Without Borders

Somen noodles put this small island on the map-sort of

2010-05-10T06:16:00.001-07:00

Consider it blasphemy for the Japanese to have their soul crop, rice, step out of the lime light. For just a moment, rice's estranged second cousin, somen, needs a few praises to be sung.

In Shodoshima, a small island stranded without much awareness in the Seto Inland Sea, sandwiched between southern Hyogo and Shikoku, is not known for much. The majority of tourism comes from within Japan. and perhaps locals prefer it that way. With a panorama of ocean views and a sleepy, small town feel, Shodoshima may want to keep the subtle charms of the island to themselves.

Yet, a noodle known for a taste as simple as the island it comes from, has even foreigners wondering how these thin, surprisingly scrumptious starches are made. The answer is with complete care and an old fashioned know-how. When visiting a somen factory, the building itself is not a factory at all, but a small barn-like house that can give a start to finish tour in under an hour.

Ingredients are first mixed and processed into a pasta paste that are then elongated several times by different machines. Once as thin as shoestring, they are hung on huge racks and must be separated by hand.
Large wooden chopsticks are used to simply sift through the somen so that each strand of soon-to-be noodle wont stick to itself when set outside to dry. After about two hours of drying, the noodles are put on a machine where they are then cut into a shorter length where they can be packaged and sold.
Shodoshima may not have the waves of Miyazaki, the presence of big city Osaka, or Ise's pearls, but they do have noodles--and tasty ones at that.

On being foreign

2010-05-10T06:08:00.000-07:00

In America, being foreign is status quo. Most, if not all, people hold their original roots overseas. In an idyllic, utopian sense, this is what America stands for—a free nation where people of any ethnicity can come and make a new home.

However, there are others who find home oppressive and foreignness liberating. They seek unknown lands and the urge to feel like an outsider trailblazing new paths. Their quest to become foreign themselves is nothing new. Because of the globalization of industries and ever-expanding educational systems, it has become easier than ever to live abroad. And with the current instability of the economy, especially in the US, it is a common alternative for adventurous Americans who would like to try a new lifestyle.

According to a recent Gallup poll, 700 million adults, or roughly 16% of the world’s population would like to permanently move to another country. Top destinations include Europe, America, Canada and Singapore. Yet, if all of us who can afford this international transition actually takes the leap, that leaves only the least desired destinations as a place where one can truly live as a foreigner. Thus, to get a strong sense of what it means to be foreign, you have to go to Africa, the Middle East, or parts of Asia where foreigners are few and far between.

Japan is a country where being foreign is a place marker for your role in society. In such a hugely populated, homogenous culture with a set of societal standards and rules that are staunchly obeyed by the Japanese people, foreigners maintain jobs and social status of a foreign class. Most expatriates living in Japan are working in English education, translation, or for a foreign corporation. It is more than difficult to assimilate as a foreigner when one will never be fully accepted as part of the native class; however, perhaps the challenge is what makes this lifestyle worth living.

In terms of language, Japanese is one of the harder languages to master if your linguistic base is in English or another Germanic/Latin based language. With characters rather than letters and a grammatical structure almost polar opposite from English, it takes nearly a decade to have fluent conversational skills and literacy. That fact alone separates the leavers from the lifers.

Communication is essential for those looking to be successful in a career or just handle daily life like choosing which brands to buy at the grocery store. If you’re without basic communication for an extended period of time, you start to feel stunted and your scope of understanding the culture is as obsolete as your ability to make a dinner reservation. Icons and butchered English can become commonplace for your communication standard, but after a while, one wishes for more.

However, there are some freeing aspects of a far removal from a functional member of society. Similar to a baby and their fresh view of the world, expatriates see everything about this country as an adventure and a challenge to overcome. Those who seek such a lifestyle often feel invigorated with daily minutia that was once boring. Life is exciting and with constant change brings new eyes for old and a sense of accomplishment at even the simplest of tasks.

By social standards, Japan is a law-biding country where people think of the greater good of the group rather than individual success. Citizens are conditioned to believe that their contribution to society must be equal and on par with everyone else’s. Any American-bred expat would consider this an assault on personal freedom; therefore, a balance must be made by foreigners attempting to respect and ultimately assimilate to a Japanese way of life while maintaining a personal identity that may have only been useful in a past life.

Again, on the other side, expatriates may enjoy this anomie and loss of self-identity. In Freud’s theory of melancholia, he explains that people often seek difficulty to harness a pain in which they feel is pleasurable. Similar to exile, expatriates want to live a life they are forced into. Yet, the reality of their situation is that it is by choice, and in today’s ever-growing globalized world, it is a popular choice at that.

full circle

2010-05-10T05:09:00.000-07:00

Fishermen cast out their reels with red sensors attached to the end of the twine. Ahead and below is a bottomless night ocean. The red sensors beam with a stream of determination only to land like a floating buoy above water. Ahead a purple light streams from the illuminated monstrosity of the suspension bridge. It's true grandeur is diminished with the absence of daylight, but the little pegs of colored light outlining the bridge still can remind me of how small I and the fellow night fishermen are in comparison. The light from the bridge dusts the dark sea with a fuzzy blanket of color. Behind it, the island hillside is lit up with little specks of soft, yellow light like a Christmas tree. Passing ships chug along with little will, but simple goal in reaching the nearby port.

Standing here, at the edge of this dock, I once felt I had reached the end of the world. Nothing was around and everything was out of place. Again, standing in the same place, I've come full circle, but this time everything can be placed. The name of the island across the bay, the fishermen eager for their meager seafood dinner, the jogging path I chose from the first day I arrived.

Bait plinks into the ocean water with poise. Swift swishes of the thin twine whirr by my ear near enough to nip me. What is this melancholy now? Something usual, prescribed by Freud or perhaps all expatriates who feast on a sordid lot of unfamiliarity? I still feel like a stranger, but in the dark, I don't stand out as much.

It could be the transition of things--yet again. A general questioning of life and where it leads. But, instead of asking myself in a crossroad moment of confusion, "Where am I?", I'm better off asking myself, "Where haven't I been?"

So I stand alone, as solitary a soul as when I was first born, comfortable in the brazen darkness that could shroud the little lights along the bridge. Yet, instead the darkness makes them seem brighter, and each one uniquely part of the beautiful string they've created along the bridge. I've explored this coast, only to arrive where I began, and know the place anew. Still, it feels as if it's a secret--me and this ocean's edge. Fishing rods whip again like a sharp chill, but with a soft finish on an ocean mass that looks like jello mold. No one can find me here-- among these night fishermen.

kujira

2010-04-22T08:02:00.000-07:00

The first taste of whale. An oily meat. Darker than expected and with little flavor other than a slight tang and chewy texture.

The southernmost prefecture of Shikoku, Kochi, is a hot spot for whale culture. In saying, "whale culture," it is a bit ambiguous, because it is an amalgam of cuisine and cuteness. There are whale icons everywhere and many boat tours take tourists out for whale watching excursions. However, whale is also featured on almost every menu in the city. Is this a sad game of sadistic irony Japan is playing on these massive mammals of the ocean deep? Or is it such a strong bond that every essence of the whale needs to be loved. Of course, the rest of the world would disagree with the latter. But, the Japanese feature whale like an exoticism of a culture past that shouldn't be sent to sea.

the Tokyo Complex

2010-04-22T06:57:00.000-07:00

Every great metropolitan city has it's loyal fans. There are those of us who flock to big city living for a chance at a fast-paced style in place that is like an open oyster with many pearls. From fashion to fame, best rated restaurants and international savoir faire, these caliber cities are the mecca of all one could want from life. In it's populated streets and overcrowded transportation, people feel a convenience they couldn't find elsewhere. Big cities have an acclaim, a limelight that never dims if you harness it's energy.

So, what would behoove a worldly, cosmopolitan city-goer to think that there was anywhere else in the world left to see, since of course, where they are has it all. Cities such as New York, Sao Paulo, Hong Kong, Paris and Singapore command an inherent allegiance because of its stature as a culturally diverse beacon of the world's best offerings. Often with such exaltation and air of sophistication comes equal antagonism.

Many often feel that this metropolitan rat race is too hefty of a price to pay for a seeming lap of luxury. The convenience found in global cuisine and high powered jobs are more than willing to be traded for a more subdued lifestyle that adorns smaller cities with less international street cred.

Tokyo is one of the biggest cities in the world and with it comes those who believe Japan offers nothing greater beyond the boundaries of the Tokyo wards. Yet, take a believer out of his prized patch of Japanese city allure and allow him to see the other 46 prefectures. Temples aplenty, abounding natural hot springs, mountainous land and a local ocean breeze.

Venturing over to Kansai, Tokyo devotees see a simpler style of life, but lacking nonetheless in big cities and cultural energy. With Osaka, Kyoto and Kobe, city life can be divided around the area and each seen with a different appeal. Osaka brings the grit, Kyoto the tradition and Kobe the class. In between are smaller cities that are easily accessible by train and each have a distinct feel and a warmth about the people that is often lost amongst the clutter of a big city.

Of course, the razzle dazzle of the big city can charm you with a weekend away, but for practical living, perhaps venturing to the less likely cities will provide a different appeal that will allow a more relaxed lifestyle and a chance to see a side of Japan that is just that--Japanese.

A Sakura Spring

2010-04-14T09:12:00.000-07:00

Winter's cold has broken with the first buds of the cherry blossoms. The air is still crisply cool, but just warm enough to host some of the most beautiful natural scenery Japan has to offer. Sakura, or cherry blossoms, glaze tree tops with a beautiful pink and white floral frosting.

The blossoms themselves brighten the sky and canopy walkways with angelic haze that seems to draw sunlight into each petal and enliven trees from the winter's discontent.

When there is a seasonal activity in Japan, people flock to parks and recreational areas and remind us all of how populated this country really is. Considering sakura season is a short and sweet two or three weeks, the famous viewing areas are always the most crowded.

Venturing out of the larger cities and into local areas wont fend off much of a crowd. If there is a cherry blossom tree around, chances are there is a hanami party under it.

Hanami is a simple picnic party in honor of the coming of spring and a chance to view sakura while they're in full bloom. At first, the buds perk open with a virginal white color and as they mature, their color changes to a soft pink.

In Hyogo prefecture, one of the best places for sakura viewing is Akashi park. This park has 1,200 cherry blossom trees, most of which surround the pond in the middle of the park. There are smaller spots tucked away with just a few trees, but the lining of the pond as all the trees hug the edge of the water, is the prime spot for hanami.

In admiring all things sweet and cute, Japan is fortunate to have sakura sprinkle the subtle start of Spring around the country. Sakura season is an embodiment of the classical romantic idea of Spring and it shows in the tired faces of businessmen who have taken respite in a bottle of sake and the company of their co-workers. And in the families and friends who prepare delicious bentos to be shared and savored in the softened sun.

It's a wonderful time of year in Japan and sakura is an excellent adornment for the turn of the Spring season. If only it weren't so long until the same time next year.

been blocked: a lamentation

2010-04-01T06:33:00.000-07:00

I hate the false sense of power the Internet holds over people's relationships. What sort of stance are you taking when you block someone or take them off of your chat list? Does it reassure you that some sort of defiance has been taken to sever ties? And the freaking Facebook--it's such narcissism to think that everyone needs to know what you're thinking or exactly how you feel at a particular moment. Are our own lives that uninteresting, and are we that unfulfilled with what we're actually doing that we need to report on it endlessly through a steady stream of social networking for some public validation? I guess this lamentation in itself is a self-indulgent proclamation on a social networking platform. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?

Dementia for Disney

2010-03-31T07:02:00.000-07:00

What's up with the Japanese and Disney? People of all ages are more than eager to go to Tokyo Disneyland and Disney Sea. They love the characters, the rides, the cheesy themed hotels, and especially the parade. On select holidays such as Christmas or Halloween, there is always some kind of special event featuring Disney characters doing even more inanely childish things.

Nonetheless, Japanese adults flock to the Disney amusement park not for their children, but for themselves. They come back with photos and tales of how they almost got to meet Donald Duck as if it was some international (human) celebrity, not just an underpaid part-time employee on his weekend shift.

There must be some sort of psychological reasoning behind why there is such enchantment and motivation behind visiting Disneyland, aside from the movies and characters that even American adults tire of before reaching puberty.

Of course, Japan is a culture that loves all things cute. Things, animals or people can be covered in fur, miniaturized, doe-eyed, or have an inviting color composition that would look good hanging from any accessory. The cutesy factor is prevalent in any icon of Japanese culture, which certainly diminishes the hardened, often cold exterior of the Japanese people. It is hard to strike up a conversation with a stranger and often uninviting. Yet, with a sweet, little Snoopy, Mickey Mouse or Tottoro dangling from your cellphone, it makes a certain social sterility bearable--at least on the exterior.

Still, the question goes unanswered as to why Disney is king. I guess American children grew up with it, and because of it's global prevalence, children from other countries are accustomed to the same fairy tales and characters. Even so, why not let loose a childhood reverence for a dressed up mouse with batty eyelashes? Perhaps comprehending the reality of Disneyland isn't necessary for Japanese, and it could be rightfully so. Maybe growing out of a Disney phase is unnecessary, and those Americans who are collectors or fanatics shouldn't be judged as a stunted member of adult society. Maybe Japanese have it right and it should just be a wonderful weekend away completely void of any notion of reality. It could be for a sense of sanity or a fresh breath of freedom from staunch societal shackles that Japanese adults would wish for such a sensation.

Even still, Disney could represent one overarching metaphor for the suppression of emotion. Only in a place of non-sensical fantasy can Japanese feel a zeal for life. That, or there is a pervasive obsession with American culture, thus the most iconic of American characters, would be revered as a mecca of all things wonderful--a chance to get just a little bit closer to the real thing. If only there were answers to such questions in life.

Uncommon Ramen

2010-03-31T06:21:00.001-07:00

In Japan, there is an endless possibility for noodles. They can be eaten at any temperature or texture, accompanied with varieties of meat or fish, seasoned with the strongest or weakest of taste, and featured thick or thin. Any way you like your noodles, there is probably a way to eat it.

Borrowed from Chinese cuisine, ramen is a bestseller in shops and stalls nation-wide. It has been adopted with a clean broth usually made from chicken or fish stock. The noodles themselves are the feature accompanied with a garnish of vegetable and meat, typically pork and green onions. Although the diversity of noodles spread across the board, ramen is traditionally this. However, in those places few and far between, ramen is revamped and made with an uncommon savor.

Keeping in line with Japanese culinary perfection, tomato ramen stands strongly at the top. It is relatively unknown since it diverts from that classical ramen taste; yet, what it stands for is innovation in a bowl of noodles completely overlooked.

Ichiryutei, a local ramen shop in Akashi, hosts tomato ramen among a row of other, now seemingly boring ramen choices. In its bold attempt to combine a tomato soup taste with cheese atop, it is reminiscent of a Campbell's soup, but better. Considering tomato-based broths are relatively uncommon, especially for noodles, only foreigners would understand the warm satisfaction in a good bowl of tomato soup. Especially on a rainy day.

Perhaps its a longing for a comfort food unfound in a strange, foreign land that prefers clear chicken broth for its ramen. Or it could be the Tabasco that is recommended for a little extra kick, or the continuous selection of Beatles music featured in the shop. In any case, tomato ramen is in a noodle class all itself and adds an extra category of an already extensive--yet possibly not innovative--noodle array. Itadakimasu!

Checking out the other side of The Cove

2010-03-24T08:24:00.000-07:00

Recent acclaim for Oscar-award winning documentary, The Cove, has unveiled a small Japanese fishing town to be a mechanism of dolphin slaughter. Japan is essentially the only nation that kills and consumes dolphins. Every year, nearly 23,000 dolphins die by the hand of Japanese fisherman in Taiji, Japan. Because of the shock value felt by oceanographic associations and animal rights activists around the world, this issue is seen as a national concern, one which was understood by the heroic efforts of a film crew and dolphin enthusiasts alike who risked arrest to bring the truth to light.

Of course, Americans will see this horrifyingly inhumane treatment of dolphins as a cause for concern. The film shows raw, clandestine surveillance footage of what really happens behind the “No Trespassing” sign of this Wakayama prefecture’s seaside cove. However, the aim of the American activists in making this film was to tug at the heart strings of Americans in theatres across the nation as they watch sweet, innocent dolphins being savagely slaughtered by a race of people relatively unknown to the American majority.

If the filmmakers could demonstrate a deeper understanding of the Japanese culture, one that would present both the traditional side and global opposition, the film could be more effective. Instead, watching ocean water run red with dolphin blood by way of guerrilla camera tactics simply instigates an emotional response, one of moral contempt.

The Japanese feel Westerners are imposing their own standards and values on the Japanese, which could be considered a sort of ethnocentrism. America is no stranger to the ways of propagating ethnocentric behavior around the world. Nonetheless, out of respect to the Japanese and credibility to the facts and filmmakers themselves, one would think that this issue of defining culturally universal values would be addressed. Alas, it was not.

Negotiating and compromising on a factual basis, especially when crossing cross-cultural borders, is the best approach to making a documentary film that should highlight a real issue of global proportion. Filming angry Japanese fishermen from a rural town when a camera crew of foreigners has no intention of civilized conversation or at least a few simple linguistic formalities of the language will of course enrage those who are trying to defend a practice that is globally attacked. This doesn’t make the Japanese fishermen of Taiji victims, but it naturally puts them on the defense.

On the same token, if humans watch anything die, especially in a somewhat unknown land and by people who are unidentifiable to most Americans because they are foreign, it will make us feel something.

So, Japanese would like to know, where is the line drawn? What is the difference between the hundreds of thousands of cows and chickens slaughtered in unkempt, often governmentally protected factories where working conditions are unsafe, laborers are underpaid and oftentimes working illegally as immigrants and the mass-production of meat works for the sole purpose of consumption. Why is it OK, or at least not globally challenged, that Americans kill so many animals? What is the criterion?

The film argued that the self-awareness of dolphins made them a unique mammal, one that can understand physical pain and pleasure more so than other animals. Such self-awareness comes in the form of the intelligence of dolphins to take their own lives under a state of depression from stress of performing in dolphin shows.

Nonetheless, this parallel of the dolphin's self-awareness to that of a human attempted to reason that dolphins are emotional beings. Be that as it may, most animals can feel pain when they are kept in captivity or killed. In the film; however, a self-awareness for an animal with a potentially keen sense of self turned into a sort of American self-righteousness for saving that particular animal. This view conveniently assumes that our own lives are the most precious and valuable form of life on this earth, and from that criteria, we can easily put price tags on all other forms of life in a hierarchical manner.

The argument could be made that dolphins don’t mass-breed in captivity, and are not being farmed or raised in herds for the specific purpose of being eaten. They’re being hunted. And any wild animal hunter either for food or game, should have restrictions so as to protect biodiversity and the homeostasis of the environment.

The purpose of the film was to try and get Japan to stop killing dolphins. It could be argued that the filmmakers and activists weren’t bluntly attacking Japanese society all together, just this “tradition” in which they deemed unknown to the majority of Japanese.

Yet, if Japanese tradition was honestly analyzed, it should have been stated that whale was one of the principle staples of protein during World War II, when the country was in a bleak state of turmoil and, as an island nation, they used the resources they could to survive. Due to dire need, Japanese used every part of the whale, including oils and certain tendons of the mammal as a substitute for rubber or plastic in various manufactured goods such as athletic equipment.

Japanese tend to reserve confrontation as a last resort. By attacking and exposing this ritual dolphin killing doesn’t make the Japanese want to stand up for themselves. It makes them retreat back within and attempt to smooth things out without public debate. This may seem cowardly to the American people, but then again, it’s a clash of culture which seems to be conveniently overlooked to prove some sort of arbitrary point that the Japanese are either ashamed or clueless about the goings on in their society with regard to dolphins.

Most Japanese may not have known about Taiji’s yearly dolphin slaughters, but they certainly knew about the Japanese habit of whaling, whether it was understood by living it or reading about the makeshift survival attempts of the people during times of war. The film seems to blur the distinction between the incident they were trying to document in Taiji and problems that could occur with whaling and sustainability.

Japanese are not blameless in this matter. Their politicians are just as corrupt as those of the Western world, considering how the Japanese bought votes from impoverished countries such as Dominica and St. Kitts to vie for whaling support at international whaling conferences where the majority of participants are opposed to Japanese habits of whaling. However, this doesn’t make Japan any more corrupt of a country than any other.

The film certainly caught the attention as a suspenseful and heart-wrenching story about the inhumanity performed on our mammalian friends of the sea, which it was dually rewarded for in the Academy Awards. However, if the objective of the filmmakers and activists were to stop slaughtering dolphins, they picked the worst strategy, mainly because they decided negate any opportunity to express both sides to a degree that would make Japanese at least seem somewhat intelligible.

Moralizing documentaries such as this one are ultimately just a piece of entertainment for the viewer which offers moral justice to each, and of course, we would be more than willing to pay for that rush of moral superiority. It’s hard to find an audience, or win an award for that matter, with a documentary that is objective and not moralizing since there is no feel-good sense of premature accomplishment.

Yet, we should feel responsible for understanding a situation fully before judging it based off of one film that takes a moral high-ground to chastise a nation of people who are otherwise uninvolved with dolphin hunting. If the filmmakers could exhibit the sensibility and sensitivity to the culture they were scrutinizing, then it would have deserved more than just an Oscar.

Onsen Kinosaki

2010-03-23T07:41:00.000-07:00

Although crispy tinges of winter air passed, the sun warmed a Sunday the way it should. It was bright and cheery when we arrived in Kinosaki. A breath of fresh air urged me to the onsen, to feel as relaxed as the quaint town around me.

Known for crab, Kinosaki boasts boatfuls of fresh crustacean on a daily basis. Often, it is the best culinary souvenir from this quiet north Hyogo town.

Lush mountain ridges encapsulate the small seaside village, and it is as peaceful from the top of the ropeway as it is around town. Light pockets of scattered sun spots made it easy to enjoy the surroundings. A steam strolled through the streets as leisurely as our nonchalance.

Making onsen tamago was easy. We just bought a mesh sack of raw eggs and put them in onsen water for about 10minutes. After, we clipped the top of the egg and enjoyed the deliciously half-cooked egg straight from the shell.

It could be the rose-colored glasses I've been looking through these days, or the fact it was my twenty-fifth birthday, or just a growing affinity for a culture that once seemed callously unknown; but, Kinosaki seemed a destination of uncharted happiness. It was a haven of relaxation, but in a quaint way. Ryokans lined the narrow streets following a shallow river with adorably small bridges. Old English lamp posts like the one you would imagine in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe marked every few feet with even more charm. And the peacefulness of absolute tranquility was the purpose of this town's existence--at least for me.

Actually eating the crab was much better than taking photos of it in the street. Yakiniku and crab nabe were in order for the feast of champions after realizing that was the only option for the evening. I guess closing shops and restaurants at 7pm was natural for a cozy town such as Kinosaki. Everyone was lounging like sedated frogs by the hot onsen pools or privately in their ryokan.
Before the train ride home, a foul-tempered foot bath attempted to warm our feet as the rest of us was drenched with a heavy rain and wind. I held on to the sunlit Sunday the day prior and remembered how beautiful that day would always seem--as a memento of perfection in the simplest of ways.
But, the weather was no mention because the company was so great. That's what I'll truly remember.

Sleeping is giving in

2010-03-03T05:53:00.000-08:00

Working hard or hardly working? The latter can't be said for the Japanese.

Beginning in junior high, a Japanese student's life is set into hyperdrive. They maintain a rigorous course load of regular academic classes as well as begin attending juku, or cram school, which is just an extended time for studying. From sun up to sun down, students are working tirelessly on maintaining the highest marks, so that they can then prepare for entrance exams into high school, and then university and finally get dumped into a job which will set the marathon pace for the rest of their career.

The word "work" is synonymous with life. In Japan, the only true acceptance into society, especially as a man, is to be deemed a hard worker for a company you stick with forever. Wall Street investment bankers and on-call cardiologists can't even compare to the overtime hours that are implemented in factories and engineering facilities across Japan.

In fact, this type of after hour quality control in factories is often done in 24-hour shifts conducted by middle management employees who aren't compensated for the overtime. These sessions claim to be "voluntary"; however, in Japanese working culture, that is the circuitous way of telling the employee that they will single-handedly sabotage the success of the company if they don't participate in this unpaid extra routine performance.

Amid all this overtime and underpayment, is there ever an inkling to question why? It seems unlikely considering the lack of success the Japanese government has had on setting legal limits for overtime work. During the 1970's, overtime work became the norm and many salarymen weren't necessarily arguing for a much deserved paid vacation.

For recent college grads, the first few years at a company are crucial in solidifying a position as an employee. Thus, many new hires are thrusted into an abominable 60-hour/week base and take it upon themselves as duty to continue to do more, even without compensation. In the Japanese workplace, longer is better. And also more respectful. If management is seen leaving before lower level employees, they feel ashamed by their lack of responsibility and leadership. Similarly, the rest of the staff feel obliged to wait until management leaves so that they can be seen as diligent and hardworking.

However, if the job is done, can't all employees feel good about the 9+ hours they've already put into the day and go home knowing it was a job well done? Apparently not because as opposed to most western countries that follow a pattern of linear hierarchy in job roles, Japanese companies work as a hybrid and function more like a soccer team, kicking work back and forth across the field until finally reaching the goal. It seems counterintuitive to do so, yet only if the system itself is questioned, which it rarely is.

After the '70s, the prevalence of overtime work took such a toll on Japanese that a word for the excessively overworked was coined. Karoshi, or death from too much work, was spreading throughout companies in Japan and even today is still a significant problem.

This is not metaphorical speak. Several reports of Toyota engineers since 2006 have died from working over 80 hours of overtime each month. One chief engineer was pushing 114 hours of overtime per month with bi-monthly international travel. He was found dead of heart failure in his home the day before he was supposed to fly back to the US to launch a new line of Camrys. Toyota's reputation has been tarnished by reports of other employees literally dropping dead during work from immense fatigue and heart failure.

If the work itself wont kill Japanese, they will sadly take matters into their own hands. According to government figures released in June 2009, nearly 2,300 Japanese had committed suicide that year due to work-related issues of fatigue.

With labor laws as ambiguous as they were 40 years ago, its a shame that companies who pride themselves on such a team effort couldn't learn from the loss of players past. It is not in the nature of any human being to have to suffer through life. Regardless of how much you love your job, it's more important to love yourself.

A sentou experience

2010-03-01T03:44:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it amazes me how easily I become infatuated with things. Usually, obsessions range from fat, furry animals to TV shows and whichever food I've chosen to be my favorite for the next few months. As humans are habit forming, we tend to enjoy what we know. And if what we know pleases us to no end, then why should there be an end at all?

My most recent infatuation has been in the vein of Japanese relaxation style. Sentous or public baths aren't the eerie American-style public baths you would never visit, but only hear stories about the married men who do, leading some sort of double life, frolicking to abandoned parks to partake in clandestine gay sex. Public baths in Japan are of a completely different nature, and one that represents a pinnacle of Japanese modern and ancient culture.

Each sentou features a variety of different whirlpool baths, some even include underwater electric currents that massage your body from the inside. It feels as if there is some source trying to suck out your organs, but if you just let go, it's relaxing.

There are outdoor pools, sauna and steam rooms as well as gambanyoku, a hot rock bed in which you lay on to soothe back aches. Most sentou come equipped with beer vending machines, which complete the ultimate relaxation in a 40C pool. Showers are aplenty as well as wrinkly naked women with untrimmed bush. It's rather amazing how long their hair can grow--like the whiskers of an old sensei.

In either case, sentous have enlivened my exercise regime as the relaxing finish to longer and longer runs. The sentou near Marine Pia, Taihenoyu, also boasts an excellent view of the Akashi Kaikyo Bridge and the Bay.

Ironical art of a new generation

2010-02-22T03:52:00.000-08:00

The exterior of a museum is judged like a book's cover is to the story inside. It sets a tone to otherwise encompass the body of artwork within the museum's walls. In the recent move from Expo Park to Nakanoshima, The National Museum of Art in Osaka celebrated its centrality in this often overlooked, grungier little sister city to Tokyo. Kansai expats and natives alike respect the gritty nature of a city internationally untold, and profess bold attempts to culturally enliven areas of Osaka, in a particularly modern way.

Japanese society certainly adheres to its traditions of ancient form, and of course, use its rich identity of archaic culture to inspire a generation of modernity. The current exhibition at The National Museum of Art celebrates 28 different Japanese modern and contemporary artists who use figurative painting to express a seismic shift in Japanese contemporary art that sets these artists in a category liberated from the context of western art history.

With this coexisting juxtaposition between an ancient culture still so vibrant in today's time along with a reach for modernity that often struggles to step out from the shadows of western influence, Japanese contemporary artists are asserting an ironical attitude about Japanese life. From modern sources of inspiration such as manga, picture books and the overwhelming imagery seen in Japanese advertising and daily life, these artists have come together to purport an enlivened expression of Japan from unique perspectives and uncommon attitudes of art.

A few highlights from the show:

Kato Izumi Untitled

Embryo-like figures are the recurring image of Kato's paintings as well as sculptures. He calls upon a womb-like existence, or fundamental component of human nature. He often has the shape of the embryo image extend its limbs into some sort of stem or bud, representative of a close connection between humans and nature and the cyclical behavior of living beings. What's interesting about his style is he uses his fingers instead of a paintbrush, which only compliments the functionality he's trying to capture in the connectedness of human existence. He is as connected to his art as his own fingers are his tools for construction.

His use of color is deliberate and more vibrant hues are used to emphasize the head and sex organs, an attempt to explain that humans are both instinctive and intuitive. Through our own self-reflection, we may see ourselves as an extension of what we touch, much like Kato's connection to his own art.

O JUN OCHIRUCO

The title translates into "the foreigner" and shows the flesh tone as washed out as the background. In a sense of distorted reality being upside down, many foreigners feel turned around in Japanese society. Yet, the person depicted looks Japanese herself, and in traditional school uniform, so perhaps its attributing the alienation and often sterile environment many Japanese feel within their own society, especially those of the budding youth. Aside from this particular piece, O JUN has a highly sexualized style that is depicted ironically in these soft strokes of oil paint, almost melting back into the canvas, as if some secret of the human condition is revealed to an otherwise droid-like sexual environment. However, adhering to the theme of ironic transitions, this perversity of O JUN's art isn't expressed as overtly as a western painter where society is completely inclined to such imagery. O JUN trumps the normal values of a Japanese life and challenges its very existence. It could be that this secret of human sexuality isn't a secret after all and thus the irony ensues.

Aida Makoto Blender

The sheer enormity (290 x 210.5 cm) of this image, painted in acrylic is certainly important to the piece. Aida has the mind of an otaku who has been more than influenced by the vulgarity and rawness of manga and Japanese comics. With such a strong infusion of the absurd, it is again in an ironical light that he composes this painting with the design to look like a real photograph. Inside this oversized blender is hundreds of nude women bodies, contorted and writhing with confusion. Toward the bottom, the blade had the better of them, and many of their heads and limbs are shown slushing around in blood. It is a thoughtless concept--this kind of tortured woman, trapped in a life similar to her female counterparts and struggling to make it to the top. The symbolism may have been apparent, but the execution was jarring and of course evocative--kind of like a car crash, you can't help but stare.

Kusama Yayoi Girls

One of the more veteran artists featured in the collection, Kusama has been completely influenced by western art and earlier modern movements such as Art Brut, Pop art and abstract expressionism. Nonetheless, her biggest inspiration has been her own insanity. Now living in a mental ward under her own will, Kusama continues to paint in what seems to be a surrealist style fused with a hyperbolic sense of feminism. Her most prominent feature is polka dots, which she attributes to hallucinations she had as a young woman. She would often construct paintings and installations with ideas she conceived during these bouts of mental illness. In a true surrealist sense, Kusama toys with this idea of infinity, much like Dali and Miro. In these sinuous lines that extend up like flowers and then follow the shape of a female face, the image continues into infinity, much like the aforementioned pattern of polka dots. As the image of the woman in the painting extends into that of another woman and so on, she also begins to lose her sense of direction, which would mirror her inability to delineate between reality and fantasy.

Nara Yoshitomo The Little Judge

Nara is a playful artist who is in the forefront of the Japanese Pop art movement, which started in the 1990's. He has gained a cult following around the world for his demurely designed children and animals that are often paired with unusually aggressive objects such as knives or other weapons. With influence from the crass collision of manga, graffiti and punk rock, Nara's confident yet cartoonish drawings are a sign of the darkness within the light. In a similar vein of the Children of the Corn, these children possess a potential evil, but what's ironic about Nara's work is that his children aren't self inflicting this poisonous violence, they're merely trying to protect their innocence from the rest of the world's negative space.

As each artist extends themselves to the public, a new meaning of modern is unveiled. This dichotomy of old world versus new happened so long ago for western artists (think Impressionism) that there is no longer this grappling of transition. For Japanese contemporaries, there is a louder cry for unadulterated Japanese culture--the one we know today and the one the rest of the world has to visit Osaka to find out.

blister

2010-02-18T07:22:00.000-08:00

My runs get longer as my days here get shorter. Each morning, around the same marker on the road, I start to have these overwhelming images of myself at the airport in the US. I picture myself frightened of all the westerners, and a child-like urgency to find my mother in the mess my mind has made of reality at that point. Running clears my head and helps me figure my next steps. I have so many blisters on my feet now as my mileage increase. But, I've started to think in kilometers instead and I think a new pair of shoes is needed.

A thousand steps to spiritual

2010-02-18T05:45:00.000-08:00

When I first heard we were headed to a shrine with a thousand stairs, I imagined the scene from The Simpsons where Homer eats extremely hot chili and goes on some sort of psychedelic trip where he ends up in the desert and climbs to the top of a pyramid-esque platform to talk to a fox formed god.

Of course, the true trek to Konpira-san was nothing of the American animated sort, but something had to beset my imagination for the duration of the two hours car ride to Kagawa prefecture.
After heaving up a few patches of steep concrete stairs, the small souvenir shops that accompanied the climb began to thin out, and ahead lied only more stairs dampened by the drizzle of an ongoing light rain.
My surrogate Japanese grandmother said if I could barrel up the last patch of steps in less than a minute, I was promised good marriage by the fate of Konpira. I didn't even hesitate to assume complete gullibility while she took her time behind me, laughing all the way. My knees were so wobbly they were laughing from the exhaustion of the many flights. I was happy to see even the fog-filled view of the forestry below. And behind me was Konpira-jynja, which even in a biting cold and dreary afternoon, seemed to glow with a presence of greatness. Or maybe it was just having to travel so far to get here, it felt so welcoming and warm.

There was a mixed level karate class practicing in the forum of the shrine's gravel ground. We stood and waited, watching the martial experts of men, women and children alike do warm up exercises in the pitter-patter pings of sporadic rain drops. As gaijin, special permission for our admittance into the shrine was requested and fortunately granted. We sat in a waiting area and warmed ourselves until our group was called into the shrine where the Buddhist priest chanted unknown words of good fortune for the year and blessed us over the head with a special sheathes of leaves attached to a bamboo pole. We then drank from a saucer a thimble full of sake and walked back across a wooden walkway to where our shoes were waiting for us.

We then got to choose our fortunes and I chose one somewhat in the middle. The short scroll told me that my health would be in pristine condition this year, but my business and money would be lacking in growth. In the realm of love, I would need to open my heart more to a man, but of course, all of this was haphazardly translated by granny and her husband, so I caught some significant bits and pieces, enough to make me believe in a fortune at all.

The descent was actually more difficult than the first attempt. My laughing knees remembered the strain from an hour past and had trouble keeping a straight face as I tried not to slip on accumulated rain that had started to amass in larger puddled as the day dripped on.

Udon for breakfast and lunch sandwiched our summit to Konpira-san. I was gastronomically and spiritually satisfied. If only I could've kept my feet warm enough not to catch a cold. I guess my fortune may have predicted the opposite after all.

Turning Japanese

2010-02-03T04:31:00.000-08:00

I made my first bold attempt at traditional Japanese cooking.

Here was the menu:

niku jaga (thin beef mixed with potatoes and carrots and onions in a sauce base of sugar, soy sauce, bonito soup [fish flakes] and sweet sake)

dashi maki (eggs rolled thinly over and over mixed with the bonito soup--like a sushi roll)

miso soup (from scratch--tofu, dried seaweed and green onions)

daikon salada (white japanese radish sliced thin mixed with tuna--served cold)

gohan (steamed rice)

Everything was simple and delicious, much like the majority of Japanese cuisine. But, I had a sense of pride for understanding how to do it. And how to find the ingredients without really being able to read any of the labels. I was guided by a few helpful women who have generously cooked for me before, and encouraged me to try. I felt a sort of duty to perfection because that's how most Japanese make their food--even foreign foods. The French bakery is as authentically French as possible. The Italian restaurant attempts native flavors. And presentation is flawless.

In my makeshift kitchen with only one burner top, I was able to win the stomach of my dinner guest, who said it was better than his mother's. I think the trick was the thinly sliced, small shaved pieces of beef. It was proportionally balanced.

There is a Japanese word I've come to love--kaia. It means from the heart. Cooking definitely takes quality, fresh ingredients, but if it's made from the heart, with a sort of passion for who you're cooking for, it will undoubtedly taste better. And so it did.

Jonestown, Japan

2010-01-27T06:22:00.000-08:00

As a country western society often thinks of as mysterious and replete with oriental wonder, Japan is certainly that. Japanese culture has an ancient appeal to countries that are only at a toddler state in terms of longevity as a nation. A rich history unique to western civilization offers years of cultural influence that can be safely adopted into a familiar society. These types of influences can include anything from cuisine, art, or traditional activities that act as the amuse bouche to an upper-middle class cultural education.

However, as the western world espouses foreign culture, the culture itself loses its authenticity as being foreignly unique. Wasn't this the appeal in the first place? So we can invite friends over and show them our washitsu-style rooms while serving them sushi and admiring the silk kimono we had imported for no real functional use whatsoever. Appreciating cultural influences within our own cultural comfort zones makes it easier for us to conceptualize a lifestyle without actually living it. Even so, there are plenty of foreigners who come to Japan and recognize the real way of living. For some, this may not be as enticing as your collection of woodblock prints or backyard rock garden.

The whole of Japanese society functions like a machine--a machine that is programmed to one channel and every component matches and is coated with an impeccable metal armor. The acronym "5s" stands for five Japanese words: seiri, seiton seiso, seiketsu, and shitsuke. This is the guts of the working machine. It signifies order, systematization, cleanliness, purity and commitment. Although Japanese have a reputation for being hard working and diligent in every aspect of life, their mechanical efforts is a guise for a real lack of efficiency mainly because machines can't think for themselves.

Japanese society prides the team effort. Everyone works and honors such a system because they are fearful of disrupting a harmonious balance and therefore being seen as the outcasts who fucked it up for everyone. Even from early influence such as primary school, children are made to dress the same, wear the same hairstyle and color (girls aren't allowed to wear makeup), and even sport the same backpack. Individuality is not prevalent or rewarded in any course of Japanese life, and educating the society's youth is an undoubtably reliable way to ensure that this method of cultural uniformity sticks.

Perhaps motivated by fear, Japanese have a general instinct, or lack thereof, that all things should be the same. It eliminates confusion, mishap and any need to explain oneself. People are completely capable of staying in an isolated bubble their entire lives while simultaneously being a productive member of society.

So, this begs the question of what kind of society? A homogenous society with the mission of hard work and amity over the belief that their community offers the best possible life? It almost sounds as if a cult could be forming, or if the entire country itself is in on it.

In the 1970's a socialist utopia formed in the French Guyana known as Jonestown, named after it's leader, Jim Jones. After creating an extremely popular following among people in the US, Jones decided to expand his group known as the Peoples Temple into an entire self-sustaining society under the pretense of an agricultural project.

Many of the Jonestown members were prosperous and lived a life they knew to be happy and free. They performed honest work, they lived off the land and everyone was equal. The members of Jonestown were mostly minorities or recovering addicts who sought solace in a religious place where they wouldn't be judged by the cowering hands of their oppressive society. They saw Jim Jones as a father figure, one who filled them with purpose.

As the largest mass suicide in history, Jonestown took the lives of 909 people. There is much controversy over whether these people died of their own free will or were coerced into taking their own lives and those of their children. Either way, the sheer devastation in numbers was enough to shock the world into recognizing the power of cult mentality and how it can claim lives of innocent people who didn't have enough independence to improve their own lives.

Japan is ironically cursed in the same way the victims of Jonestown were. The people of Jonestown pursued the truth in equality--one in which America could seemingly not provide them. So, they take the untrodden golden brick road to a utopia that ends in an untimely death. Similarly, Japanese people are the longest living race of humans in the world, yet they also have the highest suicide rate of any country to date. Could this mechanical 5s system delude individual thinking to a mob mentality no different from a cult? Sure, the society functions with poise and global positioning as an economic leader, but it is an insignificant claim in comparison to a life of true happiness.

Kitsune

2010-01-25T07:09:00.000-08:00

In the form of a fox, a woman takes hold of a human man. Like a Siren, she lures him with her tempting ways and her songs of seduction. Her sultry tail trailing behind, like an extension of her prowess and female force. The unassuming man follows and succumbs to pleasures of a paramount degree. He is left confused and feeling foolish, but desirous of more. Behind her roughly passionate ways is a softer romance only found in the illusion of the fox-figured woman. She charms and hauls his heart with care. Sayonara, innocent man. You've learned the ways of the woman now.

The way of the sword as a way to preserve history

2010-01-25T04:50:00.000-08:00

"A warrior has no confusion in his mind--this is true emptiness."

- Miyamoto Musashi

When death was the only outcome, a man had to fight not only with his sword, but with his mind. He fought for his life and with the preparedness that it was either him or the other. Mighty by strength and humbled by spirit, victory requires an inner resolution that can not be taught, but only felt by one's own integrity. A samurai. A warrior. A college student.

Literally translated as "the way of the sword", kendo is a traditional sport that embodies real practices of samurai sword fighting in what is now a popularized sport for many Japanese as well as audiences worldwide. In 9th century BC, the Bushi or samurai class formed in ancient Japan and the first prototype of a Japanese sword was created. As the weapon of choice, swordsmanship naturally became an area that must be mastered by the Bushi class, so schools known as kenjutsu (literally meaning the art of the sword) were founded by master swordsmen. At first, learning to use a sword was a matter of pure survival and self-defense. But, as the Bushi moved into more peaceful times, Zen Buddhism began to influence the mindset of the masters to teach not only technique, but also mental and emotional acuity when fighting.

With the demise of the Shogunate government, the Bushi class also became extinct as was the right to bear a sword. However, to compete on a global military scale, Japan therefore reexamined the practice of kenjutsu as a means of self-defense, but established a new base of rules and teaching, which became known as kendo.

Today, high school and university club teams exist across Japan and appeal to both men and women. Abroad, the sport is mainly practiced in North America and Europe and competitions are held on national levels. Often categorized as Japanese fencing, the manner of kendo is similar, but in theory it is deeply rooted in the conventions of classical samurai battle.

In observing a kendo club practice, it is evident the true values in preserving such an ancient sport. Each drill is done with deliberation and diligence, and with unparalleled uniformity. It's as if the minds of each student is trained to understand their peers better than they understand themselves. They are focused even on simple actions of preparation such as putting on the protective face screen, which is done in unison and with poise. For most sports that center around the individual efforts of the player, kendo still encompasses the movements of the whole, much like the way every member of a basketball team should look up the court and anticipate the moves of their teammates. Similar to Japanese society, the team effort raises stock in the individual attempt at self-betterment, like a finely tuned cog in the wheel.

Harnessing spiritual strength is largely why kendo is still practiced today. After World War II, kendo was publicly banned by the Allies because it was seen on an international front as contributing to the ruthlessness of Japanese soldiers and adhering to uncouth traditional methods of warfare. It wasn't until 1957 when kendo enthusiasts joined together to revive the sport as a practice to balance mind and body and improve Japanese society. Kendo players hold courtesy and honor to a high esteem and with each thrash of the bamboo swords, they command an intensity to ones inner character. The sport trains the body for physical perfection, much like other martial arts. But, without the long-lasting interest of kendo as a club, perhaps the spirit of the ancient samurai would be lost and along with it a piece of Japanese history.

Teaching kendo today is a way to promote the sincerity and pure goodness of a community and country who's traditions are often sifted out as an unconventional modernity pours in. For those who understand the way of the sword in turn understand a way of preserving history and the spirit that is held with it. And so a symbol of death now safeguards a promotion of peace and prosperity in hopes that Japanese culture can retain it's rich history of the samurai way.

Soul food from the streets

2010-01-21T05:42:00.000-08:00

A hot dog stand in New York City is often overlooked as just being a quick fix. A momentary indulgence in a sauerkraut laden culinary landmark of American fast food. And the taco trucks strategically parked in the financial district for the Los Angeles lunch crowd are not sought out for anything other than cheap, convenient eats. So, the American image of street food may not have a paramount reputation for taste or quality. However, in traveling to Taipei, it's easy for any American to delight in some of the finer Taiwanese cuisine straight from the streets.

Food stalls and outdoor markets are located in dozens of central areas of Taipei as well as neighborhoods bordering the city. They boast a variety of foods, all of which are cooked fresh and made with local ingredients. Considering much is made-to-order and always to go, the portions are small and can be savored for as long as it takes you to get to the next vendor.

Stinky tofu (tso-dofu) is a common contender for spotlight in Taiwanese night markets. It is fermented tofu basted and grilled in a sweet teriyaki-like sauce and can be nicely coupled with pickled vegetables (or kimuchi).

Who knew fried chicken could be better than it is in the South? Americans pride themselves on knowing fried foods more so than any other nation, but the fried chicken found in Taipei blows any southern-bred chef out of the water. The chicken breast is flattened and fried twice over; once before requesting your order and once after. Spicy seasoning is optional and highly recommended. The meat is tender and juicy, and the batter is light and crisp with a crunch of pure satisfaction. Choosing this night market splendor might make it more difficult to save room for the other savories yet to come.

What fills the belly will also fulfill all other senses. Aside from what you actually eat, the bustle of the night markets are visually ingested in gulps. There is enough concentrated commotion to make the night market the evening's final destination. From locals to tourists to anchored expats, they line the streets sometimes for several miles and keep shops open until nearly 2am.

The variety of foods, the sensory overload of Taiwanese people and sordid smells swirling like ribbons in a baton competition shroud any sort of pride for the NY hot dog stand and brother stall of salted pretzels. What makes Taipei street food such a cultural prize is that it is symbolic of the liveliness of the city itself. The small portions and simple dishes mimic the humble hearts of the Taiwanese people. The food prepared per order is a mark of an honest culture. As the streets fill with people, the lights glisten from below the awnings of the stalls and the steam strolls thickly into the night air, there is a presence of the real soul of Taipei--one with distinct taste.

A courtesy flush to kill the world

2009-12-07T18:04:00.000-08:00

At first it just seemed like coincidence, but now I'm fairly certain that all women in Japanese public bathrooms do this: courtesy flush--even if there's nothing to be courteous about. After all, it is a bathroom, albeit public, we have the same basic behaviors in there. We might be more vulnerable to a few noises of the gastrointestinally-challenged, but it's no cause for alarm. However, in Japan, even the sound of trickling pee is too much to handle. The moment a woman sits down, she flushes the toilet. Thereafter, she flushes it again many times, so that none of her stall mates have the slightest idea what's really going on in there. Is it really such a mystery? There's only a few things that someone would really spend the time doing in a public bathroom. So, why waste the eight gallons of water per flush simply to create the illusion that all you're doing behind closed bathroom doors is flushing a toilet? We know that's not all that's going on in there. Give it up girls, I wanna hear you pee for the sake of letting the environment be!

leaves of color

2009-12-01T06:22:00.000-08:00

Japan's four distinct seasons allow foreigners and natives alike to enjoy the same parts of the country several times over. As a city known for its wealth of traditional Japanese heritage, Kyoto is a popular destination anytime of year. But, with the fall foliage in full bloom, it's tree tops are attracting endless masses that could dampen the experience.

In autumn, Japanese maples yield spectacular hues of red, yellow and orange. Hillsides are transformed into quilted blankets crafted from the finest multicolored thread. Koyo, or colored leaves, are especially spotted in mountainous regions, parks, temples and shrines. Beginning mid-September and lasting until early December, the flecked foliage spreads from the northern island of Hokkaido to the southernmost islands of Kyushu and Shikoku. For a report on when and where to see the foliage in certain regions, please refer to the Autumn Color Report.
As a basin region located in the eastern part of the Tamba highlands, Kyoto is surrounded not only by dense vegetation, but it also hosts the largest concentrated number of temples and shrines in Japan, thus making it one of the best places for viewing koyo.
Since the Japanese maple foliage seems to sweep almost city-wide, there is certainly not a lack of options or vantage points for viewing these leaves. Some of the more popular places include Kiyomizu Temple with it's breathtaking landscape view from above the city streets as well as Kodaiji Temple that is especially beautiful at night because the temple grounds are illuminated with light, offering a very alluring appeal. The best park for maple hunting is Arashiyama, which lies along the outskirts of Kyoto city proper. The mountains hug the Hozu river that, complete with shrines sprinkled about, is the ideal fall destination in Japan. Japan Guidebook offers the 10 best places to see fall foliage in Kyoto.

If your time in Japan is limited to a short visit, it would be advisable to brave the crowds and snap away at a photo-centric scene. There is a calmness to Kyoto as a city surrounded with traditional architecture and Japanese culture. But, when faced with the hordes of maple hunters, the pristine imagery of seeing these impressive leaves in all of it's natural splendor seem to dissipate when you have to stand in line just to walk down the street. Areas such as Arashiyama are so packed with tourists and Japanese from other areas of the country, it often detracts from the real quietude of nature.

Nevertheless, our scrapbooks are filled with incredibly colorful photo-ops and the fresh fall air is a pleasant breath in from the insufferable humidity from the summer past. Often, events in Japan like viewing of the fall foliage are notoriously congested with people. However, the daily life for many Japanese involves having the patience for the packs--whether it be in rush hour on the train or in urban cities where the majority of the population inhabits. Finding these beautiful niches of the country isn't difficult. Enjoying them clouded with throngs of people it what takes effort.

Seoul searching

2009-11-26T06:59:00.000-08:00

Wherever our travels may take us, the journey itself is a quest for authenticity. That truly Italian cup of espresso you sip as you sit in a sidewalk cafe. That untrodden road leading to a local's only beach. The handcrafted jewelry you bought after a successful barter. In experiencing a place, we want to feel this unique sense of culture, as if we truly know what it is like for those who live it daily. We are prideful of those sacred moments with natives or those seemingly unspotted places in the city that remain untouched by a foreign glance. We hope we are the first to find a place and knight it with a shining glow of authenticity.

But, sometimes there are those trips you take and you aren't really searching for anything. The journey finds you because it knows where you sleep. Hostels are a way to enliven any travel experience mainly because of who you meet. It's a motley crew hailing from every corner of the world. The Spanish girls who arrived at 3 am, the Brits who camp out on the couch, the Israeli squatter who lives in the makeshift closet off the living room, the traveling Brazilian singers and the Swedish professor. Although the accommodations are usually small, modest and shared, what you do pay for isn't reflected in the furnishings, but in the companions. The hostel-goers are the ones who have at least some inkling of adventure in them to veer off the common course of hotels and packaged tours to make their own road less traveled.

Hostels exist all over the world, and were popularized in Europe for their affordability and acclaim among young twenty-something backpackers. But, after staying for a whirlwind visit of Seoul, Asia has proved a heavy contender for the quality of hostel experience.

Note to self: don't travel to Korea in the fall or winter. It is cold. So cold. And with a bite of wind. The majority of sightseeing activities and places of note in the city were outdoors. The markets, Seoul Tower, temples I have had enough of in Japan--all were understood in the pocket sized guidebook I read on the bus on our way to the airport back home. But, the memories of what actually did happen were better than trying to mimic the suggested sightseeing route from the book. It was authentic without trying and unable to duplicate--a completely spontaneous weekend wholly shaped by Bong's House, the hostel we chose simply by judging the book by it's cover. In this situation, it served in our favor.

Bong's House was homey and in a central part of the college town in Seoul. It had remnants of Boston with it's university-lined cobblestone streets and red brick buildings. Choosing a hostel is arguably the most important part of the trip because it is home base in a foreign city. It orients you with your surroundings, and in a way, acts as the center of the city. You will learn how to go everywhere on the basis of finding your way back to your hostel.

When searching hostel sites, a big, virtual security blanket is the ratings. Hostels are designed in a "by the people, for the people" mindset, so those of us traveling have a certain trust in the opinions of fellow travelers for no other reason other than we have nothing else to base our reason. We travelers anchor mixed memories of a certain hostel environment and those of us planning ahead, try and find the reviews that are most unanimously positive.

Kahlil Gibran wrote in his novel, The Prophet, "We wanderers, ever seeking the lonelier way, begin no day where we have ended another day; and no sunrise finds us where sunset left us."

The journey is always the inspiration that leads us to another place. Authenticity cannot be defined by a text and taught in a class where the light bulb blinks once something in finally understood. Authenticity shoots random beams of light through the cracks in the floor--it is that mysterious light that has crept itself around the corner, egging you follow it. In our travels, we find ourselves, which the most authentic belonging we can possess. With each new stop, each random encounter, each fleeting moment is still an impressionable memory that changes us permanently like a scar--we will never forget how it marked us and we carry it even if we've lost our belongings and permanence in life.

Gibran says, "the lust for comfort murders the passions of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral." Travelers who find the hostel aren't seeking comfort, they're hoping for adventure and an experience they remember regardless of where they were. We often forget that the homes we make may not always be permanent or well-known. They are a shelter from the cold, a home away from home, and an inspiration to move again.

I guess it's Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T06:42:00.000-08:00

Turkey Day has come and gone in this far away land of lackluster American holidays. Of course, Japanese don't question the arbitrary tendency to celebrate Christmas, a holiday with absolutely no religious or cultural significance and in fact is more similar to Valentines Day. Surely the Japanese have heard of the brutal sabotage of the Native Americans and how Pilgrims single-handedly destroyed any sense of their heritage other than the reservations they deign to live on. But, I guess today is a day where our bellies are too full to realize how bringing up the white man's burden created a whole new sense of American history.

It would be nice to have some turkey, though. Alas, there is not a single oven in this country that could fit a full-bodied bird. We expats resort to the comforts of rice balls salted with tears and Korean BBQ drinking parties. The memory of sweet potatoes and corn bread is almost as distant as Native American culture in the U.S., sparse and sedated with alcohol.

Bow all means!

2009-11-20T06:39:00.000-08:00

Pipe down, conservative wackjobs. When I read that there was actually controversy of President Obama's bow to Japanese Emperor Akihito, I imagined Dick Cheney sitting on his toilet taking a dump, almost herniating over the news.

Since Obama's inauguration, conservatives have been in a delicate mourning of Democratic victory. They, of course, scrutinize every move Obama makes, which certainly is expected of any government official. Even still, respecting the custom of the country you're visiting could hardly be considered "groveling", as some reported.

Obama has recently been made an honorary citizen of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in order to make amends with a historically crass relationship with Japan and deem America's status against nuclear warfare. His bow, to a son of a former Emperor during the atomic bombings of World War II, seemed only an appropriate gesture of appreciation for said citizenship.

In Japan, bowing is a customary greeting. When bowing to someone of higher status, it usually entails a longer, deeper bow to indicate respect. It is also common to express thanks, request for a favor or to apologize. It certainly isn't a sign of weakness to bow instead of giving a firm handshake--but the two together?

Perhaps the handshake alone is far too right-winged; a symbolic screw you and your customs. And the 90-degree bow is culturally appropriate and dignified, but with that hand shake gumming up the real significance of it's meaning, it just looks awkward and can't please either party. Nonetheless, conservatives wouldn't be satisfied unless Obama wore a mask portraying him as a white republican, so chances are he'll be online fodder for weeks regardless.

Brutal Polka

2009-11-19T05:58:00.000-08:00

We take our time getting dressed. Put on some music to loosen up a little while we scrutinize every blemish on our face. We have a blank slate and a full plate that we hope is first class and paid for. Dating is exciting. It's a chance to meet new people and feel like the possibilities are endless.

Dates can be daunting as well. You might go blindly into it, set up by your friend who's friend of a friend is also single. You might find yourself sitting sadly while you wait for a not-so-charming prince to arrive as you belly up to the bar for a second margarita salted with tears. You might sit passively, nodding to your drone of a date while your inner self is devising a stealthy escape through the bathroom window.

Whether you're reveling in dessert that's as decadent as the man across from you, or swearing off the opposite sex all together because you just can't seem to find the right one, there's always one thing you can count on: the rules of the game.

The dating game is different in every country and with it comes a set of prescribed steps to take before strapping into the roller coaster we call a relationship. In Japan, they call this roller coaster a jet coaster, which refers to the same mechanism, but in just a slight change of the word, the ride can be completely different.

Japanese dating can best be described as a brutal polka. The traditionally Czech dance is a series of small half-steps with a partner. The Japanese method to this "dance" is in a start-stop rhythm. They move toward each other, but then awkwardly pull back--and this back and forth continues until it looks like a convoluted seizure.

Men and women play a spying game on each others minds. Men side step softly, making only a subtle cameo in the corner of the woman's mind, and then retreat back to their denizens of the deep, cerebral unknown. In Japanese culture, the burden is on the listener to understand what the speaker is saying. Therefore, the man treads lightly with his pitter-patter half steps until he is certain that the woman shares mutual feelings. He does so in order to not make the other person feel awkward or uncomfortable in case she doesn't want to join in for couple's dance.

For foreign women attempting to date in Japan, we are otherwise unaccustomed to this brutal polka. And because we don't understand, we assume the worst, because as women, we internalize everything. Most of us don't fit into Japanese clothing, so we must be too big for the men as well. We haven't mastered the reflexive giggle and aren't able to maintain an inherent submissiveness, so we're about as appealing as animals. But, in truth, the men are feeling the pressure to relate. If only we knew that is was just shyness that was keeping them at bay, not our large, American asses.

Once the initial steps are taken, the accordion pumps, the tuba blows and the polka is in full swing. In order to get to this step, there is what I call "the naming." Japanese people must label themselves as a couple before proceeding to do relationship things, like even kissing. The sanction of this naming is important because it honors the relationship between the two. In this respect, Americans could benefit from trying this method before they jump into the horizontal polka. Japanese don't have any moral hangups about premarital sex because there isn't religious attachment to the right way to lay. Perhaps honoring every woman in a one night stand as "you're my girlfriend...for the next 2 hours" might assuage any guilt she has on her walk of shame the morning after.

It seems like the polka is done in quick bursts of short movement. But, the brutal polka encompasses these fast twitches into months and months of dress rehearsal. It wears on your feet and your mind, leaving you confused, but at the same time hopeful. Foreign females beware. You are no longer preyed upon by the same men you met back in the states. They don't come after you, dick in hand, requesting some sort of sexual favor. They half-step forward and half-step back, leaving you dizzier than when you began. We American women are used to the two second, free-falling drop of a roller coaster; these jet coasters are sometimes too slow to ride.

Otaku, Ojisan and Gaijin: a triumvirate of awkwardness

2009-11-17T07:11:00.000-08:00

As featured on the ever-popular, now coffee table bestseller Stuff White People Like, Japan is hands down a crowd pleaser among the Western folk.

Americans tend to glamorize the unknowns, especially those of a foreign, far east creed. The island nation exudes this alien aura of a beautiful unknown. Many of us cannot fathom an ancient society that for so long, kept it's culture and people locked within.

Be that as it may, Japan has now become popularized as being this nucleus where tradition and unparalleled technology fuse and form a mutated creature of a culture all its own.

From the outside looking in, Japan's mystery is alluring and radiates this delicate, exotic beauty. From the inside looking further in, Japan is full of a strangeness that is often exemplified by the men who live in it.

As a patriarchal male society, women are often left as an afterthought to the real inner workings of the country. There is this seeping awkwardness that transpires from the pores of most men in this country and they can be categorized into three major groups:

Otaku. Otaku are the anime-loving, manga-masterbating freaks who adore anything without a pulse. It has been stenciled into their brains that the most sexually stimulating and emotionally fulfilling beings on the planet are in fact characters from their favorite comic or video game. Their minds are addled by steady streams of technology and their aspirations in life are to actually become 2D like their favorite characters, so they can battle in victory together or finally have cybersex with their true anime amor. As a term similar to Trekkie or fanboy, these joystick riding geeks would be the subject of constant ridicule in American high schools across the nation. However, this island of Nihon has come to love and respect them as a sub-culture that adds yet another layer to the fetish for big-breasted cartoons and entire districts of Tokyo existing as a gamer's playground.

Ojisan. Ojisan literally means uncle in Japanese. But, that uncle. The estranged one that dropped out of life to do acid in his mid-40's and join a jazz quartet, touring parts of upstate New York and New Hampshire. The one that occasionally comes to family dinners and plays footsie with you under the table and then blames it on the cat after he steals all the dinner rolls and anything else he can fit into his man purse. Ojisans are creepy, older men who often come in numbers. They enjoy social drinking with fellow ojisan, plopping their overworked bald heads between the bosom of snack shop girls, licking the syphilis from their lips before heading home to their neglected wives, but not before groping the sweet, young short-skirted girls on the train ride there.

Gaijin. Finally the foreign icing on the awkwardly sliced shortcake. Gaijin are scalded like Hester Prynn with that scarlet letter "A" emblazoned all over their white, western faces. Gaijin who stay in Japan do so most likely to teach English or geek it up with their otaku neighbor. They could potentially be outcasted members of another society and seek solace in the strange, cold walls of a Japan unknown. Perhaps they have a hard time assimilating to their own culture so they strive for one so far removed from their own that they might actually fit in. 9 out 10 times it works.

As a friend once said, every foreigner who comes to Japan and stays is crazy. The society of men who breed more and more awkward stock into the livelihood of the country are unknown to the innocent white people who read blogs about how wonderful Japan is and want some sort of bragging rights for knowing which sashimi is best. If they were to come to Japan and live (which they probably wouldn't because they're not crazy), they would see that this triad of otaku, ojisan and gaijin permeate the culture and create a foreign world not even the most pretentious white people would know. It's a scary world of cultural discomfort, even for those born and raised. But, of course, how can I judge because I am just as nuts as the next.

The Running Kind

2009-11-16T18:47:00.000-08:00

I was born the running kind

with leaving always on my mind

home was never home to me

at any time

every front door found me hoping

I would find the back door open

there just had to be an exit

for the running kind

within me there's a prison

surrounding me alone

as real as any dungeon

with its walls of stone

I know running's not the answer

though running's been my nature

and the thing in me

that keeps me moving on

I was born the running kind

with leaving always on my mind

South Park vs. Japan: a battle of ethnic sarcasm

2009-11-12T06:21:00.000-08:00

Simply by existing on this glorious green earth, one is subject to scrutiny. There is fodder that surrounds us all, and those with wit have the advantage of capitalizing on the opportunity to make fun of others.

Humor is not easy to come by. Some of us are born with impeccable comedic timing and others wallow in a shallow grave of stale gags and mediocre one liners they picked up from a guy funnier than they.

Recently, the shock value of a joke is at a price too high for riches. All the cock talk, dick and fart jokes, and the grotesque animation to date dominates the comedic spectrum and almost drowns out classical stand up gigs and variety shows.

Of course, at the top of this heap of vulgarity and sarcasm notoriously lies South Park. Creators Matt Parker and Trey Stone have crafted the basest farce known to air on syndicated television. The humor is ribald and offensive; an abomination of what the notion of cartoons used to stand for as a wholesome, friendly way to send a message. A modern-day Aesop's fable, if you will. South Park attacks nearly every ethnic group known to man and does it shamelessly and with cutting truth. Lest we forget, their biggest targets are themselves.

As an American expatriate, living in Japan has enlivened a sarcastic spirit. In the last few seasons of South Park, my interest was waning and I believed it had lost any sense of real poignancy in it's humor and creativity to do so.

However, my mind is no longer addled by the senselessness of American culture, politics and people, so I therefore seek truth in that which I can bemuse myself. That, or Japanese have no sense of humor I can understand, so I resort to the extreme and inundate myself with potty talk and the patronizing defamation of any living soul.

The one thing South Park doesn't discriminate on is it's fair and equal castration of ethnic groups alike. The Mexicans, Mormons, Peruvian flutists and gays--they get it all the same, and they get it good. Nonetheless, the Japanese more so than other defamed featured foreigners seem to have captured the attention of South Park's creators for several seasons.

Starting in Season 3, the episode Chinpokomon aired. "Chinpokomon", in Japanese means "little penis", which is a reference I would have never picked up on had I not recapped the episode in the break room with my American co-worker within an earshot of my Japanese manager who laughed hysterically and proceeded to explain it's meaning.

The episode features knock-off Pokemon dolls who brainwash the children into conspiring with the Japanese to take over America. In the end, the toys ultimately became uncool and the plan to re-bomb Pearl Harbor is aborted.

Season 7's Japancentric episode, Good Times with Weapons was a rattling spoof on anime and ninja play fighting. The boys' imaginations take them to an anime world where all sense of reality is lost--much like Japan in the sense that people can become so obsessed with the anime otaku culture.
In both episodes, Parker and Stone clearly identify Japanese fads that became mainstream in America. Yet, in the most recent Japan episode from Season 13, "Whale Whores", South Park has seemed to step up it's social commentary game and tried to stir the pot, targeting both the issue of whaling and dolphin killing in Japan as well as the craptastic Discovery Channel show Whale Wars.

This episode, like many others, uses a little reverse psychology. They aren't making fun of the Japanese, rather the people who are complaining about the Japanese killing whales and dolphins and believe the Japanese to be a barbaric country full of men dressed in robes who run around spearing things. It only proves American ignorance to foreign cultures such as Japan and exposes such stereotypes through mockery.

It was well-played, and these Japan episodes definitely have a native player on the inside. Word is Trey Parker's wife is Japanese and he can speak the language well. In that case, I'm sure his understanding for the culture is much greater than the average American's. Even if not, he at least made his point that sometimes the funniest ethnic put downs are more elaborate than just exaggerated racial profiling. It is an attack on our own ignorance and maybe those of us too dimwitted to realize have the last laugh.

A fad for fall plaid

2009-11-05T05:51:00.000-08:00

It's not just the youngsters, err should I say hipsters, that are making this pattern famous across Japan. When a fashion trend reaches it's moment in the sun, everyone wants a few of it's rays.

With the cool, crisp air blowing and the foliage that excites us to many a-Kodak moment, plaid is the fashion for fall and it is on every hanger, thrift store and Japanese person in sight.

I often associate plaid with a few fellow Americans. One being the lumberjack. A burly type that cuts raw lamb's meat on a wooden chopping block inside his log cabin on a cold winter night. The fire crackles, his beard itches and the flannel plaid is warming his muscles with each checkered square.

Another plaid partisan you would find more in the eccentric pockets of urban cities. The hipsters don plaid for every occasion, whether it's riding their fixed gears to the art show or behind the counter of a dilettante cafe. Their unwashed, greasy hair lines with a film their unkempt stubble, an assortment of tattoos and piercings, thick rimmed glasses all the way down to their skinny jeans and beat up skate shoes. Plaid to the hipster is a way of saying f u to those who care about fashion. But, then again, if the hipsters have created their own group in an attempt to be group-less, then what is anything they do other than trendy?

For Japanese, plaid is less of a peg for a particular kind of person. It knows no boundaries aside from it's inscribed patchwork. Plaid is ageless and sexless. It is cool to wear popular fashions in Japan, so everyone jumps on this quilted bandwagon. If you were to compliment a Japanese person for their choice in plaid, chances are they will have never heard of the word.

Consumerism taken to a new level of depressing

2009-10-22T08:16:00.001-07:00

Ah, the Japanese Costco. Who really needed to know it actually existed? I deign to shop at a store I believe is single-handedly responsible for the obesity "epidemic" in America. Well, I guess we can't kid ourselves; we have many corporate fast food players to thank for putting their hands into our cookie jars and force feeding us crap by means of compounded advertising and brain warpage.

And the system doesn't rise and fall within it's own walls. It's spread to the far east...to a land where there isn't a word yet for "obesity", but enough Super Big potato chip bags to fulfill any consumer fantasy that they are shopping at an "authentically" American store. The only thing that makes sense about the exorbitantly excessive amount of food that can be packaged and purchased at once is the discount you're getting. In Japan, all the American brands are imported and therefore more expensive than what you would pay for half the amount in America.

There were sordid couples arguing over which package of 10 lb. processed nitrates to poison their biracial children with. I overheard other geeky foreigners explaining to their unassuming Japanese wives the benefits of frozen food and how getting a year's stockpile was such a useful idea. The insanity!

Of course, there were the generic Costco baked goods that made me squeamish thinking of how in both the US and Japan they can produce the same exact pastries in that industrial nightmare of a kitchen back there. I curse the day I put one of those blueberry muffins to my lips and swallowed--like the sweet, deluded venom of a viper, it will kill me quicker than the Kool Aid at Jonestown.

But, everyone in Japan has seemed to have taken a cultish oath to consumerism. And, like in the US, Costco is the zenith of that promise to a higher possession of your soulless patronage. They did have tortilla chips and salsa, and as previously mentioned, I'd give my left arm for any kind of Mexican food, even a knock off Pace Picante...G-d save me.

From the makeshift Japanese kitchen of an amateur foreign cook

2009-10-15T06:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I watch Top Chef, I pretend to know what they're talking about. All these intricate culinary processes, these unknown cuts of meat and ways to flavor it, these French cooking terms I thought I would understand by default after studying the language for 11 years. I guess the sheer confusion of it all is what makes it entertainment. However, on the real side of life, Japanese cooking has been proven to be not only simple, but deliciously healthy.

Bear in mind, the frame of reference I have is an American one, with no formal training in cooking other than from my mother's kitchen. So, of course, the simplest of dishes is intriguing to me. But, in an attempt to domesticate and assimilate to Japanese living, I'd like to put my makeshift Leopalace kitchen to good use.

From the few meals I've shared with Japanese friends at their home, I've picked up some basic cooking tips in order to prepare a simple, yet savory meal. Now, when I go to the store, I've at least taste-tested a few of the foods I would otherwise be clueless about.

First, a rice based meal. Any poultry, fish or meat can easily compliment the loved and ubiquitous starch staple. Plain, unseasoned, white short-grain rice is the popular choice. It is always served steamed and fresh. From this base, a curry or sweet and sour sauce can be added to the meat or fish to flavor. But, mostly, the Japanese prefer the plain, subtle taste of rice, which is good for every culinary occasion.

Another, more regionally-specific dish that is effortless and enjoyable is Akashiyaki. Known in the suburb of Kobe, Akashi, which is famous for its oceanside brimming with octopus, these bite-sized balls require only four ingredients: two types of flour, egg and octopus. The best part is actually frying the little balls up. A metal hot plate with little scoops for batter and octopus are oiled and heated and then with a flip of a chopstick, the lightly-fried golden balls can be adjusted to cook the other half. Then, with a bit of not-so-fancy shaping, these homemade delights look like they came from a professional shop. Soak them in a shallow bowl of bonito soup with finely chopped green onion and you have the Japanese version of Easy-bake Akashiyaki. Oishii!

Cultural Cargo

2009-10-12T06:26:00.000-07:00

As the name suggests, the Kobe Biennale is an art exhibition that takes places every other year. Autumn is a time where Japan takes particular mention to culture, especially that of international acclaim. Kobe, as it is historically known to do, opens its ports to manifest a sense of global culture and absorbs the creativity of its own local artists.

Taking place in three separate venues: Meridien Park, Hyogo Prefectural Museum of Art and the Port of Kobe, there lies a convergence of artistic vision and inspiration to a city that, only a decade ago, was devastated by the destruction of the Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake. In the presence of an endless blossom of new art and culture, it stimulates the community to feel a revival of cosmopolitan living and a celebration of the "wa".

"Wa" means peace and is often adopted into all facets of Japanese society. There is an underlying understanding and respect of peace that I often feel Americans should have a better understanding of. However, to another extreme, Japanese "wa" may sometimes limit individual creative potential for the fear of being perceived as too autonomous.

Without the comfort of this higher power "wa", Japanese might feel in constant fear of an individual's unpredictable actions which compromise this balance and distort life into dissent.

For this reason, "wa" was somewhat of a lackluster theme, which didn't really permeate any of the installations. Displayed in separate cargo holds scattered around the seaside park, a sundry of artistic works were distinctively enticing and exhibited a variety of modern art.

As a foreigner, it is difficult to obtain any sort of written intentions of the artist. Of course, the placards next to the display provide a certain insight that would be more than helpful to understand. However, there is a dignified sense of true artistic freedom in accepting the work completely for the work alone.

In the 1950's a group called the New Critics piqued interest of the masses by their unique literary criticism that evaluated a work of art void of any extra-textual information, including the biography of the writer or artist themselves. While difficult to survey art in this sense, it provides a depth of understanding, complexity and even mystery. By default, foreigners with the disadvantage of illiteracy are somewhat stuck with this method of criticism, but nonetheless, it is a bold attempt to understand the willful artistic gesture of another culture unknown.

Some highlights of the exhibit:

An Escher-esque oragami room.

Fun with 'fetti and fans
An ode to otaku or those bemused by a Japanese sub-culture that pays homage to anime, manga and strange, sexual fetish.

Galaxy quest and a 3-D silhouette.

Bang for your buck bonus is that your 1,200 yen ticket is valid for two non-consecutive days so that you can visit other portions of the Biennale exhibit depending on your artistic curiosity and thirst for some good, creative cargo.

Batten the Hatches

2009-10-07T07:06:00.000-07:00

A storm's a-comin! Typhoon Melor!

Unstrapped

2009-10-07T06:19:00.000-07:00

If I were a robber, Japan would be my Candyland. As a predominately cash-based society and with an unparalleled consumerism that makes even Americans look like conservative spenders, Japanese malls, convenient stores and pretty much anywhere else that financial transactions take place are packing tons of unprotected cash.

For gun control lobbyists, Japan is a dream come true. The law is simple: no one can bear firearms or swords under any circumstance. The only people allowed to possess a weapon at any time are police and the military. With one of the world's lowest crime rate and the gun crime rate nearly nonexistent, anti-gun lobbies tout Japan as the kind of nation America could be.

While Japan could be considered a parallel universe in comparison to America, I don't think gun control is what keeps the crime rate low--it's people control. Japanese society is kept on a tight leash by the government and the police force. Questioning personal freedoms and basic rights is rare, which is a basic motivator American's thrive on. The Japanese criminal justice system bears more heavily on a suspect than any other system in an industrial democratic nation.

Partly because the Japanese are so unified and homogenous, they accept and internalize social controls. It is this attitude of obedience and impulse control that matters most in the low Japanese crime rate. Guns or not, the Japanese are simply the world's most law-abiding people.

What interests me more about the lack of citizen-held weaponry in Japan is how it affects the people's system of worry. For most humans, our basic motivators for survival are the same. We think primitively about the safety and health of ourselves and our families, and the threat of gun violence or robbery is definitely something the majority of Americans have at least an inkling of worry about. We can't leave our doors unlocked or walk onto a crowded bus without double checking our pockets to make sure nothing's been picked.

But, in Japan, this type of threat doesn't exist. So, in turn, Japanese have more than enough time to worry themselves over other daily occurrences, that to an American, may seem trivial in the grand scheme of survival.

Even so, as long as my biggest concern is preventing myself from getting a curable disease (H1N1) and too much sun, I'll enjoy this gunless utopia and revel in the fact that I can walk home late at night without fear.

Umbrella Etiquette

2009-10-02T06:35:00.000-07:00

Rain or shine, it's parasol time. In Japan, umbrellas or parasols are one of the most fashionable and widely used accessories. Whether it's shielding the smoldering summer sun or from a tsunami-style downpour, umbrellas are ubiquitous. And on crowded city sidewalks or even the less trodden ones, sometimes they pose as more of an obstacle than ornament.

It's been raining recently and so the union of umbrellas are in full effect. Of course, I am using one as well and attempting to awkwardly maneuver between these rotund, mobile awnings. But, there must be some sort of code to this sunshade labyrinth in which, of course, I am unaware. I am side stepping left and right, tilting my atypically black 'brelly between people, dumping rain droplets in droves across my shoulders. I feel for my own well-being as well as others, but I have little to no solution other than keeping pace with the person in front of me, never over-taking his lead, or just having my way with the sidewalk and barreling through with no concern for wetness. Alas, I just keep trekking through the puddles until a parasol-free zone presents itself.

I admire the parasols made for sunshade. They are often designed with dainty embroidery, sweet floral patters or delicate pastels. I also enjoy the rain umbrellas; those plastic ones that make pelting rain look like a pattern in itself. But, overall, the functionality of an umbrella is a nuisance. They basically add the dimensions of an obese person to the average Japanese. I guess we can consider heavy umbrella use as damage control for future generation McDonald's lovers and thank the corporation for finally posting some nutrition facts.

Remnants of Ill-will

2009-09-30T07:15:00.000-07:00

I try to be diligent about keeping up with U.S. news, but sometimes I'm glad to take a break from it.

Recent headlines have had me thanking my adventurous inclination to leave all that ego behind.

Kanye- forget about his music and look at him step over boundaries in attempt to...be an asshole? I'd understand sticking your neck out and making yourself look like an asshole if it was an award you'd been robbed of. And a VMA? What's there to sweat? I guess Grammies still have enough class to deign the mid-acceptance speech interruptions.

DDB--Although made by a Brasilian branch of this American advertising agency, I find the ink spilled on ad men of America's hands. This was breaching any kind of sensitivity for the 9/11 subject by trying to purport the most vain and gauche shock value. A true paradigm of American advertising and I will happily go a year without seeing a single U.S. TV commercial. Amen.

Walmart--I don't know where some people went wrong, but they all seem to end up at Walmart. The staple of middle American filth and a way to give us all a bad name. I will pick up a little ego and gloat that I have never been inside a Walmart before and I hopefully never plan to.

Love to Queue

2009-09-30T06:55:00.000-07:00

I went to Kyoto in a somewhat reluctant attempt to see the traveling Louvre exhibit. I heard rumors of a ridiculously long wait and having been to the actual Louvre in Paris, I had to make a day-of decision.

But, look at this mess. How is a line this long justifiable? In my experience at the Hyogo Prefectural museum, Japanese people continue to wait in line, even after they've passed through it. They have accustomed their brains to follow, short linear steps around the perimeter of an area, which is an atrocity in an art museum where you should be able to float freely from one artwork to the next.

Needless to say, I didn't spend the three hours it would take to make it into the museum. Instead, I stood in awe of this monstrosity of a line and decided to give myself the benefit of Kyoto and see Ginkakuji instead.

Where is this place

2009-09-29T20:21:00.000-07:00

After three hours of a northward drive, the countryside crept over the hills and I seemed more and more detached from anything I had known. The mountains started to swell into the highway, and the stretch of paved concrete became narrower. The clouds crouched and left us driving through patches of fog and dreary overcast. In this kind of weather, there is a certain calm about the air. Coupled with the plain passing rice fields and small, local farms, I sensed a lulling cool that made me feel weightless.

We reached the end. The Japan Sea. It was just over those sand dunes? There were huge granular lumps in our path to the ocean panoramic. It was like being transported into the Sahara, except there was a true oasis in sight.
We took the dogs, or as I affectionately refer to this particular kind as "Sammy dogs", in honor of the late Sammy, Cameron's rabid schnauzer whom I was never particularly fond of.

And there, again, were those looming clouds. It was as if they had chased us to the end of the world. It was quiet and I could hear only my heavy breath after haphazardly trudging to the top of the dune. And the Sammy dogs pitter patter over the grit while finding a spot to pee.
I couldn't smell the ocean here. When we looked across the horizon at an endless beige haze, it looked like the Earth just ended. There was a dropping off point into an unknown abyss. I always thought the end of the world would like barren like a desert. These desert places I've been reflect the sky in a strange way. Not like a mirror, as the ocean does, but as a stoppage of energy. Like sandbags lining a flood, it stops all movement and motion forward. The ocean seemed so far from the coast and the sky seemed so lifeless, reflective of our imminence.

We didn't stay for long. We made it to the end and that was that. The sand was moist and we sank with each step, especially on the way back. I thought of quicksand, but then I felt a comfort in the fineness of the granules. These desert places. These strange, sullen desert dunes.

Gone Goldfishin'

2009-09-29T20:00:00.001-07:00

I love Goldfish. My love has never been fully realized without such loss. But, today was a breaking point. A reunion, if you will. I was sent some of those tasty, bite-sized delights in the mail today. I ate and ate. And then I felt sick. The salt I licked off my fingers, that cheddar stuck in my teeth. It was such a sweet union.

A couple years back, I made an ad campaign for Goldfish:

Dream Jobs

2009-09-29T08:47:00.000-07:00

There was a topic today where students had to talk about their "dream job".

A few of the answers I really liked:

1. "Someone who can make funny" --translation via explanation: an entertainer

2. Someone who can help people i.e. a doctor or a counselor --practical and conventional, yet wise.

3. A housewife to a rich Arabian who has oil fields.

Visual Deception

2009-09-24T06:13:00.000-07:00

It has happened where I will walk through a room of art and completely miss the point. I could be falling straight into some sort of Dadaist trap where I am over-contemplating over-simplified art when the actual point is to overstep all meaning and mock the foolish scholar. It could be the pristine coolness of the gallery space that purports these highfalutin claims to understand the artist's purpose. It could be the intense silence and the endless amounts of time to meander from painting to sculpture in awe of something seemingly spectacular.

However, the sublimity of the latest exhibit I saw was completely undercut by the unfortunate over-crowding.

The concept was simple yet brilliant. A term heard and understood by many who study art, but never displayed with such a decadent variation of artists and time periods to return to one surrounding core: trompe l'oeil.

From ancient times, a viewer’s visual experience of an art work framed the work as a re-creation of its subject. The use of various styles and techniques in art works to create an image of what is not in fact there is intrinsically linked to visual illusion. Surely the realist expression that seeks to copy nature, developed in western painting, was born from a fundamental search for visual illusion.

16th Century painter Giuseppe Archimboldo was the advertised star of the show. He uniquely created images made from a set of items that appear to be completely different, such as fruit and vegetables to create the portrait of a man. The idea of trick art has existed even before the Renaissance when used in playing with perspective. It has come so far as to reach the other spectrum in advertising where certain ocular scams are created for shock value and a frisky attempt to replicate images from the past. In any case, the exhibit had an excellent array of visually deceptive art that spanned the years and offering the viewer an expansive understanding of trompe l'oeil from generations past and a variety of cultures present.

These deceptive techniques, not necessarily found in the mainstream genres of pictorial arts, became the subject of new focus and attention in 20th century art, a time when such deception developed in surprising and diverse ways. Magritte made pictures that explored the tenuous relationship between image and reality, while Dali revived the double image method in contemporary art.
And then there was M. C. Escher, the print artist who pursued the detailed depiction of optical illusions. With the advances in both photographic and moving image technologies, the visual image environment surrounding art has undergone, and continues to undergo, a dizzyingly fast rate of change. In such a contemporary environment, artists like Jasper Johns have brought to the fore all manner of new expressive tools, often involving the manipulation and transformation of images, and the exposure of the false nature of such images. These and other experiments could be called a new form of visual play for both artist and viewer.

There may only be one downside to this beautifully orchestrated exhibit: the crowd. For some reason, Japanese have an affinity for only the most well-advertising art shows. Judging by the enormity of the line to get inside where another line around the museum floor awaited, there were no more art patrons left in the city. It was almost corruption how long it took to wait, and after being herded in, no one felt the freedom to move around the room to explore. They were so accustomed to the queue, no one knew what to do when there wasn't one.

All impatient gripes aside, visual deception is a virtuoso of artistic elements and was revered as such. And for a challenge, you might need a stealth plan to deceive the masses as you attempt to cut the line. I would go to this exhibit again, but I don't know if my soul can justify the wait.

Pandies

2009-09-23T08:02:00.000-07:00

Like a true celebrity, Tam Tam the giant panda sat unaware of her effect on adoring fans.

Over the silver week holiday, there was a line outside her lair at the Oji Zoo in Kobe. As she munched into oblivion, we lined up like chumps to catch only a two minute glimpse of her, in all her portly glory.
She's got a real way with the camera though. Deep, sultry stares and she really hooks us in with her oral fixation.
A highlight of the zoo by far and I can now say that Japanese are certifiably more in love with pandas than we Americans.

Empty Nester

2009-09-21T07:16:00.001-07:00

Welcome Bosco, my mom and dad's new dog. My dad said he looks like me. Same complexion or something. He also said he hired a hot cheerleader to come over and walk him. My dad stops by the butcher daily to get him fresh bones, which he then boils in water and cleans. He also takes Bosco to the park in the rain and has flashbacks to 'Nam and pisses in public. A model American and a well-deserved mention on this blog.

An unexpected delight

2009-09-21T02:52:00.001-07:00

In traveling to Tottori prefecture, I was introduced to a surprisingly scrumptious cephalopod. Squid, or ika, has never tickled my fancy. It has this gooey, placenta-like film around it's body and mangy tentacles that droop off it's strangely shaped head. I imagine it as some kind of extraterrestrial marine creature that was sent to Earth to poison us with it's ink.

However, I succumbed to the ika that day at the fish market where it had me outnumbered. Raw and laid out on bloody ice, it's lifeless eyes lured me. My friend had me try squid ink squid cakes, which were delicious. Later, I must've felt the force of the extraterrestrial spirit and was inspired to try squid ink ice cream. Imagine chocolate and vanilla swirl and replace the chocolate with this charcoal grey color of creme.

The dried squid were somewhat creepier than the raw ones at the other end of the fish market. I refused a try for fear of my soul getting sucked into an alien body and transported into space, never to be found again. For now, I'll stick with the soft serve.

Hippies Found

2009-09-21T01:38:00.001-07:00

I was beginning to think they didn't exist. The stench of body odor and incense, mingling in an unsavory fusion. The long, scraggly hair with a lingering stink of pot smoke. The ragged, canvas-like clothing and the intricate mandala-esque designs in deeply dyed maroon and burt orange. The quintessential hippie. Where could such a hippie ideal exist in a land where conformity and order ruled the land with an oversized iron fist?

Unbeknownst to me, I was taken on a weekend retreat to a hippie haven. A place where you can walk righteously barefoot and find quality reggae music nestled in an ocean cove on the outskirts of Wakayama city.

My friend knew there would be a live music show that day, but I had the lowest of expectations considering the only live music I've come across had been J-pop peddling street performers. To my surprise, the music was a funk-filled blend of earthy dub and what I guess could be coined as Japanese reggae. It was mellow, steady with the bass and resonated a chamber of eclectic harmonies.

The show started slow, leaving us with some time to get to know the place. The bar opened onto the shore and the inner construction was a slanted cave-like nook replete with straw mats, hammock, and of course hippies toting hippie paraphernalia like wooden jewelry and CD's of the featured bands.

The other patrons were a motley crew of prismatic fashion. I spent a good amount of daylight soaking in the mish-mash of style and retro throwbacks I was convinced would be hard to find anywhere else other than this sliver of beach.

All the trimmings of a good hippie festival were in order. The guy working his hippie magic near the stage with an assortment of "trippy" tools to wow the eye. Those dancing in the ocean and those in the little circles of congregated peaceniks noshing on absolutely delicious curry, pizza and tacos. The blank canvas and markers to inspire the crowd's divine creativity and draw something completely unique. It was all here.

As the sun started to set, the party kicked into full gear. The reggae funked up and the skanking started to sway the masses.

And of course, a bonfire. A hands-down crowd pleaser among the hippie crowd. A spiritual symbol of unity and a way to feel as free as the flames.

This uncanny encounter was enlightening. Not in the way where I found that oneness with the music and that energy from the group. I found a revived sense of interest for the Japanese culture. Perhaps it was too easy to typecast them all as conformists when I should've known full well that the majority of Americans are also fuddy duddies who can easily be claimed by uncool.
Still, this hippie sighting was somewhat of a magical existence that I have yet to find off that minuscule beach with only a wooden sign laying on the top of a concrete stairwell that leads to an eclectic paradise.

I couldn't help but think of the ancient hippies, like Jesus, Buddha, Gandhi, Hermann Hesse and Nietzsche. In a time and a place where hippies weren't yet hippies, how did they define themselves? And how much of the typical hippie to date has taken from those archaic paradigms of free-thinkers and doers.

All I know is that if a place like this can exist in Japan, it can exist anywhere. And maybe it's good that they are few and far between. To find the good places in Japan, you have to know where to look or stumble on them blindly. The best places are hidden. If you want the best restaurant in Kobe, it has no storefront. You go down an alleyway, through a stairwell, down a hall, around the corner to a basement door, go up three flights of stairs and there it opens into an oasis-like dining experience.

There is an abounding free spirit somewhere in this country and those of like minds will find one another.

A year without a Mexican

2009-09-11T06:39:00.000-07:00

I literally salivated at the sight of a tubular, aluminum shape.

Paired with a side of chips and salsa, I know what that thick, juicy package holds. Warm, gooey tortilla, sharply seasoned chicken, black beans--oh sweet black beans-- guacamole and pico de gallo aplenty. When made right, it melts together in the most scrumptious way.

I used to hold somewhat of a record for my abilities to hoover a super burrito in less than 2 minutes. Thinking back, those were the times I was most fearful of obesity because I truly understood emotional eating. I yearned for that burrito and when I had it, I couldn't eat it fast enough. Now, as life is void of burritos, I've let my record slip away and I am all together in complete recovery from this edible addiction.

Nonetheless, my life up until Japan was always full of that Mexican sabor. Growing up in Texas and then navigating west to California, Mexico's cultural influence has definitely been a part of daily life. Maybe it's the craving for Mexican food I know I can never have that's spurring this nostalgia, but I certainly miss having them around.

The Honeymoon's Over

2009-09-09T07:05:00.001-07:00

I'm 24. Someone failed to mention to me that at this point in life a swarm of diamond rocks and baby bumps would appear on all of my friends. Is there some biological timer that has gone off in everyone else except for me? I fear Facebook and the barrage of news feeds featuring engagement ring close-ups and photos of babies having babies. For me, this bridal ballyhoo never even hit the mark and the honeymoon is already over. That is, for Japan and I.

I consider myself a romantic; not hopeless or hapless, just someone who believes in love. However, any semblance of a "normal" relationship at this point does not exist. It subsists only with this country, Japan.

Part of the initial intrigue in coming to a foreign country was to study cultural differences and present a challenge to everyday living. I guess this crux of life could be said for any human-to-human relationship. I truly am in love with meeting new people and being in new places. I even enjoy daily confrontations that make me claim some sort of unique independence amid this overwhelming world.

Eventually life will calm down, and in it, you will settle for whatever it is that you think made you happy. Those little dried fish at the supermarket in the packaging I still can't read doesn't require a photograph anymore. They're always sitting there on the shelf, next to the dried seaweed packages and among names of noodles I can't pronounce. After the wedding planner and the photos and the honeymoon in Maldives, you're back at home with a plumbing problem, sitting on a stained couch next to a man with perpetual gas and a foul mouth when he watches Sports Center highlights. You've gained back the ten pounds you lost to impress yourself twenty years from now after you've really let it all out. Your life isn't depressing and I am by no means a pessimist, but it is what it is.

More so than the phenomenon of feeling completely entrenched in normalcy after a certain period of about 3-4 months, I am baffled by the timing of it all. In a world I hope will never get customary, how is it that human feelings toward routine can be charted and scheduled so precisely? Sure, there are those of us who break the mold, but for the most part, I was told I would feel this way. I was told the thrill would be gone, but not for long.

I may not stand around and stare at a bottle of tea or a heated toilet seat (complete with bidet) anymore. She may have given up her personal training and come home to a sink full of dishes. But, there's real gratitude in the regularity of a life you love.

I may not be able to exchange men out the way I do countries, but I have a feeling I can keep myself interested in Japan at least until talks of motherhood with Indonesia come my way.

Undiscovered Paradise

2009-09-07T06:21:00.000-07:00

It is a personal mission of mine to visit every revered beach known to mankind. By way of research or public acclaim, I am able to see some real crowd pleasers: Ipanema and Copacobana in Brasil, warm Bahamian tropics, Kailua and the North Shore of Oahu, the illustrious Cote d'Azure along the coast of southern France and the other side of the Mediterranean in Tel Aviv. Of course, each stop is more than just a name crossed off a long list of waterfronts. They have each been memorable coastal destinations that have helped me quench some insistent thirst for salty sea air and divine waves.

However, I reached a place in my quest for new seaside heights when I arrived at a beach unknown to anyone other than a local Japanese spear fisherman.

Two bridges and two islands past, we arrived on Shikoku, a southern set island below the mainland of Japan. After parting through the main town of Tokushima, we rolled along a towering coastline and finally the majestic Pacific stood straight ahead. It looked like a mix between the dense, mountainous areas of Oahu and the bouldered shores of northern California. And, like the light at the end of the rainbow, a small cove nestled between the thickly vegetated bluffs presented itself. The water was as clear as the Bahamas and the sun seemed to toast the waves perfectly.

The shore was stones and when I took my sandals off to feel the first few thrusts from the ocean, the bottoms of my feet were seared like pan-fried tuna. Still, that water. I anticipated cold, like the water back in Akashi, tucked into the bay, but it was like a lukewarm milk bath; layers of velvety ocean peeled on and off of my burned skin. It smelled so fresh and reflected the sky in such radiant hues of blue.

Taken aback by the sheer unclaimed oceanside I had all to myself, I nearly forgot the reason we were there. Yet another reason to love the ocean: skin diving and spear fishing, a sport relatively unpopular to the masses.
Weights, wetsuit and weaponry required, the men in our crew geared up for a trek out to sea to try their luck with underwater fishing.

Several of us got lucky in the attempt to catch fish like a sophisticated, modern Cro-magnon. One clean pierce and the kill is yours. The weapon of choice is a simple, three-pronged spear that is shot off from a thick rubber band as well as a speargun with the same sort of rubber-shot mechanism.

I had a somewhat cathartic experience in the water that day. I laid on my back and let some of the swell lull me to and fro, leaving my body in complete care of the ocean's arms; it gave me a real hug that day. I closed my eyes and the muscles in my body remained as flaccid as the water that kept me afloat. It was almost as if I felt my limbs melting into the salty puddle of sunlit sanctuary. The sky above and the comfort and covetous protection of the towering cliffside, I was alone out there in the water. In essence, I was alone on shore too. Letting go of my body's weight made me realize how powerful of a presence something has when it's all yours.
No sign of a bathroom, food stalls, beach umbrella rentals. It was an untouched ocean and an undiscovered paradise paramount to my beachside discoveries. If I gave away the name, it might not be such a secret anymore. Good luck trying to find it, though.

My mecca has been found!

2009-09-03T05:42:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the more difficult it seems to find those out there who still have an affinity for those adorable little fur bundles that are seemingly inferior pets to the all-too-common cat and dog. Bunnies make the world go round. They are silent snuggle buddies that know nothing beyond the dimensions of their cage, unless you show them the real love they deserve.
This is why I feel touched by some divine presence that this bunny cafe could exist in the country I now reside! I could've guessed that Japan would be the place that harbors a sweet little cafe with resident rabbits to play with. Their love-for-bunny decor and of course their rabbit shaped cuisine tops of the real treat of getting to indulge in a room full of subdued playmates.

Japanese curry is served in a much desirable form.

Another great feature of this cafe is that it serves the cuddly community of rabbits just as much as those who adore them. Patrons are allowed to bring in their rabbits to "socialize" with the other bunnies who are more accustomed to being exalted by human touch and companionship.
People of all ages are welcome to enter a room that is separate from the cafe area where rabbits run freely and are happy to be held.

For me, it's a dream come true...and a weekend trip to Nagoya. My guess is I will be going alone considering many of my bipedal buddies will opt out of a weekend filled with an often overlooked furry creature of magic and joy. All the more for me!

Dig Deep #10: Just like riding a bicycle

2009-08-27T07:03:00.001-07:00

The keys are cold from recent neglect.

I have thoughts swirling about and 10 days of travel to talk about.

All I need is direction and a day off.

Here's a teaser:

A black and white I took while riding the train to Kobe. There is a not-s0-foreign foreigner in the foreground this time.

Tokyo: The Final Frontier

2009-08-27T07:02:00.000-07:00

Temples, tempura and Tokyo: the infamous triad that precedes any real notion of Japan. Like a vortex, Tokyo as a city sucks you into it's cold, monolithic grip and spits you out into an infinite abyss of thronged city streets and a post-apocalyptic pit.

Many cities are incomparable to the size and stature of even what a Tokyo cityscape exudes. It is triumphant, overwhelming and completely cannibalistic. The city will devour you with onslaughts of everything. The biggest, and presumptuously the best, Tokyo's reputation can only preface the true dynamism of such a complex organism that seems to have no end and no soul.

Describing Tokyo in general may be a bit much to bite off and chew all at once, especially considering the spice and intense gusto of this monstrously-sized dish. So, consider this merely an overview of thought on a first impression.

The ticket clicked in the sty and the Shinkansen stub was released into Tokyo Station. Sometimes in crowded places, I like to stand perfectly still and sort of let the madness rush by me, as if I were Moses parting the Red Sea; the imaginably huge swells of crimson ocean ascend, as I stand stoic and poised, waiting for silence to break. At Tokyo Station, this silence was never possible. Standing still wasn't possible. There was a line behind every information booth, a swarm of people around every map, and an unfaltering zig zag of corporeal motion that had no origin. I thought briefly if I were a child, how big the world would always seem. And now here, in this nightmarish panic, like last call at a discount bridal shop, I looked at the world as exactly that big.

Everywhere you go in Tokyo there are people. No uninhabited corner to sneak a kiss, no quiet cafe to sip and sit pretending to write poetry, no stone left unturned. It's all happening, it's all here, and it's always right now. If one could describe Tokyo as an illness, I would liken it to a chronic migraine caused by the piercing sound of a jackhammer as heard through earphones. It's grating, coarse and inexhaustible.

Tokyo did have it's pockets of charm. Harajuku and Ebisu were two areas that careened toward a unique Japanese city.

There's no finale to this summary other than the photos I was able to take. Tokyo, like many big international cities, is a metropolis of all things exaggerated. From fashion to food and back again to culture, it's spread across the board as a city with seemingly everything--except an unexampled Japanese allure that I've become so fond of elsewhere in the country. Perhaps a second visit will warm my heart, or at least convince me that it has a hidden grace it has yet to bear.
Wakari Museum of Contemporary Art, Harajuku

Prosciutto, Ebisu
BAPE, clothing store for kids, Harajuku

Kaho, Harajuku
Imperial Palace
Asakusa Temple
Asahi Corporation, Sumida River

Fraction of the Tokyo Skyline from The World Trade Center building

Harajuku

Akihabara, electronics district

Shibuya

Train a la Voyeur

2009-08-03T07:35:00.001-07:00

I secretly take pictures of people on trains.

They don't know that I've turned their unassuming boredom into masterpieces...

Riding With Sun, Akashi

Nails, Sannomiya
Cold Shoulder, Sannomiya
Peep Hole, Kobe
Yukata for Hannabi, Kobe

Keep a Close Eye, Amagasaki
Light at the End, Kawanishi

Patience is a Virtue, Kawanishi

Seaside and Armpit, Akashi

Dinner at Yoneta's

2009-08-03T06:41:00.001-07:00

There's nothing like a home cooked meal, even if that home isn't yours.

Since leaving for college, it seldom happens that this home cooked meal is coming from my true home of origin. On a number of occasions, I have been more than delighted with a surrogate home of sorts. Fortunately, wherever I go in this world, there's a wonderful family to meet and take me in, like the little lost puppy I am.

I have been in many a foreign home, treated like royalty and enlightened to new cultures and table customs. Yet, my Japanese dinner taught me that sometimes sharing the same language isn't always needed for a good time.

My old lady friend invited me for a Japanese feast, which pretty much meant appetizer and assorted salad. Thank goodness for the hearty presence of beer. Her husband cooked goya champu, which includes a kind of bitter melon that they harvest at their farm as well as pork and egg. Simple, strange and somewhat tasty.
An aesthetically pleasing plate of sashimi and a fresh (literally) garden salad adorned the cheap plastic table cloth of muted blues and off-white floral patterning. Everything was simple and straightforward.

I imagined complications and a barrage of unknown customs to follow entering a Japanese home. But, my old lady friend only showed off the finest berating of wife-to-drunkard husband. After a few tall cans and a couple trips to the Japanese/English dictionary to look up words like "constipation" and "menopause", old man drunkard decides he wants to play a game with me where he proceeds to watch me use chopsticks to move single, dry grains of rice from one plate to the next in an attempt to correct my finger position on what I sometimes consider a plainly primitive form of silverware.

I was walked back to the train station, laughs and fresh watermelon in tow. Pleasantly surprised at the communication technique, I learned I could make myself at home wherever I go. And I'm pretty pleased with myself for that.

Kampai!

2009-08-03T06:20:00.001-07:00

Gotta love the group. Japan goes all out for a party and drinking among a large congregation of friends is required.
Izakayas are popular places to start off the night. For a larger group, you are given a set meal and unlimited drink for a limited amount of time. I enjoy the miniature beer glasses and the custom that someone else must pour for you...it always keeps you wondering how much you've drunk. It remains a mystery for the majority of the night.

I don't know if there's much more to write that these photos don't say for themselves.

Kampai!

Dig Deep #9: New Alarm Clock

2009-07-31T07:07:00.000-07:00

I had almost wiped them clean from my memory...and was almost fooled by their song, the way a Siren lured the Argonaunts. In screeching unison, their high frequency buzzing led me to believe there was a fire truck down the street, out of view. But, then as I neared their perch, the sound was clearly coming from the trees. I still couldn't catch a glimpse, but I knew exactly what they were. Cicadas. I stopped for a moment to listen to their "song", which was about as melodic as nails grating on a chalkboard.

They remind me of my childhood in Texas, when I used to collect their dried carcasses and line them up on the windowsill outside my sister's room. Their rust-colored shell even encases their eyes, leaving the skeleton of their oddly outstretched ocular placement.

Notoriously pestilent although notably popular, cicadas time their chime like clockwork, and in insect alliance, begin singing exactly 20 minutes before I wake up.

I guess it's better to rely on a natural means of awaking my from slumber albeit to a dissonant sound and symbol of my merry childhood shenanigans.

The Real Housewives...of Japan

2009-07-29T07:27:00.000-07:00

When searching the word "housewife" online, nearly all related articles are about a TV show of some sort. Reality TV or dramatized tramp fest, the term housewife has taken on a whole new 21st century meaning.

In the 1950's, the American housewife was revered as a paradigm of chastity and virtue. A true joy for her husband when he arrived home after a long day of work in need of a cocktail, a foot rub and a hot, home-cooked meal. Everything was on time and with a smile. For a complete guide to The Good Wife's Guide, please read the May 13, 1955 edition of Housekeeping Monthly.

Of course, as soon as women were given the same liberties and opportunities as men in what was once a strictly patriarchal society, this guise of marital perfection folded. The idealistic sense of a housewife, sitting as pretty as strawberry cake on a dessert plate, adorning her home with love and her husband with a seemingly perfect life, became more of a hindrance to a woman's reputation and potential to actually make something of her life that didn't taste like apple pie or smell pine fresh.

Now, we have a media barrage of the modern day housewife plastered all over our TV screens, and nothing about them resembles the former paragon of femininity and wholesome living women once took pride in. Today, housewives in America are seen to be spoiled by their husband's obscenely exorbitant success and don't hold the same values that were once the delectation of a wife's life.
However, since moving to Japan, I have seen the role of a housewife in a completely new light. In fact, I could even venture to say that Japanese housewives have been warped back to 1950's America and instill those wholesome values in their lives to this day.

It is my belief that everyone in Japan does their work with honor and a sense of purpose. From the grocery clerk to the man I see picking up garbage at the park every, single morning (it is still questionable whether or not this is actually his job) to the sweet and mighty housewife.

As a housewife, there is presumed power over the finances and the sex in marriage. The men make the money and then the women distribute an allowance. They decide when sex will be given and they do so sparingly, so as to maintain a delegated puissance in the relationship. But, what makes me respect them more than American housewives, or at least the caricature of what American housewives have become, is that they take care of their families with the same sort of pride we saw in good ol' Betty Homemaker, sans antidepressants and a potential closeted lesbianism to spite their husband's furtive infidelity.

For me, the housewife life will never be. But, I am respectful of those women who do choose this path here in Japan because, like most professions, it's done with diligence and a true sense of function in support of the lives of many children and their husbands, so that they may never be without a bento box for lunch.

The Banana Diet and Other Tales of Folly

2009-07-28T07:31:00.001-07:00

Perhaps there is a realm of thought that could be a considered a modern-day wives' tale. Or maybe it's a sort of superstition. And, just maybe, it is the blind leading the blind.

Either way, I have been informed of various Japanese beliefs in certain concepts that otherwise seem completely inane to me.

Exhibit A: The Banana Diet. This is a popular "fad" diet that many Japanese believe is an infallible way to lose weight. The concept is simple: Eat only bananas (as many as you like and may be substituted for other fruit) for breakfast accompanied with room-temperature water. Then, per usual, eat lunch and dinner and never think twice about lifting a finger; this diet requires no exercise! Are you there God, it's me, Banana. I saved Japan from metabolic syndrome.

The diet was designed to be a weight-loss regime that is manageable and easy to incorporate into a busy lifestyle. However, within most trendy diets lies easily recognizable faults. Sure, bananas are loaded with potassium and I would never neglect a fruit because of it's high sugar content. Yet, eating a high-sugar fruit on an empty stomach after not eating for 6-8 hours spikes your blood sugar, so while you're shedding pounds by daylight, you're on a night train express to diabetes or hyperglycemia.

But, all nutrition facts aside, the fact that a majority of women in Japan were duped to believing this was anything more than just adding some fruit to your diet is what makes me curious. In a country that boasts understanding of nutrition and a healthy lifestyle, wouldn't eating a balanced diet include fruit? I praise the fool who made himself rich off the unyielding desperation of women to try anything that claims will make them thin, and thank him for single-handedly creating a boom in the banana industry worldwide.

Another tale of folly and consequential fodder is about long fingernails. With no scientific or biological evidence (and, I actually had to do a little research on this one), people believe that naturally long fingernails indicates horniness. The longer these extended pieces of tough protein, the more pent up sexual frustration you exude. Also, the rate at which your nails grow supposedly indicates how aggressively lustful you are.

And now my favorite. I was happy to hear that when my beau arrives, Japanese women will flock to him like bees to honeycomb...all because of his naked noggin. Balding is supposedly a sign that they are excellent physical lovers. His inadvertently tress-less tete precedes him while it screams, "I can rock your world."

I get a constant sort of bemusement from these far-fetched claims of contemporary society. I'm keeping a journal of them if anyone's interested, but until then, I'll leave the rest to mystery.

This is Ben

2009-07-27T04:20:00.000-07:00

This is Ben.

He thinks my posts are too long and that Men's Warehouse is classy.

He likes to cook eel and one time he farted in our office and it sounded like a hamster squeaking.

He can probably quote any South Park episode and taught his students how to use the phrase, "Whatcha gonna do?"

From the mess of foreign males in the country, I feel fortunate to have been paired with him.

This one's for you, Ben. Short and sweet...if you've made it this far in the post...

yours truly.

Bridge over Troubled Water

2009-07-27T02:49:00.001-07:00

Out of sheer magnanimity and possibly pity for my helpless foreign self, my Japanese teacher offered to take me to Awaji Island. With her strictly Japanese-speaking husband and five year old daughter in tow, she picked me up at nearly the crack of dawn, explaining that she was excited "like child" to take this trip. I'm more than glad for that and willingly complied to the 7:30am meeting time she had prescribed for the start of our island adventure.

There are two (practical) ways to get to Awaji from Akashi. Taco Ferry and the bridge. The Akashi-Kaikyo Bridge is the world's longest suspension bridge that somewhat resembles my beloved Bay Bridge, linking San Francisco to Oakland, California. The bridge spans 3,911 meters/12,831 feet, but when passing over, it didn't feel like the longest bridge in the world. Maybe I have no conception of what that would feel like, but although excited, I didn't get those same feel-good goosebumps I get when crossing over the Golden Gate Bridge, in all is international orange glory.

There's something exhilarating about crossing a bridge. Looking out across an expansive sea with the feeling like you're this little moving dot in the middle of it all and you have to make it across before you get sucked under. I try and hold my breath over bridges because I was once told it was good luck if you could make it all the way across. I usually give it a shot, but this time the bridges world-record reputation preceded itself and I was defeated before I began.

Oftentimes in Japan, I am led around blindly by people who actually know what they're doing. In this case, the reason for the early morning was so that we could catch the first boat out. We drove straight through the island to the other end where we boarded what looked like an old pirate ship, replete with rusty masts and anchor.
We rolled out of the dock toward the Shikoku Bridge. Awaji is a small piece of land that connects Honshu and Shikoku. Beneath the bridge are where two water currents meet and clash, like an incompatible married couple arguing on vacation.
The waves attempted to grow, each trying to overpower one another with the momentum of their current, but they were ultimately pulled wayward into an aqueous whirlwind. The energy from the current was caught in what looked like an oversized drain to nowhere.
And in the meantime, there was water caught between, like the children in the family who have to listen to their parents scream. They don't know where to go or what to do; they haplessly muddle around in their fluidic plight and try to maintain some sort of bearing in this briny mess.
And like the aftermath of an explosion, the debris implodes and is inhaled. From the safety of the ship, it looked like a spectacular sight of ocean activity and a raw display of the sea's power over man. I clung to my camera with the frightened image of it plunging overboard and engulfed in one of these acrid whirlpools.

This is Emily, my teacher's daughter. She was sass to the max and definitely the boss of the house. Reminded me of, well, me when I was her age.
After the cruise, we stopped for a footbath. I got shivers when I put my feet in. The warm water raised my bristly, untended leg hair and I felt a tingle up to my head and was immediately relaxed. The water had a creamy consistency, perhaps it had certain minerals mixed. Of course, I would have no way of knowing. But, if this was any indication of the full hot spring treatment, I'm ready for that excursion any day.
We then drove to Keinomatsubara beach, which on a summer Sunday, was packed with campers, grills and inflatable beach toys. A common trend I've noticed at beaches is about 10 meters out in the water, there is a small, floating plastic island where people love to swim to and pack on. I guess being on an actual island isn't fun enough...a cramped bright yellow plastic one is where the real party's at.
Emily and her pops are playing in the ocean, trying to dismiss any looming threat of kurage (jellyfish) that populate Japanese waters toward the end of July and early August. Even the marine life here lives like clockwork.

In front of our sand perch where we enjoyed some cold Asahi and tacoyaki, a group of tattooed miscreants buried their drunk friend while he was passed out in the sun. They then proceeded to draw with marker on his face, making this image below.
Next stop on this magical mystery tour was the aroma factory for the chance to make our own incense. With an old-fashioned pestle and mortar, we mixed a brown-packaged powder that was apparently blue, pink or yellow when a thimble full of water is added. Then, we poured in an aroma of our choosing and used enough elbow grease to form a paste, which we then flattened out and carved shapes from. I fashioned everything from a star to a sausage dog and was proud of my handmade jasmine blend of original aromatics. Trademarked here and now.
Nothing says success like a Kobe steak dinner. This topped off the generosity and kindness of this lovely Japanese family who had taken this foreign fool around in an air conditioned car to see nearly an entire island, albeit smaller than the size of New Jersey.

My mouth literally waters uncontrollably thinking about how delicious that steak was. It was the most scrumptious fat-laden piece of meat I've ever tried. It rolled down my throat like butter and I couldn't eat the pieces fast enough to satiate my hunger for more. I felt like such an animal.

An anti-climactic ending to a more than eventful day as we watched from Akashi the fireworks display in Awaji. There was a drizzle and fog shrouded our less-than-optimal view. Nonetheless, I felt only the kind of comfort you know from being at home in the presence of family and was happy for that.

It was a divine exhaustion from a day full of sand, steak and sea.

Matcha Magic

2009-07-23T07:55:00.001-07:00

If someone were to ask me the infamous hypothetical question, "If you were stuck on a desert island, what would you bring?" My answer would unequivocally be green tea.

Green tea makes the world go round, and in Japan, it is hands down the most popular drink around.

From powder to bottle, green tea (or matcha) is the essence of the Japanese diet. And there is certainly a reason for that. Adopted from China, green tea has been used medicinally for over 4,000 years.
Headaches and depression are assuaged with a daily dose. And recent research indicates that a compound in green tea inhibits the growth of cancer cells as well as lowers cholesterol levels. And the real zinger is how helpful it is to dieters. One cup a day can expedite the fight over fat. Lest we forget it's powers against tooth decay. Like a true crime-stopper, you will be protected against bacteria that cause dental plaque as well as food poisoning.

The "secret" of matcha is that it is replete with catechin polyphenols, in particular epigallocatechin gallate (EGCG). This is a powerful anti-oxidant that ultimately kills cancer cells without harming healthy tissue and helps decrease the risk of abnormal blood clots by stabilizing a suitable balance between good and bad cholesterol. Magic you say? No, it's matcha!

Even when I am raising my blood sugar levels and consequently my fat intake by reveling in a sweet, seductive candy bar, I'm eating ones with green tea to help lower my cholesterol and keep fighting that good fight against cancer, although I'm sure this is counterintuitive.
Popular American candy brands like Oreo and KitKat have embraced The Matcha and designed a foreign line of green tea-infused products. And of course, a city can't call itself a city unless there's a Starbucks (sarcasm heavily implied). There is a popular green tea frappuccino in all Japanese Starbucks that will never win my heart over the mocha, but at least it can brag it's the best for you. But, that certainly comes with a price $$.
In sum, I basically piss green tea. I plan to drink so much of it I will live as long as the rest of Japan. I can also stake the claim as most valued organ donor. My insides will be so pristine it will look like a sparkly green wonderland with matcha waterfalls and powder sprinkling from the skies onto all the healthy tea-loving children below.

Dog Day Afternoon

2009-07-23T06:51:00.000-07:00

Not much has changed about my perverse infatuation with other people's dogs. Living in a first world country, Japanese have the luxury of owning and caring for dogs in the same way as those in the US. Much like San Francisco, people enjoy parading around with their canine companions, showing just what kind of owner they are. With true obsession comes astute observation, and I've been able to summarize the top 5 most popular dog breeds in Japan.

Shiba Inu

A native Japanese breed that trots with the pomp and pride of its recent internet acclaim via Puppy Cam. My favorite feature: the swirled tail covered in what looks like the softest of fuzz.

Long haired Dachshund

As a smaller breed, they seem suitable for Japanese-style living, especially in the confines of a bicycle basket, where I often see them nudging their miniature paws over the edge with a sophisticated schnoz pointing ahead. Those stubby little nubbin legs wont take them far, especially in this heat.
Toy Poodle

I've never cared much for the poodle breed or any mix conceived of a similar likeness. But, Japanese have adroitly pinpointed the most attractive ones sporting the delicious coffee-colored coat with a hint of auburn swirled in. Most of the poodles I've noticed are also well-groomed, which is crucial for the breed since most of their existence lies in their aesthetics.
Welsh Corgi

With it's wobbly saunter and oversized headdress, this goofy pooch seems to make the perfect park side companion for the Japanese. It could be the exaggerated features or disproportion that makes it so tenderly loved in this country.

Golden Retriever

A western classic. A dog that needs no introduction. Unless a pup, I would never look twice at a retriever in the states because they are a dime a dozen among white, upper-middle class families, so the breed has almost become cliche for this socio-economic demographic. However, here in Japan, I almost feel a certain nostalgia for American prairies and the urge to watch Homeward Bound.

5-7-5

2009-07-20T05:45:00.000-07:00

Thinking in Haiku. The Japanese have gotten to my brain:

raw meat and raw fish

japanese think it's delish

couldn't rhyme this line

my feet are calloused

you can fry an egg on here

sidewalks steam like rice

I am one who likes

always finding new beaches

Okura kaigen

waiting on long lights

takes up most of my commute

they will never break rules

girls of fifteen years

wave and decide to say hi

they told me i'm cute

everywhere kanji

all characters look the same

illiteracy

even your eyes smile

do I say what I want yet

cultural blockade

Dig Deep #8: Dumbing Up to Slim Down

2009-07-16T17:05:00.000-07:00

As a woman, I am no stranger to the diet. I have tried many and given it my best shot, at least for a day. But, with America's unhealthy obsession with bloated portion sizes and cavity catalytic sweets, I was convinced the fat kid inside of me would live forever.

Be that as it may, consider the fat kid one who is also unable to read or write, which has brought me to the ultimate diet: illiteracy. Not being able to read many of the labels, nutrition facts and mere ingredients has limited my diet to only foods that are explained by picture or that are noticeably what they are. For the most part, I am eating fresh fruits, veggies, fish and the occasional meat product along with rice.

Of course, there has been that more-than-common attempt to try new Japanese sweets and pastries, but even then the sugar amount is lower and the portions are merely bite sized. I also drink green tea (matcha) frequently, which helps my metabolism and also acts as an astringent and keeps my breath tea-time fresh.

In Japan, they diagnose people that carry even the slightest bit of extra weight with "metabolic syndrome." This is in fact an actual "disease" that affects many people, but for Japanese, it is the same severity as cancer and people will fight tooth and nail to prevent it from happening to them.

This society takes so much pride in keeping their bodies cleansed and thin that you would literally have to be sedentary for the majority of the day while constantly eating and refusing sunlight or fresh water to gain weight.

In other words, illiteracy has helped stave off unwanted processed foods, but for the most part, being immersed in a society that understands portion control and sugar intake is the first real diet that has worked.

Killer Deer of Sacred Destinations

2009-07-14T08:10:00.001-07:00

Deer. If peaceful were signed to an animal, most likely we would think of these demure doe-eyed creatures lapping cool freshwater with their soft pink tongues. However, the bashfulness of this allegorically amicable animal completely vanishes once they have had a taste of human-fed biscuits.

They swarm and charge, exposing teeth we once thought were dull, harmless and unused. Their antlers are now understood to be weaponry, and for the first time, we can see that they might actually have some sort of innate defense mechanism other than running the other direction. As for the unassuming tourist who revels in the opportunity to become akin with the deer-kind, they ultimately fall into a halcyon-cloaked park of wild animals who's only motivation is food and revenge against the human race.
Nara is known for it's population of deer that are well-accustomed to being fed by passerby's on the way to Todaiji (Great Eastern Temple), a landmark for the former capital of Japan and one of the largest temples in the country.
We gave into temptation and the opportunity to share a false sense of peace with these conventional creatures.
We brought our friend Snow White along. Actually, she is our Welsh friend, Katherine, who dressed for the occasion more appropriately than if I showed up to my wedding in a white dress. The deer, blue dress, alabaster skin and ebony locks, and an apple gave way to an exceptional photo op of such a classical Disney cliche.
The plan before arriving in Nara was to settle in the grass in a seemingly idyllic landscape with sweet bucks staggered and a spread of fine wine and imported cheese. Our very own rendition of Manet's Petit Dejeuner sur l'Herbe. To our dismay, the image of us in a bucolic wonderland melted as fast as my soft serve in the suffocatingly humid Japanese summertime.

Our four-legged welcoming committee had certainly rained on our parade. We walked further into Nara, dodging the lovely meadow muffins the deer had left behind, until we found an area in the woods (technically, it was near a bathroom set off from the road) where it seemed like no deer would reach. We enjoyed our luncheon, with the idea of the perfect picnic still swirling futilely through our minds. It made for a good laugh and we were so hungry by that point it was hard to care...we knew we could take on the deer fist vs. hoof if we had to.
Above: The aftermath of an over-zealous deer with a hunger for gaijin flesh.
As we emerged from our respite, we began to realize that the 500yen you pay for those biscuits were better off up your ass than in your hand, attempting to feed a deer. They come hungry and they come with friends.
It started to rain just as we arrived at the entrance of Todaiji. Once beyond the masses of schoolchildren and feral deer, the temple stood as this wholly divine construction of quietude. There is this silence when in the presence of a temple or shrine- a sound beyond even white noise or the flurry around you. It truly feels sacred and touched by a celestial hand.
The entrance to the Daibutsuden (Great Buddha Hall) was cluttered with black and white cotton from the junior high field trip blitz. There was a group of them gathered around incense, making offerings to Daibutsu.

The rain had stopped for the time being and there was a steam-like presence in the soft light coming in from the slits in the wooden paneling of the Hall.
This monastery-temple was founded by Emperor Shomu when Nara was the capital of Japan. It was the head temple of the network of provincial monasteries throughout Japan. Immense in scale (significantly larger than the temple that stands today), Todaiji represented the culmination of imperial Buddhist architecture.
According to legend, nearly 2,600,000 people helped construct the Buddha — but as that would amount to nearly the half of the people in Japan at the time, this is probably exaggerated. Even so, by the time the Daibutsu was completed in 751, it had consumed most of Japan's bronze production for several years and left the country almost bankrupt.

The Daibutsuden is said to be the largest wooden building in the world. This is especially impressive in light of the fact that the present reconstruction (from 1692) is only two thirds of the original temple's size. The original complex also contained two 100-meter-high pagodas, probably the tallest buildings in the world at the time, but these were destroyed by earthquake. The Daibutsu is made of copper and bronze, weighs 250 tons and stands 30 meters tall. His intricate hairstyle is made of 966 bronze balls and as a welcome ceremony, was blessed by an Indian priest who stood on a specially built platform and painted in Daibutsu's eyes with a enlarged paintbrush.

The magnanimity of the structure itself was enough to put me in awe. I wish I could have been here alone, to feel the full force of this effectual deity display. I always wish this for myself in museums, but then again, this certainly wasn't as much of a let down as the Mona Lisa.
I'll brave the mucky walk back to the train station fulfilled in this excursion, all the while, looking over my shoulder in suspicion of a deceptively gentle doe.

Kaigen Friendlies

2009-07-13T07:54:00.000-07:00

For me, the beach can be served up any style. It can be sunny side up; just a quick way to catch some rays. Over easy; just me, music and a book, cooking myself on both sides, but making sure not to get overdone. Or it can be scrambled, like today.

In what started as a solo mission to the local beach to try and stave off some of this heavy-handed summer heat, I ended up attracting a fair amount of friendlies, which made for an unexpectedly eventful trip.
For a Monday, the beach was rather crowded. There were several large groups of teenagers scattered across the sand. Some sat scrunched, lounging out on an inflatable raft, which turned into an enticing Gladiator match. Another group of three girls were splashing like children and laughing so hard. There were volleyball nets, wide flat sand, and the robust smell of smoked meats coming from the conveniently located BBQ pits at the edge of the sand. I envisioned buttery corn on the cob, suck-off-the-bone spare ribs, and bloody, delicious steak seasoned with the perfect amount of rock salt.

I set up camp next to the shore, enjoyed my tunes and dozed for a few. I sat up and saw the three girls waist-deep in the water with their beach ball. They looked over at me and smiled curiously. Then the one in the middle with the polka dot suit said, "Hello". I waved at them and smiled. They must have talked it through and made a group decision to venture over to the American post. They squatted in front of me and I sat up and smiled. Their bathing suits dripped from the salt water and they all smiled at me. They asked me where I was from and I proudly said, "California." They looked at each other and made a reverberating sound that many Japanese make when expressing the sentiments of "wow!"

I then used the little Japanese I knew to tell them my name, my age and what I do here. They still squatted in fascination at the gaijin on their kaigen (beach). They said, "kawai", which means "cute" followed by "goodbye" and went back to the water. They were fifteen and today was their first day of summer vacation. I felt a relief of acceptance that perhaps all those stares that looked either blank or demeaning may have actually been fascination, kind of like when you see a rainbow-colored car.

The sweat had gotten to me and I needed a refresher, so I jumped into the ocean and licked the salty sea off my lips. I waded around on my back for a few minutes and then felt cooled enough to post up in the sun again.
I watched from a distance a group of guys playing volleyball in a circle. There were about 10 of them and they seemed to be having such a great time, diving into the sand, letting the sun quell their stress with every ray that bronzed their shoulders.

About twenty minutes later, my sunspot faded into a shadow and I looked up to see one of the volleyboys above me. He spoke to me in Japanese and I was able to tell him I couldn't speak the language. That didn't stop him from talking. He was "that guy" in the group that was sent by his friends to venture into the haunted house first, check out the fear factor and then they could all join in. They sat around me and we exchanged words in broken English and Japanese. They are baseball players and it was their first day of summer vacation from Kobe University. It was fun talking to them and I was flattered enough to be convinced into a game of volleyball. I strutted my stuff and they were extremely impressed that I had any athletic ability at all.

One guy told me "I love you" every time he passed the ball to me. I laughed and enjoyed my new hour-long friendship. They said with promise that they come to this beach every Monday. I'll look forward to future encounters as well as the revived notion that Japanese people are outgoing and friendly, especially to the rainbow-colored cars of the world.

Playlist

2009-07-10T08:06:00.001-07:00

In the days of iPods with more memory than the average human user can fathom, I still seem to gravitate to a mix CD length of songs that must have some sort of prevalence in life at this time. There's no other explanation as to why, out of the 4,000 songs I peruse in my pocket-sized music collection, I continue to search for the same ones.

Here's the soundtrack to my life at the moment:

1. Jacob Miller - I Shall be Released

2. AC/DC - Gone Shootin'

3. Al Green - I Can't Get Next to You

4. Bob Dylan - Subterranean Homesick Blues

5. Bob Marley - Real Situation

6. Citizen Cope - Deep

7. Curtis Mayfield - I Plan to Stay a Believer

8. David Byrne - Something Aint' Right

9. Dr. John - Everybody Wanna Get Rich

10. Led Zeppelin - Hey, Hey What Can I Do?

11. Kenny Loggins - Danny's Song

12. The Kinks - There's Nothing in this World to Stop me Worrying About that Girl

13. Leon Russel - Tight Rope

14. The Meters - Here Comes the Meter Man

15. Neil Young - Goin' Back

16. Presidents of the United States of America - Naked and Famous

17. The Raconteurs -Level

18. A Tribe Called Quest - WordPlay

19. 2Pac - Bury Me a G

I've kept a funkified mixture of soul, roots, and hip hop and thrown a little bit of rock n roll into the melodious mix. This music is a constant companion and somewhat of a buffer between my exposure to the unknown culture and language and my complete vulnerability to it. If I've got some bluesy Bobby D harmonica lulling me to sleep on the train, I might be able to convince myself that there are those around me who could understand timeless American classics. But, alas, I am merely shielding my ears from a swarm of J Pop and perpetual Japanese jibberish.

Dig Deep #7: A Skype Thing

2009-07-10T07:53:00.000-07:00

Any connection I have with my family, friends and beau, I have over Skype.

It's a wonderful thing, this Skype thing. Free, unlimited calling anywhere in the world. And a camera to boot. Who could ask for more...other than a hug.

Above is my mom and dad at their office. Mom is showing off her best big-eyed features and Dad is enjoying probably his 1,000th turkey wrap for the year. He is on a diet of strictly turkey, tortilla, and sliced cheese. It seems to be working, and I owe it to Skype for knowing that. Keep up the good work, pops. And, Mom, put those eyes back in their sockets where they belong.
This is my boo. He seems like a shadowy presence, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I do love his aviator head set. He could be selling me two tickets on American or a happy meal, but I owe Skype for the opportunity to even poke fun at his been-outsourced-to-India headgear.

But, when all is said and done...Aint nothing like the real thing, baby. Aint nothing like the real thing.

Everything is Dust in the Wind

2009-07-10T06:42:00.000-07:00

The wind was rough with me today. It shoved me from behind, like an impatient Trekkie who had been waiting in line all night for tickets to the latest convention. Moments later, it pushed me back like a brutish frat boy who had done too many kegs stands and had the liquid courage of an inebriated Goliath. And then it side swiped me, like the first time I stepped out on the rugby field and was knocked out by a girl the size of a refrigerator.

I continued to barrel through the capricious wind on what started as a gentle jog through the park. But, with oppressive storm clouds overhead, it wouldn't take a meteorologist to predict what would happen next. Even so, the Earth held it's bladder a little longer.

Twenty minutes later, I reached a point where I felt like I was no longer choosing the direction in which I was running. This robust breeze had hustled me toward the ocean. Looking out over the wind-whipped watery mass, I felt as if I had reached the edge of the earth. I took a short step up on the railing like a kid at the zoo and looked directly down. The waves were cowardly, as if a fat baby had jumped into a bathtub and created a ripple effect.

I looked back around at the skyline and then my immediate surroundings. A lone fisherman stood at the edge of the pier. Rubber rain gear in check and fishing rod amidst an unending bowl of saltwater broth.

At the time, I took a step off the rail and trailed the diffident waves with my eyes. I thought about how I can never remember my dreams. But, for some reason, I got this choked up feeling like deja vu, as if I had seen this moment before in a subconscious state. Perhaps the wind had more of a plan for me that day than I thought.

Big Girls do Cry

2009-07-09T07:21:00.000-07:00

The girls enjoy the open air. They like that fresh breeze that catches between the blouse and bra when there's a few buttons turned loose or an airy v-neck gaping. Summer is certainly upon us and I know the girls would like nothing more than to bask in those few gusts of blustery wind that should happen to get trapped beneath a breathable tee.

Unfortunately, my two darling sweethearts are enduring an oppressively moist summer buried beneath layers upon layers of professional garb(age).

My company holds dress code to the utmost degree of business standard. For me, this meant buying suits before leaving for Japan, as it stipulated in my contract that if I carried with me a 36D or above (sounds like some kind of weapon), I would be unable to find suitable clothing in Japan for my oh-so-busty chest.

Even in the states, finding a button-down blouse or dress shirt is difficult. I swim through the arms and have almost no shape to my torso, but still, that third or fourth button keeps a-poppin'. This means undershirts required. So, bra, undershirt, blouse. Count it, three layers in what was once a promising summer of endless tank tops and loose fitting shirts.

Not only do the girls blister in a soggy, dank chamber of multi-layered domination, they are constantly "checked out"--and not in the most pleasant of ways.

My Shibucho, or regional director, pops over and visits every now and again. She has yet to make an appearance without commenting on my "inappropriate" professional wear.

Last week, she asked how I was doing. And then, in a tricky sort of way--kind of how you would imagine a child getting duped into abduction-- proceeded to tell me how I need to straighten my blouse to cover more of my neck. There aren't any more damn buttons, lady, and its sweltering, even with this dilapidated fan blowing chunks of dust and dead bugs into my face.

There was nothing I could say in response to Shibucho's candid and extremely helpful fashion advice. It really broke me down for some reason. The girls were sweltering under such humid conditions and like anyone, constant heat makes you cranky.

I cried, er should I say blubbered, for exactly 20 seconds in the bathroom stall. It was a loud burst of upset, but only for a brief moment. For some reason...maybe the heat, maybe the constant scrutiny of my chest, I just needed a quick cry.

I guess sometimes constant attention of the girls makes them weary of even the subtle stares and glares, especially when they are concealed under a seemingly impenetrable shield of cotton. I could only convince myself to believe that big breasted employees were a novelty in Japan. And I was a force to be reckoned with.

6am

2009-07-07T07:32:00.000-07:00

I met a Nigerian man, in Japan, at an Irish pub.

Turned my nose up at raw horse meat with a belly full of raw fish.

Wandered Kobe city streets at 4am caught under a caustic drizzle that made me smell the pollution of the night prior. My hair reeked of second-hand smoke.

Drank Leffe in a European bar with my Jewish friend who swore off a British chemist who's virginity she took.

Was summoned at a night club by a Spaniard with a comely chiseled face adorned with two long-haired girls from Sri Lanka on both arms.

Listened to Calgary Tom fingerpick his banjo in Osaka at the loneliest of open mic nights.

Waved a western hello to the Japanese dog walker I see on my morning run. After all, we are neighbors.

Sweat through a baby doll dress I attempted to pull over my ample chest on my first effort to go shopping in this mega mall of a country. I had to explain in gesture to the store clerk why I couldn't purchase anything from her pristinely neat clothing store.

Pretended to peruse fishing rods at a flea market only to lean down far enough to pet a dog while his owner wasn't watching.

Slept an hour in an all-night karaoke booth before catching the first train home...6am.

I admire Kerouac, Ginsberg and the Beatnik like for their profundity in all of the untrodden open roads and minds of America. I wonder what they would think of my adventures--if they would be considered off-the-Beatnik-path enough to be a genre all their own.

Independence Day Blues

2009-07-04T17:45:00.000-07:00

I could've easily forgotten it was the 4th of July this year...I had to work.

I hope everyone back in the states will enjoy some freedom fries for me along with a lukewarm PBR while watching fireworks surrounded by rednecks with farmer tans.

I guess the upside is fireworks are legal in Japan.

I miss Neil Young America.

"I've been down the road and I've come back

lonesome whistle on the railroad track

ain't got nothing on those feelings that I had." Mellow my Mind

Dig Deep #6: Summer Love

2009-07-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

Akashi at sunset. I am quite romantic about my city at the moment. We are, after all, still in our honeymoon phase. And it's our summer of love...

I've missed the heat. The way your face gets that greasy grime when you can't stop sweating and how rewarding it is to wash off the day in ice cold water. The immovable fatigue after a long sun-kissed session at the beach, covered in only the bare essentials. How rewarding and fresh ice cream tastes, even when it melts down your hand and gets the in-between of your fingers all sticky. The way the ocean seem to sweat if there is too much tidal stillness. Panting dogs with unquenchable tongues, dripping onto concrete so hot it looks like acid sizzling.

I know living with the proper change of seasons, I will soon feel the power of each and welcome fall with enthusiasm. After all, this summer thing is just a tryst.

Daft Signage

2009-07-01T07:16:00.000-07:00

I laugh sometimes when I see really inane street signs. For example, the image above: It looks like a man holding a little girl's hand and they are hovering over a bike. I guess one would interpret it as "look for bikes before crossing the road"??

The one below is excellent. I interpret this as, "Young girls, please wait for the train attendant to help you if your hat should fall onto the tracks. They will bring a very strange clasp contraption to fish it out for you." Otherwise, I have yet to see any cautionary signs at the stations informing people of any other looming dangers other than the potential loss of a sun hat.

There is a lot of "Engurish"--placards and advertising that makes no sense; just a string of English words strewn together in grammatical discord.

Then again, those are the only signs I do remotely understand since I am otherwise illiterate.

Fat and Furry overtaken!

2009-07-01T06:12:00.000-07:00

Since arriving in Japan, there has been a fat and furry sensory overload. Whether it's a bottle of water, chocolate, the signs around the train station and city, this country is inundated with cuteness. There may not be much of a purpose (or one that I understand), but I wholly embrace a culture that upholds charming little trinkets, icons, and mascots as an ageless standard of nation-wide adornment.
Ouch! This is a sign inside the elevator doors at the mall. It tugs at the heartstrings seeing that sad, symmetrical face with his stubbed fingers. Message accomplished.

Illuminated cuteness in a storefront window. I was completely distracted by this portly swine to even notice what was actually being advertised.

My apple juice is that much sweeter because of this fanciful dancing cute thing. He makes apples look exciting and I was exceptionally excited to drink it.

A clever way to brighten an average sidewalk rest stop. It's like any other cold, uncomfortable granite bench, but with these two companions, it's inviting and friendly. Come sit next to me, friend! I'm here just for you.

This little camera crew duo was excellent. I'm glad they've chosen the octopus to carry the boom mic. His meandrous arms can extend in and out of any frame.
Surprise? Scared? Confusion? Who cares. It's freakin adorable and completely asinine as an image. What's going on? Why is that crocodile in some sort of old-fashioned tweed suit? What is this mysterious furry figure in the foreground? There are school children involved too. Ah, cute complexity.
It's certainly not gauche to play with your food...as long as you can turn it into a tempura-flake fuzzy delight. This was in the window of a restaurant and maybe this cute novelty has yet to wear off for me, but I'd purchase food in precious little animal shapes any day. I just hope it wasn't a way to get me in the door and then dupe me into eating a plain old tempura patty with no tomato ears.

The Other Snack Shop

2009-06-26T06:05:00.000-07:00

There's no such thing as promiscuity, unless you're paying for it. Most men and women in Japan adhere to a committed relationship. I've been told this commitment is more of an ethereal value than it is a corporeal practice.

If history has set any sort of standard, Japanese men were once considered polygamous, hosting an assortment of wives in various homes around the area in which they made their livelihood. Men would stay at the various homes for a certain period of time, making the "rounds" if you will.

Today, it is still common for many married couples to have separate homes from one another if, for example, the husband works in a different city than he lives. I guess, absence makes the heart stand still in this case.

If her husband isn't home, I know exactly where he is: snack shop. This is a type of bar where the drinks are expensive and come with female companionship. And, I have the fortunate pleasure of witnessing firsthand the wicked underbelly of Akashi nightlife on Snack Shop Street. Coincidentally, this is my street! Yippie!

About 50 ft from my apartment building, I begin to see the scatter of lingering men in black suits on my walk home from work. They stand around, cigarette dangling from their mouths, waiting for the next sloshed crew of businessmen to walk by so that they can solicit to them their ladies in waiting. I am able to observe, night after night, the interactions between the black-suited pimps and bevies of boozed up married men trampling through my street with slurs and slangs that I haven't the faintest clue. I hear them out my window now, singing jolly tunes like drunken sailors with women resembling baby dolls yelling at them from the door steps of the snack shop.

Snack shops could be considered the upscale equivalent of a brothel. And, for pimps, the most straight-laced stint in the world. Or, maybe it's all just the huggermugger Japanese version where the sale of sex isn't laid out on the bar, rather served as a covert cocktail with a side of privy pussy.

Dig Deep #5: Territorial

2009-06-26T05:58:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see another foreigner on the street, I always do a double take and think to myself, "What are you doing here?" They are probably thinking the same thing about me.

It does bridge the gap between East and West for about 2 seconds.

This Way to Monkey Mountain

2009-06-24T07:01:00.000-07:00

Anticipating a day full of shrine-seeing and absorbing traditional Japanese culture, I was surprised when my friend suggested we visit Arashiyama, an area of Kyoto that has an ever-popular monkey mountain! For only 500 yen (approx $5), you are a mere hike away from furry primate paradise!
The sinuous and steep terrain through the mountainside led us directly to an enclave of Japanese macaques that are more than used to the curious human visitor. Unprepared for a hike, the weight of my backpack, my lack of water and my sandals were no help. Nonetheless, that looming vision of me and monkey, as one, propelled me up the hill and on into a matted fur fairyland.
And there they were, just as promising as the pictures portrayed. At first glance, I felt an eerie stillness, and at any moment, my hike to monkey heaven would turn into Hitchcock's sequel to The Birds: The Monkeys. They perched on a rusted shanty rooftop and the rest remained staggered around a dusty courtyard, motionless for the most part. And then, for a brief moment, I looked beyond the swell of our primitive counterparts and took in the view. A gorgeously framed Kyoto situated in a basin encircled by bounteous green hillsides. It now seemed like such a peaceful place.
On the cusp of spring, we had the pleasure of finding babies clinging to their mother's and also feeding.
One of them looked at me!
We have learned much from our mammalian dopplegangers. For example, the photo below best resembles the earliest form of dentistry. I later saw a sign advertising for "oral implantology". With a botched effort to describe some sort or orthodontics, we may not have come far from this primitive point.
Why walk when you can slide! The cherry on top of a wonderfully fulfilling encounter with my newfound macaques friends was the slide you could take down the mountain to begin the descending hike back to a human-only populated zone.
And with a smile, I slid back down to see some shrines. I knew, no matter how spectacular, Monkey Mountain would always provide the most memorable Kyoto. At least until my next visit.

Dig Deep #4: Thug Life

2009-06-24T06:42:00.000-07:00

I was listening to "Cradle to the Grave" this morning on my way to work. I find laughable irony in listening to rap or hip hop music in a country that probably has no idea what a ghetto is and has never seen anything even remotely close to it.

Here is my ghetto. It's swell.

Class with a capital A

2009-06-23T07:22:00.001-07:00

Double take: this is Japan. However, I am consciously drawn to this bridge every day on my morning runs because of it's similarities to the beloved Bay Bridge--represent.

The Nishi-Akashi Bridge is known as the longest suspension bridge in the world, linking the main island of Japan to Awaji Island, which is a smaller island due south. That's about all I can comment on that for the time being.

oh. wait...

There is a taco ferry that runs from Akashi port to Awaji. And not that kind of taco (I wish. I would give my left tit for some Mexican food right about now). Taco is Japanese for octopus and one of Akashi's most prized seafaring friends that serves not only as a fisherman's catch of the day, but also as one of many mascots of the Akashi area.
This is Okura beach and the park adjacent. It runs parallel to what looks like man-made rock formations that locals love to scour for seashells and clams.
Akashi Park is across town and offers a tranquil and scenic green-lit path home from the JR Akashi Station.
And come on, this hits too close to home. A little boy who brings his bunny to the park? I was nearly brought to tears of joy until the little brat kicked ol' Floppy. Then, I just wanted to deploy a rescue team of a nearby squirrel and myself to go in for attack of the inhumane bunny boy.
Senior moments are many and there is never a dearth of seating.
This is Akashi castle, a small remains of a castle that was constructed at the beginning of the 17th century. The town had originally been constructed around the castle and romantic views of this time period and location can be read in ancient Japanese poems and literature, such as The Tale of Genji.
I am enjoying the sweet subtleties of suburban living.
Here she is in all her splendor. At least downtown. There are many unexplored spots by yours truly in the city, but this is probably the only place for some city-like action.
Train station--my friend from Oakland pointed out how much it looks like MacArthur BART.

And in a teeny tiny nutshell, this is Akashi. I describe it as the classy Oakland of the Far East. With Kobe (SF) in an arms reach, a neighborly feel and a glorious suspension bridge, my new home doesn't feel so far from home.

Time is the Master

2009-06-23T06:56:00.001-07:00

I'm living in a country where "on time" is considered late. And late isn't even considered an option. At first, I just thought it was something they told us at my company's headquarters to scare us into submission, but I've come to realize that everyone's watch is set 15 minutes ahead. Good thing I don't wear one.

Every day, at ten til the hour and on the hour, little chimes sanction the end of one class and the beginning of another. The melody is only on a 10 or 15 second loop, and albeit, aurally pleasing. However, I often get the feeling that it's darling little chirps are sinister baby clowns mocking my every move.

Like clockwork, I've fallen into this pattern of living my life in 50 minute increments. I literally plan everything I need to do to the minute or else that sweet little chime will go off and who knows, maybe I will end up freezing up like a malfunctioning robot and spontaneously combust. I guess as long as it's in between class...

Time truly is the master, but when is it not? My photography teacher told me "true artists don't wear watches." I haven't worn a watch since hearing those words (from my former pregnant lesbian teacher who had an affair with one of my high school classmates and decided to photograph the encounter and leave the negatives in the darkroom). Am I more of an artiste, or maybe just a little artier? I sure hope so (sarcasm). Either way, I'm perpetually bound by the constructs of time, even if I choose to live clock-free, only watching the rise and fall of the sun and moon like a goddamn hippie or someone who decides to live on an Indian reservation (another throwback to a high school teacher).

Truth be told, the majority of this post was for humor's sake. I am perfectly content with my time constructed (and constricted) life.

I did have a sadistic vision of lighting that little chime clock on fire and laughing while ritualistically dancing around it in the lobby this morning. Laughing right in its round little face.

The Romaniac has Landed

2009-06-18T08:51:00.000-07:00

I've been told there are three types of foreign guys who come to Japan:

1. The ones who are obsessed with Anime

2. The ones who are obsessed with being Japanese

and

3. The ones who are more than obsessed with Japanese women.

My friend just arrived in Tokyo and found himself a piece of prime real estate in Shibuya, which is one of the best fashion districts in the country.

He would also fall under the category of #3 with a potentially unhealthy obsession for Japanese women. I'm sure he'll be OK for the moment, but I'll update if any legal trouble ensues...ha!

His latest project, which I give full props to for creativity and ingenuity, is called Street Fashion Project. He poses as a amateur photographer and has hot girls (which are a dime a dozen nationwide) pose for him, displaying the most fashion forward sense of Nihon style. He gets a number or two to boot.

He's done quite well for himself:

The photos aren't bad either.

For more, check out:

Street Fashion Project

Coincidentally, I taught one of my Japanese students the term "man whore" today.

Dig Deep #3: Lube Sheep

2009-06-18T08:36:00.000-07:00

This is my lunch tupperware. They are as small as they seem. They are also made by a company called Lube Sheep. Engurish or Freudian slip, take your pick.

My name is Rinda. I love the white cake and sweet cherries. Yummy, yummy.

I love the white cake too, Rinda. With stawberries on top.
My name is Bobbin. I like to play outside. Hmm, what should I play today?

These are my lunchtime companions. And sadly enough, my only lunchtime companions. If you don't count the snapping turtles and oversized goldfish I feed crumbs to at the lake.

Dig Deep #2: Pantry Schmantry

2009-06-18T07:38:00.000-07:00

There is what I would consider the Whole Foods of Akashi across from my office. We call this The Pantry--exceedingly malapropos. Yippie San Franciscans and smug organic vegetable zealots are replaced by android-esque housewives and retirees. They don't even blink as they rummage through astronomically over-priced produce. There are these benumbing remixes of classic Western music playing, almost like it's sending shoppers into a trance where $11 for a bushel of grapes wont thwart any attempt to make it to the register with a full basket. Do they not know the 100 yen shop (dollar store) across the street offers the same items at a predictably lower price? This could be depressing depending on how you look at it. I just want the Muzak to stop. Louis Armstrong would wake up in his grave, appalled.

Dig Deep #1: 100 Calories My Ass...

2009-06-17T07:47:00.001-07:00

It seems like all packaged food in Japan comes in little, 100 calorie packs. The food itself may not be low calorie, but the quantity certainly keeps me from feeling completely full and satisfied.

I never bought into the "100 calorie" packs in the US. I figured it was the same as branding Betty Crocker cake mix as cupcake mix... as if they were any different. For dieting purposes, sure, 100 calorie packs are seemingly great, if you can keep yourself from eating more than one. Today, I had about 4 or 5 packs of M&M's. Sure, there were only about 10 M&M's in each pack, but the guilt that rode me all the way home as I scarfed my last pack that had been melting in my suit pocket all day will certainly stay with me tomorrow.

Dig Deep: An unending series of non sequiturs

2009-06-17T07:09:00.000-07:00

In addition to usual posts, I have a slew of illogical thoughts pop into my head daily. Dig Deep will be an outlet for such ideas. Enjoy them as much as you can. And enjoy this random photo of me. Japanese picture pose!

Train Gang

2009-06-16T18:40:00.000-07:00

Train culture is a fine-tuned, well-oiled mechanism for travel around Japan. It is hands down the most efficient method of transportation within cities and cross country.
Like any sort of schedule, Japanese adhere to train routes and times to the T. There are hardly delays of major concern and there are train lines that can take you to most areas, even rural towns and outskirts of major cities. Buses of the same caliber and dedication pick up where the trains left off. JR (Japan Railway) is the largest train company in Japan and extends to every region and area of the country.

I could venture to say some Japanese are fanatical about train culture. There are various types of contests every year to see who can make it from one cross-country destination to the next first. Since trains are such a popular way of commute, many non-fanatical Japanese have their train schedules and other alternative train schedules memorized.
I also see quite a few people in train stations taking photos. This, I come to find, is no coincidence. There is a country-wide contest for best train photos every year. Perhaps they have a category for gaijin entries and the above and below could qualify :)
The trains that I have ridden are pristine. There is no trash, already-been-chewed gum stuck to the paneling, graffitied transit ads, or drunkards spouting or splurting. My only qualm about the train system is that there is no room for a bike! If there is a secondary means of transportation in Japan, it is the bike. And for as many bikes as there are passengers, I can understand the reasoning. But, oh what a perfect world this would be if bikes and trains could live harmoniously as one.