Yet Another Trek 'Round the Sun

Well, it's gone and happened again; another year has crept up noiselessly and established itself before anyone could even think to ease off of the accelerator. Here we are more than three quarters of the way through the year, 2012 knocking on Autumn's doorstep, and I haven't yet gotten used to writing 2011 on the date column. I suppose at some point you learn to stop struggling at the brake and enjoy the whooshing sound the years make as the train of life gathers speed. But with every new year comes another birthday week, and this year's proved to be a fantastic mix of chaos and delicious.

A woman navigates through the bustle of a Shibuya street
while talking on her phone

It was interesting from the start. As it turns out my birthday in Japan is celebrated as a national holiday. Don't ask me why these East Asians stop all business on behalf of little old me, but the result is such that the day before is alight with social activity. Aside from the workers of chain-restaurants no one has to get up on the 19th day of the 9th month. So, planning accordingly, I was all set to go on a 2 hour cruise in Tokyo bay, scoping the skyline and having a few drinks with friends. I finished work around 5 and, as luck would have it, the first train after work would get me there just in time for departure. Everything was going smoothly until, 10 minutes before arrival, someone jumped in front of my train. The "personal accident" (as it's directly translated) delayed me just enough to miss the boat. It felt just like a crappy made-for-tv-movie; me, dressed in a ridiculous pirate costume (did I mention it was international talk like a pirate day?), sprinting to the dock only to witness the boat slipping away a mere seconds ahead of me. If they'd have let me onto the departure pier I could have easily long-jumped onto the boat as it was pulling away....dramatic indeed. But not all was bad. I had my camera and got the opportunity to try my hand at capturing to energy of the Tokyo nightlife.

Two days later an unbelievable typhoon hit Tokyo. When I got the call from work that the schools were closing for the day I felt like a celebratory beer was in order. However, I made it just two steps out the front door before the elation was (literally) blown off my face. Winds in excess of 100 mph and torrential rain also seem like something from a bad disaster movie. I even witnessed the trailer for it: A man in a black business suit walking towards the station during the peak of the storm. His balance-point is artificially shifted forward against the wind giving him the appearance of a swimmer perpetually primed to launch into the pool. In his raised arms he carries the shredded taters of what was once an umbrella. Through some storm-induced delusion he is still trying to deflect the frenzied raindrops, though his tool is about as effective as using a fork to eat miso soup. I had to admire the man’s perseverance. He was trekkin it to a station where the trains were likely not running, self-saturating and risking sight from the whirling debris, all for a JOB? Hard workers these folks are indeed! Though from a very young age they're conditioned to give full commitment to the society/group they're included in, this even extends to the company they work for. So when a worker takes a vacation away from his job, it's a common practice to bring back omiyage (souvenirs, usually edible) from the place he's just been to. The significance is that he is offering his sincerest apologies for straining his coworkers with his share of the work. As a token of this gesture, he offers up the tasty treats so that he may be absolved of guilt. 

The streets in the aftermath of the typhoon.
All of this was flying debris only hours before

Speaking of guilty. The night of my birthday a few friends and I visited one of Tokyo's most famous Sushi houses 美登利寿司 (Midorizushi). I won't blather on about how great the food was, but take a look at the photos and decide for yourself. Enjoy.   

The credit for this shot goes to my friend Jim Buell. A mouthwatering work indeed

mmmmmm, negitoro....

The Best and Brightest of Summer

Over a year ago I decided that one of the things I wanted to do while here in Japan was to climb Mt. Fuji. So in September of 2010 I put some serious planning into making this desire a reality. Unfortunately, when I went to book bus tickets my less than perfect Japanese was not the only thing standing in my way. Apparently the climbing season runs from the beginning of July to the end of August and after that bus and mountain service are greatly reduced. Not having the time or money to make it into a two day affair I resigned myself to attempting it again next year. Well that year has passed and this summer vacation I came prepared with the memories of last year's defeat and more importantly, friends with a car.

Respectfully named Fujisan in Japanese, the summit rises a sky-scraping 12,389ft above sea level. Traditionally climbers hike up to the 8th (of 10) station during the night, catch a quick sleep, and see the sunrise from the top, but since I left directly after work (around 10pm) the night before I had to be content with viewing the morning sun from the parking lot at the bottom. I'd say it was still a pretty rewarding way to start the 12 hour hike. 

Finally, after about 7,500 ft of vertical increase, a thunder storm, $7 bottles of water, and geriatric climbers causing colorful snaking queues, we made it to the top. Up here the air is thin and accordingly Japanese climbers take fast pulls from aerosol-style oxygen bottles every few steps. However, the view is spectacular and even those not a little lifted by the oxygen feel like they're on top of the world.  

Far above tree-line any construction materials used at the top of the mountain have to be packed in. So, logically the buildings are constructed almost entirely of the abundant volcanic rock surrounding the crater. Up close they make for an interesting texture, but they're also a nasty thing to snag your eyeball on.

Here I am, not too exhausted, demonstrating the express lane down the mountain. 

After getting so high on the beautifully symmetrical mountain, I decided the remainder of my summer vacation should be spent relaxing by the seaside. So I jumped on the train and in just under 2 hours arrived at a fantastic Ryokan (Traditional Japanese Inn) in Ito, on Izu's north eastern coast. Izu is an arrowhead shaped peninsula jutting southward off of Japan's Honshu Island. It is most famous for it's brilliant onsen  (hot springs) boasting well over 2,000 springs. In fact, our Ryokan had an onsen available for use at any time day or night right inside the premises. Can you say 2am cannonball into boiling water?

Just south of Ito lies the stunning Jogasaki coast, a beautiful section of seaside with crystal blue water and jagged cliffs.

Jogasaki is a popular place to film both TV and movie productions, especially ones about suicide. Here my friend Nick Erickson contemplates the 2 second rush one would have plunging into a watery grave below. SPOILERS: He didn't end up jumping.

The Eternal Buddha watches over all at Shimoda's Gyokusen-ji temple.

Here the sky lit up in a fireball at the cemetery home to the graves of sailors from Commodore Perry's infamous Black Ship Fleet.   

After a long day of beers and beach we stumbled back into town only to run head-on into a procession of Taiko (Japanese drum) karts. Marching to the cadence of whistles and to the melody of flutes, they paraded their way through the packed streets.

Even the spectators were dressed in traditional garb. Here two yukata (light cotton kimono worn in the summer) clad onlookers follow a kart as a man furiously thumps at his drum. 

While searching out a place to eat we came across these men hoisting a Dashi (festival float) practicing for the final evening's event; to create enough crowd-pleasing hoopla and momentum in order to gain the judges approval. Once this happens they'll be allowed entrance into the shrine where the now powered-up dashi float will reside for the rest of the year.

It's a Slippery Slope When You're Skating on Lard

“Congratulations, you are very shrim.”

Fourteen months ago this response would have instinctively caused one of my eyebrows to shoot up. Perhaps I would have even accented it with a stroke of my imaginary philosopher’s beard, as I pondered the possible meanings. I might have tried to proceed with the conversation using a series of educated guesses (it’s likely a positive adjective) but later, through an impossible number of missteps I would discover that my guesses were about as educated as a snail attempting calculus. Some students are just as likely to say “you are very Saturday. “ However, today I’m unfazed. It now takes my cranial filters a fraction of the time it used to when pressed to decipher a thick accent. Logic does the brunt of the work. I pause momentarily. The Japanese syllabary doesn’t include a sound for “si” or “l” ergo, it feels more natural to use し(shi) andり(ri). A clinking of abacas balls upstairs and soon I’m staring at the typewritten printout of the word “slim.” Duh, I should have gotten that one from context.

I had just finished telling the results of the recently published report from the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation. In collaboration with Trust for America’s Health (TFAH), this study documents obesity rates, for both children and adults, by state in my mother country. Quickly becoming one of the most heavily cited health evaluations in the US, it lists Colorado as the only state with an obesity rate of less than 20%. Thus the compliment from my student, in all its gloriously mangled tones, makes sense, or does it?

If you read a little deeper into the study you find that a 19.8% rate for adults is nothing to be proud of. It’s like being cheered for being the thinnest kid at fat-camp. It’s still just fewer than one out of every five people not being overweight, but so fat that they have to buy two seats on any airplane they choose to travel on. Furthermore the report goes on to say that in 1995, just 15 years ago, this number would have gained my home state the title of fattest with a capital ‘F’. So what’s changed? Have our diets really worsened that much? Are we too busy to get a little exercise now and again? Have the portion sizes started to resemble a feed lot rather than a restaurant? Maybe it’s increased stress levels from the economic paralysis we’re currently facing. Whatever the case may be I’ll be interested to see how this progresses over the next decade or so.  

Is it Mexican food keeping us prepped for perpetual winter?

With my curiosity piqued, I looked up the obesity rate in Japan. Care to guess? Of course it’s lower than the US, but how much lower do you think? Nope, try taking that number in your head and divide it by a factor of 3, now you’re close. It turns out Japan’s rate is about 1/10^th of the national average in the states. Weighing in at a measly 3.2%, it makes the observation of an obese person only slightly rarer than a Godzilla sighting. Lucky for me, I happened to spot one of these majestic creatures a few weeks ago.

His waddle, for it would be an affront to the English language to say walk, reminded me of the kind of shuffle Mr. Potatohead would do if he were animated. It all started with me channeling cold thoughts inside a sparsely packed train, on a sweltering Saturday morning. The AC on the train was doing all it could to keep the passengers from turning into puddles of goo, but at the first stop, almost eagerly the doors opened and the heat fought its way back in. And with the burst of high temperature, came the monster. The first thing I noticed was his belt. It must have taken a whole cow to provide the leather for this thing. Circumnavigating his robust midsection I wondered if it wasn’t just three normal sized belts tied together. I tried not to stare, really, but it was like telling someone not to notice the sun; he had his own gravitational field and my gaze was quickly captured in orbit. Across the way from me sat two 小母さん obasan (little old ladies) who were equally perplexed. I could see this was a rarity. Between the elderly women was a polite cleft of no more than 11 inches (29 centimeters). It seemed the respectful comfort space afforded to others when the train was outside of rush hour traffic. The fat man tottered to a stop right in front of us, sweating more than a prison steam vent. He eyed the space separating the women and one could almost hear the gnash of the gears going to work in his brain. For what seemed like a lifetime I panned back and forth between his 7-point-turn and the ever widening eyes of the two grandmotherly pancake victim candidates on the bench opposite. They both appeared to realize what was happening but were paralyzed not knowing what to do. As the countdown to impact neared, they (just barely) gathered their belongings and cozzied up to their fellow passengers in an impromptu imitation of a can of sardines. Impact, a shockwave rippled, then silence. I felt uncomfortable for them, and even more so for their American counter parts who face the same thing ten times as often… 

Compassionate Carnivores

It’s peaceful here, out away from the oppressive heat. It’s almost as though Mother Nature, acting on a compassionate whim, decided to remove the bell jar she’s been keeping over Tokyo these past few weeks. Air as stagnant and stale as a vegan meat locker has begun to circulate, and once more the outside world is youthful and attractive. Lazily, my mind drifts on the wings of the summer breeze finally alighting on the story one of my students imparted a few days ago…

“Cows have been in Japan since sometime in the early 2^nd century” he began. “They were originally brought here as work animals to help in the rice fields, but as beef consumption became more popular, numbers multiplied and people started looking for ways to justify investing in such a new venture. It quickly became apparent that fattier cows meant tastier meat, so cattle owners began to hire workers to massage the animals in the hopes that it would improve the meat quality.”

“Wouldn’t that be the life” I interjected.

“Oh, it gets better” he continued. “The overall process hasn’t changed much in recent times. The massage tradition still continues today but now the real focus, just like with people, is on diet and exercise. No exercise, or as little as possible is the best, and a diet high in fiber, makes for the optimum fat to muscle ratio. Furthermore, farmers have discovered that they can feed their cows beer to encourage appetite.”

The Ramen shops I pass at midnight flashed to mind; packed with salary men still smelling of Karaoke parlors as they slurp their noodles more ferociously than a fat kid at the bottom of his milkshake. It makes sense. It seems the drunchies (drunken munchies) are geographically omnipotent regardless of what name you give them and after all, why should they be limited to only the realm of man. If Japanese cattlemen want to treat their cows in the same way as visiting dignitaries, why not, but it also begs the question as to what percentage of Japanese Buddhists are pulling for reincarnation as a Kobe cow? It would be a pretty sweet life. I’m tempted to think of it as a bit like the Asian answer to the Greek Symposium. Drinking and massages on a weekly basis, there are surely many more difficult existences out there. It’s reported that even the venerable Samuel Butler glanced east towards the land of the rising sun when he penned the lines “Man is the only animal that can remain on friendly terms with the victims he intends to eat until he eats them.” (Note-Books, 1912) If nothing else we are compassionate carnivores.

“Do they also feed the horses beer?” I inquired.

“That, I don’t know” he replied.

Now you may be thinking this last question was a clever ploy to simply keep the conversation going, after all it is my job, but it was asked in earnest. The reason was that not too long ago, I’d found myself staring down an immense platter of raw horsemeat. In Japan, because of its pink color the stuff is aptly named sakura (桜 cherry blossom) or sakuraniku (桜肉 literally cherry blossom meat). If it’s made into sashimi, the popular way to serve it at izakayas (Japanese bars) and the manner of cut I was glancing at, it’s called basashi (馬刺し). Delicate slices about  1/8^th of an inch thick were layered on top of each other and thin streaks of white marbling accentuated the pinkish flesh. Upon the first bites I was struck with the impression that my mouth, although it was wearing a slightly beery filter, could hardly distinguish between this and the cooked meat we’re so fond of in the west. It was just a touch sweeter than beef and not at all as chewy as I imagined it to be. I suppose I could liken the consistency to the offspring of an older cheese and boiled bacon. Not so terrible and once I was past the psychological aversion it was actually quite pleasant. Those of you who are Japan bound, if only for the experience, should definitely put it on your list.  

Shake, Shake, Shake

Have you ever seen a paint-shaker in action? It’s really quite a clever invention. Like an oversized version of the mechanism your cell phone uses to vibrate, an off-balance weight is spun round and round by a motor. This creates a well ordered wobble and blends your paint without the sore shoulder that results from doing it by hand. The 9.0 magnitude earthquake that hit the upper-midsection of Japan’s Honshu Island on March 11^th was nothing like a paint shaker. That is to say the comparison could only be drawn if instead of shaking paint you decided to shake landmines. It was catastrophic, it was violent, it was vertical, and I was 250 kilometers from the epicenter. God knows what it was like farther north.

That Friday began like many other late winter days around Tokyo; bland and depressing. The sky was the color of cement. However, keeping in mind that a wise man once said, “Climate is what we expect, weather is what we get” I was on the train in reasonable spirits. I had nearly reached the place I was to work when suddenly a shuttering emergency stop was made. The initial tremor couldn’t have lasted more than 2 minutes but time was whiplashed to nearly a standstill. I’m surprised to say that my first thoughts were not of imminent destruction but whether or not the person in the wheelchair across from me had her wheel locks engaged. A brief flash played out in my mind where she careened about the train car like a pachinko ball running a particularly complex slalom. Would she retain the politeness of Japanese train etiquette? “Sumimasen, I’m sorry a huge earthquake seems to have caused my chair to run over your shoes, I hope you’ll forgive me (many bows as the next tilt begins to take her in another direction).” Silently I cursed lonely planet for not supplying the necessary vocab for such a situation. “How to demand an apology from an earthquake powered collision with a handicapped person.” Actually on second thought, I doubt I’d have given it much attention. Undoubtedly the phrases wouldn’t be an accurate translation, that is unless I lost 40lbs, grew tits, and aged 20 years. In Japan, your language is always a reflection of your age, sex, and social position. So when faced with the task of creating a wide reaching phrasebook, more often than not the translators go with the super polite form. Meaning my words to that poor girl in the out of control wheelchair would come out as, “I’m terribly sorry to bother, but if you have a moment I’d be overwhelmingly appreciative if you might try to keep that roller-chair off of the tops of my feet. Much obliged.” However, she proved to have a death-grip on the stabilizer bar, and I didn’t have to say a word.

Not forming foreign words in my head freed up my eyes, and what I saw was the ingenuity of Japanese design. The buildings bobbed and swayed to degrees that I was sure God would be shouting “Jenga” on every successive tip. Even the lamp posts on the street approached 45, but nothing toppled and after a while the shaking grew less. That’s not to say that it ever stopped, even today, two and a half months after the fact, we have daily aftershocks. Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s just all in my mind, I’ve become so conditioned to it. I wonder if this is something I’ll be telling a therapist 10 years down the road.

After we hopped off the train and walked back to the nearest station, it was chaos. The line for taxis was already 3hours in length and word went around that the trains would be down for quite some time. I sat down and drank a beer, trying to figure out what to do. I was 40 km from home and there was no bus headed in any helpful direction. So I started walking following the tracks. At 3:30 in the morning I arrived home and exhaustedly fell into bed thinking the worst was over. Though, a few days later cries of “Nuclear Apocalypse!” reached Tokyo, and it’s been a rollercoaster ever since. But every storm cloud has a silver lining. I don’t look back thinking I’ve had 2 evacuations, six hours of walking, six hours of waiting in line, 700 aftershocks, and many sleepless nights. Instead it’s a chance for deviation, an opportunity to try something new, a temptation for vacation, experimentation, the option of seeing what happens to a paint shaker full of land mines. Here are some photos of the experiences I’ve had while having to escape…

Gastronomical Delights from the Orient

When I think of all the strange, exotic food I have encountered in my travels, I recall eating Cuy (spit-roasted Guinea Pig) in the shabby central market of Banos, Ecuador, where the proprietress of the three stooled stall I lunched in gave me relationship advice. She was a cheerful, stout woman, who looked like a well-fed reveler, more aptly suited to be lazing in one of the many hot springs surrounding the town than sweating over the smoldering coals of her tiny grill. Even in poverty the simple side of glee is not contained to one specific culture. When she served up a hulking plate (“don’t eat the eyeballs” she informed me) I was astounded at how similar to chicken the taste was, nearly indistinguishable.

I think too of Manaus, the lush smell of moisture and jungle, and the first Brazilian churrascaria (grill house) I entered. Well dressed jovial waiters constantly patrol the dining area in search of empty plate space for the huge shish kebabs of meat they wield. To someone who’s both inept at the language and unaccustomed to such generous solicitations, it’s quite common to end up with a plate full of mysterious body parts from unknown animals. I probably ate 12 chicken hearts before I worked out the translation, coracao (pronounced “core-uh-sow”) de frango, only slightly different than Spanish. To be honest though, I thought they were giant, Brazilian, grilled olives.

However, these past gastronomical undertakings pale in comparison to the Japanese cuisine currently gripping my attention. Odori Zushi/Gui, or dancing/jumping sushi when emphatically translated, is sushi that is still living when you eat it. Ebi (shrimp) is a common choice for this type of sushi because it’s small enough to fit into your mouth without having to cut it into pieces. The course’s preparation begins with what at first glance appears to be a humane last rights ceremony. The shrimp is submerged in sake to intoxicate it. However, this is not in fact to ensure a less painful passing, but rather to keep the shrimp docile enough to not jump right off the plate. Next the chef, with a few swift slices of his knife, skillfully removes the entrails and flays open the meaty back of the crustacean. Seconds later the dish is placed in front of the customer and, assuming they have the bite confidence of a rabid mosquito, is consumed briskly. It’s said that one of the most alluring aspects of this meal is to feel it wriggle all the way down to your stomach. In a land where seafood freshness is praised almost as highly as drinking ability, Odori Zushi/Gui never raises questions of quality.

In the spirit of one-up-manship however, it must be mentioned that the Koreans have their own take on dancing sushi. Sannakji is made from a live nakji (small octopus) which has been cut up into small pieces, lightly seasoned with sesame, and served immediately. What the customer is presented with is a chopped mountain of octopus bits, usually still visibly squirming on the plate. Now you might be saying, “that’d be way easier than eating a live shrimp; you don’t get a sense of the whole” but eating Sannakji is much riskier than eating Odori Ebi. The reason is because the suction cups on the tentacles are still active while you’re eating them. So if you’ve been on the sake wagon all night and perhaps forget to properly chew the writhing mass in your mouth, there’s a chance that suction cup will find a place in your throat to call home. Several cases of choking due to a blocked airway have been reported in connection to Sannakji, a small risk to take in order to check it off the list of things to do before I die…

A Lightning Rod for the Unprovoked

One of the safest things you can bet on in the consideration of moving your entire life to Japan, is that you’ll come across customs that are seemingly otherworldly. For example, on the first Sunday in April there’s a festival in celebration of the second most import thing God gave to man (female companionship being the top spot). Care to guess before I start in on the details? Here’s a hint; it’s both a tool of destruction and construction. No, not quite a pry-bar think sexier. That’s right, it’s the festival of the penis. For the entire day processioners gallivant about toting phallic floats, the women sometimes ride large wooden tributes, and it’s even been reported that children, oblivious to the shame their post-pubescent predecessors feel, entertain themselves with aptly shaped lollipops. Strange, obfuscating, un-relatable, these are some of the words that don’t succeed in fully capturing the tribulations one’s sure to encounter in such an unfamiliar place. I remember thinking just before takeoff (LAX to Narita) “I hope I can keep my head above water and my foot out of my mouth” but idioms and wang-worship aside, nothing prepared me for the introduction I received on the train a few weeks ago.

It all started innocently enough (it always does) with a friend’s going away party in central Tokyo. The night itself progressed as though it’d been casually rehearsed a thousand times, and in a way I’d seen it all before. The script read something like this: The frugal youth in an attempt to rationalize their spending of 2000 yen ($23) on an all-you-can-drink try to imbibe from here all the way to the event horizon. In this way they can part the painfully sharp, piss-stained curtains of the next day’s hangover with the knowledge that each of their 14 drinks cost them only one dollar and 47 cents! Japan, you’re a booze-hound’s freshly painted fire hydrant! But I digress, when the clock struck 10 and last orders were taken, the reality of life began to creep back into everyone’s veins. There were serious classes to be taught the next morning and accordingly, last trains to be caught.

A female coworker and I headed back towards Shinjuku (the busiest train station in the world servicing an average of 3.64 million people a day, and therefore the connection hub for all of Tokyo). On the train I was approached by a Japanese man about my age who slovenly spilled a few thickly accented words in my direction. They came out something like this; “ehhh toohh, yuuuu Amayrican?” “Yep” I replied, though my answer wasn’t quite up to par with him apparently, because the next thing he tossed at me was not more sloppy words but rather his fists. Now I suppose it should be noted that except for about .03% of the male population in Japan, I’m guaranteed a height advantage over anyone by around 9 inches, so his first blow didn’t land squarely on my chin but on my shoulder instead. I had a short flashback to the numerous no-face-shot scruffs I’d had in high school, but thankfully the nostalgia lasted only an instant. He was frothing with rage, so as a reaction I grabbed his wrists. For what seemed like the better part of 5 minutes we waltzed about on the train, him screaming and struggling to free his bound hands and me minding the spittle he was flinging at my face in fury. How long had it been since SARS had passed? When was the last time he brushed his teeth? I mulled the questions while we danced in time. When the stop for Shinjuku arrived I pushed him away and attempted a hasty dismount, but my coworker having a much better command of Japanese than I, was appalled. She advanced on him trying to talk some sense into the rabid man. Pop, without even a hint of ironic shame he socked her in the face. A crowd enveloped him (where was sympathy for me?) and we were ushered off the platform. Realizing that a police report would cost us our last train we got her a bag of ice and said goodbye. The next day I had to teach a lesson titled “Stranger than Fiction” and although I didn’t get to talk about the penis festival, the discussion was anything but lacking in character.