Life in Limbo

When I started studying Japanese I didn't think it would take me to France.

And when I took the job in France I didn't know I'd spend most of my time trying to learn Kurdish.

...

As my life got more complicated I found it harder to keep my fingers on the keyboard without letting everything spill out. So I'm out of Tokyo, and out of this blog and moving to one that lets me be a little more flexible.

Please check out

alisa.pnn.com

for....
- My favorite ways of keeping cool on the RER in summertime
- The demoralizing effect French customer service has on the soul when you're used to Japanese
- The heady combination of love and paperwork that goes into a fiance visa
-How to escape scam artists on Montmatre (hint, don't stick out your finger...)

Hope to see you there!

Haru Ichiban

A little over two years ago I arrived in Tokyo in the middle of winter. I thought the scant dusting of snow in the neighborhood where I lived in Chiba was cute, but was glad the streets of Tokyo where I worked and walked and rode the trains were clear, if a little damp. The next year was the same again. I was now living in the city, and just once outside my apartment window I was able to catch sight of the large white flakes shimmying down to earth only to dissolve as soon as they hit the pavement. All the old folks grumbled again about global warming and how Tokyo used to be all white this time of year.

Well, maybe the "cool biz" campaign finally kicked in, or maybe some of the department stores in Tokyo stopped cranking up the AC and then leaving the doors open, because this year the snow gods really let loose on Tokyo.

It started with some awful days, where the temperature was below freezing and the sky was so grey and mottled that 2pm felt like twilight. It was depressing just to be outdoors. Then, it got almost imperceptably warmer, and all the old folks smiled knowingly. The great flakes fell consistenly for about a week, piling up on the sidewalks, gettings shoveled away by old ladies in plastic boots, melting a little, and then piling up again. Reactions were mixed; some enjoyed the romance of it, some grumbled at the slower trains and slippery road, and many, including myself, went into hiding. Tokyo is a great city, but not a one to be trudged around in the cold. I hibernated.

Feeling apologetic, the weather gods then relented and treated us to two weeks of blue skies and full-on sunshine. Don't get me wrong, it was still cold, but  if you stood in the sun long enough you almost didn't need those gloves, or to wrap your scarf up quite so tightly. When I saw the first pink and white petals creep out of the plum blossom trees, I knew something was coming.

Saturday morning was so warm you almost wanted to unbutton your jacket. Not because you had to, but just cause you could stand the thought of it. Okay, we were getting cocky.  But then, at around 1pm, the wind started, and still hasn't let up.

This is bone freezing, building whistling, train stopping, dust storming, blowing little old ladies a few inches back on the side walk, ridiculous wind. The Japanese call it Haruichiban, the first wind of Spring.

I first experienced the Haruichiban two years ago, when I was working for a small Japanese company in Nihonbashi, and the wind shoving itself between buildings had ruffled my skirt and made a mess out of my hair one too many times. "What's with this damn wind?" I asked my co-workers, in my then faltering Japanese. They explained Haruichiban to me, and added that the "building wind" downtown where all the skyscrapers were only made things worse. I taunted them a little bit for speaking a language that named winds, but felt in a much better humor knowing that the breeze wasn't just blustering, but blowing in a new season, one of festivals, cherry blossoms, and longer, warmer, more perfect days. Even today the crowds cooling their heels at Tokyo station waiting for the Shinkansen to get back up and running didn't seem too pissed off about it. We're all sick of the cold, and are ready for something new again.

Just Trust Me

I'm wondering if there's anyone reading this who looks at the food item on the right and immediately says to themselves "that looks delicious."

I'm guessing that most people would look at it in a state of extreme apprehension and ask what it is, while not being quite sure they really want to know.

I'm originally from California and grew up eating a lot of asian cuisine, so I'd consider myself a bit more flexible than other americans. But there's really no getting around our preconcieved notions of what "food" is supposed to be: what it's supposed to look like, smell like, and feel like in our mouths.

Names don't help a lot either. Would you eat "Fried bean curd"? I certainly wouldn't. But I looove fried Tofu.  Shirako, the item pictured to the right, is another one of those tricky names.  "Shirako" is the name of a food, a delicacy in fact. It was delicately described to me by the people trying to get me to eat it as "Male eggs". After three mugs of Kirin Ichiban, that made total sense to me.

The next day however I had to think about it a bit more, and the logical conclusion hit me in the brain and the stomach at the same time....

Fish sperm.

Now, please  don't get me wrong; I didn't just bring that up only to gross you out. Shirako has the distinctive position of being the one Japanese food that I simply can't eat. Even though I've tried it before and I actually liked it (yes I liked it) I simply can't get around the mental barrier of "fish sperm". Not yet. Maybe I would eventually.

Just a short sampling of the things I've eaten in Japan that I never would have considered as food but enjoyed eating: jellyfish, chicken liver, raw egg, manta ray, sea cucumber, raw baby eel, and cow intestine soup.

Contact with another culture's food makes you realize how arbitrary our assignations of "delicious" and "yucky" are.  One thing I can guarantee about almost any Japanese dish is that if you eat it enough times, you'll understand what's so great about it. Get over the runny texture of grated mountain yam (tororo), and enjoy how it tastes with some soy sauce over rice. And why does steak have to be chewy and overdone? Once you get used to small pieces of fatty, medium rare Kobe beef, you'll have trouble going back. And sushi... one peice of really quality toro sashimi should be enough to get you hooked on the velvety, buttery texture and kill your predjudice against raw fish forever.

And please, for your first drink, don't make everyone uncomfortable by ordering a glass of wine or a water. "Toriaezu biiru"- always start with a nice cold mug of beer. Kanpai!

Sunday in Yoyogi Park

I caught the flexible fabric disc by hooking the hole in the center with my wrist and letting it float gently down my arm. I then stopped abruptly as a Japanese youth chasing a white frisbee stumbled into my path not 2 feet in front of me.

"Thats the thing about Tokyo", the Canadian I was with said as I threw the disk back at him. "Even the parks are crowded."

It was one of those busy Tokyo weekends; I was making an appearance at a friend's birthday picnic before a study group and dinner with a friend from out of town. I was just glad I hadn't opted for a lazy Sunday at home; The sun was glowing behind the trees that had finally turned their fall colors, and it was warm enough for a light jacket or no jacket at all, and everyone in the city was out enjoying it. Our picnic blanket was completely surrounded by dance groups, drum circles, children's playgroups, chattering students, and dog walkers. It was busy, but not oppressive. I sat on the blankets trying my Vegan friend's homemade falafel and soaking in the English, Japanese and Spanish that was melding around me.

When it was time to go I made my hug rounds and headed by myself back onto the main cement path. I passed a huge group of drunk College students, and two girls practicing a fan dance. Farther out there were several soccer games, and three girls with jimbeis playing for one Japanese girl clearly trying to do some kind of African tribal moves. Another American and I stared at her and then gave each other a look as we passed on the trail. When I was nearly out of the park I came across some fuzzy rock n' roll and a group of Japanese men in tight pants in a circle around their motorcycles. They were twisting and dancing in their leather jackets while tourists watched and snapped pictures. They had no rhythm, but their hair was immaculate.

As I dodged skateboarders and boys in loose pants jumping from their one side of their bike wheels to the other, I remembered the violent longing from the Virginia Woolf's Lady Orlando: "Life! And a Lover." I breathed in a measure of the cool clean air. Well, this is Life, at least, I thought, and continued on towards Harajuku Station.