so you don't get it.  This is okay in Japan," he says and I feel my eyes widening and I'm so close to punching him and I have to force myself to exhale.
"Well," and I take a deep breath because I'm now shaking, "in my country this is illegal."  I pause for effect.  "This is considered counter-culture, stupid, dirty, and the worst kind of perversion out there.  You'd be arrested for reading this in my country."
"Good thing I'm in Japan then," he says.
"Yeah, only in Japan.  The rest of the world thinks this is wrong.  You guys are way behind the times in what's considered decent," I say and this is my cue.  I get up.  I've had enough.

I did not punch him.  For this I'm proud of myself but only sort of.  I got off the train three stations before mine.  I needed air.  I could feel my heart in my chest, beating furiously.   I wasn't expecting to change his mind, lead him to an epiphany where he would see how morally and socially corrupt this whole "it's not real so it's okay" argument is.  I equally did not see myself coming away feeling this deflated.  I feel gross.  My hands feel oily.  I want to scrub myself clean.

It was a matter of time before this happened.  Today it did, and it some how makes sense that it would on this particular day, but I know this argument will hold no water when I face a similar experience again in future and it's not a day the world is to come to an end.  Deal with that then?  I guess.  It's frightening how wrong that answer is, and yet.  And, yet.

Thirty Minutes on a Train

No one to date has been able to understand how a spouse, mine in particular, would just say "Go." 
"Go into an active tsunami zone."
"Go where the aftershocks are hourly and often large."
"Live apart for an indefinite period of time."
"It's okay."
"I miss you but what you're doing is worthwhile enough that we can handle it."

My spouse has said all this since immediately after the March 11th earthquake and tsunamis.  He is a large part of my reasoning for coming to Japan.  I couldn't and wouldn't do this without his complete support.  For that, for the freedom he gives me, for his patience, for his kick-in-the-pants ("Go!") I am most definitely grateful.

Knowing I still can't say when I'm leaving Japan for good, it's important we're on the same page.  I need to know he's fine with this ambiguity.  I'm often asked, "How long are you staying?"  I smile and say, "Until I'm not needed here anymore, and when my husband says 'That's enough.  Time to come home.'"  People nod in response. 

On the Marunouchi Line last night, as we make our way towards downtown for a Friday-night-in-Tokyo-date-night, we continue chatting.  Let's make one thing clear:  Skype cannot and does not replace what live, in-person chatting accomplishes.  I'm grateful for Skype.  Don't get me wrong.  While my husband and I e-mail daily, it's the multi-hour Skype chats that keep us connected.  Sitting in the subway,  however, I'm reminded how much of this personal connection is missed when we talk laptop-to-laptop.

I bring up (again) the fact I can't say how long I'm going to be here. 
"I know," he replies.  "I knew that when you left."
I know he knows.  But, but, I need to hear it again.  I need to make sure he's okay with this no-end-date-in-sight reality.  I also need to know how and why he's okay with it.  I need to hear it again.

"When we sat in that coffee shop in Ofunato the other day," he begins, "and that spider started dropping towards my head you immediately freaked out, right?"
"Right."
"You got this box of tissues and you were adamant I should get rid of it."
Of course.  It's a spider.  It probably has fangs.
"That's how I know you haven't changed." 
Evidently, I looked confused.
"That's the spiders-are-evil part of you that came out right then and there.  Things like that make me realize you're still you."
Okay.
"Then, an hour later, you take me to this apartment building in Rikuzentakata that looked like it had been bombed."  He leaned in as he told me this.  "You did that as if it was no big deal." 
I don't get where he's going.
"So, see.  You've changed.  Part of you still hates spiders, but there's another part of you now that has a purpose.  You were bored with the past several jobs you had back home.  You did them and did them well, but you were bored.  Here," and now he laughs, "you're anything but bored."  He sat back then, as if he'd made his point clearly, taking another sip of his tea.  "I like that.  The ways you're changing--they're good changes.  That's how I know you're okay here.  So long as you're changing in ways that make you grow, make you do new things, give you a purpose, so long as you're doing that you should stay.  It's when you tell me spiders no longer freak you out that I'll worry."

Evidently that's it.  Evidently, for him, it's as simple as that.  I decide to take him at his word. 
This is the kind of support that keeps me going.  I couldn't and wouldn't stay without it.  I still don't know how long I'll stay in Japan, but my husband's words warm me up.  I hit the jackpot with this man--that he's fine with not knowing (so long as I'm growing) feeds my soul.

Thirty minutes on a train and I realize all over again how lucky I am.  Gratitude on a Friday night:  a lovely way to start a date.