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.

A Day in the Life

The sound that results from soft human facial tissue scraping against asphalt reminds me of an apple on a rusty metal cheese-grater. It’s not a particularly unpleasant sound, but when it’s coupled with the visual it becomes gut-wrenching. Not having much experience with this specific frequency of resonance, I can’t really say if Japanese face sounds any different than its Western counterpart, but I’m sure it’d be hard to secure funding (much less volunteers) for such a study. I hate to say it but the man whose face introduced me to this sound probably got what was coming to him.

The day started out innocently enough. It was a lazy afternoon in early November. The trees were sighing restively in their vacation between the summer heat and the winter chill, and the whole world seemed to be smiling. I was strolling to work at my usual leisurely pace when a man in a black leather motorcycle jacket sprinted past me. My first thought was that he needed to catch the train that was leaving in the next minute, you see this from time to time, but then I realized he was running away from the station. A few seconds later two men dressed in the characteristic orange apron of the Tokyu supermarket flew past in hot pursuit. I made the connection, “but petty crime doesn’t exist in Japan!” I told myself. The chase was out of sight now and I didn’t want to be late for work, so I continued on my previously plotted course. Just a side note on punctuality in Japan, the etiquette seems to be, “if you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. And if you’re late, you’re an asshole.” Probably the single most important message hammered home in training was the very real possibility of losing your job over being late, even just a single minute. Even the trains are considered to be delayed if they’re running 2 minutes behind schedule. It’s about the direct opposite of Bolivian punctuality.

Anyway, when I reached the school I was unable to ascend the stairs because of a dramatic struggle. Literally in the entryway of the building I was to work in that day, the shop keeps had caught up to the leather clad man. One had his torso tied up in a scissor leg-lock, and the other had the culprit’s hands pinned behind his back. His face was getting cozy with the street, but still holding delusions of escape, he was thrashing about like a rabid wolverine in a box trap. Scrape, scrape, scrape, apple on a rusty metal cheese grater. Surely whatever he had taken was not worth the physical damage generously applying itself to his face.

After a few minutes of watching the struggle I noticed an elderly Japanese woman hobbling up. I initially thought having her interest piqued she was merely joining the ever-increasing crowd. But she pushed on through and began collecting items that were strewn about; a compact makeup kit, a cell phone, a packet of tissues. It culminated in her wrenching free her purse from the ball of writhing limbs on the ground. I’m still unsure if this is a common occurrence, but given both the shock of my students at the news and the fact that it happened at 3 in the afternoon in a well populated area, makes me think it was an isolated event.

Tofu Trickery

“Where am I going?” This has been the defining question of my early years in adulthood. Uncertainty came vacationing in the spring of my 14^th year and for more than a decade, has never bothered leaving. It’s grown less conspicuous in its maturity, but to say its intensity has floundered would be a downright lie. If anything, it’s procreated, begetting little doubts that explode on my resolve like bees on the windshield of a fast-moving vehicle. The only difference is that my life hasn’t come equipped with wipers. So forward I stumble hoping not to misstep, all my chips banking on the fact that I am still moving. There’s an old English adage stating “a rolling stone gathers no moss” and I fully intend to milk the spark of my youth into kinetic motion for as long as it’ll burn.

Recently, I’ve been putting in motion plans that may lead to my next potential stumbling-ground. I’ve decided to apply to an ostensibly great Masters program at King’s College in London. It’d be more International Relations, but with this I’d actually have the opportunity to go into the workforce at respectable level rather than entering as a coffee jockey. If accepted to the program, abject poverty of Orwellian proportion will be my new bed-mate. I have but only a year (saving) to brace my bank account for the stifling expense of London. I’ve implemented a budget that would make homeless people blush.

My top lunchtime meal at the moment consists of the three cheapest things I buy each week; bread (88yen for 8 slices), tofu (92yen for 400 grams), and onions (39 yen a piece). Out of my overzealous frugality has emerged a surprisingly tasty little dish. Apparently, extra firm tofu has the same consistency as fresh mozzarella, so with a bit of pesto smeared on it my taste buds are none the wiser to the Italian impostor. In a country where if you ask the supermarket staff for cheezu you’re more likely to be pointed in the direction of the map section, fresh mozzarella pesto sandwiches reign supreme. This self deception reminds me a story I was once told by a German friend of mine. He recounted how his parents, living under Soviet poverty in East Germany, never had enough money to buy meat for everyone. So what they would do is buy a tiny morsel of either fish or meat, cook it and hang it from a string over the dinner table. Then everyone would close their eyes, fill their nostrils with the smell of cooked protein, and immediately take a bite from their loaf of bread that served as their dinner. In this way they might get the satisfaction of an actual meal later that night in their dreams. Of course I haven’t sunk to this level (yet) but I do have a slight worry that the added estrogen in my system will facilitate mood swings and man-tits. It’s going to be a long year…

However this is not the youthful optimism I shall approach with. Thus far my life has yielded many ups and downs, each with its own particular style of uncertainty, but through it all I’ve never hit anything insurmountable. Plus, financially, I’ve got the cliché of my generation on my side; “Charge it!” Wish me luck in my struggle.

Life is beginning to happen again!

The summer holidays descended like a pack of hungry hobos on a cheese sandwich; fierce and agile not out of sporting nature but out of necessity, bellies three quarters primed with the anticipation of dairy fat. Afterwards, even those who failed to sooth their lonely stomachs breathed a sigh of relief. The hottest Tokyo summer on record has finally broken. The cicadas, with new life, seem to have taken up the symphony of a wedding march instead of a funeral dirge. The birds are laughing again and the produce venders have an extra day to sell their fruits and veggies. People everywhere are emerging from their air-conditioned caves to greet the autumn. Once hibernating kids, on fresh spring legs, have sprung up to repopulate the playgrounds. I’ve taken to walking beside the tree-lined canal in the evenings, going over the day’s Japanese words and ever searching for a tasty morsel of the abovementioned cheese.

There are two edible substances in this world that are impossible to hate; bacon and cheese. Now some might protest that because of religion or health reasons, we should avoid these things at all costs. But who can honestly say when they walk past a pan full of frying bacon that they don’t have the slightest inclination, even for a fleeting instant, to put some in their mouth? Cooking bacon is an olfactory Siren irresistibly calling out that it wants to be in your stomach. It’s spotlight sunshine on a grey day. Its message tiptoes through the air to plant joy -scratch that- the potential for joy on your brain with the grace of a ballerina and the nervous urgency of a mousetrap. There are certainly many people out there who can resist the pull better than I, but Oscar Wilde put it best when he said, “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.” Much in the same way, cheese seems to be so guiltily pleasurable it’s blinded the tongues of 130 million Eastern Asian island dwellers. Seriously, I can’t figure it out, cheese just doesn’t factor into this culture, which is strange because Italian food is hugely popular. Chain “Italia Tomato Jr. Cafés” can be found in nearly every part of Tokyo, but they specialize in the cheese-less meals like Spaghetti Bolognese, and Japanese-inspired shrimp/mayonnaise pasta. Being such a virile supporter of Lasagna, I always feel as though I’m about 7 beers and 700 Japanese words shy of starting a revolution. Rest assured I’m doing my part to support these flagging industries, eating all things cheesy. Hakuba, in addition to inspiring pristine peaks and swimable lakes, brought the dankest Mexican food I’ve yet eaten in Japan. The blame for such a gastronomic indulgence rests squarely on the shoulders of my vibrant (and drink-inducing coworkers) but I digress…

The reason so little heed has been recently paid to this virtual receptacle for my mental diarrhea is that I’ve been on a paid vacation for nearly a month, logging the fifth country with my ever-sunny, firecracker of a girlfriend. She was out here for only two weeks but we managed an incredible amount, hiking through forests next to waterfalls hundreds of feet high, sampling the sexiest sushi in Tokyo (yes it was indecently good), and museum/shrining until our eyes rolled into the backs of our heads. The time together always seems to slip by unabated by the friction of everyday life. Now I find myself wondering how the next meeting could possibly follow suit and be better than the last.

Pervs in Training!

In 5^th grade we were given a choice. I say choice but in reality it was like choosing between being the kid with six fingers, and having to deal with three days of a minorly abrasive rash. Everyone chose the rash, the alternative was madness. At that age, to not attend an event with the majority of your classmates was to set yourself up for (what seemed like) a lifetime of future exclusion. You could never tell when something unifyingly significant would happen, and those not around would have to stretch their stomachs full of envy as the story was told over and over again. Replay value for 10 year olds is inexhaustible, so everyone went along with it. We were told that we were going to be marooned somewhere in the ichy woods for a long weekend under the auspices of the didactic duo Melarvie/Poulin, but after we discovered it was to be held at the El Shadia bible camp, we expected a fate much worse than having to poop outside. This would be an endurance test for our patience, a torture-rack of tediousness, millennia of preachy monotony crammed into a barrel of fun -less monkeys, the one’s who didn’t make the cut. I remember having pre-departure visions of leech-filled beds and prison-style imitation gruel based meals. The only upshot was that it would be shared misery, sure we’d suffer, but we’d suffer together.

Last weekend, I hosted the exact same thing with an Asian twist. A group of 50 6-9 year old Japanese children signed up for the summer English camp, so drawing on the past experiences from my ongoing youth, I packed accordingly; a bandana, two changes of underwear, some goofy shades, and a quart of whiskey (the latter being only for medicinal purposes and my did I need it). At the very beginning with the kids, there seemed to be very little difference between my El Shadia trip and this one; the children were all nervous, not wanting to leave their mothers, and shy around the strangely tall, western-looking counselors. However these reservations took all of about an hour to sublimate into the pollution-less air of the northern Chiba hills. The kids were climbing all over me like ants on a honeyed rice cracker when a striking difference hit me (poked me actually, but I’ll get to that). These youngsters’ counterparts in The States, effectively me at camp in my younger days had an ingrained subtle ubiquitous homophobia common to most American pre-teen groups. The Japanese youth on the other hand, seemed not to be bothered in the least about it. Let me elaborate; Stateside, unless you grew up on a commune or in San Francisco, touching a member of the same sex’s privates or backside immediately earned you, at the very least, a fierce ripping. If the offence was great enough, or you caught someone in a bad mood, you were more likely to draw punches than harsh words. In Japan however, it’s perfectly normal, it’s even become a game.

Kancho, the first time I heard it I found myself wondering if it was the name of an adorable Japanese mascot, maybe Barney’s counterpart; Kancho the morose Japanese monkey. However, if you’re an English teacher living in Japan, it becomes a psychologically traumatizing fact of life. The aim is simple, start with your hands clasped in prayer, next extend the index fingers of both hands out to form a point, finally take the contraption and try to stick it up teacher’s ass.

Before you come to Japan, they send you a list of important details to keep in mind when making the transition. These are things like bringing extra clothes because large sizes are impossible to find. Or not blowing your nose in public because the Japanese find it offensive. But nowhere on that list, and I mean nowhere, did anyone ever mention that a kid might try to stick his (or her) fingers up your butt. Now if you’ve ever been around kids, you’d assume the boys would be the perpetrators the majority of the time, but the females are the ones you really have to watch out for. Worse yet is that I find that I naturally let my guard down around the really little girls. They’re adorable; they could hurt a fly, then BAM! Like a true kancho assassin they strike with accurate ferocity. Yet another thing I'll never get used to…