The drama all started with an e-mail I received four days ago on a news thread I subscribe to for updates on post-disaster radiation in Fukushima. I read it so I'm in the loop. I'm not worried about radiation in Japan but feel better being informed. I want to be clear on this. Japan is not some radioactive, glow-in-the-dark hot bed of nuclear waste. Certain parts of Fukushima are. Don't assume all of Japan is.
The e-mail asked about the accuracy of a recent post on some corporations-are-evil website stating Reactor 3 in Fukushima was spewing steam and about to blow. This explosion would send clouds of radioactive waste into the atmosphere which would reach the west coast of the United States in two or three days (this was four days ago) and thus everyone should be prepared. The author had suggestions on how to prepare for this impending nuclear fall-out but I'll get back to that later.
I deleted this e-mail because I've seen and heard this all before. Everything coming from Japan is contaminated. (It isn't.) Every bit of tsunami debris that washes up on the shores of the western coast of North America oozes the yellow-green slime of death. (It doesn't.) When I woke up this morning to a message from a friend asking "what do you know about reactor 3?" I decided perhaps this subject warranted another look. I wanted to be clear in how I responded. While clear is good, I most definitely wanted to be accurate. I make my way back to my e-mail trash bin and sort through junk mail to find the posting from several days ago. As I marvel at the amount of crap I receive on a daily basis (most of which gets deleted without ever being opened) I finally find the thread and start reading. The article I mentioned earlier is the one referenced in the thread, and I smile at the reply given to the question of its accuracy. "Pure bullcrap."
This is a well-informed and dedicated group of people who have, since the beginning of the nuclear disaster almost three years ago, followed and researched the truth. I trust the author when she writes the article announcing a doomed west coast is bunk. The sky is not falling, Chicken Little. Chill.
These warnings, if you can call them that, are in my most humble opinion dramatized pseudo-journalism. When too many people cry wolf no one takes real warnings seriously. Postings like these are an egregious public disservice. Knock it off. Please.
Now I will switch gears and contradict myself. My go-to source when there's an earthquake here in Japan is the web site for the Japan Meteorological Agency. If I feel my apartment shaking, I know in a few minutes I can look up where the earthquake hit, how big it was, and whether there is a tsunami warning. This service I appreciate because when it comes to earthquakes I know they will get it right. I trust their numbers.
Tsunami warnings are another matter. When the M9.0 earthquake hit off the coast of Tohoku in 2011, the tsunami warning issued for Rikuzentakata was for a wave between two to three meters. The tsunami that actually hit was closer to sixteen meters. One can presumably ride out a tsunami of two or three meters on the second floor of a building. Sixteen? No. This error is too big to dismiss. On predicting tsunami warnings, I don't trust their numbers.
Similarly, when a tornado hits outside of Tokyo and the JMA holds a press conference after the fact to tell us a tornado hit I have to ask myself, "Really, guys?" We saw the tornadoes on television. They already hit. How is telling us this helpful? Why hold a press conference? Focus on warning us and not on reporting what we already know. Some days the agency in Japan all-things-weather-related is most helpful. At other times I cringe at what I can only call their stupidity.
Back to Chicken Little, or more precisely, the author who wrote the article about preparing for impending doom on the west coast of the United States. Her suggestions on how to survive this act of natural terror were to, among other things buy a TYVEX suit to wear when going outside and, here I quote, "wash obsessively." I almost spewed tea reading that line.
Allow me to make the following observation: define obsessively. Quantify this please. Am I to wash often, or wash for longer? Or, is it both? How often is often enough? How long is long enough? How do I know the water is safe to use? Do I wash just with water or do I use soap? You didn't say, dear author, and I do believe these are key points requiring useful and specific advice. Keep Chicken Littling us and we'll believe you less and less if at all.
Language can be beautiful. The word "warning" contains the point it makes: to warn. Let's allow language to do what it's meant to. Warn me when I need to act. The rest of the time keep you Chicken Little diva shit to yourself.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Japanese Education, the Metric System, and Why My Bread Maker is Broken
I suppose if self-help books were available when I was a child, and I suppose if my parents were the type to read such books they would have looked for and bought several with titles like "How to Raise a Strong-Willed Child." Children like me, those with opinions and the vocabulary (and audacity) to speak minds are today referred to as "strong-willed". Back then, I was just sassy.
Raising such a child in a culture different than that of their passport adds an interesting twist to life. There are consequences to raising a child in a foreign land. My parents chose complete immersion for me and my brother. I'm grateful for the instinctive and intrinsic knowledge I have as an adult, of Japanese culture and language and the protocol required to live and work successfully in Japan. The trips back to the US during my childhood were fraught with angst and confusion, but those, too, eventually worked out. By many I've worked with in the US I'm considered highly functional, albeit a bit different (but not always in a bad way). I'm not quite American enough, but usually pass. An odd response here and there keeps people on their toes. Or, that's what I tell myself.
When one buys a bread maker as an adult and already is not inclined to read directions about the various pieces included and where and what they should attach themselves to, one hopes using such machines is simple. Throw in the ingredients (in order, preferably), push buttons and wait. That's about as far as I get with my patience, strong-willed that I am. After two failed attempts at making bread I was prepared to return this device, clearly defective. "Let's give it one more try," my beloved says, and because he was a math major as an undergraduate I agree. Surely math skills are paramount in placing the right amount of ingredients into the little square box that would produce the eventual loaf.
Herein lies the first problem. Raise a girl in the metric system, take her to a country where units of measure include words like ounces and fortnight, introduce her to friends who talk about "stone" as a way to calculate weight, then throw her back into a country where the metric system rules and there is inevitable mathematical confusion. Grams and meters are easy units to use with everything in tens, one hundreds and one thousands. I'm all for the metric system. To this day I don't know how many quarts are in a liter, fluid ounces in a Japanese cup (different than an American cup), or how specifically to calculate F into C.
Back to the strong-willed child. My first, and second grade teacher, Mrs. Sekiko Sato was, by all accounts a wonderful teacher. She made one life-altering statement, however, and I place blame squarely at her feet for the fact to this day I do not know how to swim. She gathered us in the school pool one day, and pointing to the black drain in the middle of the pool said, "Don't ever go near this hole because it will suck you in and you'll never see your mother and father again."
That did it. This pool and all it represented, swimming mostly, was something I would forever avoid. Why would schools have a facility on its grounds that would suck children away from their families, forever doomed to roaming underground drains? What was wrong with this place? I did not need to know how to swim. My life would be full and complete without this skill. To this day, I do not swim.
Similarly, when Mrs. Sato taught us that "doing math in your head means you don't use addition, subtraction, multiplication, or division" I was left dumbfounded. How did one do math without any of these four basic principles? "Imagine yourself using an abacus," she said. I went home and told my parents I needed abacus lessons (they promptly complied) and when the instructor came to our home with his abacus in hand and proceeded to teach me how to do math in my head, moving disks up and down making clicking sounds I knew once again Mrs. Sato was wrong. My abacus teacher most definitely had me doing any and all four math methods in my head. I was adding, subtracting and more. On top of this, I found I was expected to remember numbers using these pegs and not write them down. Answers did not miraculously appear on my abacus. I was expected to think. Japanese children clearly had a skill foreign children were incapable of learning, I decided. This is why it was possible for them to do math while not adding, subtracting, and the like, the way Mrs. Sato said. I gave up the abacus after several lessons, telling my parents it was a most stupid and out-of-date way of doing math. "I'll just master the calculator instead," I believe I said.
For a strong-willed child like me, the Japanese educational system did much to confuse as it tried to mold me into a proper Japanese child. Group-think was prioritized. There was actually a class called Ethics. I grew into a strong-willed, sassy child who spoke my mind, did not swim, hated math, and blended well to the extent any foreign girl could. Confusion aside, I turned out okay.
Some time after I left the Japanese educational system, the government decided to adopt a more child-centered approach, one many considered western. Children were encouraged to speak their minds. Children were given options. Group-think was less of a priority. On the surface, these traits seem positive. The consensus of the outcome, however, has many Japanese my age and older, disgusted with "young people these days" who volunteer their opinions when not asked, who do not follow orders from above, and who try one thing and then move onto another if the outcome isn't just right. Hiro, my friend from Tohoku is openly critical. "The words 'I think' shouldn't ever flow out of anyone's mouth but for those in their twenties, that's all they say. If I didn't ask them what they think, and let's face it, I never would, why would they think it's okay to offer up their personal opinion? The fact they hop from job-to-job, switching whenever they become dissatisfied or bored, my generation was never allowed to think this way. Yutori Kyoiku, that system where individual thought was encouraged? That's Japan's biggest mistake."
Hiro is not alone. I've heard this same sentiment from many. But, back to my bread machine. I distinctly remember being taught grams and milliliters were the same. I have since been informed by this applies only to measuring liquids. Flour, to be measured in grams (when going into a bread machine) must be weighed. This requires a scale. That requires a purchase of a scale. A child who was strong-willed who has since become an adult does not like the idea the metric system can fail or that another trip must be made to the local 100 yen store to buy a scale to weigh ingredients before they're added into a recipe. Bread machines are meant to simply the act of baking. Weighing flour is an additional step, going completely against the idea of simplifying. I heartily object to this part of the metric system.
The two loaves made in the bread machine since my two previous disasters have turned out perfectly. I acknowledge this is because I weighed the flour. The machine, alas, was not defective.
Today's post offers random thoughts on Japan's educational system and all it entails, waking up to the scent of fresh-baked bread, lamenting the fact my kitchen does not have an oven, why I do not and will not swim, and why even when having to weigh flour I still believe ones and zeros are better than changing the definition of a foot to match that of the current king's foot-size. (Wikipedia that last part if you don't get the reference.)
Here's to a year of happy bread making.
Raising such a child in a culture different than that of their passport adds an interesting twist to life. There are consequences to raising a child in a foreign land. My parents chose complete immersion for me and my brother. I'm grateful for the instinctive and intrinsic knowledge I have as an adult, of Japanese culture and language and the protocol required to live and work successfully in Japan. The trips back to the US during my childhood were fraught with angst and confusion, but those, too, eventually worked out. By many I've worked with in the US I'm considered highly functional, albeit a bit different (but not always in a bad way). I'm not quite American enough, but usually pass. An odd response here and there keeps people on their toes. Or, that's what I tell myself.
When one buys a bread maker as an adult and already is not inclined to read directions about the various pieces included and where and what they should attach themselves to, one hopes using such machines is simple. Throw in the ingredients (in order, preferably), push buttons and wait. That's about as far as I get with my patience, strong-willed that I am. After two failed attempts at making bread I was prepared to return this device, clearly defective. "Let's give it one more try," my beloved says, and because he was a math major as an undergraduate I agree. Surely math skills are paramount in placing the right amount of ingredients into the little square box that would produce the eventual loaf.
Herein lies the first problem. Raise a girl in the metric system, take her to a country where units of measure include words like ounces and fortnight, introduce her to friends who talk about "stone" as a way to calculate weight, then throw her back into a country where the metric system rules and there is inevitable mathematical confusion. Grams and meters are easy units to use with everything in tens, one hundreds and one thousands. I'm all for the metric system. To this day I don't know how many quarts are in a liter, fluid ounces in a Japanese cup (different than an American cup), or how specifically to calculate F into C.
Back to the strong-willed child. My first, and second grade teacher, Mrs. Sekiko Sato was, by all accounts a wonderful teacher. She made one life-altering statement, however, and I place blame squarely at her feet for the fact to this day I do not know how to swim. She gathered us in the school pool one day, and pointing to the black drain in the middle of the pool said, "Don't ever go near this hole because it will suck you in and you'll never see your mother and father again."
That did it. This pool and all it represented, swimming mostly, was something I would forever avoid. Why would schools have a facility on its grounds that would suck children away from their families, forever doomed to roaming underground drains? What was wrong with this place? I did not need to know how to swim. My life would be full and complete without this skill. To this day, I do not swim.
Similarly, when Mrs. Sato taught us that "doing math in your head means you don't use addition, subtraction, multiplication, or division" I was left dumbfounded. How did one do math without any of these four basic principles? "Imagine yourself using an abacus," she said. I went home and told my parents I needed abacus lessons (they promptly complied) and when the instructor came to our home with his abacus in hand and proceeded to teach me how to do math in my head, moving disks up and down making clicking sounds I knew once again Mrs. Sato was wrong. My abacus teacher most definitely had me doing any and all four math methods in my head. I was adding, subtracting and more. On top of this, I found I was expected to remember numbers using these pegs and not write them down. Answers did not miraculously appear on my abacus. I was expected to think. Japanese children clearly had a skill foreign children were incapable of learning, I decided. This is why it was possible for them to do math while not adding, subtracting, and the like, the way Mrs. Sato said. I gave up the abacus after several lessons, telling my parents it was a most stupid and out-of-date way of doing math. "I'll just master the calculator instead," I believe I said.
For a strong-willed child like me, the Japanese educational system did much to confuse as it tried to mold me into a proper Japanese child. Group-think was prioritized. There was actually a class called Ethics. I grew into a strong-willed, sassy child who spoke my mind, did not swim, hated math, and blended well to the extent any foreign girl could. Confusion aside, I turned out okay.
Some time after I left the Japanese educational system, the government decided to adopt a more child-centered approach, one many considered western. Children were encouraged to speak their minds. Children were given options. Group-think was less of a priority. On the surface, these traits seem positive. The consensus of the outcome, however, has many Japanese my age and older, disgusted with "young people these days" who volunteer their opinions when not asked, who do not follow orders from above, and who try one thing and then move onto another if the outcome isn't just right. Hiro, my friend from Tohoku is openly critical. "The words 'I think' shouldn't ever flow out of anyone's mouth but for those in their twenties, that's all they say. If I didn't ask them what they think, and let's face it, I never would, why would they think it's okay to offer up their personal opinion? The fact they hop from job-to-job, switching whenever they become dissatisfied or bored, my generation was never allowed to think this way. Yutori Kyoiku, that system where individual thought was encouraged? That's Japan's biggest mistake."
Hiro is not alone. I've heard this same sentiment from many. But, back to my bread machine. I distinctly remember being taught grams and milliliters were the same. I have since been informed by this applies only to measuring liquids. Flour, to be measured in grams (when going into a bread machine) must be weighed. This requires a scale. That requires a purchase of a scale. A child who was strong-willed who has since become an adult does not like the idea the metric system can fail or that another trip must be made to the local 100 yen store to buy a scale to weigh ingredients before they're added into a recipe. Bread machines are meant to simply the act of baking. Weighing flour is an additional step, going completely against the idea of simplifying. I heartily object to this part of the metric system.
The two loaves made in the bread machine since my two previous disasters have turned out perfectly. I acknowledge this is because I weighed the flour. The machine, alas, was not defective.
Today's post offers random thoughts on Japan's educational system and all it entails, waking up to the scent of fresh-baked bread, lamenting the fact my kitchen does not have an oven, why I do not and will not swim, and why even when having to weigh flour I still believe ones and zeros are better than changing the definition of a foot to match that of the current king's foot-size. (Wikipedia that last part if you don't get the reference.)
Here's to a year of happy bread making.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
The Post Two Years in the Making and the Most Un-Christian Christmas Ever
I am over two hours late to a dinner with my visa sponsor. He wants to see my husband more than me, which means I'm once again relegated to playing the role of interpreter. An invitation by this man to anything is never something I turn down so I speed down the highway in my rental car hoping the cops will not see me. In my defense, I called to say I didn't know what time I would arrive and this great man, my sponsor says, "You're working. Work. I'm sure your husband and I will have plenty to talk about even without you here." Two men talking about yours truly without said person's presence is always reason for serious contemplation. I have a very odd feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I am right. By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner. I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence. My husband shares the news.
"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says. I look up. The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer. Soon would be nice. Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing. The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife. Of course.
I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words. "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down. Christmas? What Christmas? I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.
I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing. Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you. I'm not asking you to believe. I'm sharing experiences and observations.
Rewind back ten years or so. My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal. Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts. Did they exist? Possibly. Probably. Maybe.
I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting. The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful. (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?) I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room. I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like. I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned. Success. It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer. I could smell him where he was in the room. The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.
Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed. That's when he came back. The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful. Then the bed moved. It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight. I open my eyes. Nothing. I'm certain, though. Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed. The cologne is strong. What does one say to a ghost? I'm not scared. Is that a good thing? While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot. He must have sat down again. Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.
Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku. The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms. I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night. There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable. I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific. Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.
One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet. That was it. Tonight I made it official: Hiro's office had a ghost. All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.
I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost. "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?" What am I? The Ghost Whisperer? Why would a ghost listen to me? Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth. Is that possible? I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale. "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says. "Gives me the creeps." Great.
Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence. I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone. Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.
So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian. David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot. I don't mess around with religions. I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.
We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place. Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him? Immune? Is that the right word?
Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now. The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.
'Til next time, The End.
I am right. By the time I arrive and apologize for my tardiness my husband, my sponsor and his wife have all but finished with dinner. I scarf down the leftovers alternating between giving thanks for the lack of police presence on this evening and sneaking glances at the three hoping someone will volunteer information about what's transpired in my absence. My husband shares the news.
"We're going to Ise Shrine on Christmas," he says. I look up. The question I want to ask is "why" but I'm hoping someone will offer up the answer. Soon would be nice. Never one to disappoint, my sponsor says, "You need cleansing. The spirits of the dead have attached themselves to you, and now they're on him" pointing to my husband, "and us," now to himself and his wife. Of course.
I turn to my husband, knowing looks of 25 years together pass between us with a "Well, clearly this is not a request" stated without words. "We're going to Ise on the 25th," I say, accepting the invitation I dare not turn down. Christmas? What Christmas? I am being taken to Japan's holiest Shinto shrine on Christmas Day so I can be properly cleansed by a priest.
I must explain this whole spirits-attached-to-me thing. Stop reading here if the idea or topic of ghosts seems stupid or silly to you. I'm not asking you to believe. I'm sharing experiences and observations.
Rewind back ten years or so. My first encounter with a ghost was in a hotel room somewhere outside of Montreal. Until this evening I had few strong opinions about ghosts. Did they exist? Possibly. Probably. Maybe.
I had ordered room service after a day of tedious interpreting. The scallops, risotto and asparagus were wonderful. (Why do we remember meals attached to a strong memory?) I smelled the ghost before I felt him--a very strong whiff of cologne--not entirely unpleasant but only obvious in short bursts and in certain parts of the room. I didn't think anything of it except it got in the way of my meal, the scent mixing with the scallops leading to a sweet chemical flavor I didn't like. I moved the tray to the bed, the scent went away and the flavors returned. Success. It was much later when I associated the scent with the wearer. I could smell him where he was in the room. The nearer he was the stronger the cologne odor.
Not thinking any more of this scent I climbed into bed. That's when he came back. The air didn't move, the curtains didn't rustle but the smell of cologne was very powerful. Then the bed moved. It's as if someone sat down next to me, the mattress sinking with the weight. I open my eyes. Nothing. I'm certain, though. Someone is sitting on the edge of the bed. The cologne is strong. What does one say to a ghost? I'm not scared. Is that a good thing? While I'm thinking this he gets up, the mattress rising along with him, and next I feel the bed sink at the foot. He must have sat down again. Somewhere in all this I fall asleep.
Fast forward to post-disaster Tohoku. The topic of ghosts is discussed behind closed doors as if openly talking about the spirits caught between worlds will conjure them up into our living rooms. I became suspicious about the possibility of an additional person in our presence over two years ago while staying at Hiro's office that doubled as my apartment at night. There were simply too many unexplained noises coming from the next room for me to be completely comfortable. I began gently broaching the subject, first about ghosts in general, and second keeping the topic generic and not place-specific. Half of those with whom I spoke had seen or heard a not-quite departed soul.
One night as I battled insomnia tossing and turning I heard a crash in the next room followed by the shuffling of feet. That was it. Tonight I made it official: Hiro's office had a ghost. All this speculation and ignoring the obvious had to go.
I mention this to Hiro the next morning asking mostly what I'm supposed to do around a ghost. "Is there anything I can do or say that will help him move onto the next world?" What am I? The Ghost Whisperer? Why would a ghost listen to me? Then again, maybe no one's told him it's okay to leave this earth. Is that possible? I think all this to myself when I look up and see Hiro pale. "I'm not good with these," he waves his hand in the air, "spirit-things," he says. "Gives me the creeps." Great.
Over the next two years I became accustomed to the visitor in the next room as much as one can be comfortable with such a presence. I wasn't scared of him (I decided it was a he after I heard him sneeze one night) but rather was hoping he'd leave me alone. Mentioning this to my visa sponsor was clearly what led to the "you-must-go-get-cleansed" comment, an entirely new kind of Christmas present.
So, for Christmas this year, we did something entirely un-Christian. David and I, along with five other people made our own pilgrimage to Japan's holiest, most sacred and blessed spot. I don't mess around with religions. I find beauty in these traditions and while I may not agree with the specific message of each, chose to this year, allow myself to be cleansed by a High Priest.
We'll see whether the cleansed me affects the man in the next room at Hiro's place. Maybe I'll now some how be immune to him? Immune? Is that the right word?
Writing about ghosts isn't funny and I don't mean to make light of or poke fun in any way, and that's precisely why I've not written about them until now. The combination of my un-Christian Christmas trip and the reasons for it do, however, make for an interesting story.
'Til next time, The End.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Hell Ramen, Umami, and Chocolate of the East
Just so we're clear, I did not write "hellish ramen" or "ramen from hell." Hell ramen is a type of ramen available in Ofunato up in Tohoku. I'd heard the rumors, something about the tongues of those who eat this burning off, or some hell-like analogy of hotness and pain and fire. One night last week I ended up at the restaurant serving this boiling, steaming, red broth of noodles. The gang I am with was determined to eat this famed dish.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
There are rankings. The hotness starts at one and goes to fifty. Yuji has tried the fifty, and because he is drunk tells us, pointing to his crotch and bottom, "It's worse coming out." This is, of course, way too much information, except I completely believe him. "Only three people have tried the fifty," he says. He is one of those three and his pride in this accomplishment in ludicrousness defies me.
For the record, I did not order the hell ramen. We had already eaten dinner together previously. Ramen was an add-on, a second dinner and a large one at that. I do not need more carbs right before bed, and I certainly don't need carbs on fire in my stomach taking me into a dream world of burning spice. Conjuring up Sean Connery to rescue me would do no good on nights like this.
Hiro orders a five. We all chide, cajole, tease, and throw mock-insults at him. When the bowl arrives, the broth indeed a deep red (never a good sign), he quickly breaks his chopsticks and heads straight for what will surely be a night he will later regret. Other bowls of ramen arrive and soon those eating are busy with their own milder versions of Japanese comfort food. Hiro is forgotten for a few minutes.
Someone looks up and starts laughing. Heads rise to see what's funny, and soon it's obvious. Hiro's head is completely wet with sweat. I can only see the back of his head but I see small streams of water pouring down his neck and back.
"How are you doing there, Hiro?" Yuji asks.
No answer.
Another question is thrown out which I don't hear because I'm marveling at the amount of sweat on Hiro's head. I hear Hiro reply, "Leave me alone," and we all laugh again.
Even after 25 years with my husband and quite a few years of dating before that I have decided I will never understand what it is about men who must one-up. I bring this up because I hear Yuji say, "I'm ordering a twenty." Everyone stops talking. This is crazy. "I ate the fifty," he says. "I can do twenty." Then we all start talking at once. "You won't sleep," and "You're already having stomach problems," and "I thought you were hung over," and "Won't it interfere with your meds?" During all this I look back at Hiro whose shirt is now wet, the streams having turned into a river which is soaked.
"You okay?" I ask him.
"Leave me alone. I'm concentrating."
We all laugh again.
The server who took Yuji's order is still standing in the same spot, pen and pad in hand. "Are you sure about the twenty?" he asks. This upsets Yuji who even when not drunk is already temperamental and prone to speaking his mind. "Just do it," he snaps, and the man shuffles back into the kitchen. Very soon another bowl comes out and I now alternate between watching the back of Hiro's head and Yuji's profile. Hiro finally puts down his chopsticks and holds up his bowl, a trophy of triumph. We all cheer and continue to laugh at him. When he finally stands I see his crotch is wet, but he says right away, "This is from the sweat pouring down my face. I didn't pee my pants."
Yuji does not finish the broth. As we all stand outside in the cold night air Yuji sucks air through his teeth and tells us it's like dry ice on his tongue. Whatever.
All this focus on Japanese food reminds me of the conversation I had recently with a couple who run one of the largest an producing companies in Japan. An is the sweet bean paste made from azuki (aduki) beans--something so full of nutrients that it should be the new staple in all diets--or so the president tells me. They both tell me anko is the chocolate of the east, sweet and delicate, potent and mild, nutritious but still a candy. Having grown up eating this fine food product, I do agree. If I had to choose between chocolate and anko I would spend a good deal of time on the decision.
The president likes to talk about umami, the fifth flavor ingredient in Japanese cooking. The five are: sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and umami. Often translated as savory, it's essentially what MSG does to food: it tastes better with it. With the campaign touting the evils of MSG there's been a push to find a non-chemical and more holistic method of creating this distinct taste (the way it was originally). All I can say about umami is that while I like the other four and find myself craving chocolate, french fries, salt-and-vinegar potato chips and the like, there comes a point where I've had enough of any of these tastes. I would never eat an entire chocolate cake no matter how good it was. Umami, however, is a flavor I will not tire of. It's like my taste buds are doing a slow tango. I don't want it to end, but when it does I'm entirely satisfied.
I have to wonder about the hell ramen, if umami is some how a part of this broth that makes men do crazy things. I will never try this dish, umami or not. If I die with this regret so be it. I'll find my excitement elsewhere, thank you.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Crows, Blowing Winds, and Conspiracy Theories
The wind has been fierce for the past three days in Rikuzentakata. Stepping outside means noses run, eyes tear, cheeks burn, and hair requires rearranging. It's hard to walk. It's hard to stand upright. Window panes rattle causing an eerie whine.
We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal. The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but. Finally last night I heard the whole story.
Yuji is drunk. This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered. By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.
"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this. Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."
Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes. While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss.
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone. "Look at these dates. We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say. "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind. Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go. I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before." I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows. Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky. They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says. "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.
What do I do with this pseudo-science? Nothing. Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory. The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss. I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect. Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now. Wouldn't I?
I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake. It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?" This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive. I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami." I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start. Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad. It's stupid, that's all. If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku. There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.
What would Yuji make of this? I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural. I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.
My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this: thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface. If only we could predict.
We are located on the ocean here in Rikuzentakata so the argument can be made this kind of weather is normal. The restlessness I sensed among the locals meant these winds are anything but. Finally last night I heard the whole story.
Yuji is drunk. This is not the month for him to detox per his doctor's orders so he's downing beers as fast as they can be reordered. By the end of the evening when we've all switched seats several times mingling and talking, laughing and chiding, I end up next to Yuji who has his own version of what these winds mean.
"It's not normal whats' going on," Yuji says slurring his words.
"What do you mean, it's not normal?" I ask.
"The day before the disaster was like this. Winds ridiculous and seemingly never-ending."
Yuji is the one who shared with me a web site "from somewhere in California" predicting earthquakes. While I put no stock into this type of "science" he's certain there's enough truth not to dismiss.
"Look," he says, showing me his cell phone. "Look at these dates. We're due, most of Japan is due, 100% it says for an earthquake larger than a M5.5."
"But, that was for yesterday," I say. "It didn't happen."
"That's why I'm concerned about the wind. Maybe it's a day off."
Before I can protest his logic he continues, "Then there are the crows."
Here we go. I've heard about the crows before from plenty of locals.
"This morning there were a ton of them sitting on the telephone wires..."
"Just like there were two days before." I've interrupted him and we're now speaking in unison.
"You heard about the crows?"
"Yes, I heard about the crows."
Over and over, I've heard about the crows. Two days prior to the disaster of March 11, 2011 hundreds sat on telephone wires all throughout town, black lines in the sky. They all shat, creating a maze of white lines on the ground.
"The crows were back this morning," Yuji says. "That and the wind and this web site..." and now he's trailed off, reaching for his beer again.
What do I do with this pseudo-science? Nothing. Partly, there's nothing I can do--this is not a real enough warning system--and partly I don't believe the strong-winds-mean-impending-doom theory. The crows I'm less inclined to dismiss. I can't help thinking animals might sense something humans have long since lost the ability to detect. Surely if there were hundreds of crows lining the sky today I would have heard by now. Wouldn't I?
I'm tempted to bring up to Yuji the multiple conspiracy theories I've heard over the past two years about what really caused the giant earthquake. It was Ken who first told me.
"Don't get mad, okay?" This is never a good way to start out a conversation and I should know better than to agree not to be offended by what surely will be offensive. I'm a slow-learner as I told Ken to go ahead.
"There are those who say the Americans, your military, shot a missile into the ocean floor and that's what caused the earthquake and that's what caused the tsunami." I roll my eyes.
"Why would Americans do this?"
"To ruin the Japanese economy."
"Look," I start. Ken interrupts.
"You said you wouldn't get mad!"
"I'm not mad. It's stupid, that's all. If my country wanted to ruin the Japanese economy, now don't get mad," I grin, "it wouldn't target Tohoku. There's not enough going on here that it would bring down all of Japan."
"Huh," he says, clearly not happy I make sense.
What would Yuji make of this? I would completely ruin his theory about crows and winds being viable methods of predicting a natural disaster if the earthquake and subsequent tsunami were anything but natural. I decide Yuji is too drunk for this tonight and let the conversation flow out to sea.
My takeaway from Yuji's concern over crows and wind is this: thoughts of the next big one is right under the surface. If only we could predict.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Reflections on the Fire
I have preached passionately about the need to prepare. I have implied not thinking through how one will react in a disaster is stupid and irresponsible. Having spent over two and a half years with those who suffered through the tsunami that hit Japan in 2011, I was in a position to know what happens when preparation is shoddy. I live and work with those who even today feel the after-effects of the consequences of their actions.
I had a plan. I had thought through how I would react in most disaster scenarios (i.e. earthquakes, typhoons, accidents, tsunami, robbery). I knew what I would do. I was prepared. I was confident.
Last night I proved myself wrong.
If there ever was a post I'd like you to read and share this would be the one. What I did and did not do can be a lesson for all.
Here's what happened in chronological order.
I'm asleep. It's some time after 1am--the last time I looked at the clock. The intercom from downstairs rings. I'm annoyed. Who's at my door in the middle of the night? I don't ignore it. (Why?) No one I know is going to come visiting this late. I get up and answer it.
"Yes?"
Nothing. No, that's not right. There's noise.
"Yes?"
More noise. Asshole. You must be drunk. Why did I get up? Why would you type in my room code? Why didn't you wake up someone else?
I hear someone banging on a door. The drunk must have punched in someone else's room code, too. Who let him up? I hear noise. I hear more banging. I hear more noise. Someone bangs on my door. I look through the peep hole and realize this is the first time I've done so. I hear the alarm system in the hall way, a mechanized male voice saying something. Is this the emergency alarm system? Drunks don't warrant this kind of an alarm. I open the door. There's a firefighter.
"There's a fire on the fifth floor," he says.
"Yes."
"Please evacuate."
"Yes."
"Take the elevator."
"I understand."
If there was ever any doubt humans are capable of having multiple thoughts at once, I am here to prove the naysayers wrong. Three distinct thoughts went through my mind at the same time.
1). He's looking at me up and down as he says this. Why? Is my hair standing on end? Is it my bathrobe? Is he not sure I understand Japanese?
2). The firefighter is short. I am not a tall woman, but he is a head shorter than me. Could he carry me or David down ten full flights of stairs if he had to? I think not.
3). There's a fire?! Holy shit.
I go back inside and call out to David.
"There's a fire. We have to leave."
"Uh huh," he says back, slowly getting up off the bed.
David is looking for his jeans. I see my socks I left at the foot of my bed earlier in the evening. I tell myself I can't put socks on because I don't have time to tie my tennis shoes. (More on this later.)
I wrap a scarf around my neck, take it off because I'm only wearing a t-shirt and I need to put another layer on before the scarf. I tug on pants, grab the jacket on the chair thinking for a moment it wasn't thick enough when we were out for a walk earlier in the evening. I remember telling David I was cold when we came back from our walk at 11pm. I look at the coats hanging in the closet, all within reach and still take the too-thin jacket.
I walk back to the bed and look at the clock. It's just before 3am.
I go to the bathroom.
I go back into the bedroom and grab my cell phone.
I put on my leather slip-ons.
David and I leave the apartment, David locking the door behind us.
I stand in front of the elevator, it's steel emergency door shut. I tell myself we aren't supposed to use elevators in a fire. David slides open the door. The elevator is there. I see three people inside. We get in and it descends. We pass floors eight, seven, six, and five. We see and smell smoke. Why are we in the elevator? Why did the firefighter tell us to take the elevator? Who takes the elevator in a fire?
The lobby is full of firefighters and long hoses. I see red flashing lights outside. David and I walk out and I look around to see if there's a spot where we're supposed to go. I see the crowd. There's a folding table with men standing around it and I wonder for a moment if there's a roll-call. I squeeze past my neighbors and head towards the iron fence nearby. I stand with my back to it. My feet are cold. I look up at David and say, "I decided I couldn't wear socks because I didn't think I would have time to tie my shoes."
"But you had time to go to the bathroom."
"I know, right?"
Who goes to the bathroom before they escape a building on fire?
"My socks, though. I decided I couldn't wear socks because I wasn't going to wear my tennis shoes. I'm wearing slip-ons. These would be the shoes to wear socks with. I don't have to tie these." I pause. I'm talking to myself more than I am to him. "Why didn't I wear socks?"
David doesn't say anything. He looks up. Billowing is the right word. We see thick smoke billowing out of a fifth floor apartment. It's exactly five floors beneath mine.
"Shit," I say. "Now our apartment will smell like smoke." Yes. That's what I thought, and that's what I said.
Next, I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be caught with a guest in my room. My contract is clear in stipulating this is a one-person apartment, and that I will not have over-night guests. My doorman knows David visits sometimes and doesn't say anything. I decide this is because I am one of the few people that will greet him with a "Good morning" every day. I look around and see there are three other couples--other rule-breakers--and decide we can risk getting caught. The doorman likes me. He won't tell, right? David and I discuss this briefly, but in the end we decide to play it safe. He asks where the nearest all-night cafe is, and quietly makes his exit. I feel like I'm a teenager, breaking rules and trying to outsmart the adults who will surely punish.
I see firefighters holding up a woman wrapped in a blanket. They walk her to a stretcher and she lays down, handing her dog to another firefighter. Is she okay? What do they do with the dog? They wheel her away right in front of me and I'm very curious about what is going to happen to the dog. Surely they won't take the dog to the hospital with her. Does the dog go to the vet? Does the dog get to ride in the ambulance? I don't want to ride in an ambulance that previously had a dog in it. Does the dog ride in some other vehicle? Are there emergency vehicles just for pets?
Oh my god. I can't believe I'm thinking this.
There are cops and firefighters and firetrucks all around. (David came back having counted seventeen firetrucks.) There's yellow tape blocking off our street. One of the cops is old. Old, as in over sixty. He's in full uniform. Is he a senior official? I wonder how fast he can run.
My feet are cold.
Now it hits me. The only thing I have with me is my cell phone. I have no cash, no passport, no IDs, no wallet, no credit cards, no water, no food. Then there's a new thought. I have cash in my apartment. I had completely forgotten about this. Enter an immediate and powerful desire to self-flagellate. "You have cash in your apartment for just such an occasion--a quick exit in an emergency--and you forgot you even had it?"
Yes.
In fact, I have to think where it is.
Why did I bring my cell phone? If I had a pillow with me I'd bury my face into it and hold it there until the shame washed away.
I brought my cell phone so I could post on Facebook.
Clearly there is something wrong with me. How could I go on and on about the importance of being prepared, of thinking through how one will react in an emergency, of having a grab-and-go kit when I myself, faced with an order to evacuate chose to: stop at the bathroom, decided I could not wear socks, picked a coat I knew wasn't warm enough, crawled onto my bed to pick up my cell phone so I could post on Facebook, and carried absolutely nothing else with me?
What I learned is this: whatever disaster may strike you is not one you can control the timing of; reason and logic is hard to come by at 3am; the best-laid plans fail.
Once we received the all-clear David and I came back up to the apartment. We both agree it smells like a camp fire. I crawl into bed and waves of homesickness wash over me. I'm still cold, the thin jacket and my I-don't-need-socks decisions clearly a mistake.
The last thought I remember is this: I want my firefighters big and rude. I want my firefighter to say, "Get your ass out of here" and I want to know he can hoist my 200-pound husband over his shoulder.
It is now the morning after the fire. I walk out onto my balcony and look down to the street. Except for the lingering scent of smoke there's nothing indicating just nine hours ago we were all huddled outside wondering, worrying. The firefighters have long gone. The yellow tape has been removed. Life in our neighborhood is back to normal.
Except for the fact I have clearly, very clearly underestimated how I, the "Be Prepared" guru will react in an emergency, all is well.
I had a plan. I had thought through how I would react in most disaster scenarios (i.e. earthquakes, typhoons, accidents, tsunami, robbery). I knew what I would do. I was prepared. I was confident.
Last night I proved myself wrong.
If there ever was a post I'd like you to read and share this would be the one. What I did and did not do can be a lesson for all.
Here's what happened in chronological order.
I'm asleep. It's some time after 1am--the last time I looked at the clock. The intercom from downstairs rings. I'm annoyed. Who's at my door in the middle of the night? I don't ignore it. (Why?) No one I know is going to come visiting this late. I get up and answer it.
"Yes?"
Nothing. No, that's not right. There's noise.
"Yes?"
More noise. Asshole. You must be drunk. Why did I get up? Why would you type in my room code? Why didn't you wake up someone else?
I hear someone banging on a door. The drunk must have punched in someone else's room code, too. Who let him up? I hear noise. I hear more banging. I hear more noise. Someone bangs on my door. I look through the peep hole and realize this is the first time I've done so. I hear the alarm system in the hall way, a mechanized male voice saying something. Is this the emergency alarm system? Drunks don't warrant this kind of an alarm. I open the door. There's a firefighter.
"There's a fire on the fifth floor," he says.
"Yes."
"Please evacuate."
"Yes."
"Take the elevator."
"I understand."
If there was ever any doubt humans are capable of having multiple thoughts at once, I am here to prove the naysayers wrong. Three distinct thoughts went through my mind at the same time.
1). He's looking at me up and down as he says this. Why? Is my hair standing on end? Is it my bathrobe? Is he not sure I understand Japanese?
2). The firefighter is short. I am not a tall woman, but he is a head shorter than me. Could he carry me or David down ten full flights of stairs if he had to? I think not.
3). There's a fire?! Holy shit.
I go back inside and call out to David.
"There's a fire. We have to leave."
"Uh huh," he says back, slowly getting up off the bed.
David is looking for his jeans. I see my socks I left at the foot of my bed earlier in the evening. I tell myself I can't put socks on because I don't have time to tie my tennis shoes. (More on this later.)
I wrap a scarf around my neck, take it off because I'm only wearing a t-shirt and I need to put another layer on before the scarf. I tug on pants, grab the jacket on the chair thinking for a moment it wasn't thick enough when we were out for a walk earlier in the evening. I remember telling David I was cold when we came back from our walk at 11pm. I look at the coats hanging in the closet, all within reach and still take the too-thin jacket.
I walk back to the bed and look at the clock. It's just before 3am.
I go to the bathroom.
I go back into the bedroom and grab my cell phone.
I put on my leather slip-ons.
David and I leave the apartment, David locking the door behind us.
I stand in front of the elevator, it's steel emergency door shut. I tell myself we aren't supposed to use elevators in a fire. David slides open the door. The elevator is there. I see three people inside. We get in and it descends. We pass floors eight, seven, six, and five. We see and smell smoke. Why are we in the elevator? Why did the firefighter tell us to take the elevator? Who takes the elevator in a fire?
The lobby is full of firefighters and long hoses. I see red flashing lights outside. David and I walk out and I look around to see if there's a spot where we're supposed to go. I see the crowd. There's a folding table with men standing around it and I wonder for a moment if there's a roll-call. I squeeze past my neighbors and head towards the iron fence nearby. I stand with my back to it. My feet are cold. I look up at David and say, "I decided I couldn't wear socks because I didn't think I would have time to tie my shoes."
"But you had time to go to the bathroom."
"I know, right?"
Who goes to the bathroom before they escape a building on fire?
"My socks, though. I decided I couldn't wear socks because I wasn't going to wear my tennis shoes. I'm wearing slip-ons. These would be the shoes to wear socks with. I don't have to tie these." I pause. I'm talking to myself more than I am to him. "Why didn't I wear socks?"
David doesn't say anything. He looks up. Billowing is the right word. We see thick smoke billowing out of a fifth floor apartment. It's exactly five floors beneath mine.
"Shit," I say. "Now our apartment will smell like smoke." Yes. That's what I thought, and that's what I said.
Next, I wonder if tonight is the night I'll be caught with a guest in my room. My contract is clear in stipulating this is a one-person apartment, and that I will not have over-night guests. My doorman knows David visits sometimes and doesn't say anything. I decide this is because I am one of the few people that will greet him with a "Good morning" every day. I look around and see there are three other couples--other rule-breakers--and decide we can risk getting caught. The doorman likes me. He won't tell, right? David and I discuss this briefly, but in the end we decide to play it safe. He asks where the nearest all-night cafe is, and quietly makes his exit. I feel like I'm a teenager, breaking rules and trying to outsmart the adults who will surely punish.
I see firefighters holding up a woman wrapped in a blanket. They walk her to a stretcher and she lays down, handing her dog to another firefighter. Is she okay? What do they do with the dog? They wheel her away right in front of me and I'm very curious about what is going to happen to the dog. Surely they won't take the dog to the hospital with her. Does the dog go to the vet? Does the dog get to ride in the ambulance? I don't want to ride in an ambulance that previously had a dog in it. Does the dog ride in some other vehicle? Are there emergency vehicles just for pets?
Oh my god. I can't believe I'm thinking this.
There are cops and firefighters and firetrucks all around. (David came back having counted seventeen firetrucks.) There's yellow tape blocking off our street. One of the cops is old. Old, as in over sixty. He's in full uniform. Is he a senior official? I wonder how fast he can run.
My feet are cold.
Now it hits me. The only thing I have with me is my cell phone. I have no cash, no passport, no IDs, no wallet, no credit cards, no water, no food. Then there's a new thought. I have cash in my apartment. I had completely forgotten about this. Enter an immediate and powerful desire to self-flagellate. "You have cash in your apartment for just such an occasion--a quick exit in an emergency--and you forgot you even had it?"
Yes.
In fact, I have to think where it is.
Why did I bring my cell phone? If I had a pillow with me I'd bury my face into it and hold it there until the shame washed away.
I brought my cell phone so I could post on Facebook.
Clearly there is something wrong with me. How could I go on and on about the importance of being prepared, of thinking through how one will react in an emergency, of having a grab-and-go kit when I myself, faced with an order to evacuate chose to: stop at the bathroom, decided I could not wear socks, picked a coat I knew wasn't warm enough, crawled onto my bed to pick up my cell phone so I could post on Facebook, and carried absolutely nothing else with me?
What I learned is this: whatever disaster may strike you is not one you can control the timing of; reason and logic is hard to come by at 3am; the best-laid plans fail.
Once we received the all-clear David and I came back up to the apartment. We both agree it smells like a camp fire. I crawl into bed and waves of homesickness wash over me. I'm still cold, the thin jacket and my I-don't-need-socks decisions clearly a mistake.
The last thought I remember is this: I want my firefighters big and rude. I want my firefighter to say, "Get your ass out of here" and I want to know he can hoist my 200-pound husband over his shoulder.
It is now the morning after the fire. I walk out onto my balcony and look down to the street. Except for the lingering scent of smoke there's nothing indicating just nine hours ago we were all huddled outside wondering, worrying. The firefighters have long gone. The yellow tape has been removed. Life in our neighborhood is back to normal.
Except for the fact I have clearly, very clearly underestimated how I, the "Be Prepared" guru will react in an emergency, all is well.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
On Resilience, Coping Mechanisms, and Differences of Opinion
To each their own. Who am I to tell you the way you choose to cope is wrong? I don't know your pain and your experiences are not mine. Hard is just hard. Your "my life is hard" is not a measurable event, and my version of "my life is hard" is just that. Let's not compare. Let's not one-up each other.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
I spent time with Yuriko over the weekend, one of my favorite women in Tohoku. She's strong, opinionated and honest. She personifies "work hard play hard" which isn't a motto many think well of, especially coming from a woman, a wife, and a mother. That I'm tired of this double-standard argument is not the point. Not today, at least. Yuriko told me of how Rio, her six-year old daughter got angry at her (and me) for the deed I meant as a good one which completely backfired.
"She was angry she didn't get to see you when you brought the Halloween candy," Yuriko tells me.
"I'm sorry. I showed up without calling, I know. I was on my way somewhere--I don't remember where now--and I saw your light on so I just popped in."
"When I took the candy back to Rio and the other two, Rio got really quiet, gave me one of her I'm-angry-now looks and said, 'You saw Amya-san today?' So I said I had, and then Rio went off. I got 'Why didn't she tell me?' and 'Why didn't you call me when she was there?' and then, 'Make sure you tell her I want candy next year, too.' It was quite the tongue-lashing!" Yuriko laughs.
"Oh, and then when I asked Rio, 'You wanted to see Amya-san?' she gave me one of these you're-so-dense-mom looks and said, 'Well yeah. For awhile now.'"
Yuriko and I laugh but I realize my mistake and promise Yuriko I will stop by with more notice next time.
Rio is the girl who, at three years old, told (not asked) her mother to drive by the spot Yuriko's store used to be everyday for a month. "Rio would put her hands up to the car's window and stare," Yuriko says. "I have to assume that's how she was processing what happened. I lost my store but so did she. That place was just as much hers as it was mine." This story ends with Rio announcing one day she didn't need Yuriko to drive past the store anymore. "She must have worked it out," Yuriko says. "I don't understand it," Yuriko tells me, "but something clicked on that day. She didn't need to see where the store was anymore." It was on this day that Rio told Yuriko she would protect her mother if another tsunami were to hit. "I'll beat it up," the three-year old Rio told Yuriko. This was when I first fell in love with the girl. I was then and still am today inspired by her resilience.
We cope with trauma and tragedy differently. Here in Tohoku, a place still very much a disaster zone, there are multiple coping mechanisms: some drink (sometimes to excess), some shut pain away, some cut themselves, some ignore it, some throw themselves into work to forget, others throw themselves into working towards progress, and a very select few try to work it out by talking it through.
I choose to read. I need to escape into a world that is at times surreal, unreal, far-fetched, silly, and/or all of the above. I won't take kindly to people saying this is not a legitimate way for me to process. Nor can I support others who might think reading to escape is not a viable method of coping--not just for me but for anyone.
What about the other options then? Rio needed to stare at the plot of land where she had memories. Many around me drink. Many who drink don't stop with just a few. Medical professionals would very likely offer up facts on why drinking-to-forget is not a healthy way to deal with those parts of our lives we struggle through. I am not one who drinks away my anxiety. I read instead. It's not my business to be critical of those who choose a different way to cope. Drink through your pain, deny it, work yourself through it. I don't agree with the idea of suppressing feelings, drinking to excess, or overworking to forget, but I am constantly reminded of the fact this is not my country. Who am I to say keeping things bottled up is wrong? If drinking helps you process is it my place to say you shouldn't? It's wrong for me, but maybe it's not for you.
I bring this up to say these are ideas I'm trying on. I'm anything but comfortable with the idea excessive drinking and eating and gambling and the like as a legitimate and healthy way to process grief or trauma or pain. That said, I'm not fond of those who easily right off my method of coping. Indeed, I find myself surprised at how defensive I get when what is so important and necessary for me is easily dismissed or criticized.
Tolerance and patience: the former I'm pretty good at, the latter I'm not. Today's random musings are brought to you by kids whose resilience and strength I marvel at over and over. Read away, dear child. Talk back to your mother, Rio. I hope it brings you peace.
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