Tucked in the feature section on any given Sunday paper, we read about an elderly woman passing away. As the story, goes within days of her passing, the family discovers that she was hoarding tens of thousands of dollars in her mattress. It usually unfolds that she was a survivor of the Great Depression, and thus lost trust in banks or was just simply spooked by someone or some stock handling her money. I never thought I'd become one of those little old headlining woman at the age of 25, but I am ahead of my time by never being without a secret stuffed stash of my own on hand, in bag and at home.
I received a handsome leather checkbook cover for my launch into the real world for university graduation. Alas, it remains unused. I haven't seen a checkbook in 15 years. My launch into the real world of fake money was short-lived due to the fact that I relocated to a cash-based society 3 years out of my student costume and into my spending career. I guess I don't really miss dealing with balancing act side of a checkbook, however, I don't necessary enjoy the trade off of the different kind of balance it takes to carry a kilo lump sum load in my wallet at all times. My Mom endearingly calls her smaller scale, secret stash, her "mad money." Her theory is that it's nice to have a fund that requires no explanation to anybody, which I never argued with. Basically, it was her unaccounted for just-in-case tap, which was usually activated when one of "us kids" needed (OK, wanted) money for an off the usual page purchase. Yet the wad I am required to have on hand-to-mouth in Japan is light on the mad money and heavy on the drive me mad money.
Payday was quite the adventure during my first 4 years here as a public servant. It could have been more of a Bonnie and Clyde adventure for the tempted, since all civil employees were handed manila envelope stuffed with a month's package of cash remuneration on the same 25th day of the month, stacks of 10,000 yen ($100) bills. During lunch break, I'd pop it in my bag, toss the bag into my bike basket and pedal to the bank. I'd deposit what I needed for living expenses for the month, pop the remainder right back in the basket. Next stop: the post office to send the rest to a savings account in the States via "Postal Giro." It really was not as glamorous as it sounds, like having a Swiss bank account, or some kind of wire transfer to numbered account in the Cayman Islands, at the time it was just the only way I knew how to deal with a foreign income in attempt to start dropping in the bucket toward a savings.
For years I took shopping with a credit card for granted. I'm no shopaholic, and this isn't some confession of an addiction to, or an "Ode to" plastic here. Frankly, my spending habits are as boring as they get. My Dad would be proud to say that I take after him in that department, which rarely would involve a department store. I don't buy on impulse, I stick to the sales rack, and I've paid my charge off in full every month since I've had one in my name. Yet, the convenience of a card is what makes it deserve its "gold" or "platinum" status. It used to surprise me at the end of a transaction, for say, 2 (now 3) international round trip air tickets when following the process of being on hold, fussing over this date or that date, aisle seat or window, and settling on a reservation for the newsflash, "we don't take credit cards." Granted, it feels like more of a commitment when you hand thousands of dollar bills over the counter (definitely not under) at the confirmed reservation stage before final ticketing even takes place, as opposed to the lighter feel of letting a middle man step in by blindly handing over a card and letting the banks intervene in their magic ways. I could attribute this mandatory use of cash, which usually comes with a "no give-backs" clause, to having gracefully forced me not to waffle in making big ticket purchasing decisions.
Many upscale Japanese inns abide by the cash only motto as well. The getaways are hot spring resorts which includes an elaborate dinner spread and breakfast buffet, and are fully equipped with on-site entertainment. Once clients check in, outside of dipping in the outdoor bath or taking a photo in the garden, rarely does anyone leave the property. It's a relaxing, fun and food-filled experience requiring a hefty stack of crisp bills at checkout. This is an absolute cultural contrast from the States. First of all, as a rule, many American hotels request a credit card number in order to reserve the room. Moreover, if I checked out after a night at a State-side hotel and handed over stacks of hundreds, the paparazzi would probably be casing out my room in hopes of catching a married senator escaping down the fire exit before I even had time to make it out to parking and tip the valet (who incidentally accepts cash).
I have moved at least 5 times since first declaring, "I'm never moving again." With each move, the deposit, advance rent, and "key money" (non-refundable, obligatory gratitude money) are due upfront, in cash. It's the equivalent of 5-6 months rent at one time, and that is Tokyo scale rent, not semi-humble Columbus, Ohio, housing prices. Moving companies require the full sum upon completion of the job, so by the 3rd or 4th move, I made sure I just labeled one of the boxes "stacks of cash," for easy access. As we progressed in dumping "brown backs" into upgraded rental properties, we started to shop around for something to put in the vacant car port. We test drove a few compact little turbo models, settled on a Suzuki, signed the agreement and selected an insurance plan. The dealer expected a payment in full, in cash, for the wheels and the insurance plan. We set out on foot from home, to the ATM machine, and made our way to the car lot with the money, needless to say, at a brisk pace. With paranoia less in mind than just splitting the heavy load, we divided the sum for the walk across town to invest in our first 4 wheeled transportation.
A year later, I found myself accessorizing the car with a child seat. Our daughter was born in February, 2005. Typically, to reserve a room in the hospital, you put $1,000 in cash down at your birthing center of choice 6 months before the due date. Standard hospital stays are 1 week, and on check out, the balance is due, in cash. Now that was a fun phone call to make:
"Honey, the baby and I can come home today around noon."
"Great! Do you need me to bring anything?"
"Maybe a fresh onesie, the camera, and our life savings, in cash."
At least by that time in our expat lifestyle, Bob was able to carry the bills in the car glove box, rather than a shopping bike basket or jeans back pocket on foot. Preparing cash payouts for the outrageous big ticket items, as abnormal practices go, has gradually become normal to me. Travel, housing, cars, insurance, health care, and not to be ignored, education: Tuition goes by the same rule book. From my husband stuffing an envelope of $3,000 dollars in his wallet to board a train and hand over grad school tuition at the end of the train line, to putting the crisp bills in an envelope in my 4 year old's kindergarten backpack every month, I find myself cringing less and less, which could be considered "adjusting."
On the other (empty)hand, the nickle and dime stops still take me off guard more times than not. I would never bother asking at a Mom and Pop noodle shop, or a fruit and veggie stand if they take cards. Vendors that tally the bill using an abacus likely would take cover under the desk at the sight of a modern payment plan for a bowl of $6 ramen or a couple of Fuji apples. But I am the one taken aback when national chain restaurants or grocery stores, which tend to have an "American" feel with high chairs stacked in the corner or impulse check out items at the register, to deal in cash only. Thanks to the Nagano Winter Olympics in 1998, at least credit cards gained visibility. Literally: VISA was one of the sponsors of the Games, so billboards and posters nation-wide had the big card looking over us. At least that made it less of a fear factor to vendors when asked if they accepted cards. It was around that time that major department stores, electronics stores and the like started accepting the cards without the clerk having to ask his superior, the superior going to the assistant manager, the assistant asking his manager, then everyone sits down over green tea at a conference in order to reach a consensus as to how to let me down in a delicate way as to not disrupt the harmony of my shopping experience. But really, what business can afford the time to stop and deliberate these matters when the clerks should be counting stacks of bills?
I grew up in a shopping democracy where every trip to the register was capped off with, "Will that be cash, check or charge?" The next decision would be, "paper or plastic?" There are plenty of plastic bags in a variety of sizes at the check out in my shopping circuit in Japan, but rarely plastic payment options available. In the States, I would be sure to have some cash on hand at home. After all, on any given day a local booster club could be selling items for a fund-raiser, or the annual Girl Scout cookie sales would come door to door. However, with the volume of bill collectors that come to my door in Japan expecting "paper" on demand, I think I'll continue stuffing, unstuffing and restuffing my futon mattress with cash for the years to come until I become that little old lady of human interest. In the meantime, keep an eye on your local Sunday paper feature, hopefully not funnies, section.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Too Close for Comfort
I grew up in house of red pens. My was dad a college professor, and my mom a high school teacher. From those years until even present day and an ocean away, I felt that the whole world either had one of them in class or certainly knew them, or at least of them. On a rare occasion a student would call for one of them at home and it would silence the house. Shocking. American teachers and students alike tend to keep, and rightly maintain (for fear of their lives) a safe distance in their student-teacher relationships. When I finally grew up, I became a teacher too. A year out of college I found myself teaching and coaching at a high school in Ohio. I found it harder work creating that distance on what was only a handful of years of an age gap between my students and me than actually teaching. I pretended to not know, let alone care, what happened on Beverley Hills 90210 the night before or what song was #1 on the top 40 countdown that week, and rather than blushing, I kept it to myself that I occasionally caught Melrose Place too, preferring to turn a blind eye to the fact that my "kids" were watching and discussing what was in those pre anything goes days as-racy-as-it-got-parental-guidance-suggested-programming.
The move to Japan shattered my rock garden solid belief system of what the proper distance between student and teacher should be. I started out by naturally judging protocol here against what I knew from teacher exposure in my home, teacher-training in the College of Education, as well as teaching experience in American high schools. State-side, we kind of sat on our side of the Pacific and imagined those diligent Asian nations to be nothing but respectful to authority. Well, that's pretty much the case, and it has helped me enjoy teaching as many years I as have here. However, the recipe to creating that perfect bowl of respect calls for a completely different set of ingredients on this side of the pond. The lack of distance teachers keep from their students was a true shock to me, and although 14 years in I've traded in my Heinz ketchup for soy sauce, It still humbles me on a daily basis while I'm trying to relearn what truly defines a respectable teacher.
You can't judge a professional by her footwear. In New York, you see women in suits power walking through their metro commute to work with heels in hand. The assumption is that they get to work, then change into the more "professional" attire upon arrival at the office. In my first awakening at the elementary and junior high schools in Japan, I found my colleagues were dressing up for their commute, impressing the other passengers on the train with their professional attire, and dressing down for work, depressing this particular colleague. Once they arrived, they would change into casual "jerseys," (the Happy Santa brand line was a big, year round, fashion hit) as well as indoor shoes, often sneakers. The students had a similar ritual. They had an outdoor uniform that they wore from their homes to the school entrance. The boys wore black suits with shiny brass buttons and the girls plaid pleated skirts, white shirts and bow-ties. When they got to school, they changed their shoes to indoor classic Keds-like sneakers and uniform jerseys, which resembled the style of sweat suits I wore for gym class in the early 80s, except I didn't have my student number and name in kanji in bold across my chest. The ready for a pick up game class atmosphere left me feeling like we were bringing the professionalism (or what could classify as American level of intentional distance or chill factor) down a notch.
Each teacher had a desk in a common "teachers' room," which cannot be compared to the elusive "teachers' lounge" in US schools. When I was in high school, the teachers' lounge was surrounded by mystery. You dared not disturb a teacher in the lounge, no matter how urgent your inquiry. The closest you got was on a lucky day when the door opened as you passed by in the hallway and you got a glimpse of the smokey dome. Japanese students walk freely through the teachers' room, communicate with teachers, escort them to their next class, or come in just to give a teacher a quick shiatsu shoulder massage between classes. It was a message and massage room, and took my whole 3 years in the junior high to adjust to, or at least somewhat accept, the concept. Students would approach teachers in a casual tone, patting them on the arm in a teasing fashion. There was a closeness that I just never expected, and only to a point could I play the part. Accept a shoulder rub? Well, I blended in eventually. Put a jogging suit on to teach the past predicate? Never.
The student-teacher closeness continues as students advance up the ladder of education, as does the student-teacher level of common activity. When I started working at a junior college, I found students asking instructors openly about dating advice--personal, hands off type talk that would have potential law suit don't go there written all over it in America. Sporting and cultural festivals play a significant role in every level of Japanese education, and teachers get their hands dirty right along side of their students during the planning, prep, execution and celebration stages of these events. One year a student group wanted to sell tacos at a food stand at the college fair. My colleagues invited student groups into their homes to coat the plan with salsa and spice and everything just a tad too nice for me. When a successful event or a term came to a close, professors would, on the light side, take their class out and would have a few beers over a meal with their (legal aged 20 year old) students, or more elaborate planning would take some on a day trip to a ski resort, or to an overnight at a hot spring. My value system has danger zone red flags all over that, and my social system just wants to keep students at school, and free time at home, on the slopes or at the Inns.
When I moved on to the university from the junior college, I did my best not to disturb the "Wa," or group harmony, and I took the active roll expected of me starting at orientation. First on the agenda was the annual, nationally mandated health check administered on campus. All university students, faculty and staff visit the mobile home like hospitals that pull up and stake camp for the first 2 days of orientation. On day one, I found a little plastic container with my name on it in my school mailbox. Relief #1 was that at least I can do that test in the privacy of my own home. Unrelief #1 came on the next day, when I was greeted by student volunteers working the collection site. I swallowed my privacy laced pride and (in vain) discreetly handed over my "sample" to the cheerful sophomore scheduled for my 2nd period class on Wednesdays.
The eager student volunteers were manning the scales, height charts, and everything that required simple data entry as opposed to the advanced tasks requiring a certified doctor or nurse. I would have drawn the line at having a student, even a senior, draw my blood with anything more than crayons and construction paper. All employees were undergoing the health check tests along side of the students, so I kept reminding myself, "when in Rome, do as the Japanese do." Unfortunately, that proverbial pep talk didn't prep me for what was to come next: the chest Xray. Confident that a technician, and not a pre law student would be taking the films, I entered the Xray mobile home and took a seat in line next to the 2 girls on a bench built for 3. The attendant peered from behind the curtain and, unlike the Great and Powerful Oz, gently asked us to prep for the shoot. Prepping didn't mean touching up with lipstick or running a comb through the hair, rather, it meant removing our shirts and waiting together on that bench in our bras. That was phase two of my orientation to tightening that distance leash between teachers and students.
Having survived the closest you can get to a pantie raid on a campus without a Fraternity hazing culture, I eased into phase 3 of my orientation: the road trip. Armed with clipboards, the faculty checked the freshman class into one of 6 tour buses for the off campus orientation. My previous exposure to faculty clad Ho Ho Happy Santa sweat suits prepared me for the Levi look my coworkers sported to fit in with the travel theme. I took that in stride, and admit that these qualified teachers commanded respect Armani or not, yet nonetheless, I couldn't bring myself to blending into the part completely. I met them half way by donning a denim skirt, a choice that maybe only Gloria Vanderbilt would give me higher than a C+ mark for. We loaded the Hakone hot spring resort bound buses for the final phase of orientation. The goal was for the students to get familiar with the university, each other, and get in touch with nature in a peaceful setting. The getting to know each other part of the agenda was checked off the list quickly. Yes, lesson one of off campus orientation was from the book of Hadaka No Tsukiai, or, "naked communion," which is Japanese virtue speak for "breaking down barriers and getting to know one another in the relaxed homey atmosphere surrounding an onsen," or hot spring.
I didn't expect to be grateful for the eating humble bean curd pie lesson learned the previous day by easing on my distance rule when I stripped down to my undergarments with 2 freshmen girls the day before, until I found myself having to nonchalantly pull off getting naked with 30 of them at a time in a common tub. Though this was post millennium modern Japan, I caught myself once again uncovering a lesson from the Romans, this time Ancient Rome, and dipped in the public bath with more of the "student body" than I had ever dreamed. No wonder these professors start their teaching careers with a Happy Santa fantasy. They have mystical powers to maintain the level of respect they do with a skin-tight relationship with their students, and they snuck their way into my boundary lines with the gift of allowing me to let my guard (and not to mention unmentionables) down. The physical health check results came back with gold stars from that orientation week, and I was working on erasing all the red pen marks on my mental weakness chart from my decades old misconception that the suit makes the (wo)man. I was learning that those mobile home hospitals were going to follow me through my career in Japan to keep me some healthy state of mind and body, and that the presence of that Xray vision would always keep me in line. Next holiday season I'm going to visit Happy Santa, fully clad, and thank him for bringing me down to the respectable all too bare basics on the role of distance, boundaries, and bathing in teaching.
The move to Japan shattered my rock garden solid belief system of what the proper distance between student and teacher should be. I started out by naturally judging protocol here against what I knew from teacher exposure in my home, teacher-training in the College of Education, as well as teaching experience in American high schools. State-side, we kind of sat on our side of the Pacific and imagined those diligent Asian nations to be nothing but respectful to authority. Well, that's pretty much the case, and it has helped me enjoy teaching as many years I as have here. However, the recipe to creating that perfect bowl of respect calls for a completely different set of ingredients on this side of the pond. The lack of distance teachers keep from their students was a true shock to me, and although 14 years in I've traded in my Heinz ketchup for soy sauce, It still humbles me on a daily basis while I'm trying to relearn what truly defines a respectable teacher.
You can't judge a professional by her footwear. In New York, you see women in suits power walking through their metro commute to work with heels in hand. The assumption is that they get to work, then change into the more "professional" attire upon arrival at the office. In my first awakening at the elementary and junior high schools in Japan, I found my colleagues were dressing up for their commute, impressing the other passengers on the train with their professional attire, and dressing down for work, depressing this particular colleague. Once they arrived, they would change into casual "jerseys," (the Happy Santa brand line was a big, year round, fashion hit) as well as indoor shoes, often sneakers. The students had a similar ritual. They had an outdoor uniform that they wore from their homes to the school entrance. The boys wore black suits with shiny brass buttons and the girls plaid pleated skirts, white shirts and bow-ties. When they got to school, they changed their shoes to indoor classic Keds-like sneakers and uniform jerseys, which resembled the style of sweat suits I wore for gym class in the early 80s, except I didn't have my student number and name in kanji in bold across my chest. The ready for a pick up game class atmosphere left me feeling like we were bringing the professionalism (or what could classify as American level of intentional distance or chill factor) down a notch.
Each teacher had a desk in a common "teachers' room," which cannot be compared to the elusive "teachers' lounge" in US schools. When I was in high school, the teachers' lounge was surrounded by mystery. You dared not disturb a teacher in the lounge, no matter how urgent your inquiry. The closest you got was on a lucky day when the door opened as you passed by in the hallway and you got a glimpse of the smokey dome. Japanese students walk freely through the teachers' room, communicate with teachers, escort them to their next class, or come in just to give a teacher a quick shiatsu shoulder massage between classes. It was a message and massage room, and took my whole 3 years in the junior high to adjust to, or at least somewhat accept, the concept. Students would approach teachers in a casual tone, patting them on the arm in a teasing fashion. There was a closeness that I just never expected, and only to a point could I play the part. Accept a shoulder rub? Well, I blended in eventually. Put a jogging suit on to teach the past predicate? Never.
The student-teacher closeness continues as students advance up the ladder of education, as does the student-teacher level of common activity. When I started working at a junior college, I found students asking instructors openly about dating advice--personal, hands off type talk that would have potential law suit don't go there written all over it in America. Sporting and cultural festivals play a significant role in every level of Japanese education, and teachers get their hands dirty right along side of their students during the planning, prep, execution and celebration stages of these events. One year a student group wanted to sell tacos at a food stand at the college fair. My colleagues invited student groups into their homes to coat the plan with salsa and spice and everything just a tad too nice for me. When a successful event or a term came to a close, professors would, on the light side, take their class out and would have a few beers over a meal with their (legal aged 20 year old) students, or more elaborate planning would take some on a day trip to a ski resort, or to an overnight at a hot spring. My value system has danger zone red flags all over that, and my social system just wants to keep students at school, and free time at home, on the slopes or at the Inns.
When I moved on to the university from the junior college, I did my best not to disturb the "Wa," or group harmony, and I took the active roll expected of me starting at orientation. First on the agenda was the annual, nationally mandated health check administered on campus. All university students, faculty and staff visit the mobile home like hospitals that pull up and stake camp for the first 2 days of orientation. On day one, I found a little plastic container with my name on it in my school mailbox. Relief #1 was that at least I can do that test in the privacy of my own home. Unrelief #1 came on the next day, when I was greeted by student volunteers working the collection site. I swallowed my privacy laced pride and (in vain) discreetly handed over my "sample" to the cheerful sophomore scheduled for my 2nd period class on Wednesdays.
The eager student volunteers were manning the scales, height charts, and everything that required simple data entry as opposed to the advanced tasks requiring a certified doctor or nurse. I would have drawn the line at having a student, even a senior, draw my blood with anything more than crayons and construction paper. All employees were undergoing the health check tests along side of the students, so I kept reminding myself, "when in Rome, do as the Japanese do." Unfortunately, that proverbial pep talk didn't prep me for what was to come next: the chest Xray. Confident that a technician, and not a pre law student would be taking the films, I entered the Xray mobile home and took a seat in line next to the 2 girls on a bench built for 3. The attendant peered from behind the curtain and, unlike the Great and Powerful Oz, gently asked us to prep for the shoot. Prepping didn't mean touching up with lipstick or running a comb through the hair, rather, it meant removing our shirts and waiting together on that bench in our bras. That was phase two of my orientation to tightening that distance leash between teachers and students.
Having survived the closest you can get to a pantie raid on a campus without a Fraternity hazing culture, I eased into phase 3 of my orientation: the road trip. Armed with clipboards, the faculty checked the freshman class into one of 6 tour buses for the off campus orientation. My previous exposure to faculty clad Ho Ho Happy Santa sweat suits prepared me for the Levi look my coworkers sported to fit in with the travel theme. I took that in stride, and admit that these qualified teachers commanded respect Armani or not, yet nonetheless, I couldn't bring myself to blending into the part completely. I met them half way by donning a denim skirt, a choice that maybe only Gloria Vanderbilt would give me higher than a C+ mark for. We loaded the Hakone hot spring resort bound buses for the final phase of orientation. The goal was for the students to get familiar with the university, each other, and get in touch with nature in a peaceful setting. The getting to know each other part of the agenda was checked off the list quickly. Yes, lesson one of off campus orientation was from the book of Hadaka No Tsukiai, or, "naked communion," which is Japanese virtue speak for "breaking down barriers and getting to know one another in the relaxed homey atmosphere surrounding an onsen," or hot spring.
I didn't expect to be grateful for the eating humble bean curd pie lesson learned the previous day by easing on my distance rule when I stripped down to my undergarments with 2 freshmen girls the day before, until I found myself having to nonchalantly pull off getting naked with 30 of them at a time in a common tub. Though this was post millennium modern Japan, I caught myself once again uncovering a lesson from the Romans, this time Ancient Rome, and dipped in the public bath with more of the "student body" than I had ever dreamed. No wonder these professors start their teaching careers with a Happy Santa fantasy. They have mystical powers to maintain the level of respect they do with a skin-tight relationship with their students, and they snuck their way into my boundary lines with the gift of allowing me to let my guard (and not to mention unmentionables) down. The physical health check results came back with gold stars from that orientation week, and I was working on erasing all the red pen marks on my mental weakness chart from my decades old misconception that the suit makes the (wo)man. I was learning that those mobile home hospitals were going to follow me through my career in Japan to keep me some healthy state of mind and body, and that the presence of that Xray vision would always keep me in line. Next holiday season I'm going to visit Happy Santa, fully clad, and thank him for bringing me down to the respectable all too bare basics on the role of distance, boundaries, and bathing in teaching.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Standing Room Only
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.
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.
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.
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