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
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Which way is East
The telltale “Bing” over the train’s PA systems alerts me to the female voice announcing the next stop. She sounds kinda robotic and yet kinda sexy like some Asian Stepford wife, “Doko deska gomenisai watashi wa onemia wa hatigimaste —Shinjuku— huji-sana arigato goziamas—Shinjuku .” Or something like that, all I know is that I’m pretty sure this is Shinjuku and that’s my stop.
Yeah. I’m learning something. I’m almost there; glad the hard part is over. Be there in no time now.
Turns out that this was the end of the line I’d be getting off regardless… so much for my small victory. As soon as the train stops the hundreds of passengers quickly poured out and I follow.
Immediately, I’m awash in the bright fluorescent lights and thousands upon tens of thousands of Japanese pedestrians briskly walking to a hundred different destinations. I stand still for a moment to find my bearings. I need to find the East Exit. Meanwhile like a river around an annoying stone, bodies rush by, stepping slightly left or right before quickly filling in the open space behind me.
Shinjuku it turns out is the busiest train station in the entire world—-by a long shot. I wander through the crowds muttering, “East exit. East exit.” I find a sign for the North exit, and then the West exit. Plunging ahead--seemingly always against the follow of traffic--I come across the South exit, the South East exit and wait for it… the North exit again. Screw it. South East is close enough, I’ll just get away from this mob and figure things out once I’m outside. I can probably just walk around the building and find the East exit that way.
As soon as I walk through the toll gate and out of the station I immediately realize the idiocy of that of walking around idea. It’s like some giant outdoor ant farm with people jammed on to escalators and causeways shooting off in every direction. I walk down a broad flight of stairs; further into the mob and onto the street level. The streets, more like alleys, twist around like a rat warren and have no signs that I can find.
I pull up the map from the e-mail that had the directions, knowing that I can’t read it, but maybe some passerby can help me. It’s more confusing and indecipherable than I remembered. It’s entirely in Japanese characters, and I can’t even tell if I’m at the purple symbol, or the blue one; nor if I want to get to the red symbol, or the green one, or any of the black or white ones. Scratch that idea.
I have never felt so lost in my life.
lost. Lost. LOST.
I’d been unsure of where I was in Japan plenty times, but I wasn’t trying to get anywhere in particular, the bar across the street would suite me just as well as the one next to it, or the one next to that one, etc... The impossibility of finding this place—-a needle in a haystack of needles—-was starting to crush me. Everyone else seemed to know exactly where they wanted to go and seemed in a hurry to get there. Me, I just wandered in a small circle, peering down the streets, not really sure of what exactly I was looking for but knowing that I won't find it.
I thought, "Well this obviously isn’t going to happen; maybe I should just slink on back to Atsugi." I had number for the place, so it was either admit defeat to myself and head back home or admit utter defeat to someone else and call, “I’m lost. I don’t exactly know where I am, but I’d like directions to where you are.”
I call.
They answer.
In Japanese.
I used to say, “Mushi, mushi.” (That’s how you answer a phone in Japanese) but then the person on the other end of the line assumes you fluent and starts chatting away.
“English? ¿Español?,” I ask.
“Sí.”
Thank God.
He tells me, “Go out the East exit (He assures me there is one) and then make a right something, something two blocks and then you’re at almost at the Koma theater, very famous building, everybody knows this building people can tell you how to get to it and we’re right across from it.”
I walk back inside the building and make it to where an East exit should be.
No sign of it.
I ask a young man working at a small booth, “East exit?” He steps out from behind his counter and directs me to a non-descript stairwell about 20 yards away with people pouring into it, “Down two flights of stair and make right.” “Arigato!” I smile. He smiles. I bow. He bows. And I’m off, racing down an unnamed flight of stairs. Sneaky Japs.
Following his directions, I have to pass through the toll gates of the station I was instead of the green arrow I get a big red “X” and the knee-high gates close. I have to turn around, causing a minor traffic jam, and make my way over to toll booth operator; a young man dressed in dark blue jacket, tie, and hat like a 1920’s train conductor. I hand him my card and he scans it presses a few buttons hands me back my card and waves me on through. Apparently the system thinks it’s suspect when some checks into a station and checks back out of that same station 10 minutes later, but after looking at me this guy knew I wasn't smart enough to be ripping off the system. This happens two more times before I finally figure it out. I got pretty good at it, by the time I make it to the third gate I already know, “There’s no way this gate is gonna let me through, let me go ahead and just take my card out of my wallet and give it straight to 'Mr. Conductor'.” Hopefully, no one is tracking my actions cause I’d probably get blacklisted from the train.
Finally after wandering around a train station for 45 minutes I reach the fabled East Exit.
I step outside and it’s already dark.
…well…
I mean it’s nighttime, but it’s not dark. It’s like I just stepped in to Times Square, except imagine if Times Square was surrounded by five other Times Squares.
OK five minute walk, I can do this…
Goodnight nobody,
Eric
Yeah. I’m learning something. I’m almost there; glad the hard part is over. Be there in no time now.
Turns out that this was the end of the line I’d be getting off regardless… so much for my small victory. As soon as the train stops the hundreds of passengers quickly poured out and I follow.
Immediately, I’m awash in the bright fluorescent lights and thousands upon tens of thousands of Japanese pedestrians briskly walking to a hundred different destinations. I stand still for a moment to find my bearings. I need to find the East Exit. Meanwhile like a river around an annoying stone, bodies rush by, stepping slightly left or right before quickly filling in the open space behind me.
Shinjuku it turns out is the busiest train station in the entire world—-by a long shot. I wander through the crowds muttering, “East exit. East exit.” I find a sign for the North exit, and then the West exit. Plunging ahead--seemingly always against the follow of traffic--I come across the South exit, the South East exit and wait for it… the North exit again. Screw it. South East is close enough, I’ll just get away from this mob and figure things out once I’m outside. I can probably just walk around the building and find the East exit that way.
As soon as I walk through the toll gate and out of the station I immediately realize the idiocy of that of walking around idea. It’s like some giant outdoor ant farm with people jammed on to escalators and causeways shooting off in every direction. I walk down a broad flight of stairs; further into the mob and onto the street level. The streets, more like alleys, twist around like a rat warren and have no signs that I can find.
I pull up the map from the e-mail that had the directions, knowing that I can’t read it, but maybe some passerby can help me. It’s more confusing and indecipherable than I remembered. It’s entirely in Japanese characters, and I can’t even tell if I’m at the purple symbol, or the blue one; nor if I want to get to the red symbol, or the green one, or any of the black or white ones. Scratch that idea.
I have never felt so lost in my life.
lost. Lost. LOST.
I’d been unsure of where I was in Japan plenty times, but I wasn’t trying to get anywhere in particular, the bar across the street would suite me just as well as the one next to it, or the one next to that one, etc... The impossibility of finding this place—-a needle in a haystack of needles—-was starting to crush me. Everyone else seemed to know exactly where they wanted to go and seemed in a hurry to get there. Me, I just wandered in a small circle, peering down the streets, not really sure of what exactly I was looking for but knowing that I won't find it.
I thought, "Well this obviously isn’t going to happen; maybe I should just slink on back to Atsugi." I had number for the place, so it was either admit defeat to myself and head back home or admit utter defeat to someone else and call, “I’m lost. I don’t exactly know where I am, but I’d like directions to where you are.”
I call.
They answer.
In Japanese.
I used to say, “Mushi, mushi.” (That’s how you answer a phone in Japanese) but then the person on the other end of the line assumes you fluent and starts chatting away.
“English? ¿Español?,” I ask.
“Sí.”
Thank God.
He tells me, “Go out the East exit (He assures me there is one) and then make a right something, something two blocks and then you’re at almost at the Koma theater, very famous building, everybody knows this building people can tell you how to get to it and we’re right across from it.”
I walk back inside the building and make it to where an East exit should be.
No sign of it.
I ask a young man working at a small booth, “East exit?” He steps out from behind his counter and directs me to a non-descript stairwell about 20 yards away with people pouring into it, “Down two flights of stair and make right.” “Arigato!” I smile. He smiles. I bow. He bows. And I’m off, racing down an unnamed flight of stairs. Sneaky Japs.
Following his directions, I have to pass through the toll gates of the station I was instead of the green arrow I get a big red “X” and the knee-high gates close. I have to turn around, causing a minor traffic jam, and make my way over to toll booth operator; a young man dressed in dark blue jacket, tie, and hat like a 1920’s train conductor. I hand him my card and he scans it presses a few buttons hands me back my card and waves me on through. Apparently the system thinks it’s suspect when some checks into a station and checks back out of that same station 10 minutes later, but after looking at me this guy knew I wasn't smart enough to be ripping off the system. This happens two more times before I finally figure it out. I got pretty good at it, by the time I make it to the third gate I already know, “There’s no way this gate is gonna let me through, let me go ahead and just take my card out of my wallet and give it straight to 'Mr. Conductor'.” Hopefully, no one is tracking my actions cause I’d probably get blacklisted from the train.
Finally after wandering around a train station for 45 minutes I reach the fabled East Exit.
I step outside and it’s already dark.
…well…
I mean it’s nighttime, but it’s not dark. It’s like I just stepped in to Times Square, except imagine if Times Square was surrounded by five other Times Squares.
OK five minute walk, I can do this…
Goodnight nobody,
Eric
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Depending on the Kindness of Strangers
OK, so I’ve been delinquent in my posts for a while, but I haven’t had the chance to sit down and write much so I’ll just go with what I’ve got and post more on it later. I apologize in advance for dragging this thing out...
So it's out the frying pan and into an electric maze of neon, buildings, and a sea of people. I walk up to the a young lady, who’s bright yellow and white uniform makes it immediately clear that she’s under the employ of the store with the matching yellow and white motif, where her apparent job is to stand outside and in an obnoxiously cheerfully voice yell into the night while handing out flyers. I wait catch her between breaths and then interrupt “Sumimasen, Koma Theater?”
She smiles and gives me a look as if I had more to say.
I don’t, that’s all I got, so I repeat it.
She obviously doesn’t get it so I type it on my phone and show it to her. “Ah Koma Theater!,” she nods and then wrinkling her forehead, pauses, as if thinking how the hell am I going to explain this. She starts making a few hand gestures and chirps away in Japanese. It looks to me like she’s telling me it’s two blocks down and then a left. I repeat her gestures and convince us both that I got the message. A small bow and I’m off.
Of course it wasn’t that easy and I end up entering a frustrating game of “hotter, colder,” Where I wander from the corner of one block to another and ask some unfortunate passerby or employee, “Koma Theater?” By the puzzled looks and conflicting directions I soon realize that the “Famous” Koma Theater”isn’t. But with all the efficiency of a blind man groping in the dark I finally make it there.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I think in my mind I had pictured the Grauman’s Chinese Theater, but it turns out it’s just another non-descript grey building with the letters “KOMA Theater” about a third of the way up.
I walk around the build and there’s no sign of the restaurant I’m looking for, so I call their phone again.
“OK you’re at the theater. Do you see the McDonald’s?”
“Si, I see it.”
“You see the Pachinko parlor next to it?”
“Yeah, I’m right next to it.”
“OK. Next to it are some stairs, go down those and you can’t miss us.” Click.
I am LITERALLY standing five feet in front of these stairs, and there is no would have guessed that though this dimly-lit cave of an opening with no sign is supposed to be a restaurant.
I walk down a few flights and right before I’m about to give up (again) I push through a door and walk right in to what immediately reminded me of a darkened elementary school auditorium/cafeteria (complete with an empty stage at one end) transformed in to a high-end food court with tiny kitchens dishing out Mexican, Japanese, English, Italian, and of course Spanish food.
I quickly mix in with the diverse little group of about 25 people spilt fairly evenly between, Latinos from all over, and Japaneses(?) interested in learning a little about the Spanish language and culture. Everyone is super friendly, probably because the drinks have been following for a little while now.
The way a lot of restaurants run group parties is that they charge a set price per head (normally around $30-$40) and for two hours they’ll shovel out as much as you can eat and drink.
I get a feel for the different groups within the group and avoid the mutants at table 9 chaired by an older British lady, who judging by the vacant look in her eyes, and the uncomfortable loudness and slowness with which she’s speaking is either really drunk, or slightly retarded, or both. And there’s the other clique that’s been commandeered by a twenty-something, rail-thin Japanese kid, who is whining away in English (with a perfect gay American accent) about how the Spanish chef and all these other hot Latinos have been blowing-off his advances all night.
I settle in with a normal looking group of about 3 Japanese girls, 1 Japanese guy, two Spaniards, and a Columbian-American dude. The conversation is lively and the two hours quickly pass.
“Time to move this party elsewhere!” the lanky, gay guy shouts. He knows of a couple a great party spots and invites everyone to follow him. But I insist that it’s getting late… I’ve got a train to catch… I'm done drinking... I’ve got to get up early… Honestly, I’m just not that adventurous.
So I duck off with my little group to have just a couple of cocktails before calling it a night. The Japanese guy I‘ve been talking to, Nikka, who’s about 28, and fashionably dressed in a jacket, button-down collared shirt and jeans tells me he’s got to go. He hands me his business card and tells me he’d like to “invite me to dinner sometime.” I’m later told that this is completely normal guy behavior, but I was a little gun-shy at this point. Still I take his card quickly glance at it and instinctively stick it in my back pocket.
Immediately I hear the teacher’s voice from the cultural awareness class that I just completed When Japanese person gives you the business card with all the personal information it’s a little picture of the face so prease whatever you do do not prease put it against the butt.
Oops.
I quickly take it out pretend to read it for a few more seconds and then with big deliberate gestures try to make it obvious “Look! I’m not putting your face against my butt. It’s going right here in my jacket where it’ll be safe and respected.”
…
Goodnight nobody,
Eric
So it's out the frying pan and into an electric maze of neon, buildings, and a sea of people. I walk up to the a young lady, who’s bright yellow and white uniform makes it immediately clear that she’s under the employ of the store with the matching yellow and white motif, where her apparent job is to stand outside and in an obnoxiously cheerfully voice yell into the night while handing out flyers. I wait catch her between breaths and then interrupt “Sumimasen, Koma Theater?”
She smiles and gives me a look as if I had more to say.
I don’t, that’s all I got, so I repeat it.
She obviously doesn’t get it so I type it on my phone and show it to her. “Ah Koma Theater!,” she nods and then wrinkling her forehead, pauses, as if thinking how the hell am I going to explain this. She starts making a few hand gestures and chirps away in Japanese. It looks to me like she’s telling me it’s two blocks down and then a left. I repeat her gestures and convince us both that I got the message. A small bow and I’m off.
Of course it wasn’t that easy and I end up entering a frustrating game of “hotter, colder,” Where I wander from the corner of one block to another and ask some unfortunate passerby or employee, “Koma Theater?” By the puzzled looks and conflicting directions I soon realize that the “Famous” Koma Theater”isn’t. But with all the efficiency of a blind man groping in the dark I finally make it there.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I think in my mind I had pictured the Grauman’s Chinese Theater, but it turns out it’s just another non-descript grey building with the letters “KOMA Theater” about a third of the way up.
I walk around the build and there’s no sign of the restaurant I’m looking for, so I call their phone again.
“OK you’re at the theater. Do you see the McDonald’s?”
“Si, I see it.”
“You see the Pachinko parlor next to it?”
“Yeah, I’m right next to it.”
“OK. Next to it are some stairs, go down those and you can’t miss us.” Click.
I am LITERALLY standing five feet in front of these stairs, and there is no would have guessed that though this dimly-lit cave of an opening with no sign is supposed to be a restaurant.
I walk down a few flights and right before I’m about to give up (again) I push through a door and walk right in to what immediately reminded me of a darkened elementary school auditorium/cafeteria (complete with an empty stage at one end) transformed in to a high-end food court with tiny kitchens dishing out Mexican, Japanese, English, Italian, and of course Spanish food.
I quickly mix in with the diverse little group of about 25 people spilt fairly evenly between, Latinos from all over, and Japaneses(?) interested in learning a little about the Spanish language and culture. Everyone is super friendly, probably because the drinks have been following for a little while now.
The way a lot of restaurants run group parties is that they charge a set price per head (normally around $30-$40) and for two hours they’ll shovel out as much as you can eat and drink.
I get a feel for the different groups within the group and avoid the mutants at table 9 chaired by an older British lady, who judging by the vacant look in her eyes, and the uncomfortable loudness and slowness with which she’s speaking is either really drunk, or slightly retarded, or both. And there’s the other clique that’s been commandeered by a twenty-something, rail-thin Japanese kid, who is whining away in English (with a perfect gay American accent) about how the Spanish chef and all these other hot Latinos have been blowing-off his advances all night.
I settle in with a normal looking group of about 3 Japanese girls, 1 Japanese guy, two Spaniards, and a Columbian-American dude. The conversation is lively and the two hours quickly pass.
“Time to move this party elsewhere!” the lanky, gay guy shouts. He knows of a couple a great party spots and invites everyone to follow him. But I insist that it’s getting late… I’ve got a train to catch… I'm done drinking... I’ve got to get up early… Honestly, I’m just not that adventurous.
So I duck off with my little group to have just a couple of cocktails before calling it a night. The Japanese guy I‘ve been talking to, Nikka, who’s about 28, and fashionably dressed in a jacket, button-down collared shirt and jeans tells me he’s got to go. He hands me his business card and tells me he’d like to “invite me to dinner sometime.” I’m later told that this is completely normal guy behavior, but I was a little gun-shy at this point. Still I take his card quickly glance at it and instinctively stick it in my back pocket.
Immediately I hear the teacher’s voice from the cultural awareness class that I just completed When Japanese person gives you the business card with all the personal information it’s a little picture of the face so prease whatever you do do not prease put it against the butt.
Oops.
I quickly take it out pretend to read it for a few more seconds and then with big deliberate gestures try to make it obvious “Look! I’m not putting your face against my butt. It’s going right here in my jacket where it’ll be safe and respected.”
…
Goodnight nobody,
Eric
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The Queso Stands Alone
So this past weekend on the advice of my wife, I sign myself up for a "Meetup" group. Unbeknownst to me, all over the world there's these groups of like-minded individuals who get on the internet and plan... get-togethers. This particular bunch was the Tokyo Spanish Language Meet up group.
Initially I was impressed that there was even such a group, but after realizing that there's just under 40 Million people in the greater Tokyo area (that's more people than in all of California) and only 25 of us would be at this meet-up I was a little underwhelmed. Still, I was determined to figure out what these 24 other individuals would be like.
So, I read the directions: Take the train to Shinjuku, head out the East Exit, walk five minutes, and across from the famous Koma Theater you'll find the restaurant we're meeting at, 'Caribbean Pirates.' 6:30pm." Roger. I’ll be there.
Sounded simple enough. I use my iphone to look up the train schedule: Trains departing about every seven minutes. Two quick transfers and in just about an hour’s time and for a little over 6 bucks I’ll be there. I swear these smart phones are such amazing things. It’s like if you can dream of something you’d like you phone to do, then it probably already can. Sometimes I even feel bad for my phone. I’m sure it feels it’s not living up to its potential and if it only had an owner with a little more imagination it could be truly awesome.
So I plan on taking a train to get me to Shinjuku with half an hour to spare—you know in case I get lost, or I can even just wander around if I don’t want to show up too early.
It’s a 10-15 minute walk from my room to the train station so grab my iphone, mp3 player, wallet, and I’m out the door. About half way to the station I plug in my headphones and realize that the battery is almost dead. I figure I got maybe 15 minutes at best—Kelso, you better save these for one of those awkward train situations where you’re jammed face-to-face with some foreigner--errr--native Japanese person with nothing to do or say.
The train tickets are pretty sweet. Put a deposit on a card, charge it up, and stick it in your wallet. Wave your wallet past the sensor as you breeze by the toll gates and you checked into the system. You can ride the train all day to just about anywhere, and you only get charged when you exit the station and only for the distance from where you checked in at.
4:53 RIGHT ON SCHEDULE. After a couple of simple transfers on the local line and I’m riding the express train into Shinjuku. Easy-peasy.
The train doesn’t start off crowded, and I usually opt to stand. I like to think that it’s the gentleman in me surrendering my right to a seat to someone less able bodied. Truth be told, however, the seats are pretty small and the Japanese have no qualms about snuggling up right next to you if there’s five inches of bench space left open.
Before long the train car starts filling up. In the States walk into an elevator and you’re supposed to head towards the back and turn around to face the door, right? So that’s what I do. It’s not even that crowded but I’m leaned up against the back corner. Then suddenly I’m pinned in by a middle-age guy right in front of me and a couple of younger-looking girls (maybe junior high school, maybe 36—I can never tell) against my only open side. The guy breaks out a cell phone and starts tapping away. The girls don’t do much; just make a quite comment every now and again. Time for that Mp3 player.
It’s dead within 3 songs.
I put it away, but the guy is facing me just six inches away, while gazing down at his phone. After a few minutes of trying not to look at anyone or do anything, I put my headphones back on and pretend to listen to music. It only makes things more awkward in my mind. After a little while I look around and realize that everyone who’s standing in the train is facing me! …well not me, but in my direction. Apparently in Japan it’s customary to just walk in the train, squeeze yourself as far forward as you can go and forgo the about-face. I was the one weirdo in the elevator facing the wrong way. It had to be uncomfortable for them too. It was so quite, like a church, everyone neatly packed in, heads bowed, facing some invisible altar that I’m undoubtedly blocking. Just the click-clack of the tracks; the whoosh of the occasional passing train and this bumbling American, confusedly looking around thinkin’ “Gosh, this here sure is different from how’s we’s use to do thang’s…” I start to wonder maybe those occasional comments are about me?
Awk... ward...
I take a moment to listen--real hard--as if I could somehow pick out a piece of evidence from the strange mumblings all around me that I was being mocked. Eventually the pressure becomes unbearable and in an uncomfortably obvious admission of my ignorance, I slowly shuffle around to dutifully face the wall now in front of me and imagine turning up the volume on music that isn't there.
Good Night Nobody,
Eric
Initially I was impressed that there was even such a group, but after realizing that there's just under 40 Million people in the greater Tokyo area (that's more people than in all of California) and only 25 of us would be at this meet-up I was a little underwhelmed. Still, I was determined to figure out what these 24 other individuals would be like.
So, I read the directions: Take the train to Shinjuku, head out the East Exit, walk five minutes, and across from the famous Koma Theater you'll find the restaurant we're meeting at, 'Caribbean Pirates.' 6:30pm." Roger. I’ll be there.
Sounded simple enough. I use my iphone to look up the train schedule: Trains departing about every seven minutes. Two quick transfers and in just about an hour’s time and for a little over 6 bucks I’ll be there. I swear these smart phones are such amazing things. It’s like if you can dream of something you’d like you phone to do, then it probably already can. Sometimes I even feel bad for my phone. I’m sure it feels it’s not living up to its potential and if it only had an owner with a little more imagination it could be truly awesome.
So I plan on taking a train to get me to Shinjuku with half an hour to spare—you know in case I get lost, or I can even just wander around if I don’t want to show up too early.
It’s a 10-15 minute walk from my room to the train station so grab my iphone, mp3 player, wallet, and I’m out the door. About half way to the station I plug in my headphones and realize that the battery is almost dead. I figure I got maybe 15 minutes at best—Kelso, you better save these for one of those awkward train situations where you’re jammed face-to-face with some foreigner--errr--native Japanese person with nothing to do or say.
The train tickets are pretty sweet. Put a deposit on a card, charge it up, and stick it in your wallet. Wave your wallet past the sensor as you breeze by the toll gates and you checked into the system. You can ride the train all day to just about anywhere, and you only get charged when you exit the station and only for the distance from where you checked in at.
4:53 RIGHT ON SCHEDULE. After a couple of simple transfers on the local line and I’m riding the express train into Shinjuku. Easy-peasy.
The train doesn’t start off crowded, and I usually opt to stand. I like to think that it’s the gentleman in me surrendering my right to a seat to someone less able bodied. Truth be told, however, the seats are pretty small and the Japanese have no qualms about snuggling up right next to you if there’s five inches of bench space left open.
Before long the train car starts filling up. In the States walk into an elevator and you’re supposed to head towards the back and turn around to face the door, right? So that’s what I do. It’s not even that crowded but I’m leaned up against the back corner. Then suddenly I’m pinned in by a middle-age guy right in front of me and a couple of younger-looking girls (maybe junior high school, maybe 36—I can never tell) against my only open side. The guy breaks out a cell phone and starts tapping away. The girls don’t do much; just make a quite comment every now and again. Time for that Mp3 player.
It’s dead within 3 songs.
I put it away, but the guy is facing me just six inches away, while gazing down at his phone. After a few minutes of trying not to look at anyone or do anything, I put my headphones back on and pretend to listen to music. It only makes things more awkward in my mind. After a little while I look around and realize that everyone who’s standing in the train is facing me! …well not me, but in my direction. Apparently in Japan it’s customary to just walk in the train, squeeze yourself as far forward as you can go and forgo the about-face. I was the one weirdo in the elevator facing the wrong way. It had to be uncomfortable for them too. It was so quite, like a church, everyone neatly packed in, heads bowed, facing some invisible altar that I’m undoubtedly blocking. Just the click-clack of the tracks; the whoosh of the occasional passing train and this bumbling American, confusedly looking around thinkin’ “Gosh, this here sure is different from how’s we’s use to do thang’s…” I start to wonder maybe those occasional comments are about me?
Awk... ward...
I take a moment to listen--real hard--as if I could somehow pick out a piece of evidence from the strange mumblings all around me that I was being mocked. Eventually the pressure becomes unbearable and in an uncomfortably obvious admission of my ignorance, I slowly shuffle around to dutifully face the wall now in front of me and imagine turning up the volume on music that isn't there.
Good Night Nobody,
Eric
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Overlook Hotel: Party of One
OK so I've been staying in the Permanent Party (sweet irony) Quarters for over a week now and I've yet to see another guest staying here. Oh, I'll sit in my room and hear the dryer in the laundry room across the hall tumbling away or muffled voices, but I've never actually seen the launderers nor the owners of those disembodied voices. I'm tempted to stick my head out the door next time I hear a commotion, but I'm worried about what I might see... or not see.
The only person I have seen walking through the halls is the cleaning lady who seems to be pushing her dust mop over the same section of linoleum every time we cross paths. She just nods and lowers her head when I walk by. The fact that she's obviously American only makes things creepier.
I guess the strangest part is walking through the halls at night. The flickering fluorescent light, TV on in the lobby, and the smell of industrial strength cleaner give me that same distinct feeling of walking though the P-ways of Bancroft Hall during Christmas break. The inefficiency of maintaining a building meant to house so many thousands (mere hundreds in this case)of people is a little unnerving. It feels like your not supposed to be there. Any minute someone is going to step out of the door right in front of you eeriy and pleasantly shocked to find a trespasser, but no one ever does it's just the click-clack of your own soles against that freshly buffed floor. So I go, occasionally hearing someone scurrying through this warren of hallways possibly thinking the same thing.
This is made more glaringly bizarre once I step out the of the building and a brilliant sun beams down on me as hundreds of cherry blossoms gracefully flit their way down from their branches on a crisp wind neatly piling themselves into open corners or blanking the parked cars in a sheet of soft pink. People ride by in their small cars or bicycles blissfully unaware of the strange happenings inside.
Goodnight Nobody, (Hopefully)
Eric
The only person I have seen walking through the halls is the cleaning lady who seems to be pushing her dust mop over the same section of linoleum every time we cross paths. She just nods and lowers her head when I walk by. The fact that she's obviously American only makes things creepier.
I guess the strangest part is walking through the halls at night. The flickering fluorescent light, TV on in the lobby, and the smell of industrial strength cleaner give me that same distinct feeling of walking though the P-ways of Bancroft Hall during Christmas break. The inefficiency of maintaining a building meant to house so many thousands (mere hundreds in this case)of people is a little unnerving. It feels like your not supposed to be there. Any minute someone is going to step out of the door right in front of you eeriy and pleasantly shocked to find a trespasser, but no one ever does it's just the click-clack of your own soles against that freshly buffed floor. So I go, occasionally hearing someone scurrying through this warren of hallways possibly thinking the same thing.
This is made more glaringly bizarre once I step out the of the building and a brilliant sun beams down on me as hundreds of cherry blossoms gracefully flit their way down from their branches on a crisp wind neatly piling themselves into open corners or blanking the parked cars in a sheet of soft pink. People ride by in their small cars or bicycles blissfully unaware of the strange happenings inside.
Goodnight Nobody, (Hopefully)
Eric
Monday, April 5, 2010
Overdue and Overweight
So it's probably been over a month since my first and only blog entry, but not unlike a camel I've been both figuravetively and literally gorging myself on all the things I knew I'd miss during this my crowded, neon exile. From trips to Disneyland, steaming bowls of birria, Double-Doubles, and a last minute dash down to Mexico to say adios to my Nana (hopefully not for the last time) I probably gained 10 pounds.
Now, after having sweatily banged away on a treadmill for over an hour, I'm back in my room; at my small writing desk, that doubles as a dinner table, eating a grilled turkey-bolonga sandwhich and silently tapping away on this keyboard with no regrets.
I do, however, promise to fire off a few more posts soon.
Goodnight Nobody.
-Eric
Now, after having sweatily banged away on a treadmill for over an hour, I'm back in my room; at my small writing desk, that doubles as a dinner table, eating a grilled turkey-bolonga sandwhich and silently tapping away on this keyboard with no regrets.
I do, however, promise to fire off a few more posts soon.
Goodnight Nobody.
-Eric
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