The Titanic was docking in Tokyo. Virtually, at least: the blockbuster hit tugged its way across the Pacific for our viewing pleasure in 1998. Near my parents' house in Columbus, there is a dollar movie theater that shows second run movies. For the price of 4 quarters and a 6 month wait, you can see top rated flicks at rock bottom prices. In Tokyo, you wait the same 6 months (perhaps coming up with the subtitles does take some time) to pay rock climbing prices, anywhere from $18 to $23 on average for one ticket, day or night. Usually we try to hold out for that dollar theater, or hope to catch a decent first run (well, to us) movie on an international flight. However, as newlyweds, we wanted to couple the date opportunity with seeing the grand special effects and all of the Oscar buzz on the big screen.
So begins the local cultural custom of getting in line and waiting. Perhaps this isn't unique to Japan. The US news features stories about avid rock groupies sleeping out to be the first in line to buy concert tickets. Star Wars fans have done the same to get prime seats at the premier of a movie. The goal is the same--beat the crowd, secure a slot. With a population pushing 13 million in Tokyo, getting in line and waiting is part of a typical day-in-the-life, and rarely is there a backstage pass or "meet the actors on the red carpet" reward for your effort when you reach the front of the line. I've grown accustomed to the daily waiting game here. Get to the train station, wait in line at the ticket vending machine, file through the gates, advance to the platform, and get in line behind others where the doors will open. The train arrives, file into the train car, swimmingly line the aisles, packing the center of the car first, expanding the line back towards either end in order to ease the mounting and dismounting of passengers by the doors along the journey.
I should note that the line waiting and standing on the train on this particular cinema outing is not the true waiting for the train ritual, the kind that one only finds in rush hour and in worst nightmares. Uniformed train station employees armed with batons speckle the platforms during the peak morning hours in central Tokyo. These weapons are not for violent crowd control per se, but when the last "salary man" crams into the train as the doors close, the station guard assists by cramming that final briefcase in so the auto doors can close. Usually you have to wait for several trains to sardine pack themselves full before you advance to be the sandwiched in too. Unfortunately at the end of that morning shuffle tunnel there is no movie theater waiting, rather an office with another crowd of people, possibly more waiting on clients, and potentially more standing in line at the canned coffee vending machines.
Whether it's the London Tube out of the city or a donkey up to the summit of Mt. Bromo in Indonesia, one can expect to wait in some form of line for public transportation anywhere in the world. Yet in Japan, I find the same level of mental fitness and crafty organizational skill is required for waiting in line for the less obvious occasions, such as in the event of health and leisure activities. First, the health example. A trip to the doctor calls for such an advanced level of patience and stamina that you really shouldn't risk waiting until you're actually sick to get examined or solicit a prescription. Hospitals, clinics, doctor's offices operate on a walk in basis. Walk in, sit in and, wait in. At least in this case you aren't standing, save the line before 8 am outside the doors. No appointments necessary means no appointments taken. Typically, doctors see patients in the morning, close for lunch, and open hours again for a period in the afternoon. The doors tend to open an hour before the examination hours begin. Rows of neatly lined chairs form large block which dictates your lucky number. If this were a bank or a post office, you'd take a number, but for the doctor, the position of your chair relative to the front corner of the lobby is your unwritten assignment of order.
In Kawasaki, we lived across from a major teaching hospital, which meant it was popular, and thus crowded. Between the two of us, it took a few colds and one high fever until I realized that people would come when the gates opened, leave a hankie or a newspaper to "save their seat," like saving a seat next a buddy on an elementary school bus field trip, and then return home for an hour. I was naive my first few rounds and sat diligently in my assigned seat. When 9 am approached, I noticed others gradually filing to seats reserved in their honor by a token prized possession. I wised up after not too long, and began to do the same. My husband would get a sinus infection, and I'd run over and drop something not so obviously cheater American on a chair and return home to catch the headlines at my leisure in the comfort of my own home until the timer went off. Soon people in our building caught on to my willing swiftness, and I'd occasionally reserve a seat for a neighbor or friend. For the first time since clinching the good seat on that school bus, I found myself reliving the glory of holding the "line leader" title from my elementary school days.
And now, the leisure case in point: it's been 15 years since my last flip-turn. Like movie viewing, there is another form of activity that I have always found relaxing; however, I have experienced the stressful side of it in Japan, as it falls into the non conventional category when execution dictates standing and waiting: lap swimming. No, the pools in Japan are not vertical, just crowded. Lap swimmers know, and I'll note, dutifully follow, the rules. If you are sharing a lane, which is in 100% of all cases, you swim down one side, back the other. Other times, the pool devotes a full lane to going down, and the neighboring lane for the return lap. Swimming is relaxing when you reach that zone, which requires, for the most part, an uninterrupted flow for at least several laps at a time. Unfortunately, once I make it 5 feet shy of the other end of the pool, I'm forced to abruptly stand up before I crash dive into 18 others huddling at the end of the lane, and wait in line for the crowd of people in front of me to slide under the lap line buoy and wait my turn for the return lap. My heart rate experiences a different kind of workout than that zone under these "lap swim" circumstances. I have to say I have developed a new kind of endurance to hack a crowd, a skill that I rarely needed to apply in my fare roots in the Midwest.
Nonetheless, I'll apply the waiting game skills I have and finally beat that commute, arrive at the movie theater a solid 2 hours in an advance, and get in line for tickets. Seats are assigned upon purchase, and you can choose seats like at the "theater." In the fancier cinemas in Ginza, there are doilies on the seat backs, equipped with roped off areas if you reserve in advance for a hefty fee (any fee is hefty in my relative term-book to that Columbus dollar movie). In addition to the predictable concessions, they even sell programs and the feature film related theme products catering to all ages, which tend to be a small step above the Happy Meal promo kids toys when a new Disney or Pixar movie opens. At the ticket booth, there is a make it or break it indication on how many seats are left. An "O" indicates there are still a fair amount of seats available, and you could even have a chance to sit with the party members you came with. A triangle symbolizes there are few seats, and a slim chance that you could get two together. An "X" is the sure fire no seats available symbol, but this does not stop them from selling tickets. Yes, standing room only at a movie theater. They maintain the courtesy of flashing a message that this is the case, but it is against my cultural bones to stand during a movie. Maybe on that 14 hour flight over the pole to stretch my legs for a minute, but a full length film? No. For me, the point of a movie is to relax, and unwind, and I can think of no examples when I am relaxing and unwinding on my feet.
We saw Titanic in a high rise building in Tokyo, which meant that the ticket sales booth was on the first floor and the 8 screens at the cinema were from the 2nd to 9th floors. The Titanic was playing on screen 6, which meant the 6th floor. The line for the doors to open for seating was already forming, now one hour and 45 minutes in advance, on the staircase, so we waited, advancing upstairs, until it was our turn to be ushered to our seats. I remember very little about the tragic love story of Rose and Jack, as I was more intrigued by the tragedy of the people that were lining the aisles and the front of the theater standing to watch the movie. It was over 3 hours, and the non native English speaking audience had to read the whole movie. If I am reading while standing, it is because I am at a street corner trying to make heads or tails of a street map to find a place to sit and relax, not to unwind at a blockbuster movie, reading subtitles, on my feet.
By knowing to get hopping bright and early on sick days to reserve my slot at the doctor, or to have an actual exercise session before expecting to get fit from a session by diving in the pool, I've fine tuned my waiting game over the years. At the end of the Hollywood version of the sinking of the Titanic, there wasn't a dry eye in the house, save mine. I assure you, however, if I were standing and reading the entire 3 hour and 14 minute movie long, I would have been a sobbing mess too. I guess I need more practice to reach an adequate level of patience. Indeed, I haven't mastered the skill of crowd tolerance on the level of control that my more patient than me hosts have, but I can accept that a Midwesterner in this town is not built to master this one. Maybe by my next visit home, they're be a new second run round of Oscar hopefuls at the lonely dollar, and I'll sit in my beloved near empty theater, and in that peace and quiet, reflect that in my amateur waiting skills status, I can reach into my inner no standing zone after all.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Ode To Oscar
Oh, I love trash! But in Japan it's not dirty or dingy or dusty, nor is it ragged nor rotten or rusty--yes, I love trash! If Sesame Street's famed Grouch was promoting the old adage that "one man's trash is another man's treasure," I can personalize it to read, "one Tanaka san's trash is my treasure." My first stereo in Japan, a boom box loaded with an AM/FM radio and duel tape cassettes, got me from 1994 to 1997, when I finally upgraded to a store-bought 7 CD changer before moving to Urawa. That lonely stereo sat on the designated trash pile in Koshigaya next to my first apartment, and for 3 years, the find from the "treasure pile" was music to my, and thanks to paper thin walls, my neighbors' ears. That was my first experience of picking up trash and it would not be my last, and I can't promise even pushing 15 years here, that I am finished yet.
I've lived in 6 different accommodations since moving to Japan, and I've yet to meet a basement, an attic or a storage room. When I visit my parents in Ohio, I could probably also visit my first record player, complete with my old collection of 33s and 45s, my bike when the training wheels were just removed, and even book reports from the 5th grade, in a box with my name on it in their basement. As Americans, it's what we do. We get things, we use them, we no longer use them, we keep them, we store them. It's a simple process. Granted, there are garage sales, where we buy, use, keep and store other people's memories, but that requires a key component missing from the process in Japan: A garage.
It is said that the Japanese like new things. They like small things. They like new, small things. That is true, and once they get a new small thing, the less new, less small thing goes out to the trash pile. That's where those that are hungry for electronics crawling the neighborhoods come in. There are more sophisticated ways to dig for trash, and I have classed up my act over the years, but I am proud of that first fundamental find. After my stint in Urawa, I married (my husband is not to be confused with things I find in the trash), and we moved to work at a college in Kawasaki in '98. In our new zip code, we found a way to apply for trash. Progressing from picking to applying seemed to me like a formal transformation from Miss to Mrs. It entailed going to a city-run upscale dump that had items from the once monthly over-sized trash collection day on display in a showroom tagged with numbers. On a slip of recycled paper, you filled in your name and contact information, along with the number of the item you desired, and dropped it in a box slot for lottery. We were looking for a desk, and ended up also being wooed by a natural wood entertainment center (I had more than a silly 7-CD changer to shelve by then), as well a dining set (table and 4 antique chairs).
There was a run on the desks, but we hit the lottery on the entertainment center and dining set. There was no charge, although the city encouraged "donations." We donated, and accepted the volunteer city truck delivery to get the loot to our place. This service is all in the name of saving the earth, and I was doing my part. The doorbell rang, and 2 energetic, elderly men of slight build were at the entrance with our big, heavy furniture. They removed their shoes on entry, balancing the over-sized load with grace, and brought the items inside one at a time. The entertainment center could be transported in 2 pieces, which was the only way it could make it through the narrow entrance into the even narrower living room. They made 4 trips, each time without saying a word other than excusing themselves upon every entry into our quarters. More impressively, they slipped shoes on, shoes off, shoes on, shoes off, each time, without looking down or losing balance once. At the end of what looked like a different type of reality show, they bowed to make their exit. I asked if they would accept a cash donation, and they gracefully declined. Is this one of those Japanese things where you have to ask 3 times to get to a yes? No, after 3 times, they were still declining. I went to the fridge (university property, not personally purchased nor born again trash) and came back with 2 cans of Kirin beer. They gracefully accepted the lager donations and went on their way.
Sweetened by the victory of being first time lottery winners, and inspired by watching the male duo half our size and 3 times our age balance furniture above their heads like a circus act, we relished in our finds. I wished that furniture could talk, not out of some kind of loneliness or language practice, but I'm sure it had stories to tell of the homes it shared and the disposal routes it traversed until it reached us. It's not easy to dispose of trash here. Yet, on a winter break back to Columbus, I can drive through the streets and see Christmas trees out for the trash at the curb, along with stacks of empty toy boxes and wrapping paper proving there is a Santa Claus, and he came that week. However, if I wanted to dispose of a dead evergreen in Japan, it would require consulting a 28 page detailed guide on what measurements to cut it down to, how many branches per bundle, and what material the strings to tie the bundles must be, and if it goes in a bag, it's a designated, labeled bag. The bi-weekly trash pick-up requires being in physical shape, as well as having at least 1 higher degree to interpret and stick to the rules. Indeed, disposing is a challenge, and in a land without garbage disposals, missing the prompt 8 AM pick up, or having your trash rejected based on its contents (big rubbish brother is watching), can create such a big smelly mess that you are forced to question if there really is a Santa Claus. However, when trash works in your favor in the form of "gently used furniture," or outdated stereos, it makes you a believer all over again.
I was gradually working my way up the class levels of garbage picking. I went from direct from the pile, to direct from the lottery site, to an actual "recycle shop," where people pawn off no longer useful items to them for re-sale. The items carried vary, and one road side stand provided me with my first microwave and washing machine. The only challenge about the microwave was strapping it with a bungee cord to the basket of my bike to transport it home. The ride through heavy traffic with a weighty object made me realize that actually bungee jumping would have been the safer move. The washing machine was never used, yet rejected by the original owner because it was dented when brought into his, I imagine Willy Wonka extreme narrow, apartment. For the equivalent of $50, the owner sold me the washer, put a hand written "back in 10 minutes" sign up, drove it to my place, and installed it. He made sure it worked before he left. If the sign said, "be back in an hour," I may have bargained for him to help me hang a load or two, but I didn't want to look a gift Mitsubishi in the mouth.
I started in economy, got bumped up to business, and now was ready to cash in frequent files for a seat in first class trash digging. There is a franchise worth mentioning, if at least just for the giggle it invokes every time I say it, called Hard Off. Hard Off has standards on what they accept when people dump stuff "Off" on them, and it starts with electronics and hardware, which is where I hope they're getting the name. Unused, still in the box or wrapped items dominate the shelves. Think of it as Re-gift Heaven. Gift set towels, dishware or toasting glasses that are standard favors for wedding guests, make their way to be sold as shiny, new trash. They also have a Junk Off branch for used clothing, kids toys, furniture, and anything else you could find in a posh, gated neighborhood's trash site. Rounding out the family, there is Book Off, which is self-explanatory. I found myself on the giving end of these places. It started with justifying if I ever bought anything there, but soon was trumped by the simple need of getting "Hard Junk" Off of my floor and out of the house. I've created my own, non-city regulated "one in, one out" policy on the amount of items I can handle in limited quarters. Fondly, I replay the I Love Trash song in my mind every time I drive by a trash pile loaded with goodies for the picking, or enter the automated doors to an "Off" store, and the soloist singing in my mind is always an Oscar but never a Grouch.
I've lived in 6 different accommodations since moving to Japan, and I've yet to meet a basement, an attic or a storage room. When I visit my parents in Ohio, I could probably also visit my first record player, complete with my old collection of 33s and 45s, my bike when the training wheels were just removed, and even book reports from the 5th grade, in a box with my name on it in their basement. As Americans, it's what we do. We get things, we use them, we no longer use them, we keep them, we store them. It's a simple process. Granted, there are garage sales, where we buy, use, keep and store other people's memories, but that requires a key component missing from the process in Japan: A garage.
It is said that the Japanese like new things. They like small things. They like new, small things. That is true, and once they get a new small thing, the less new, less small thing goes out to the trash pile. That's where those that are hungry for electronics crawling the neighborhoods come in. There are more sophisticated ways to dig for trash, and I have classed up my act over the years, but I am proud of that first fundamental find. After my stint in Urawa, I married (my husband is not to be confused with things I find in the trash), and we moved to work at a college in Kawasaki in '98. In our new zip code, we found a way to apply for trash. Progressing from picking to applying seemed to me like a formal transformation from Miss to Mrs. It entailed going to a city-run upscale dump that had items from the once monthly over-sized trash collection day on display in a showroom tagged with numbers. On a slip of recycled paper, you filled in your name and contact information, along with the number of the item you desired, and dropped it in a box slot for lottery. We were looking for a desk, and ended up also being wooed by a natural wood entertainment center (I had more than a silly 7-CD changer to shelve by then), as well a dining set (table and 4 antique chairs).
There was a run on the desks, but we hit the lottery on the entertainment center and dining set. There was no charge, although the city encouraged "donations." We donated, and accepted the volunteer city truck delivery to get the loot to our place. This service is all in the name of saving the earth, and I was doing my part. The doorbell rang, and 2 energetic, elderly men of slight build were at the entrance with our big, heavy furniture. They removed their shoes on entry, balancing the over-sized load with grace, and brought the items inside one at a time. The entertainment center could be transported in 2 pieces, which was the only way it could make it through the narrow entrance into the even narrower living room. They made 4 trips, each time without saying a word other than excusing themselves upon every entry into our quarters. More impressively, they slipped shoes on, shoes off, shoes on, shoes off, each time, without looking down or losing balance once. At the end of what looked like a different type of reality show, they bowed to make their exit. I asked if they would accept a cash donation, and they gracefully declined. Is this one of those Japanese things where you have to ask 3 times to get to a yes? No, after 3 times, they were still declining. I went to the fridge (university property, not personally purchased nor born again trash) and came back with 2 cans of Kirin beer. They gracefully accepted the lager donations and went on their way.
Sweetened by the victory of being first time lottery winners, and inspired by watching the male duo half our size and 3 times our age balance furniture above their heads like a circus act, we relished in our finds. I wished that furniture could talk, not out of some kind of loneliness or language practice, but I'm sure it had stories to tell of the homes it shared and the disposal routes it traversed until it reached us. It's not easy to dispose of trash here. Yet, on a winter break back to Columbus, I can drive through the streets and see Christmas trees out for the trash at the curb, along with stacks of empty toy boxes and wrapping paper proving there is a Santa Claus, and he came that week. However, if I wanted to dispose of a dead evergreen in Japan, it would require consulting a 28 page detailed guide on what measurements to cut it down to, how many branches per bundle, and what material the strings to tie the bundles must be, and if it goes in a bag, it's a designated, labeled bag. The bi-weekly trash pick-up requires being in physical shape, as well as having at least 1 higher degree to interpret and stick to the rules. Indeed, disposing is a challenge, and in a land without garbage disposals, missing the prompt 8 AM pick up, or having your trash rejected based on its contents (big rubbish brother is watching), can create such a big smelly mess that you are forced to question if there really is a Santa Claus. However, when trash works in your favor in the form of "gently used furniture," or outdated stereos, it makes you a believer all over again.
I was gradually working my way up the class levels of garbage picking. I went from direct from the pile, to direct from the lottery site, to an actual "recycle shop," where people pawn off no longer useful items to them for re-sale. The items carried vary, and one road side stand provided me with my first microwave and washing machine. The only challenge about the microwave was strapping it with a bungee cord to the basket of my bike to transport it home. The ride through heavy traffic with a weighty object made me realize that actually bungee jumping would have been the safer move. The washing machine was never used, yet rejected by the original owner because it was dented when brought into his, I imagine Willy Wonka extreme narrow, apartment. For the equivalent of $50, the owner sold me the washer, put a hand written "back in 10 minutes" sign up, drove it to my place, and installed it. He made sure it worked before he left. If the sign said, "be back in an hour," I may have bargained for him to help me hang a load or two, but I didn't want to look a gift Mitsubishi in the mouth.
I started in economy, got bumped up to business, and now was ready to cash in frequent files for a seat in first class trash digging. There is a franchise worth mentioning, if at least just for the giggle it invokes every time I say it, called Hard Off. Hard Off has standards on what they accept when people dump stuff "Off" on them, and it starts with electronics and hardware, which is where I hope they're getting the name. Unused, still in the box or wrapped items dominate the shelves. Think of it as Re-gift Heaven. Gift set towels, dishware or toasting glasses that are standard favors for wedding guests, make their way to be sold as shiny, new trash. They also have a Junk Off branch for used clothing, kids toys, furniture, and anything else you could find in a posh, gated neighborhood's trash site. Rounding out the family, there is Book Off, which is self-explanatory. I found myself on the giving end of these places. It started with justifying if I ever bought anything there, but soon was trumped by the simple need of getting "Hard Junk" Off of my floor and out of the house. I've created my own, non-city regulated "one in, one out" policy on the amount of items I can handle in limited quarters. Fondly, I replay the I Love Trash song in my mind every time I drive by a trash pile loaded with goodies for the picking, or enter the automated doors to an "Off" store, and the soloist singing in my mind is always an Oscar but never a Grouch.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Homophone-obia
There is an army of roughly a ga-bazillion kanji characters in Japanese armed for battle. In writing, if you are able to make them out, they form a friendly tangible troupe helping you to make semi-perfect sense of the meaning of a context. However, in spoken conversation, you can be brought down by the homophone traps that fill the trenches. I sometimes wish I was living in a cartoon that had the conversation bubbles above the speaker, but alas, oral communication in the real-world lacks such subtitles. I am homophone-obic. It's the principle (or is it the principal?) of the abundance of cases that can bind you in Japan. Fortunately, some are generally easy to distinguish from context, like hashi, bridge, and hashi, chopsticks. Unfortunately, there are more than to, too, or two opportunities to confuse homophones in Japanese, and leave it to me to take a should be easily perceivable homophone, confuse the context, stopping the conversation in its tracks.
It was an innocent lunch break from the office, at a local a sushi shop, with the section chief, two other staffers and myself, making up our party of 4. The topic was a recent report from the United Nations Development Program which ranked Japan close to 50th on its Gender Empowerment Measure (The UK and the US ranked much higher, while the top rankings went to Scandinavian countries). The casual chatter glossed over the factors involved in the survey, such as economic empowerment, participation in decision making, and political participation. It was lunch, and I allowed myself to mentally pop in and out of the conversation between bites of salmon roe and washing down my wasabi with ice water, chiming in occasionally on how other industrially advanced countries fared.
The conversation shifts to focus on the role of Japanese women in the workforce as well as their roles in the home. Their domestic load takes center stage, and the chief commented on how almost all of the child rearing and household chores fall on the woman of the house. He then declares the root of the problem surrounds the issue of "sentaku." Guilty of letting my mind wander as far as Denmark and Finland on this lunch break, if in fact they do have it so good in Scandinavia, I'm put on the spot. He turns to me, "Don't you think that's the problem? Sentaku ga nai? As an American female, what do you think?" I freshly digested the "household chores" and the no "sentaku" bits from the conversation and opted not to backpedal and fess up that I wasn't paying full attention in that moment. Instead, I stalled with a swig of green tea, and with a half guilty smile, I stated that the time and energy consuming problem in that case less about the washing, but more due to the lack of dryers. Sentaku, choices vs. sentaku, laundry. Obviously he meant the former and I was solving the country's gender inequality issues with something you could pick up at Sears at any mega mall in the States.
At the time, they nodded as if I said something deep and meaningful. Later that day I realized that there was no continuation of my point for a reason. After all, where do you go with that? "Oh, but there's hope to ease the life of women in Japan with all the fabric softeners on the market!" I now realize, especially as a teacher, that not admitting that I wasn't paying full attention was more ignorant than letting the homophone get the best of me. I didn't come clean (pun intended) about having figured out my sentaku gaffe. Perhaps subconsciously I feared that if I explained how I was dying of embarrassment it would be misunderstood that I was dying my laundry. Nonetheless, they were still trusting me enough to assign me to the in-house gender education for city employees the following week. The equality seminar went well, but the details don't have the same permanent stain on my memory that the lunch combating the sentaku does. It's been 11 years, and thus I guess I should think more about my sentaku, meaning choice. I can choose to put it behind me, I can choose to judge myself less and start trying to trust my abilities the way others do more. That, or I can choose to escape to one of those reportedly top ranked Scandinavian countries. Well, I think I'll start facing my homophone-obic fears and teach myself confidence. There's hope: I can win this war. But just in case, I do need to secure back-up: are there as many homophones in spoken Icelandic?
It was an innocent lunch break from the office, at a local a sushi shop, with the section chief, two other staffers and myself, making up our party of 4. The topic was a recent report from the United Nations Development Program which ranked Japan close to 50th on its Gender Empowerment Measure (The UK and the US ranked much higher, while the top rankings went to Scandinavian countries). The casual chatter glossed over the factors involved in the survey, such as economic empowerment, participation in decision making, and political participation. It was lunch, and I allowed myself to mentally pop in and out of the conversation between bites of salmon roe and washing down my wasabi with ice water, chiming in occasionally on how other industrially advanced countries fared.
The conversation shifts to focus on the role of Japanese women in the workforce as well as their roles in the home. Their domestic load takes center stage, and the chief commented on how almost all of the child rearing and household chores fall on the woman of the house. He then declares the root of the problem surrounds the issue of "sentaku." Guilty of letting my mind wander as far as Denmark and Finland on this lunch break, if in fact they do have it so good in Scandinavia, I'm put on the spot. He turns to me, "Don't you think that's the problem? Sentaku ga nai? As an American female, what do you think?" I freshly digested the "household chores" and the no "sentaku" bits from the conversation and opted not to backpedal and fess up that I wasn't paying full attention in that moment. Instead, I stalled with a swig of green tea, and with a half guilty smile, I stated that the time and energy consuming problem in that case less about the washing, but more due to the lack of dryers. Sentaku, choices vs. sentaku, laundry. Obviously he meant the former and I was solving the country's gender inequality issues with something you could pick up at Sears at any mega mall in the States.
At the time, they nodded as if I said something deep and meaningful. Later that day I realized that there was no continuation of my point for a reason. After all, where do you go with that? "Oh, but there's hope to ease the life of women in Japan with all the fabric softeners on the market!" I now realize, especially as a teacher, that not admitting that I wasn't paying full attention was more ignorant than letting the homophone get the best of me. I didn't come clean (pun intended) about having figured out my sentaku gaffe. Perhaps subconsciously I feared that if I explained how I was dying of embarrassment it would be misunderstood that I was dying my laundry. Nonetheless, they were still trusting me enough to assign me to the in-house gender education for city employees the following week. The equality seminar went well, but the details don't have the same permanent stain on my memory that the lunch combating the sentaku does. It's been 11 years, and thus I guess I should think more about my sentaku, meaning choice. I can choose to put it behind me, I can choose to judge myself less and start trying to trust my abilities the way others do more. That, or I can choose to escape to one of those reportedly top ranked Scandinavian countries. Well, I think I'll start facing my homophone-obic fears and teach myself confidence. There's hope: I can win this war. But just in case, I do need to secure back-up: are there as many homophones in spoken Icelandic?
Friday, May 22, 2009
Olympic Swimming Eels
Angela Pace is a household name in Columbus, Ohio. She came to dinner every evening in the form of a top rated news anchor. She and her CBS crew were covering the 1998 Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan, and the hometown connection brought us together. Well, it was slightly more than a hometown coincidence connection in those pre-Google search days. My sister had a baby during the winter holidays in '97, and my Mom jumped on a plane to Florida to hone her Grandma role. She happened to buckle in next to Angela Pace. The leg was probably just over an hour, but it was enough flight time to cover, "I have a daughter in Japan," and "I'm going to Japan in February." Cards were exchanged, and the meet up was born, along with my nephew.
Urawa, Saitama, wasn't exactly in the Games' neighborhood, but it was just a bullet train ride way to Nagano. Angela was looking for me to be her inside scoop story, a little hometown fluff of an human interest angle to give Columbus viewers a break from countless preliminary rounds of curling. She touched base when she did her first rounds of filming on location in Nagano. This gave me enough time to plan our day out of filming together, which was enough time for my staff to flex their hosts with the most muscles and bring my amateur plan of a visit to an Olympic level. She suggested lunch and then a walk through town a la day in the life of an Ohioan in Japan. Sushi bar was one brainstorm brought to the table: a rotating sushi bar, but not just a conveyor belt of raw fish lapping you at your meal, rather, a running stream of water that carried the mini rafts of bit sized sushi samples lined up in twos.
Before I went too far executing this plan, I casually asked Angela if she had "any allergies or food aversions," and before I get out, "that I should know about," she barked back, "NOTHING RAW!" I like a journalist that can speak her mind. Sushi idea scrapped, the section chief decides that grilled eel is a local delicacy, caught in the river that runs through the city. The phone call went up to the mayor's office and the finest grilled eel restaurant overlooking the river was set in stone in our synchronized day planners.
Once the eel is grilled, sauced up and served over rice, it looks like it could pass for steak, or, at least in the far fetched way people describe any exotic dish they try as, "it tastes like chicken." Angela and her camera man came with their Olympic good sport badges on, game for an adventure. She hadn't sampled a true Japaneses slice of life, or slice of fish for that matter, since she arrived in Japan the previous week. She had just done some spots tourist destinations in Nagano and reported on the famous hot spring, Jigokudani, known for the snow monkeys that come down from the mountains to dip in the outdoor hot spring baths shoulder to shoulder with the hotel guests. It is a fantastic place, despite the translation of "Hell's Valley." Really, it's not as creepy as it sounds, since, after all, the monkeys are clean. Having stayed at the inn a few the year before, I asked about her experience. She didn't really get to experience the full Japanese experience since Martha Stewart and her crew were monopolizing the site during her air time. She summed up her visit like a true investigative reporter, "Martha Stewart is a just a bitch." Perhaps with that discovery she uncovered some meaning behind the name, Hell's Valley. Nevertheless, I thought I wanted to fill the void of what did not pan out as a cultural visit, or even an etiquette visit on Martha's end, in Nagano.
The restaurant staff was ready for us, and the kimono clad crew of hosts and servers greeted us at the door. They took our shoes, provided slippers, and escorted us into the restaurant to tour the museum type halls of various pictures of eel catches throughout the decades, spanning the history of the restaurant. It's really hard to fake, "oohs and aahs" when it comes to reacting to fish you have never seen before, but the guests' real verbal reactions were around the corner in the kitchen.
The head chef and owner invited us into the kitchen, which was lined with rows of barrels containing rapidly swimming, squirming, and splashing eels. This is exactly why Americans generally prefer not to know what they're eating before they try it. The chef proudly asked Angela to choose her fish. With the camera rolling, she cautiously advanced to the barrel and let out the shriek heard round the world. The snake-like eels were circling, and she was not about to pull one out with her bare hands. Inside, I was wishing we could make Martha Stewart do that part. I'd love to know the Miss Manners way to grab a live eel from its simulated habitat and toss it on the fire pit.
The chef and owner cued in that she was not going to fish for her own lunch, so they pulled out the designated catch of the day for each of us. The shrieking escalated for each of us as he systematically karate chopped the heads off of each one with the butcher knife he wore in his samurai style belt harness. We left the kitchen crew to do their thing and the kimono clad duo lead us to our private room in the restaurant to start us on a recognizable first course of salad. The main dish made its entrance, with the head chef . I don't think it was because he still was armed with the samurai eel swords, but she took a bite, lit up and in a I'm even surprised myself honesty, she declared, "it's delicious." The relief and joy in the room was electric and the staff beamed with the same twinkle that we'd witness on the podiums over the next 2 weeks throughout the Games. That same sparkle took a personal shine when I heard from friends and family back home that they saw clips of the feature on the news. Even if it got second billing to the luge, it was a treat to be a part of Angela's taste of the Olympic spirit, sauteed under her first (and probably last?) grilled eel.
Urawa, Saitama, wasn't exactly in the Games' neighborhood, but it was just a bullet train ride way to Nagano. Angela was looking for me to be her inside scoop story, a little hometown fluff of an human interest angle to give Columbus viewers a break from countless preliminary rounds of curling. She touched base when she did her first rounds of filming on location in Nagano. This gave me enough time to plan our day out of filming together, which was enough time for my staff to flex their hosts with the most muscles and bring my amateur plan of a visit to an Olympic level. She suggested lunch and then a walk through town a la day in the life of an Ohioan in Japan. Sushi bar was one brainstorm brought to the table: a rotating sushi bar, but not just a conveyor belt of raw fish lapping you at your meal, rather, a running stream of water that carried the mini rafts of bit sized sushi samples lined up in twos.
Before I went too far executing this plan, I casually asked Angela if she had "any allergies or food aversions," and before I get out, "that I should know about," she barked back, "NOTHING RAW!" I like a journalist that can speak her mind. Sushi idea scrapped, the section chief decides that grilled eel is a local delicacy, caught in the river that runs through the city. The phone call went up to the mayor's office and the finest grilled eel restaurant overlooking the river was set in stone in our synchronized day planners.
Once the eel is grilled, sauced up and served over rice, it looks like it could pass for steak, or, at least in the far fetched way people describe any exotic dish they try as, "it tastes like chicken." Angela and her camera man came with their Olympic good sport badges on, game for an adventure. She hadn't sampled a true Japaneses slice of life, or slice of fish for that matter, since she arrived in Japan the previous week. She had just done some spots tourist destinations in Nagano and reported on the famous hot spring, Jigokudani, known for the snow monkeys that come down from the mountains to dip in the outdoor hot spring baths shoulder to shoulder with the hotel guests. It is a fantastic place, despite the translation of "Hell's Valley." Really, it's not as creepy as it sounds, since, after all, the monkeys are clean. Having stayed at the inn a few the year before, I asked about her experience. She didn't really get to experience the full Japanese experience since Martha Stewart and her crew were monopolizing the site during her air time. She summed up her visit like a true investigative reporter, "Martha Stewart is a just a bitch." Perhaps with that discovery she uncovered some meaning behind the name, Hell's Valley. Nevertheless, I thought I wanted to fill the void of what did not pan out as a cultural visit, or even an etiquette visit on Martha's end, in Nagano.
The restaurant staff was ready for us, and the kimono clad crew of hosts and servers greeted us at the door. They took our shoes, provided slippers, and escorted us into the restaurant to tour the museum type halls of various pictures of eel catches throughout the decades, spanning the history of the restaurant. It's really hard to fake, "oohs and aahs" when it comes to reacting to fish you have never seen before, but the guests' real verbal reactions were around the corner in the kitchen.
The head chef and owner invited us into the kitchen, which was lined with rows of barrels containing rapidly swimming, squirming, and splashing eels. This is exactly why Americans generally prefer not to know what they're eating before they try it. The chef proudly asked Angela to choose her fish. With the camera rolling, she cautiously advanced to the barrel and let out the shriek heard round the world. The snake-like eels were circling, and she was not about to pull one out with her bare hands. Inside, I was wishing we could make Martha Stewart do that part. I'd love to know the Miss Manners way to grab a live eel from its simulated habitat and toss it on the fire pit.
The chef and owner cued in that she was not going to fish for her own lunch, so they pulled out the designated catch of the day for each of us. The shrieking escalated for each of us as he systematically karate chopped the heads off of each one with the butcher knife he wore in his samurai style belt harness. We left the kitchen crew to do their thing and the kimono clad duo lead us to our private room in the restaurant to start us on a recognizable first course of salad. The main dish made its entrance, with the head chef . I don't think it was because he still was armed with the samurai eel swords, but she took a bite, lit up and in a I'm even surprised myself honesty, she declared, "it's delicious." The relief and joy in the room was electric and the staff beamed with the same twinkle that we'd witness on the podiums over the next 2 weeks throughout the Games. That same sparkle took a personal shine when I heard from friends and family back home that they saw clips of the feature on the news. Even if it got second billing to the luge, it was a treat to be a part of Angela's taste of the Olympic spirit, sauteed under her first (and probably last?) grilled eel.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Girl Scout Fortune Cookies
I think it's my third grade picture at Fishinger Elementary School where I'm wearing my Bluebird uniform. A year or two later, Bluebirds graduated to Camp Fire Girls and with that I learned to pick better outfits for ace-comb picture day. There wasn't a direct rivalry between Camp Fire Girls and the more known green clad Girl Scouts, but I did wonder what went on in those meetings.
I was about 27 years old when I finally got a glimpse of how that other half lived. Urawa City had a sister city relationship with Richmond, Virginia. The Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia was coming to town on an official visit, and the city hall was in full stereotypical agenda building and schedule revising mode. I came into play with the task of organizing a plan for his wife and daughter.
Mrs. Governor expressed that her daughter was a Girl Scout and would like to have some kind of exchange activity with the local chapter. That was a simple request. I daydream periodically about having easy access to Thin Mints again, so I could get into this job. However, that spoke-too-soon simple request soon blew into full on Japanese to the hilt event planning and gold star hosting.
It started with an innocent phone call, which weeded out into a phone chain. I called the closest chapter, and that leader contacted her people, other chapters are getting a ring, and so on and on and on and on. On impact, I was flung from what I thought would be a few innocent rounds of Kumbaya, perhaps in two languages, to extending an open invitation to every troop in the entire Kanto Plain, a region which encompasses Greater Tokyo and its 6 surrounding prefectures. We were now slated to have a ceremonial event seaside in Yokohama, Kanagawa, at the site of some form of meaningful statue that represented the foundation of Girl Scouts in Japan.
I was thinking that Mrs. Governor was probably only acting as a concerned mother who was simply trying to justify pulling her daughter out of school to make the trip to Japan with her husband, and, well Girls Scouts could pass as a semi-educational event. I updated the office on how my fantasy meeting of a few girls playing hopscotch and having an ice cream cone turned into a formal meeting including hundreds of guests. The staff bit on the news and couldn't be outdone by a Troop Leader and, thus, they upped their game.
The 54.5 kilometer trip, which by train is 1 hour and 20 minutes, quickly launched into reserving a white stretch limousine. I have never seen a limo in Japan and I know why. The roads are narrow, traffic is a stand still bear on a clear day, and don't get me started on parking. To me, this would be like being on a road trip in the Midwest and on a rare occasion you'd see a house being transported on the freeway, however, I wouldn't be wondering who in the world transports a house on the road, rather, I'd be its passenger. In the end, a house might have been a better deal considering there could be even the slightest chance of a Wizard of Oz type twister that could have airlifted us and dropped us in Girlscoutland. Unfortunately, ruby slippers were not going to save me from this day.
Yokohama Chinatown is the largest Chinatown in Japan, and one of the biggest in the world. Japanese love superlatives, so this was something to showcase. My staff thought it would be a great add-on to the tour if we lunched in authentic Chinatown before the ceremony. Authentic meant that the roads were narrow, directionless, lined with uneven cobblestone and motorist unfriendly, like China, hence the name. I figure I'd jump off that Great Wall when I came to it and just went with it. Besides, whatever I ran into I had back up: Girl Scouts are by law prepared, and I'd be surrounded by every registered Girl in the region.
Mrs. and Daughter Governor and I boarded the limo, while my staff trailed in an ironically enviable, practical and humble city owned compact vehicle. It only took one minute into the trip to realize that I would find absolutely no similarities in this experience to my childhood memories of loading the station wagon with my backpack and sleeping bag as my parents drove me from Columbus to Lancaster for Camp Fire Girls camp. The journey was usually smooth, which meant at most maybe we'd have to wait for the lane to clear to pass a tractor or two en route. The back seat of this limo was probably the size of the cabin I shared with 16 girls. I think I was glad to have tinted windows, since in Honda bumper to Limo bumper traffic, which clocked 3 hours, people had plenty of time to approach and try to get a glimpse of the mystery passengers on their "three hour tour."
The approach into Chinatown proved impossible. The Limo couldn't even get a view of the ornamental red entrance get into the town. We parked, and the driver fetched 3 pedicabs to cycle us to the restaurant. It turns out they clocked better mileage than our 3 hour haul through Tokyo. The lunch served was far more complicated than my hot dog, s'mores and bug juice camping days. Instead, we had multiple courses of Cantonese, Peking, Shanghai, and Szechwan cuisines to fuel up for the ceremony. At the port, a neatly pressed crowd in uniform was filing in around the statue, so we proceeded to make our grand entrance, which in an limo, was an auto piolet effort. The head leader read a welcome address, which was followed by speeches, speeches and speeches from various chapter representatives. Daughter Governor was a good sport, and just taking in the masses.
An entire restaurant bordering the seaside statue venue was rented out for all participating Scouts and leaders, in full wedding reception style glitz. This was a high end coffee shop where we were to have afternoon tea and cake. Also on the menu was more speeches, speeches and speeches, as well as gifts, gifts and gifts for a cermemonial exchange. This was a high end coffee shop where we were to have afternoon tea and cake. The entire place was decorated with the finest linens and silver settings. The cakes were so ornate that you didn't know if you should shellac it for the scrapbook or politely gum through it. My mouth was watering for a traditional Trefoil Shortbread Girl Scout cookie. Instead, I watch this group of elementary school girls struggle to work there way through the cutlery. The girls had their choice of tea or coffee, and I wished I smuggled in a packet of Koolaid to dunk in poor little Daughter Governor's ice water.
The commute back through Tokyo met up with rush hour traffic, so this day did turn out to feel like I was shipped off to camp after all. I was a Camp Fire Girl at heart, but this one rock star day of being a Girl Scout party crasher was worth the adventure, and even though a train ride would have been life saving efficient, I was happy to go along for the quincentenary ride. Surviving the formality of the speeches, and the scene at the high tea should earn each one of those little girls their lifetime etiquette badge. That's my take of the day. I'd love to catch up with Daughter Governor one day, and hear about how that show and tell project played out when she returned to elementary school in Virginia. That would be one "what I did on vacation" report worth reading which no Girl Scout Fortune cookie could have predicted.
I was about 27 years old when I finally got a glimpse of how that other half lived. Urawa City had a sister city relationship with Richmond, Virginia. The Governor of the Commonwealth of Virginia was coming to town on an official visit, and the city hall was in full stereotypical agenda building and schedule revising mode. I came into play with the task of organizing a plan for his wife and daughter.
Mrs. Governor expressed that her daughter was a Girl Scout and would like to have some kind of exchange activity with the local chapter. That was a simple request. I daydream periodically about having easy access to Thin Mints again, so I could get into this job. However, that spoke-too-soon simple request soon blew into full on Japanese to the hilt event planning and gold star hosting.
It started with an innocent phone call, which weeded out into a phone chain. I called the closest chapter, and that leader contacted her people, other chapters are getting a ring, and so on and on and on and on. On impact, I was flung from what I thought would be a few innocent rounds of Kumbaya, perhaps in two languages, to extending an open invitation to every troop in the entire Kanto Plain, a region which encompasses Greater Tokyo and its 6 surrounding prefectures. We were now slated to have a ceremonial event seaside in Yokohama, Kanagawa, at the site of some form of meaningful statue that represented the foundation of Girl Scouts in Japan.
I was thinking that Mrs. Governor was probably only acting as a concerned mother who was simply trying to justify pulling her daughter out of school to make the trip to Japan with her husband, and, well Girls Scouts could pass as a semi-educational event. I updated the office on how my fantasy meeting of a few girls playing hopscotch and having an ice cream cone turned into a formal meeting including hundreds of guests. The staff bit on the news and couldn't be outdone by a Troop Leader and, thus, they upped their game.
The 54.5 kilometer trip, which by train is 1 hour and 20 minutes, quickly launched into reserving a white stretch limousine. I have never seen a limo in Japan and I know why. The roads are narrow, traffic is a stand still bear on a clear day, and don't get me started on parking. To me, this would be like being on a road trip in the Midwest and on a rare occasion you'd see a house being transported on the freeway, however, I wouldn't be wondering who in the world transports a house on the road, rather, I'd be its passenger. In the end, a house might have been a better deal considering there could be even the slightest chance of a Wizard of Oz type twister that could have airlifted us and dropped us in Girlscoutland. Unfortunately, ruby slippers were not going to save me from this day.
Yokohama Chinatown is the largest Chinatown in Japan, and one of the biggest in the world. Japanese love superlatives, so this was something to showcase. My staff thought it would be a great add-on to the tour if we lunched in authentic Chinatown before the ceremony. Authentic meant that the roads were narrow, directionless, lined with uneven cobblestone and motorist unfriendly, like China, hence the name. I figure I'd jump off that Great Wall when I came to it and just went with it. Besides, whatever I ran into I had back up: Girl Scouts are by law prepared, and I'd be surrounded by every registered Girl in the region.
Mrs. and Daughter Governor and I boarded the limo, while my staff trailed in an ironically enviable, practical and humble city owned compact vehicle. It only took one minute into the trip to realize that I would find absolutely no similarities in this experience to my childhood memories of loading the station wagon with my backpack and sleeping bag as my parents drove me from Columbus to Lancaster for Camp Fire Girls camp. The journey was usually smooth, which meant at most maybe we'd have to wait for the lane to clear to pass a tractor or two en route. The back seat of this limo was probably the size of the cabin I shared with 16 girls. I think I was glad to have tinted windows, since in Honda bumper to Limo bumper traffic, which clocked 3 hours, people had plenty of time to approach and try to get a glimpse of the mystery passengers on their "three hour tour."
The approach into Chinatown proved impossible. The Limo couldn't even get a view of the ornamental red entrance get into the town. We parked, and the driver fetched 3 pedicabs to cycle us to the restaurant. It turns out they clocked better mileage than our 3 hour haul through Tokyo. The lunch served was far more complicated than my hot dog, s'mores and bug juice camping days. Instead, we had multiple courses of Cantonese, Peking, Shanghai, and Szechwan cuisines to fuel up for the ceremony. At the port, a neatly pressed crowd in uniform was filing in around the statue, so we proceeded to make our grand entrance, which in an limo, was an auto piolet effort. The head leader read a welcome address, which was followed by speeches, speeches and speeches from various chapter representatives. Daughter Governor was a good sport, and just taking in the masses.
An entire restaurant bordering the seaside statue venue was rented out for all participating Scouts and leaders, in full wedding reception style glitz. This was a high end coffee shop where we were to have afternoon tea and cake. Also on the menu was more speeches, speeches and speeches, as well as gifts, gifts and gifts for a cermemonial exchange. This was a high end coffee shop where we were to have afternoon tea and cake. The entire place was decorated with the finest linens and silver settings. The cakes were so ornate that you didn't know if you should shellac it for the scrapbook or politely gum through it. My mouth was watering for a traditional Trefoil Shortbread Girl Scout cookie. Instead, I watch this group of elementary school girls struggle to work there way through the cutlery. The girls had their choice of tea or coffee, and I wished I smuggled in a packet of Koolaid to dunk in poor little Daughter Governor's ice water.
The commute back through Tokyo met up with rush hour traffic, so this day did turn out to feel like I was shipped off to camp after all. I was a Camp Fire Girl at heart, but this one rock star day of being a Girl Scout party crasher was worth the adventure, and even though a train ride would have been life saving efficient, I was happy to go along for the quincentenary ride. Surviving the formality of the speeches, and the scene at the high tea should earn each one of those little girls their lifetime etiquette badge. That's my take of the day. I'd love to catch up with Daughter Governor one day, and hear about how that show and tell project played out when she returned to elementary school in Virginia. That would be one "what I did on vacation" report worth reading which no Girl Scout Fortune cookie could have predicted.
Shaded by a Genie
The more I was learning about the language, the more I was learning that I had so far to go. Two steps forward, one fall back. Even though I'm tripping over my feet advancing, it is an advancement, and I'll take it. My 3 year contract with the Koshigaya Board of Education was coming to a ceremonial closing clap at the same time the capital city of the prefecture, Urawa, was initiating a new post in the International Relations Section at the City Hall. The job would require Japanese ability: spoken, written, thinking, eating and drinking.
I liked the idea of being the first to take the position. With no predecessor to follow, I had no daunting geta to fill, which helped my confidence in the lame sense that I wasn't failing before entering on a "by comparison" technicality. I interviewed, was offered the job, and accepted. The apartment I was in at the time was owned by Koshigaya City, so I had to vacate that humble two-half (yes, two-half, not two and a half) room abode and move to a new, albeit 30 year old rental, in Urawa City (which is now Saitama City, but that doesn't have anything to do with my mark on the place).
Three years is still novice in Japan, but nonetheless I maintained my home-grown Midwestern privacy barriers. After all, by this point, I've already been assisted on how to shower, bathe and flush toilets. Now I had the privilege of having the office big wigs at my new job personally move me from apartment A to apartment B, on their day off. Moving day was July 31, starting day was August 1. We agreed to a 9 AM start time on the 31st. The bell rang promptly at 9 AM on the 30th. For a split second, I questioned if I was thinking in Eastern Standard Time, but that would have meant they'd be a day later, not earlier. They came, unannounced, to help me box up my once private, personal, and unmentionable belongings.
They removed their shoes in the entrance way, put on working gloves and started bringing boxes and rolls of tape into my place. Kaneko san took the bedroom, and Matsuda san the living room. No words were exchanged. They went straight to work with no break. Before I could roll the offer for a cold drink off my tongue, I noticed Mastusda san sealing the box labeled dishware. I made a dash to my toiletries before it was too late so I could at least put my deodorant in a Ziploc by myself. Yeah, that guarded my pride.
Unannounced visitors are not always unwelcome, but this was the kind of thing in Japan that went against the all the independent thinking values I was brought up on. Some decisions I want to exercise input. As it is, the weather forecast on TV tells you whether or not you should do laundry that day based on how long it will take a white tee shirt to dry on the line, and they always tell you if it's a short sleeve day as opposed to a long sleeve day, and whether or not you'll need a large umbrella or if a fold up one will do for the day. Just give me the forecast, and based on that information, let me decide what I'll wash, wear and carry that day! But this was another thing I just had to roll with, and appreciate in the end. They used their own cleaning products to wipe down the empty place when they were done since they already boxed mine off, took the trash with them, and zoomed off into the night with a reminder on my 9 AM date for tomorrow. For some reason, I trusted them that it really was tomorrow, which this time turned out to be an instinct in my favor. Moving day was more predictable: load, unload, sip ice coffee (brought over on a tray from the landowner), leave with a see you in the office for your first day tomorrow. I plopped down on the futon and dreamt that I really didn't start work the next day, rather Kaneko san and Matsuda san showed up at 9 AM to un-box. Not so. I only had to lose my privacy on the way out, not in. I may have cursed myself with that wish for independence: I was on my own.
I was on my own linguistically too. Until now, I had been surrounded by Japanese teachers of English in the schools, or English speaking supervisors at the board of education. Even though when I reached a certain level I spoke Japanese with them, I could still be lazy and slip over a word I didn't know and toss it out in English. However, I was the only English speaker in my section at the Urawa City Hall. That was the point of the job: They didn't have one, so they hired one. I found myself stretching my already taller than everyone range when reaching for words. I'd dance around what I was getting at with descriptive Japanese: I need one of those taller-than-a-beverage-glass containers that has a lid-cuppie thing on top and it keeps the hot drinks hot and the cool drinks cool. "Ah! Mahoubin!," I got in response. Well, Thermos is much shorter and to the point, but at that point, not in my word bank. Incidentally, mahoubin directly translates into magic bottle, which I accepted since I was ready for a Genie to come out and look over me.
On the first day of work, the section chief escorted me to every floor of the building to introduce me. I had three years of this downward bobble head bow with a nice to meet you, please be good to me routine, so this part was not nerve-racking.
I settled into my desk, which had a newspaper article on top that I was to translate from Japanese to English regarding a newly designed cargo train track to be constructed at the Urawa train station. Under that (you're wondering how I could put that down to check the rest of my inbox) there were lists of potential host family contacts in the city for foreign exchange students, as well as an event schedule highlighting international events the Mayor was to attend where I was expected to be his interpreter. Just when I was hoping he was not slotted for a round of speeches on this cargo load, I get a non intrusive interruption from a colleague. She handed me a parasol and informed me that I might need it that day, so she brought an extra. I politely thanked her in a non routine way since I was wondering if I could have possibly heard that right. There was a roof on the building and nobody around me showed visible signs of a sunbrella on hand. The only time I had ever seen one in person or held a real live parasol before that moment was as an extra in high school for the musical Hello Dolly. Luckily my imagination did't go as far to fear that I was supposed to sing and dance later.
The section was having lunch out that day, so I brought my parasol with the same ominous feeling that Goldie Hawn must have had when Chevy Chase told her to "bring an umbrella" when she was being set up in Foul Play. We loaded city vehicles, and stopped at understated noodle shop, the kind of place that you assume is known for amazing taste because the aesthetics are a broken Miffy wall clock and a gas company sponsored calendar on the wall still displaying June. There were no menus, which didn't matter since Kaneko san took the liberty of ordering the same bowl of ramen noodles with pork and seaweed topping in soy broth for each in our party of 7. Apparently that was the signature dish of this particular spot, which meant that we had no choice in the same way you feel pressured into hanging laundry on a sunny day: the weather forecast ordered us to.
We reloaded the car and pulled into the city baseball stadium, where we were hosting a visiting team of little league baseball players from a sister city relationship Urawa had with a city in Mexico. They were playing a local team as a cultural exchange. My Spanish is worse than my Japanese, but I was to head out on the field and greet the visitors. I entered the field under a blazing sun. Up went the parasol, which was a most welcome prop since the handicap of having my right arm occupied got me out of having to throw the opening pitch. The teams went into extra innings, and when Urawa finally pulled off a win, they called another at bat for Mexico so they could win too.
There were no losers. What an excellent way to end the first day at a new job, and kick off another adventure. The time it took to play out the extra innings and the forced comeback given to Mexico would have resulted in the sunburn of a lifetime on a tropical summer day. However, I felt like a winner too, equipped with my save the day parasol. I was happy to have had that protection, whether I asked for it or not, happy to have had a meal that someone else selected, and inside I was relieved to know that I took the good advice of the weatherman that day and thus was going home to dry clean clothes on the line. I now attribute my good fortunes and countless excellent experiences from that job to the work of my Genie colleagues in the office, always on hand, in my very own magic bottle.
I liked the idea of being the first to take the position. With no predecessor to follow, I had no daunting geta to fill, which helped my confidence in the lame sense that I wasn't failing before entering on a "by comparison" technicality. I interviewed, was offered the job, and accepted. The apartment I was in at the time was owned by Koshigaya City, so I had to vacate that humble two-half (yes, two-half, not two and a half) room abode and move to a new, albeit 30 year old rental, in Urawa City (which is now Saitama City, but that doesn't have anything to do with my mark on the place).
Three years is still novice in Japan, but nonetheless I maintained my home-grown Midwestern privacy barriers. After all, by this point, I've already been assisted on how to shower, bathe and flush toilets. Now I had the privilege of having the office big wigs at my new job personally move me from apartment A to apartment B, on their day off. Moving day was July 31, starting day was August 1. We agreed to a 9 AM start time on the 31st. The bell rang promptly at 9 AM on the 30th. For a split second, I questioned if I was thinking in Eastern Standard Time, but that would have meant they'd be a day later, not earlier. They came, unannounced, to help me box up my once private, personal, and unmentionable belongings.
They removed their shoes in the entrance way, put on working gloves and started bringing boxes and rolls of tape into my place. Kaneko san took the bedroom, and Matsuda san the living room. No words were exchanged. They went straight to work with no break. Before I could roll the offer for a cold drink off my tongue, I noticed Mastusda san sealing the box labeled dishware. I made a dash to my toiletries before it was too late so I could at least put my deodorant in a Ziploc by myself. Yeah, that guarded my pride.
Unannounced visitors are not always unwelcome, but this was the kind of thing in Japan that went against the all the independent thinking values I was brought up on. Some decisions I want to exercise input. As it is, the weather forecast on TV tells you whether or not you should do laundry that day based on how long it will take a white tee shirt to dry on the line, and they always tell you if it's a short sleeve day as opposed to a long sleeve day, and whether or not you'll need a large umbrella or if a fold up one will do for the day. Just give me the forecast, and based on that information, let me decide what I'll wash, wear and carry that day! But this was another thing I just had to roll with, and appreciate in the end. They used their own cleaning products to wipe down the empty place when they were done since they already boxed mine off, took the trash with them, and zoomed off into the night with a reminder on my 9 AM date for tomorrow. For some reason, I trusted them that it really was tomorrow, which this time turned out to be an instinct in my favor. Moving day was more predictable: load, unload, sip ice coffee (brought over on a tray from the landowner), leave with a see you in the office for your first day tomorrow. I plopped down on the futon and dreamt that I really didn't start work the next day, rather Kaneko san and Matsuda san showed up at 9 AM to un-box. Not so. I only had to lose my privacy on the way out, not in. I may have cursed myself with that wish for independence: I was on my own.
I was on my own linguistically too. Until now, I had been surrounded by Japanese teachers of English in the schools, or English speaking supervisors at the board of education. Even though when I reached a certain level I spoke Japanese with them, I could still be lazy and slip over a word I didn't know and toss it out in English. However, I was the only English speaker in my section at the Urawa City Hall. That was the point of the job: They didn't have one, so they hired one. I found myself stretching my already taller than everyone range when reaching for words. I'd dance around what I was getting at with descriptive Japanese: I need one of those taller-than-a-beverage-glass containers that has a lid-cuppie thing on top and it keeps the hot drinks hot and the cool drinks cool. "Ah! Mahoubin!," I got in response. Well, Thermos is much shorter and to the point, but at that point, not in my word bank. Incidentally, mahoubin directly translates into magic bottle, which I accepted since I was ready for a Genie to come out and look over me.
On the first day of work, the section chief escorted me to every floor of the building to introduce me. I had three years of this downward bobble head bow with a nice to meet you, please be good to me routine, so this part was not nerve-racking.
I settled into my desk, which had a newspaper article on top that I was to translate from Japanese to English regarding a newly designed cargo train track to be constructed at the Urawa train station. Under that (you're wondering how I could put that down to check the rest of my inbox) there were lists of potential host family contacts in the city for foreign exchange students, as well as an event schedule highlighting international events the Mayor was to attend where I was expected to be his interpreter. Just when I was hoping he was not slotted for a round of speeches on this cargo load, I get a non intrusive interruption from a colleague. She handed me a parasol and informed me that I might need it that day, so she brought an extra. I politely thanked her in a non routine way since I was wondering if I could have possibly heard that right. There was a roof on the building and nobody around me showed visible signs of a sunbrella on hand. The only time I had ever seen one in person or held a real live parasol before that moment was as an extra in high school for the musical Hello Dolly. Luckily my imagination did't go as far to fear that I was supposed to sing and dance later.
The section was having lunch out that day, so I brought my parasol with the same ominous feeling that Goldie Hawn must have had when Chevy Chase told her to "bring an umbrella" when she was being set up in Foul Play. We loaded city vehicles, and stopped at understated noodle shop, the kind of place that you assume is known for amazing taste because the aesthetics are a broken Miffy wall clock and a gas company sponsored calendar on the wall still displaying June. There were no menus, which didn't matter since Kaneko san took the liberty of ordering the same bowl of ramen noodles with pork and seaweed topping in soy broth for each in our party of 7. Apparently that was the signature dish of this particular spot, which meant that we had no choice in the same way you feel pressured into hanging laundry on a sunny day: the weather forecast ordered us to.
We reloaded the car and pulled into the city baseball stadium, where we were hosting a visiting team of little league baseball players from a sister city relationship Urawa had with a city in Mexico. They were playing a local team as a cultural exchange. My Spanish is worse than my Japanese, but I was to head out on the field and greet the visitors. I entered the field under a blazing sun. Up went the parasol, which was a most welcome prop since the handicap of having my right arm occupied got me out of having to throw the opening pitch. The teams went into extra innings, and when Urawa finally pulled off a win, they called another at bat for Mexico so they could win too.
There were no losers. What an excellent way to end the first day at a new job, and kick off another adventure. The time it took to play out the extra innings and the forced comeback given to Mexico would have resulted in the sunburn of a lifetime on a tropical summer day. However, I felt like a winner too, equipped with my save the day parasol. I was happy to have had that protection, whether I asked for it or not, happy to have had a meal that someone else selected, and inside I was relieved to know that I took the good advice of the weatherman that day and thus was going home to dry clean clothes on the line. I now attribute my good fortunes and countless excellent experiences from that job to the work of my Genie colleagues in the office, always on hand, in my very own magic bottle.
The Land of the Rising Volume
I am no Grinch, but I can relate to his sentiments when he curses Whoville, "the noise, noise, noise, noise!" Although people here, not unlike the Whos, smile and sing songs, this is no Whoville, and I will never adjust to the noise noise, noise, noise in Japan.
"In a few minutes we will be landing at Tokyo's Narita International Airport. The local time is 3:45 PM, August 1." Now that is an internationally familiar sound bite. The blaring sounds that would follow me everyday since that initial 1994 landing would become an adjustment in progress, and I haven't adjusted, let alone progressed. In sharp contrast to Americans, Japanese are generally reserved, and on the quiet side. I imagine a history of living in small quarters makes one innately respectful of guarding some level of privacy in public spaces. People tend to use library voices if they converse at all on trains or buses, and I have no personal experiences in line at the bank or the post office, or supermarket when the person behind you comments on the "big game last night." The small talk side of life here is muted in comparison to the States, yet, this politely reserved population is living among the world's largest, loudest choir. Everything, every were seems to blast out its unique theme song, jingle, or pre-recorded announcement.
From childhood, I can recall the ice cream truck, and standard emergency sirens and even the hokey 4th of July wake-up call to come to the parade in my hometown. Yet here, I can go through and entire day having conversations with everything I come in touch with except humans. The sound invasion starts before breakfast: If I leave the refrigerator door ajar for more than it takes to pour a glass of juice, I'm politely reminded to "gently shut the door, please." The slow cooker announces, "the rice is ready," and the bath chimes in to let me know that it's filled to the ideal water level and the temperature is just right. The gas heater has a different tune when it's running low on fuel from when it could use a cleaning, and it always keeps me posted on its needs.
At 8 AM the gates are open for the megaphone armored trucks that roam the neighborhood. If you can remember the different jingles, you can save yourself the trip from trying to dash out to catch the traveling bakery when instead you find yourself in line for a fresh catch mackerel or hand pressed tofu. The sweet potato truck could be the Grammy of truck sales in Japan: it has verses, and tells the story of the journey the potato took from root to open pit fire, which is humming and crackling in the back of the truck. Pot stickers, ramen noodles, all in harmony through the streets in case I need a bite in between gently shutting the fridge and scrubbing the gas heater filter.
Time for a shower, and the shower beep beep beeps when it warms up to the fixed temperature setting. It is unnerving to hear any kind of a alarm in this vulnerable position, but I can be relieved that it wasn't the fish monger alerting me to the fresh catch while I'm attempting to mentally escape the public sound off while rinsing off.
Everyday is some round of trash or recycle collection, each pick up with its own theme. It would make for quite a symphony if the paper, bottle, can pick up came at once, but instead we get featured solos. For the "big trash," a flatbed truck comes through at 3 miles an hour blaring out its pre-recorded offer to collect old bikes stereos, TVs and any miscellaneous electronic equipment for no charge. I am often tempted to pay them to just bring the volume down a notch. Trucks are programmed with a simplified chorus of "It's a Small World After All," when they go into reverse to warn you they could be backing up in your direction. Indeed, it's a Loud World After All. If an election is around the corner, you can experience the full treatment of an open bed truck circling the neighborhood with "campaign" girls donning uniforms have microphones pitching their candidate. This is an 8 AM to 8 PM job, and if I had voting rights, I would not vote for any candidate that I can hear haunting in my sleep like an overplayed 80s song.
Any normally mundane errand can be spiced up thanks to a little nostalgia. Store background soundtracks provide a skip down memory lane on a daily basis. I really feel empowered when I pop into a 7-11 to pick up a Coke to Sinatra's "My Way." It also puts a pep in my step when stop to fill up the tank and the gas station is serenading me with the Carpenter's "On Top of the World." These are old standbys. Yet, supermarkets at closing time are in a league of their own. Five minutes prior to closing, in lieu of an, "in just a few minutes, the store will be closing, please take your final purchases to the register at this time," announcement that I sounded off in my cashier days, Auld Lang Syne streams in over the loud speakers. The first few times, I admit, I looked around for someone to kiss, or at least for a tuxedo clad employee to hand me a plastic flute glass of champagne, but I slowly adjusted the fact that this is the way we bring produce shopping to a close in Japan.
We had a 6:00 dinner call growing up. It was as low brow as my mother coming to the front door and calling out to us kids to come home. However, Japan hits the high notes with its classic public service call, unique from city to city across the nation, which sounds off at 4:30 PM in winter and or 5:30 PM in the summer. Speakers throughout town ignite a song signaling the children to swiftly exit the parks and playgrounds, and a verbal safety message follows reminding them to carefully make their way home. In my early years in Japan, a harmless practical joke among colleagues helped me appreciate this musical noise making custom on a new scale. Elden was a marching band director from Hawaii, on a fixed term teaching contract in Koshigaya. He had his clarinet in Japan, and like any gifted musician he could play by ear, mimicking tunes on demand or perhaps in this case, on command.
It was the perfect weather that late fall day for kids to play outside, and thus we gathered in his 4th floor apartment after school. We tested the maximum weight of the veranda overlooking a neighborhood park and filed out onto the balcony like the ol' elephants in a Volkswagen bug gag. At exactly 4:25 PM, 5 minutes prior to the city sponsored pre- recorded version, Elden played a live arrangement of the "time to go" song. We stood and watched in anticipation, and the targets took the bait. The kids stopped, looked up and around, and dutifully scrammed off on their bikes to safely head home for the day. We quickly took refuge inside and were overcome with a giddy feeling of satisfaction on our experiment accomplished.
The beeps, alarms, megaphones, noise makers, and songs, songs, songs do take a toll on my noise pollution comfort level. However, regarding my attitude toward all the racket, like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes that day.
"In a few minutes we will be landing at Tokyo's Narita International Airport. The local time is 3:45 PM, August 1." Now that is an internationally familiar sound bite. The blaring sounds that would follow me everyday since that initial 1994 landing would become an adjustment in progress, and I haven't adjusted, let alone progressed. In sharp contrast to Americans, Japanese are generally reserved, and on the quiet side. I imagine a history of living in small quarters makes one innately respectful of guarding some level of privacy in public spaces. People tend to use library voices if they converse at all on trains or buses, and I have no personal experiences in line at the bank or the post office, or supermarket when the person behind you comments on the "big game last night." The small talk side of life here is muted in comparison to the States, yet, this politely reserved population is living among the world's largest, loudest choir. Everything, every were seems to blast out its unique theme song, jingle, or pre-recorded announcement.
From childhood, I can recall the ice cream truck, and standard emergency sirens and even the hokey 4th of July wake-up call to come to the parade in my hometown. Yet here, I can go through and entire day having conversations with everything I come in touch with except humans. The sound invasion starts before breakfast: If I leave the refrigerator door ajar for more than it takes to pour a glass of juice, I'm politely reminded to "gently shut the door, please." The slow cooker announces, "the rice is ready," and the bath chimes in to let me know that it's filled to the ideal water level and the temperature is just right. The gas heater has a different tune when it's running low on fuel from when it could use a cleaning, and it always keeps me posted on its needs.
At 8 AM the gates are open for the megaphone armored trucks that roam the neighborhood. If you can remember the different jingles, you can save yourself the trip from trying to dash out to catch the traveling bakery when instead you find yourself in line for a fresh catch mackerel or hand pressed tofu. The sweet potato truck could be the Grammy of truck sales in Japan: it has verses, and tells the story of the journey the potato took from root to open pit fire, which is humming and crackling in the back of the truck. Pot stickers, ramen noodles, all in harmony through the streets in case I need a bite in between gently shutting the fridge and scrubbing the gas heater filter.
Time for a shower, and the shower beep beep beeps when it warms up to the fixed temperature setting. It is unnerving to hear any kind of a alarm in this vulnerable position, but I can be relieved that it wasn't the fish monger alerting me to the fresh catch while I'm attempting to mentally escape the public sound off while rinsing off.
Everyday is some round of trash or recycle collection, each pick up with its own theme. It would make for quite a symphony if the paper, bottle, can pick up came at once, but instead we get featured solos. For the "big trash," a flatbed truck comes through at 3 miles an hour blaring out its pre-recorded offer to collect old bikes stereos, TVs and any miscellaneous electronic equipment for no charge. I am often tempted to pay them to just bring the volume down a notch. Trucks are programmed with a simplified chorus of "It's a Small World After All," when they go into reverse to warn you they could be backing up in your direction. Indeed, it's a Loud World After All. If an election is around the corner, you can experience the full treatment of an open bed truck circling the neighborhood with "campaign" girls donning uniforms have microphones pitching their candidate. This is an 8 AM to 8 PM job, and if I had voting rights, I would not vote for any candidate that I can hear haunting in my sleep like an overplayed 80s song.
Any normally mundane errand can be spiced up thanks to a little nostalgia. Store background soundtracks provide a skip down memory lane on a daily basis. I really feel empowered when I pop into a 7-11 to pick up a Coke to Sinatra's "My Way." It also puts a pep in my step when stop to fill up the tank and the gas station is serenading me with the Carpenter's "On Top of the World." These are old standbys. Yet, supermarkets at closing time are in a league of their own. Five minutes prior to closing, in lieu of an, "in just a few minutes, the store will be closing, please take your final purchases to the register at this time," announcement that I sounded off in my cashier days, Auld Lang Syne streams in over the loud speakers. The first few times, I admit, I looked around for someone to kiss, or at least for a tuxedo clad employee to hand me a plastic flute glass of champagne, but I slowly adjusted the fact that this is the way we bring produce shopping to a close in Japan.
We had a 6:00 dinner call growing up. It was as low brow as my mother coming to the front door and calling out to us kids to come home. However, Japan hits the high notes with its classic public service call, unique from city to city across the nation, which sounds off at 4:30 PM in winter and or 5:30 PM in the summer. Speakers throughout town ignite a song signaling the children to swiftly exit the parks and playgrounds, and a verbal safety message follows reminding them to carefully make their way home. In my early years in Japan, a harmless practical joke among colleagues helped me appreciate this musical noise making custom on a new scale. Elden was a marching band director from Hawaii, on a fixed term teaching contract in Koshigaya. He had his clarinet in Japan, and like any gifted musician he could play by ear, mimicking tunes on demand or perhaps in this case, on command.
It was the perfect weather that late fall day for kids to play outside, and thus we gathered in his 4th floor apartment after school. We tested the maximum weight of the veranda overlooking a neighborhood park and filed out onto the balcony like the ol' elephants in a Volkswagen bug gag. At exactly 4:25 PM, 5 minutes prior to the city sponsored pre- recorded version, Elden played a live arrangement of the "time to go" song. We stood and watched in anticipation, and the targets took the bait. The kids stopped, looked up and around, and dutifully scrammed off on their bikes to safely head home for the day. We quickly took refuge inside and were overcome with a giddy feeling of satisfaction on our experiment accomplished.
The beeps, alarms, megaphones, noise makers, and songs, songs, songs do take a toll on my noise pollution comfort level. However, regarding my attitude toward all the racket, like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes that day.
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