A big difference between living in San Diego and Japan is that it’s full of Japanese people, and I mean not just packed in, but the population is ethnically something like 98.5% Japanese. Don’t get me wrong, I like Japanese people, but seeing how they are all from here and the vast majority have never left the country, try to find something that isn’t inherently Japanese and what you get is their interpretation of what they think it should be like.
For example: The food.
The Japanese primary focus is on visual appeal and presentation. Just think of all the craftsmanship that goes into making a Spicy-California-Rainbow-Dragon roll you ate last time you had “Sushi” (More on that later) . So when you order a bowl of udon noodles with tempura shrimp and a few sides you can be sure that it will come out looking exactly like the artfully crafted plastic models that many restaurants display in their front windows instead of some uninteresting menu.
Sometimes this works. Go into a McDonald’s and the burger they’ll serve you looks remarkably like the one on the menu board picture. Of course they haven’t figured out that one packet of ketchup isn’t enough for even a kid’s sized order of fries. Seriously, what do they expect me to with a single ketchup packet?
Oh, and I’m not ashamed to admit that just today I swung by the local Quickie Stop to grab a decent tasting lunch. I would never touch a sandwich out of the chill case at an AM/PM back home, but here everything is fresh and neatly presented. Even the 7-11 brand sushi ain’t bad.
The problem is that people don’t eat with my eyes, they eat with their mouths, and that’s a fact. So sometimes that food can be very bland.
I think even they know this.
A Japanese friend once asked me if I’d like some “Japanese butter?”
“Sure.”
She handed me a bowl of salt.
Goodnight Nobody,
Eric
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Kindness of Strangers Continued
Alright, I have neither the discipline nor talent to be posting drawn-out stories, so I’ll wrap this up and work on shorter but more frequent posts.
Our little after party is winding down, since everyone has to catch a train back to their respective homes. It blows my mind that in Tokyo there is no last call, but the train service starts winding down around midnight and by 2 in the morning you better be where you want to be, or you’re in for a very expensive cab ride.
But I’m good I checked my handy iPhone app before I even left and I’ve got 40 minutes be catch the last train back to Atsugi. I double check just to be sure and to my amazement the route I planned on taking has a 4 hour layover somewhere in the middle of the trip and picks back up when the trains start running again. If I want to make it in a straight shot I don’t have 40 minutes to catch the train… I’ve got 8.
I relay this to the group and to their credit; they try to get me on that train, even demonstrating some genuine concern for a person they just met a few hours ago. We rush out of the bar and dash off to the station. But it’s futile, and I know it, so rather than force everyone to sprint I let them know, “I’m just gonna kick it here for a little while,” where I know at least the bars will be open rather than take my chances and get stuck in some place I’ve never heard of.
They’re a little confused, so I quickly say good bye so as not to make them miss their rides, duck into an Irish themed bar and order a pint. There’s a soccer game playing on a large TV on so I grab a seat at a small table facing the screen. I don’t know how it started, probably with some inane question on my part, but the next thing I know is that I’m sitting with a bunch of Japanese guys who are out celebrating something. A few of them understand English to varying degrees so I tell them my situation and after they explain it to the rest of their buddies they all laugh and knowingly nod their heads.
While not very outgoing I’ve found most Japanese to be very friendly once you get a dialogue started, and they refused to let me buy a round. One guy offers me a cigarette, and cause I don’t want to make some faux pas, I accept, that and cause I’m seriously buzzed at this point. We pass the time making very basic, but fun small talk, until they eventually have to split. Before they do I’m given a couple of business cards (which I don’t stick in my back pocket), a fresh beer and one of the guys gestures to three neatly stacked cigarettes and book of matches left for me on the table. Survival rations, I can’t help but think.
Once the big table where we were carousing at clears out I notice there’s an English dude sitting just a couple of seats over. I’m assuming he’s English, or at least not American, since he actually looks interested in the game. We happen to exchange glances, but don’t say a word, don’t even nod, just turn back to the TV and sip our beers.
I don’t know if it was the booze or the fact that it’s really late, but eventually I realize that there’s twice as many players on the field than there should be. So rather than continuing to watch the game with one hand over my eye, I opt to step out and walk around for the last hour and a half of my adventure.
It’s late, but Shinjuku is still happening, except that now the Nigerians are out in force. Again, the Japanese not being outgoing, farm out their more vocal and outspoken jobs to foreigners. “Hey my friend! Hey my friend!” they call out in their thickly accented English, “Come inside! I have extra special deal for you!” while pairs of young Japanese girls whisper, “Massage-y!?, Massage-y!?” Strangely it reminded me of too many late nights on Avenida Revolución in Tijuana. Fortunately those experiences desensitized me to their feeble tactics and I knew better than to break stride or make eye contact as I wandered around.
Eventually I find a McDonald’s, and order a cheeseburger while cursing the fact that I can get a hot and tasty burger--or just about anything else-- at four in the morning, but will have to wait another hour just to sit on a damn train.
I make my way back to the station, and plop down against a wall with a group of like minded party-goers. We watch as the sun comes up, yeah the sun rises at like 0430 in this country, and finally perk up as the gates to the station rattle open. Silently I shuffle through the turnstile and grab a seat on a brightly lit subway car, staring off at the empty seat in front of me, too tired to sleep, thinking, “I can’t make a habit of this, I really have to figure these trains out.”
Goodnight Nobody,
Eric
Our little after party is winding down, since everyone has to catch a train back to their respective homes. It blows my mind that in Tokyo there is no last call, but the train service starts winding down around midnight and by 2 in the morning you better be where you want to be, or you’re in for a very expensive cab ride.
But I’m good I checked my handy iPhone app before I even left and I’ve got 40 minutes be catch the last train back to Atsugi. I double check just to be sure and to my amazement the route I planned on taking has a 4 hour layover somewhere in the middle of the trip and picks back up when the trains start running again. If I want to make it in a straight shot I don’t have 40 minutes to catch the train… I’ve got 8.
I relay this to the group and to their credit; they try to get me on that train, even demonstrating some genuine concern for a person they just met a few hours ago. We rush out of the bar and dash off to the station. But it’s futile, and I know it, so rather than force everyone to sprint I let them know, “I’m just gonna kick it here for a little while,” where I know at least the bars will be open rather than take my chances and get stuck in some place I’ve never heard of.
They’re a little confused, so I quickly say good bye so as not to make them miss their rides, duck into an Irish themed bar and order a pint. There’s a soccer game playing on a large TV on so I grab a seat at a small table facing the screen. I don’t know how it started, probably with some inane question on my part, but the next thing I know is that I’m sitting with a bunch of Japanese guys who are out celebrating something. A few of them understand English to varying degrees so I tell them my situation and after they explain it to the rest of their buddies they all laugh and knowingly nod their heads.
While not very outgoing I’ve found most Japanese to be very friendly once you get a dialogue started, and they refused to let me buy a round. One guy offers me a cigarette, and cause I don’t want to make some faux pas, I accept, that and cause I’m seriously buzzed at this point. We pass the time making very basic, but fun small talk, until they eventually have to split. Before they do I’m given a couple of business cards (which I don’t stick in my back pocket), a fresh beer and one of the guys gestures to three neatly stacked cigarettes and book of matches left for me on the table. Survival rations, I can’t help but think.
Once the big table where we were carousing at clears out I notice there’s an English dude sitting just a couple of seats over. I’m assuming he’s English, or at least not American, since he actually looks interested in the game. We happen to exchange glances, but don’t say a word, don’t even nod, just turn back to the TV and sip our beers.
I don’t know if it was the booze or the fact that it’s really late, but eventually I realize that there’s twice as many players on the field than there should be. So rather than continuing to watch the game with one hand over my eye, I opt to step out and walk around for the last hour and a half of my adventure.
It’s late, but Shinjuku is still happening, except that now the Nigerians are out in force. Again, the Japanese not being outgoing, farm out their more vocal and outspoken jobs to foreigners. “Hey my friend! Hey my friend!” they call out in their thickly accented English, “Come inside! I have extra special deal for you!” while pairs of young Japanese girls whisper, “Massage-y!?, Massage-y!?” Strangely it reminded me of too many late nights on Avenida Revolución in Tijuana. Fortunately those experiences desensitized me to their feeble tactics and I knew better than to break stride or make eye contact as I wandered around.
Eventually I find a McDonald’s, and order a cheeseburger while cursing the fact that I can get a hot and tasty burger--or just about anything else-- at four in the morning, but will have to wait another hour just to sit on a damn train.
I make my way back to the station, and plop down against a wall with a group of like minded party-goers. We watch as the sun comes up, yeah the sun rises at like 0430 in this country, and finally perk up as the gates to the station rattle open. Silently I shuffle through the turnstile and grab a seat on a brightly lit subway car, staring off at the empty seat in front of me, too tired to sleep, thinking, “I can’t make a habit of this, I really have to figure these trains out.”
Goodnight Nobody,
Eric
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)