Life in Tokyo

Life in Limbo

Lifeintokyo — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 08:49:48 GMT

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

Lifeintokyo — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 14:02:20 GMT

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

Lifeintokyo — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 09:59:04 GMT

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!

How to Eat Kamameshi

Lifeintokyo — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 18:22:02 GMT

First of all, what is Kamameshi? According to wikipedia, it is a traditional Japanese rice dish cooked in an iron pot with various kinds of meat, seafood, and vegetables. According to me, it was food, and I was hungry.

I was wandering around in Ueno wondering what I wanted to eat, and I passed a place I'd seen before with pictures of food that looked good. The storefront was, shockingly, all windowed and fairly welcoming.
You have to understand, Japanese restaurants can be pretty intimidating. Some of the best places are hidden behind windowless sliding doors down dark sidestreets, and to the untrained eye don't even look like restaurants at all. You have no idea what the place looks like inside, or what kind of people are eating there. Worse still, at night these places tend to become smoky dens of raucous, drunken salarymen. The point is, you never know how welcoming a place like that is going to be. Both as a foreigner and also simply as someone who's not a "regular", I like to be a little careful.

Then again, if you never take a chance you'll just end up eating fast food all the time (some gaijin do).

So, on a total whim I walked into this kamameshi place. I forced myself inside without thinking about it, pushing the button on the automatic door and only to suddenly find myself in a room with a bunch of old Japanese people, who were all staring at me like I was a fly in their miso soup. If there had been a record scratch and then total silence it would have been perfect. When a waitress didn't immediately yell "irasshaimase" at me and seat me, I nearly turned right around and left. It's actually happened to me once before where I walked into a small soba shop and was completely ignored for about 5 minutes. This may have been because the dude was busy, because he didn't speak English and was afraid to talk to me, or because he didn't like white people in his restaurant. I don't know, but I ended up seating myself once a table opened up and I ordered some damn soba. And it was good.

Anyway, after a minute a waitress came up to me with a frightened look on her face and I tried to calm her down by saying "table for one" in Japanese, rather than just holding up my index finger, which is what people usually do. Despite my sometimes cynical attitude, I really don't think most Japanese "hate" foreigners. But most of them do tend to assume we can't speak their language, and when approached they may panick as they try and recall their long-forgotten English vocabulary. Once you say anything in convincing enough nihongo, they usually become 100% friendlier instantly and treat you like a normal person (unless you're in Kyoto. They suck.).

Anyway, it didn't quite work this time, as the hostess led me towards the back of the restaurant. Not to the tables by the window, and not to the tatami seating on the right. (A lot of more traditional restaurants have floor seating around short tables on woven mats.) There was plenty of space in that section, but another common belief about foreigners is that we are unable to sit on the floor. So, the lady sat me on a short counter on the other side of the restaurant. By myself. Facing the wall.

I didn't care so much about that, but I protested immediately when she tried to give me an English menu. I never use English menus. Half the time I won't even touch them. "Japanese is fine.", I told her. Upon hearing a full sentence come out of my mouth she finally believed I could speak Japanese, and I watched her face switch to "friendly mode". "Ah! Sou desuka! Shitsurei itashimashita!" She switched the English menu for a Japanese one and went away bowing in apology.

I ordered from the menu, and was served my own pot of tea, chopsticks, two pieces of pickled daikon, and a small bowl. While I waited for my food, I left my seat to use the bathroom. I had a feeling I knew what it would be like, but I was still disappointed to find that the toilets were Japanese style. Japanese style toilets are basically flushing holes in the ground, and I really hate them. So, when I managed to use this one without major incident, I felt great. I walked back to my chair feeling like a complete master of all things Japanese. I'd walked into a scary restaurant, ordered with a Japanese menu, and used a Japanese toilet. I was king of the world.

My kamameshi came in the pot it was cooked in, with a flat red spoon sitting on the lid. I tend to use the utensils I'm handed, so I started eating with that.

Kamameshi is pretty good. The rice is cooked with whatever topping you ordered (I had fish), and also some kind of sauce, so its very flavorful. I was having a little trouble eating the crab legs with the flat spoon, but I was getting the food in my mouth so I didn't think twice about it.

After a while the waitress came over to me and offered me a tiny spoon, like a kid's spoon. I told her no thanks, and sat steaming for a few minutes. Why the hell did she feel the need to give me a kid's spoon? Was I taking too long to eat? Did I look like I was having trouble? Are foreigners known for their inability to use flat spoons? I took the opportunity to look around the restaurant (having been facing the wall all that time) and see how other people were eating. As soon as I did I saw my mistake; they were using the flat spoon to serve themselves small portions of the kamameshi into the tiny bowl and then eating it with chopsticks.

I was pretty damn embarrassed, especially since I was crashing down from my Japanese-toilet high. I was kind of surprised too- I usually don't make stupid mistakes like that. I've been here for a while, and its getting to the point where most of the things I do or eat I've already done or eaten before. When I do find myself in a new situation, I'm usually with my coworkers who help me out, or I have the sense to look around and do what everyone else is doing.

I sort of expected to get really depressed, like, "great, I've been here for two years and I still can't eat my lunch the right way". But my attitude ended up being more to the tune of "well, now I know". Its kind of comforting in a way to think that even after being here a while there are still things to learn and still things to figure out.

Women as Decoration

Lifeintokyo — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 14:45:41 GMT

Every once in a while I read an article about Japan that suggests that women are slowly getting a better deal in this country, but from my perspective it really hasn't changed all that much.

I knew it hadn't ever since my co-worker told me that he went to an onsen (volcanic bath) with his clients. Now if public nudity isn't a glass ceiling, I don't know what is.

But the last straw was really when I saw an advertisement for "booth girls" in my information packet for semicon Japan.

Semicon Japan is your average tradeshow; huge rooms full of company displays and posters, and salesmen and customers alike roaming through it. Its much the same anywhere in the world.

Except for, in Japan when you apply they give you a bunch of fliers. If you need electricity, translators, shipping agents, they have it for you. Just fill out the form. Also, if you need a little something extra, for 300 dollars a day you can rent out a "booth girl", who will stand in your booth wearing a plastic haltertop and miniskirt with your logo on it and hand out pens and keychains. The flyer promises a "warm, welcoming feeling". Great.

This is just one example of women as accessories. We had a welcome dinner at a nearby hotel and they asked if we would like to rent out some "companions". Their goal? Pour drinks and make converstaion.

I guess since women basically aren't allowed to rise in the ranks of a company, it gets to be kind of a sausage fest. And at least they're just paying for company and not... something else.

It says a lot that I have to be content with that :p

Sunday in Yoyogi Park

Lifeintokyo — Thu, 29 Nov 2007 16:08:53 GMT

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.