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.

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.